Men, p.5
Men, page 5
Bad sex
When your orgasms haven’t been clitoral or vaginal. But futile.
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When his only attempt to find your G-spot leads to a totally humiliating trip to the Accident and Emergency department.
Faking it
There’s little point in encouraging a male partner in practices which are not going to get you anywhere. By anywhere I mean the usually desired female destination of over the moon, off the edge of the planet or into another orbit entirely. But all women fake it a little tiny bit. Not in a grand, theatrical When Harry Met Sally kind of way. But, face it, when women wank, do they call out, ‘Oh God! Don’t stop! Oh! Oh! OH! Give it to me, big boy!’ It’s all theatrics, to some degree. But . . .
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If you’re bored and waiting for the ordeal to be over, never go limp, ooh and ah and writhe for a bit, then make a low moan and lie still because, impressed by his own sexual virtuosity, he’s just as likely to say, ‘You’re going to have another seven of those!’ and set to work again immediately.
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Women just don’t have Academy Award-winning orgasms with no foreplay.
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Most men are good with their hands. They can fashion a temporary cistern ball float with a squeezy bottle and a coat hanger in five minutes flat . . . and yet can’t find your G-spot? Location! Location! Location! That’s all there is to say about the G-spot, really.
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A man can calculate the total surface area of every room in your house, determine the exact mile-to-the-gallon ratio of a five-hour trip to the South of France and effortlessly locate the remote fishing village that’s not even on a map – yet he can’t find your clitoris? No, the truth is he just can’t be bothered to find it.
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When there’s no foreplay you tell yourself to at least try for an orgasm – but then you give up the idea eventually as a waste of vaginal muscle.
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It’s good to be considerate, but not too considerate. I know a woman who faked orgasms because she didn’t want to be impolite.
Oral sex
Women have always found cunnilingus to be a good opening-courting gambit.
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A perfect man is one who rests on his orals.
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The Broad’s Prayer – Give us this day our daily head . . .
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Women don’t want a man who performs his bit of perfunctory cunnilingus only for the penis payback – the erotic IOU that it implies.
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Half-hearted cunnilingus is like a cow chewing methodically upon a bale of hay.
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Beware lactose-intolerant, anally retentive vegans. He’ll say he can’t go down on you because he’s vegetarian.
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On the other hand . . .
If God had meant women to give blowjobs, she wouldn’t have given us teeth.
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If you were a bloke, would you put it in a mouth where there are teeth? The teeth of a female who’s been discriminated against for centuries?
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Men only like blowjobs because they know we can’t talk with our mouths full . . .
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Men think eating is not cheating. They see extramarital fellatio as nothing more than a parking infringement on the male moral rap sheet.
When a husband tells you, à la Bill Clinton, that eating is not cheating, reply, ‘I know. That’s why I only let the tennis coach go down on me! We didn’t have sex. He merely yodelled up my canyon of love.’
How to get out of fellatio
Tell him that you can’t swallow because you’re trying to lose weight, you know, after the baby . . . Just don’t mention that the child is, like, seven.
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Tell him that your mother said never to put anything in your mouth which hasn’t been peeled.
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Just say to the guy that he’s so big, it’s making you gag. And when you gag, you always get the urge to bite down. (And if he swallows that, he’ll swallow anything. Unlike you.)
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Change his diet. Pineapple, apparently, will turn him into a sperm liqueur. Although, if God were a woman, sperm would taste like zabaglione in the first place.
Celibacy
Who needs a real man? Not when sex with Hugh Jackman is only the flick of a light switch away. You’ve got so many Rampant Rabbit vibrators they need their own warren.
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Sex with Brad Pitt is amazing, you marvel when you wake in the morning . . . But how much more amazing it would be if he had actually been with you at the time.
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There is a lot to be said for celibacy and most of it begins with ‘Why ME?’ When it comes to the sex war, you seem to have declared yourself a conscientious objector. Hence your dates of late in an internet chat room, typing one-handed and, on one occasion, with your nose.
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If you’re ever called upon to give a sex talk, you’ll be lecturing from notes. Your clitoris has taken to sending the odd sexual SOS along the lines of ‘Remember me?’ If it weren’t for Mrs Palm and her five daughters (although the two elder daughters usually suffice, with the other three fighting over the VCR), you would have dried up completely.
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Reclusive Trappist yogis living in caves or even perhaps the Pope could ring you up for tips on celibacy.
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You’re so famished for bodily contact you’re occasionally tempted to give yourself a strip search.
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If it weren’t for bra fittings at Marks and Spencer, you wouldn’t have any sex life at all.
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Women need sex. With no prospect of consummation, your blood pressure reaches thermonuclear levels. You’re masturbating so much you need terry towelling sweatbands on your wrists. You have the most exercised right hand in human history. There hasn’t been digital action like it since Proust wrote all seven volumes, longhand. You’ve worn off a fingerprint. But look on the bright side, you can commit the perfect crime now.
