Men, p.4
Men, page 4
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The truth is, sexual liberation can be very oppressive. Vaginal, clitoral, multiple . . . It’s a genital dictatorship. We’ve all become so anxious about how we’re being laid, we’ve somehow mislaid the essential ingredients of romance, adoration, devotion.
Kinks
Beware the man who thinks that sex is nobody’s business, except for the horse, dog, wife and two hookers involved.
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If a man gets into bed with a jar of Vaseline it’s not because he’s planning to swim the English Channel.
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Making love in the carwash during the wax/dry cycle is the true definition of autoeroticism.
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Trying new things sexually creates such terrible eye wrinkles caused by puckering up into a squint and shouting, ‘You want me to do WHAT?’ And, I’m sorry, but surely handcuffs are only acceptable if you’re an undercover cop with Scotland Yard. The very thought of group sex makes me suffer from a performance anxiety I haven’t felt since those hedonistic hours of enforced folk dancing in primary school. (The only good thing about an orgy is that it does away with the anxiety about what to wear.) And don’t you think inflating plastic sexual-pleasure enhancers must cause the most awful migraines? I also have little doubt that fishnet friction can inflict a nasty wound on your groin area. Nor do I want the persistent pneumonia, which comes from constantly slipping into something less comfortable. A shaved pudendum may sound erotic, but when it’s growing back it looks like a shag pile that’s been terrorized.
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Besides, what woman wants third-degree carpet burns on bits of her anatomy that can’t be explained away as a housework-related incident? Or a rope burn which comes under the category of the Most Humiliating Chafe Mark in the History of the Universe?
Bondage
I’d always presumed bondage was just an inventive way of keeping your partner from going home too early.
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The only thing I’ve ever whipped is cream.
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When his foreplay includes tethering you to the chair with an Old Etonian tie, point out that you’ve read Who’s Who and you know he went to Leek Boys High. Then leave. You really don’t want to get pregnant to a man like this. Pretentious snobberies are hereditary.
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Hey, if suspenders are so great, guys would be wearing them. Which brings me to . . .
Cross-dressing
When my girlfriend discovered her husband in her best Dolce & Gabbana skirt, she was gutted, furious and profoundly mortified. ‘How could he do that? He was wearing stockings with sandals!’
Toys
If a man’s sex toy collection includes a row of gigantic clenched fists attached to plastic forearms, it’s not for political rallies.
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The Ben Wa brochure he gave you promises orgasmic bliss. But what it doesn’t say is that inserting these chrome bowling balls will be like childbirth, only backwards. And with no epidural. And once you put them in, will you ever get them out again? If not, you’re in for the most embarrassing airport security search ever.
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You may try to develop some kinks, like wearing his underwear or going commando. But, as a mother of two with no pelvic floor, one must be cautious about not wearing any knickers. What if your Ben Wa ball falls out during a staff meeting? The only way out is to pretend to be a player of miniature bowling.
Aussie men
The Australian definition of foreplay is shearing. Which gives new meaning to heavy petting.
Indian men
The Kama Sutra is a short work of fiction, judging by the Indian men I know. Most men think the Kama Sutra is some kind of Indian takeaway.
English men
An English man may wear triple-breasted tweed condoms, but he’ll also be a member of a mutual aberration society. He can probably only achieve an erection when touched on the genitals by a rubberized gardening glove.
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That’s the trouble with English men – they just can’t drive past a perversion without pulling over.
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The ‘cream of English society’ just means rich, thick and prone to whipping. But the trouble with the cream of society is that it often curdles.
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The English male has an obsession with sado-masochism. I suppose it’s because the winters are long and playing charades and bridge do get boring after a while. But I’m sure I speak for all women when I say that we don’t like to be beaten – not even at Monopoly!
Toyboys
Ask any married woman the difference between a husband and a toyboy and she’ll tell you the same thing. About three hours.
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It’ll be as if you’ve suddenly found yourself in one of those subtitled European movies. The man will make love to you as though you’re an endangered species. You’ll be having so many flights of fancy, you’ll need to file flight plans. ‘All aboard. Your flight of fancy is approaching takeoff. Your exits are . . .’ – but hey, who would want to leave? As you run your hands over his satiny, bronzed skin and kiss his dreamy, creamy eyelids, remind yourself that growing old is compulsory. Growing up is optional.
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But beware. During a romantic encounter, if you casually remark that he’s skilled enough to do it professionally, he may reply that he is and that the payment will be fifty quid. It’s then you notice the VFM tattooed on his penis: ‘Value For Money’.
Married sex
The trouble with married sex is not women faking orgasm but men faking foreplay.
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If a husband does attempt a little half-hearted foreplay, he invariably prods away at your clit as though it’s an elevator button and he’s running late for a meeting. It is then that a woman might cut to the carnal chase and sigh, exasperatedly, ‘Oh, just take the stairs.’
