Wednesday, October 12, 2016
Numbers game
Warren Beatty’s biographer estimates that Mr Beatty has slept with 13,000 women. 13,000 looks like a suspiciously round figure, so he’s probably rounding to the nearest 500. The allegation, nevertheless, is highly defamatory. In this day and age, the man-ho and the hoochie are equally despised. Hef, in his dotage, is a grim reminder of where a life of reckless debauchery leads. A ridiculous old ghoul in a dressing grown is not a fate to aspire to.
Mr Beatty, of course, denies having slept with anything like that number. Commenting on the claim, he said:
“That would mean not just that there were multiple people a day, but that there was no repetition.”
He makes an excellent point. If you don’t have any repeats, you won’t even remember what you did to whom. It will all be a blur of sweaty bodies and writhing flesh.
You have to admire the man for using arithmetic to refute a tall story. Much better than getting a po-faced lawyer to make a statement and threaten legal action. In any case, it’s very difficult for anyone to prove he hasn’t slept with an improbably large number of women. However many women back you up, there’ll be countless others who won’t bother to testify. And a few will make false confessions for the fun of it.
The fact that Warren Beatty hasn’t bedded thousands of women doesn’t mean he wasn’t a prolific stud in his heyday. One of his “repeats” was the saintly Joan Collins, still looking attractive at the age of 83. According to Joan, she was a very frequent repeat:
“I once shocked my friend Joanne Woodward – who was married to Paul Newman – by saying I needed a break because the endless bonking was exhausting me.”
I don’t see why Joanne Woodward was shocked by that remark. Don’t women enjoy girlie talk? Maybe she was surprised that Joan found it exhausting. For most women, sex is an invigorating tonic that charges up their batteries. It’s been scientifically proven that female athletes perform better after a quick bonk. Perhaps Joan isn’t the athletic type.
For the sake of argument, let’s assume that Beatty has slept with 500 women in show business. He still has to explain why he chose to settle down with Annette Bening. When asked this question, he gave the following cryptic reply:
“To answer that would be reductive, and she means too much to be reductive.”
I don’t see what point he’s trying to make. All knowledge is “reductive” in some sense. If you don’t reduce a phenomenon to something simpler, it remains a mystery. Maybe he just doesn’t want to embarrass his wife by listing all her good points. My own theory is that he found her pretty face irresistible. I’ve looked at Annette Bening’s face on many occasions, and I can’t find fault with it in any way. Having an exceptionally pretty wife must be a great consolation for a man whose incessant bonking has drained him of his virile juices.
Labels: Anette Bening, bonking spree, Joan Collins, Warren Beatty
Monday, August 18, 2008
Helping the aged
Political correctness has gone mad! A care home has been forced to apologise after a male member of staff granted an elderly resident her lifelong wish. This was to be served fish-and-chips by a man in skimpy underpants. Fearful of the reaction from the impotent middle-aged puritans who send their parents to such establishments, the director of the home admitted to “overstepping the mark” in permitting this act of charity. The moral obligation to grant an old woman her last wish was conveniently ignored. She wasn’t actually dying, as a matter of fact, but at the age of 90 such nuances verge on the technical.
My only criticism of this feisty old biddy is that the meal she ordered did not suit the waiter’s costume. A man in thongs should deliver dessert rather than main course – rhubarb crumble, strawberries and cream, or possibly even spotted dick. Fish-and-chips should be served by a saucy fellow in pirate gear, with a buttonless jacket hanging loosely over his bare torso and a gleaming cutlass dangling beside his britches. Before presenting the plate of deep-fried fare, he would pluck a juicy chip for himself, smearing it with salty sweat from his brow before munching it down in a single gulp.
“Best chips I’ve tasted since young Nellie Buxley greased me pistol in Port Royal!” he might say. “Sink yer choppers into them victuals, granny! It’ll give ye the energy ter chase a nimble cabin boy up the crow’s nest and strip him like an overripe mango!”
“Arrhaarrh, me old beauty!” he might add.
The aged, of course, are entitled to their fun. I once asked a male escort how he went about his work if the client happened to be an old lady.
“The hands and feet of a woman are the parts least affected by age,” he explained. “So I start by taking off my clothes and inviting her to feel the goods like fruit in a market stall.”
“An ingenious prelude,” I remarked. “Do they enjoy these examinations?”
“You bet they do!” he exclaimed. “The older a woman is, the more pleasure she gets from giving pleasure.”
“Female gorillas are just the same,” I said nodding. “And what of the feet?”
“A foot-massage goes down well, if you’ll excuse the pun. But I only suck her toes if she asks me to.”
“A wise precaution,” I observed. “She would surely recoil in horror if you tucked into her tootsies uninvited. No woman wants to be orally ravished by a foot fiend, whatever her age. I assume you consummate the service in the usual manner?”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “Switching off the lights and thinking of Joan Collins gets me through it.”
“Well quite,” I said. “Who else would one think of in such a situation? You clearly have it down to a fine art, my good man. Perhaps you should consider writing a manual for future practitioners of your worthy occupation.”
“I may just do that when I hang up my boots!” he chuckled.
We parted on amicable terms.
Old age is the fate of the fortunate, a time to discard the burdens of ego before making one’s peace with eternity. It’s a pity the old woman had to wait a lifetime to be served by a man in a thong, but the modest good humour of her ambition suggests a contented, unregretful spirit. To reconcile my readers to the inevitable sands of time, I shall hold another group meditation session this Wednesday at 2200 hours, Eastern Congo Time. I can’t guarantee to bring peace to your soul, but it should be more satisfying than a pot noodle and a wank in the long run.
Labels: care home, fish-and-chips, Joan Collins, thong