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Celibacy can turn you into the kind of deranged woman who hatches abandoned bird’s eggs in her bra.
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You’ll be reading the Kama Sutra for One.
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It’s been so long since you got laid, if you get killed in a car accident nobody will be able to identify your body.
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Try to put a positive spin on things – you’re only two people short of a threesome. (Even a dickhead man is better than no man. And one man is never quite as fulfilling as two.)
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There are worse things than celibacy . . . like hepatitis and death.
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Your only erogenous zone will be the second shelf of the cupboard where you keep the chocolate bars.
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If you allow yourself to get too carnally malnourished you’ll get aroused glancing at that picture of Paul Newman on the salad dressing.
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You’ll feel you’re starring in a TV programme called America’s Least Wanted. The Metropolitan Police will put out a chastity alert: NOT WANTED, DEAD OR ALIVE.
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‘Where dere comes no beau, de cobwebs grow.’ In other words, don’t let your diaphragm grow lichen.
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Stay celibate for too long and you start to deduce that you possess the sexual magnetism of a half-thawed rissole.
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How can you ever join the Mile High Club, when you’re flying right under every man’s romantic radar?
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It only hits you when you order mussels from the 24-hour room service menu that you’ve been celibate for too long. As you prise them free from their shells with your tongue, you realize that even your meal is getting more action than you are. If you weren’t so depressed you would make puns along the lines of having finally pulled a mussel. Is it any wonder that your libido is the size of Paraguay?
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She who hesitates is celibate.
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Chastity is curable if caught early enough.
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If you don’t have sex soon you’ll end up with a Barbie stump. That little bit of moulded plastic between the legs of a Barbie doll. That’ll be you. You’ll heal over.
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You convince yourself that you have no time for men. You are, after all, a very busy woman . . . you have a vibrator to take in for its, 1,000-mile service.
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But surely, woman cannot live by vibrator alone? Your needs are melting you from sigh to thigh. Your muff’s in a huff.
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It’s much easier being a bloke. Wrinkles and grey hair add character. He can eat lick an ice cream without every man in the vicinity imagining him naked. He doesn’t have to commit suicide if someone turns up at a party wearing an identical outfit to his. He never has to shave below his epiglottis. He doesn’t care if nobody notices his new haircut. Nor do hairdressers charge him double for it. His phone conversations take thirty seconds, tops. Car mechanics tell him the truth. He’s able to open his own jam jars. Four pairs of shoes are adequate for his whole life! And men are always in the mood. But with the right man you’d always be in the mood too . . .
Lust
Just because a woman can hide the primal engorgement of her libidinous organ, it doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to discover the supple hydraulics of his manhood right now.
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When you meet a new man you lecture yourself to stay grounded. But there’s another voice in your head. And what it says is ‘Show me a woman with both feet planted firmly on the ground – and I’ll show you a girl who can’t get her knickers off.’
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Instead of agonizing about meeting the right man, you should be making sure you’ve had enough wrong ones.
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Mothers always say that one day you’ll meet your Mr Right. Mind you, they also told us not to swim when we had our periods. Is there really a Mr Right? Or just a Mr Kinda OK and a couple of Everyone-Else-Has-Gone-Home-So-You’ll-Have-to-Dos?
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Liberated, hip, post-feminist? Or amoral slut? Defend your answer.
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How can you be intimate with a strange man? Who the hell are you all of a sudden? Blanche DuBois?
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Sexual hypocrisy is innate in the language. A man who is sexually active is a ‘love god’, a ‘stud muffin’, a ‘Romeo’, a ‘Lothario’. A woman with the same sexual appetites as a man is a slut, a tart, a tramp, a whore. Men still expect women to be so virginal.
Man: ‘Am I the first man to make love to you?’
Woman: ‘Of course . . . I don’t know why you men keep asking the same silly question!’
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A girl needs a lotta experience to bonk like a virgin, lemme tell you.
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Society allows women to feel their oats, but not sow them. But wait too long and we’re criticized for going to seed.
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A woman should sow enough oats to feed a large continent. You can always make a clean sweep of your dirty mind later on.
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Forget your chequered past, what you need is a chequered present.
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Sex with the right man is a beautiful and moving and lovely thing . . . Sex with a stranger on a train in the dead of night is even better.
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Why should your portable PC be on more laps than you are?
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A girl’s only guilt complex should be not having enough gold in her rings.
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You’re just having a brief dabble in philanthropy. Amorous philanthropy.
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Life’s too short to be subtle. Why not wear your pussy on your sleeve?
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Don’t be a clit-tease. It’s time to put your vagina where your mouth is, so to speak.
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When it comes to lust, there’s only one way to stop getting your knickers in a knot. Take them off.
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Lust at first sight is quite a labour-saving device.
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Are you moist with excitement? Does he give you a wide-on? Is your tongue hanging so far out of your head, his shag pile gets a free shampoo?