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Without doubt, husbands and wives approach sex differently. What men call a ‘quickie’, most women would dismiss as premature ejaculation. Some men are so premature their wives are not even in the room. So who was he fantasizing about? How could he let Sarah Palin have sex in your bedroom!
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Your husband thinks he’s a real animal in bed. He is. A hamster.
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For most married couples, being creative in bed means knitting while watching Newsnight.
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Married sex – pre-coital depression.
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Husbands are to wives what condoms are to sex. They kill all sensation.
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The only rash thing about a husband is his eczema. You appear wearing your lingerie with latex trapdoors dripping honey into your navel and sugar-coating both nipples – and he keeps reading his Telegraph. ‘Sorry, what were you saying?’ he’ll mutter. ‘Something about me not noticing you any more?’
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Although I don’t call it ‘being noticed’ when he pounces on you with the words ‘We’ve just got time to do it, I’ve got the bath running.’ Or arrives with two cups of coffee, for afterwards.
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All this fuss about sex before marriage. What about sex after marriage? Once, having loads of sex made a woman feel guilty and cheap. After marriage, NOT having loads of sex makes a woman feel guilty and cheap.
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A year or two of marriage and all he’ll give you between the sheets is an anticlimax.
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The sexual titillation between spouses sometimes becomes so intense that couples are tempted to flick on the telly to watch the darts final.
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Wives are often so bored in bed they take to calculating exactly how many shoes they own. (82 pairs.) Oh, the things you can fathom when time is on your side!
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Even though women make up 50 per cent of the workforce we still do 99 per cent of all housework and childcare. By the time an exhausted mum finally slumps into bed, the one thing she’s fantasizing about is sleep. And oh, how her heart sinks when she’s sliding into slumber and suddenly feels the Hand.
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Men make horror movies about the Blob or the Alien or The Thing. What terrorizes men is Wolfman, the Zombie, Dracula, Frankenstein. What terrorizes women, well, weary mothers at least, is the Hand.
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It would appear that your husband, the man who hasn’t spoken to you all night or helped with the dishes, thinks that you’re in the mood for love. What you’re in the mood for is running him through with a carving knife.
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A tired wife will do everything to discourage her husband, bar stretching razor wire around her bed and setting bait traps. A wife wearing saggy, baggy flannelette pyjamas and airline socks to bed is the sexual equivalent of World War Two soldiers laying minefields across the entrance to their tunnels.
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The reply most wives would give to a husband who said that he wanted to make love to her so badly would be ‘Um, darling, I think you succeeded.’
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There comes a time in every marriage when a slow-drip sexual ennui sets in and lovemaking becomes more dutiful than enthusiastic. It’s been so long since many married women have had sex, they’d probably get motion sickness and have to tell their husbands to pull the bed over to the kerb.
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So, what happened to those days when you took headboard divots out of walls, broke beds and ran up chiropractic bills? In the first few years of marriage, couples are at it like rabbits. So what’s with the marital myxomatosis?
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A woman’s sex life definitely deteriorates with the onset of motherhood. Despite the beanbags and the water births and the plinky, plonky harp music, giving birth still boils down to a doctor putting a knee on your chest, spreading your legs and diving in with a pair of barbecue tongs. While men want the tumbling in the hay to recommence six weeks after childbirth, mothers want to tie up the sheaves and put them in the barn.
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Giving birth is traumatic enough, but no sooner have the lactation leakage circles dried on your shirtfront than your husband wants nookie. Needless to say, the woman with the recently stitched perineum does not.
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A new mum is so tired she has to hire someone to have her orgasms for her.
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For most new mums a new position in bed means sleeping on her other side.
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New mums contemplate a subtle little hint to let him know she’s not in the mood – like smashing a ceramic ashtray over his head.
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Even if you do want to make love, children are a contraceptive. Every time you go to make love, the toddler toddles in. Try Vaseline. On the doorknobs. Sounds painful but they can’t get in!
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Wives aren’t faking orgasms, they’re flunking them. On those official Name/Address/Age forms, where it says Sex most wives should write ‘NOT IF I CAN POSSIBLY HELP IT.’
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With the onset of parenthood, women develop innovative ways of getting out of sex:
1) Taking a child into the marital bed because of a nightmare. (The playing of scary videos before bed greatly helps in this department.)
2) Asking your husband what position he’d like to do it in . . . then laughing hysterically when he answers.
3) Simply explaining that you can only really enjoy sex if you bring along your best friend… before revealing that your best friend is a gay manicurist called Merlyn.
4) Finishing all your sentences with ‘in accordance with the prophecy’. (Although that could also lead to divorce. Or the sudden appearance of a few more wives.)
5) If you’re really desperate for a good night’s sleep, just when hubby’s snuggling up, mention casually that the tax department rang wanting to audit his accounts. Not only will he lose the inclination for sex, he’ll also lose the desire for sleep, which means you won’t have to put up with his snoring either!
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The good thing about having a baby: you don’t have to make love for months afterwards. To most wives ‘sexual freedom’ means the freedom not to have sex. ‘Not tonight, darling, I’m Having It All in the morning.’
