Wednesday, July 13, 2016
Tasting the spice
The Spice Girls have admitted that they used to kiss each other “once in a while”.
“Because of what we went through together, there's a bond that no one else understands,” explained Emma Bunton.
I think we can take it as read that it was mouth-to-mouth kissing with probing tongues. It wouldn’t be much of a confession if they were giving each other an affectionate peck on the cheek.
I don’t know how their fans will react to this revelation, but it all sounds completely natural to me. They were young, passionate women with pumping hormones, sharing hotel suites and borrowing each other’s toiletries. Their close camaraderie was bound to spill over into something more intimate in moments of high emotion. And don’t forget all the dancing they did together, shaking their booties in perfect synchrony. It could only have stimulated their mutual attraction.
Having admitted to kissing in private, should they now do it in public? The reunion concert planned for next year would be an idea venue for a spicy exhibition of smooching. When I asked the manager of the safari camp for his opinion, his answer was unequivocal.
“Of course they should do it!” he declared. “They’ve created the expectation, so now they’ve got to follow through. No one likes performers who are all talk and no action.”
“Which pair would you like to see press lips?” I asked.
“They should take it in turns to snog Baby Spice,” he replied. “Make her blush and pant for breath.”
“That sounds disturbingly similar to a ‘gang bang’ scenario,” I remarked. “Maybe you should browse vixens.com for a suitable movie instead.”
In truth, I don’t really want to see them kissing on stage. Madonna and Britney Spears did that many moons ago and it wasn’t at all erotic. It never is when it’s done purely for show. In an ideal world you’d want to watch the Spice Girls kissing in a private, intimate setting, but if you did that you’d be a Peeping Tom. It’s depressingly difficult to enjoy the simple pleasure of voyeurism in a decent and wholesome way.
It goes without saying that the Spice Girls don’t have to kiss each other to remain popular. I can think of very few musical acts in which kissing was an essential part of the entertainment. Did Sonny and Cher kiss after singing I Got You, Babe? I’m not convinced that they did, even though it would have been artistically justified. And what would it have proved anyway? They soon got divorced after their double-act lost its appeal.
That reminds me of another thing I admire about the Spice Girls – they never got bitchy with each other after they parted company. I’m pretty sure Cher insulted Sony Bono after he got into politics, implying that he was a midget who was useless in bed. It was an ugly slur against real midgets, who are often as good in bed as people twice their size.
Labels: kissing, peeping tom, Sonny and Cher, Spice Girls
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Stolen Kiss
An on-line magazine has accused Madonna of “ruining everyone’s childhood” by publishing a cartoon of herself smooching Snow White. I’m just glad the seven dwarves didn’t get into the picture. Madonna should beat the rap on the legal technicality that it’s impossible to ruin the childhood of someone who is an adult. Once you have grown up, your childhood is either irretrievably spoiled or irreversibly coated in sugar candy. Short of getting into a time machine and chasing down your infant behind, Madonna is powerless to influence the matter.
She might have ruined the childhood of actual children, of course. But I suspect that most kids have other things on their mind, like inventing a text abbreviation for the word “bodacious”. Perhaps the Disney Corporation should interview Pinocchio to find out whether he’s developed a taste for crazy dyke action.
A potentially more serious charge about the cartoon kiss was made in the following tweet:
“Urgh Madonna! Snow White was supposed to be a 14 year old girl! Wrong just wrong!”
It’s a fair point, but wasn’t Snow White also kissed by a prince after the dwarves had exhibited her in a glass coffin? No one ever accused him of molesting an underage girl, even though she was in a coma and unable to resist his advances. Furthermore, the prince rubbed salt into the wound by marrying her shortly afterwards. There’s no point condemning Madonna for a peck on the lips if the girl is being ravished in a royal four-poster. In Snow White’s position I’d be grateful for the diversion.
It would interesting to carry out a survey of fathers with teenage daughters, asking them whether they’d prefer to have their child deflowered by Madonna or a moody young fellow with raging hormones. Madonna may like to present herself as daring and outrageous, but she’s pretty sentimental about girls of a similar age to her own daughter. My guess is that she’d execute the operation with extreme tenderness and sensitivity. Lesbian sex can be a beautiful thing if no one is trying to prove she can outdo a man.