Then why not just give in to raw, uncomplicated desire? Why shouldn’t women be guilty of acute lust in the first degree? You’ve been a good girl all your life and what good has it done you? Even your cat has forsaken you and taken up with the cardiofunk instructress in the flat downstairs. As for your sex life? You’re practically Amish. Give you a white cap and a covered wagon and you’ll be threshing wheat and churning butter in no time.
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Men are always praised for ‘getting in touch’ with their ‘feminine side’. Well, why can’t we get in touch our ‘masculine side’?
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If God hadn’t meant us to hunt men, he wouldn’t have given us Wonderbras.
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If a man has prime pectoral real estate, it doesn’t mean that he’s out of your league. Why can’t your eyes be bigger than your vagina?
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The exquisite sight of a man standing there in his skimpy Calvin Kleins will turn you into a vegetative state. The only reaction he’ll get out of you now will be photosynthesis.
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There’s only one thing you need to say. Let’s go and slip into something more comfortable – like each other . . .
Why a man plays hard to get
When you want to sleep with a man who is wearing a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on his Y-fronts, if he’s a sex object who objects to sex, simply say to him, ‘Stay over. We can just sleep. I promise nothing will happen. I won’t touch you.’ It’s what men always say. Then he can see what it’s like to wake with the imprint of an erect clitoris in the small of his back.
Lusting after the wrong man
Lust is celibacy’s banana skin. Occasionally you slip, OK?
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Some men have sex appeal which is so deadly it should be registered at Police Headquarters as a lethal weapon.
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You know he’s not the right man for you, but it’s a hard concept to explain to your libido, which is like a crazed animal hurling itself against the bars of its cage. There’s so much electricity between you, it could be privatized.
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It’s then that the final G-string of restraint slips nonchalantly to the floor.
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The next thing you know, your teeth are colliding in mid-air with the sort of passion that will require months of periodontal work. It’s the kind of sex that won’t let you stop thinking about it afterwards in full Technicolor detail. It will be vaginal déjà vu. For weeks. You’ll feel sorry for all the women who will never know what it’s like having him take his warm mouth to you.
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If you’re having an affair, don’t tell. The definition of a secret is something your girlfriends tell everyone not to tell anyone.
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If your husband is having an affair, why shouldn’t you? The mood of a middle-aged, first-time adulteress is one of enchanted contentment, enhanced by the anticipation of there being more where that came from. If there’s one thing a 25-year-old can do, it’s more. There’s nothing else to do but give the guy a horizontal ovation.
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But do remember, promiscuity is not feminism. Of course men are for ‘free love’ as they don’t have to pay for it. Some men are just laughing all the way to the sperm bank.
Male Chauvinists
I wish male chauvinists really were like pigs. A pig’s penis is in the shape of a corkscrew. What a biological advantage! You could have sex and then open the bottle of wine afterwards. Followed up by a bacon sandwich.
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Not all men fancy eighteen-year-olds . . . Some fancy sixteen-year-olds.
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But then again, there is Prince Charles. Even though I’m a republican, I’ve loved him ever since he gave up a supermodel for a much older woman. Actually, I’ve loved him ever since he wanted to be a tampon. Although it does sum up his entire life – always in the right place at the wrong time.
Contraception
There is only one 100 per cent safe oral contraceptive. The word ‘No’ . . . Unless you’re with Mike Tyson or Roman Polanski.
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A man will not withdraw in time. Do you know what they call people who use the rhythm method? Parents. Copulation means population.
Tips
Beware disease: in New York there’s a bar called Simplex . . . short for herpes simplex. This can really take the anxiety out of dating – but his enthusiasm will be catching . . . Literally.
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If a patron tells you about his ‘personal growth’, he isn’t talking about Scientology or astrology. It’s enough to make you only want to have relationships with Franciscan monks. And even then you’ll want to cover yourself in neck-to-knee spermicide, wear six cervical caps and use a full-length condom. And that’s just for phone sex.
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Crotch lice are nature’s way of promoting monogamy.
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Don’t over-analyse sex. If done right, the woman shouldn’t be analysing anything ’cause she’ll be in a coma of sexual stupefaction. She’ll be a coma-sexual.
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Lesbianism If you give up on men, try tits and clits. Hey, if you can’t beat ’em, lick ’em.
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If you casually mention, while trying to insert an earring, that you’re having trouble finding the hole, and he replies, ‘I bet you haven’t said that for a while. At least not since childbirth!’ reconsider your options. You’ll never be able to teach such a man that a closed mouth gathers no feet.
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Never sleep with a man for money. It’s not that you’re a ‘fallen woman’. You’ve just lost your balance momentarily – your bank balance. But prostitution is never a good idea as you leave yourself open to demeaning comments from clients. As you count out the money on the bedside table, you’ll chide, ‘What? No tip?’
And he may reply, ‘Yeah! Get some liposuction.’