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It would seem that a new mum’s favourite position is the ‘doggy position’ – where he begs . . . and she just rolls over and plays dead.
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I used to think ‘weaker sex’ referred to the male of the species, but ‘weaker sex’ actually means the kind of sex you have after childbirth.
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Ask a married couple whether they like the lights on or off and most would sensibly answer, ‘On,’ so they can read. As for talking dirty? Well, we mothers talk dirty all the time, as we order our children to wash their hands before dinner and point out that their rooms are a pigsty.
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Sex therapists would no doubt diagnose an arousal disorder. What I diagnose is a demanding work schedule, two messy kids and a lazy husband. Men should understand that there are only a few basic ways to please a woman – stacking the dishwasher and not snoring.
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A woman’s biggest fantasy in the bedroom involves discovering that her husband has picked his underpants up off the floor.
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Women go off sex due to exhaustion. If men did more housework, wives would have energy for other things. Oh, the orgasmic joy of being made love to by a man who has just hoovered your entire house!
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All women dream of being taken. Well, we’re being ‘taken’ all right, but not quite in the muscular-thighed, half-naked Adonis way we’ve wet-dreamed of. No, we’re just being taken for granted, taken for a ride and, after divorce, to the cleaners.
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Just help with the housework, boys, and your wife will be stretching as contentedly as a cat, eager to show you her appreciation. And it will be oh, OH, OHHHH WHAT A FEELING!
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Sex in marriage . . . well, it’s like when it slips your mind that you’ve put your windscreen wipers on intermittent. You’ve forgotten about it and then – WHOOSH!
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Meanwhile, if your husband suggests that you could initiate sex now and again and perhaps even swap positions occasionally, simply reply, ‘Yes, let’s swap positions . . . You stand by the sink washing up and I’ll lie on the couch drinking wine and watching the telly.’
Good sex – what women want
The female orgasm is more of a mystery than the career success of George W. Bush. But, by God, you have the right to have an Academy Award-winning one before he does.
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A woman wants a man who kisses her so long and so lusciously that when he finally pulls away, she has to check she still has her pants on. We don’t just want a kiss. We want mouth-to-mouth resuscitation . . . We want kisses that require a lifeguard. We want a man who will drag us into his mouth, descale our teeth, tickle our tonsils and become intimately acquainted with both sets of molars before detaching himself from us with the sound of a squid being prised off glass. This could lead to full stomach-to-stomach resuscitation.
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We want a man who says the words every woman fantasizes about one day hearing (along with ‘Scientists have discovered that celery is fattening’): ‘Pleasing you is what gives me pleasure.’
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Women want a man who can find our G-spot without a map, a compass and a list of edible berries.
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If men were better in bed, women would want to spend more time there. Teach your man to find libidinous places where you didn’t even know you had places. Encourage him to be a carnal cartographer, mapping out your erogenous zones – and then double-parking in all of them.
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A woman wants nuzzling that makes her nipples so erect she can pick up the BBC World Service.
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A woman wants an orgasm so strong that when she cries out she won’t be sure whether it’s an orgasm or demonic possession. Should you have a post-coital cigarette or call an exorcist?
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What women want is a man so sexy he could open a deposit account at a sperm bank.
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Women want to be made so high from orgasmic bliss that they can wave to the International Space Station.
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But do you know what a woman really wants in bed? Breakfast.
What men want
Men want a woman with a trick pelvis. Men want a pelvis that can pull a rabbit out of a hat.
What women don’t want
Men who think ‘mutual orgasm’ is an insurance company.
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Premature ejaculation. If your man comes too early, tell him to delay orgasm by thinking of something awful. If he thinks about accidentally bumping into his mother-in-law at a nudist beach, he could delay orgasm by at least three months.
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Women like to be hugged occasionally when we’re not horizontal. Otherwise we suffer from an affection deficiency.
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To be coerced into sex. Having sex when your heart isn’t in it feels as though a party is being thrown in your body to which you haven’t been invited.
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Having sex when you’re not in the mood is like dancing with no music.
Outdoor sex
Frostbite of the breasts, leeches on the labia and neck cramp from trying to keep one eye peeled for wandering psychopaths do not get a girl as aroused as her partner might think.
Orgies
There are quite a few overrated items and events in this world. Water beds, weddings, oysters, tattoos and group gropes. I mean, how can you have a good time when you’re desperately jealous that everyone else is having a better time than you? All feelings of mutual sharing and caring evaporate when you find yourself sleeping in the wet patch . . . then realize that it’s not your own.
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Is there anything worse than listening to other people having sex? To the wet, gasping sounds of harpooned whales surfacing simultaneously? When in a group grope, take along a novel for the boring bits. Or a crossword. Maybe a manicure set? Who can relax when someone might leave wearing your designer Moschino? Worst thing is having to write the thank-you letters. ‘Thank you for coming.’ Or not.