You’ve got to be careful how you handle lesbians, though. The BBC has been accused of deliberately killing off female characters involved in same-sex relationships. I’ve not watched any of the TV shows in which this allegedly occurs, but I can understand the frustration of dedicated viewers. It’s like being told that oysters are off the menu just when you’ve acquired a taste for them.
The facts regarding the lesbian cull appear to be damning, but I’m not convinced that the BBC is responsible. Its culture has been lesbian-friendly ever since ladies’ tennis started to attract high ratings. It saddens me to say this, but I suspect that many young actresses do not want to be typecast as lesbian characters. They fear that once the public sees them in that way, they’ll never be offered a part where Zac Efron wraps his tail around their haunches. Isn’t that why Jodie Foster kept her Velcro in the closet until she was too old to play the love interest?
Labels: BBC, crazy dyke action, Jodie Foster, kissing, lesbian, Madonna, Snow White
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Kiss of horror
My heart bleeds for Erica Valentine, the woman with an unusual kissing phobia. The 36-year-old model (pictured above) hasn’t had a date in over two years because of her fear of oral cooties.
“So many things go through my head so it makes kissing impossible for me,” she explained. “I've only ever had three boyfriends and I ask them all sorts of questions such as when they last brushed their teeth.”
Erica did live in wedlock for eight years, but the strain of a smoochless marriage was eventually too much for her husband. He left after impregnating her, possibly feeling he’d been used like a sperm bank. I hope she doesn’t give up on love. She might yet meet a man who is content to pleasure her from behind, his lips sealed with duct tape as an added precaution. A suitable advert in the personal columns would surely attract many offers. A chaperone would obviously be required to weed out the fiends and perverts.
Could Erica be cured of her complex by a shrink? It would certainly be fascinating to explore her subconscious mind. Her phobia might have originated in nursery school, when a greedy boy tried to suck a sweet out of her mouth. Hypnosis might be an effective therapy. Put a suggestion in her brain that her saliva is more deadly to germs than the toilet cleaners advertised on TV. You could test whether it worked by asking her to kiss a walrus or a warty old toad. Kissing a man would be a piece of cake after that.
Had Erica been born a gorilla her phobia would be unimportant, because kissing is unheard of amongst the hairy primates. When I told my females about the tongue-wrestling humans get up to, they hooted in hilarity. I am confident that human infants raised in a gorilla band would have no interest in kissing each other when they reached puberty. They would all be like Tarzan, who had no idea his mouth could be used for sexual purposes until Jane started sitting on his face.
How humans acquired the kissing habit is one of the great mysteries of anthropology. You don’t see couples spooning in a hunter-gatherer band. I reckon the practice began when humans started living in houses, which the women were expected to look after while the men were away at work.
Picture a man arriving home at the end of the day, looking forward to putting his feet up and relaxing in a vegetative state. Before he can sit down and begin the important task of scratching his nutsack, his eardrums are assaulted by the incessant chatter of his missus. After years of annoyance, he finally comes up with the solution – pressing his lips against hers to shut her up.
One can only wonder how the first woman to be kissed reacted to her first kiss.
“Are you out of your mind, you mad brute!” she might have hissed. “You’d better not do that again until I’ve taken off my lipstick!”
Labels: hypnosis, kissing, oral cooties, Tarzan
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Legal in Sweden
The manager of the safari camp saw fit to inform me that masturbating in public is now legal in Sweden. He seemed to think it was some kind of good news story that would put a smile on my face. On seeing my poker-faced reaction, he said:
“What’s the matter? I thought you’d approve of this.”
“What business is it of mine?” I replied. “I’m sure the Swedes can manage their own affairs without my input on every policy reform.”
“But aren’t you glad they’re becoming more like apes?” he asked. “I’ve never seen a gorilla sneak into a cave with a dirty magazine when he wanted to have a wank.”
“That doesn’t mean we’re exhibitionists,” I retorted. “I assure you such feats can be pulled off in the wild without attracting an audience.”
On reviewing the relevant news item, I quickly discovered that the manager had been exaggerating. What happened in Sweden was that a 65-year-old man who had been masturbating on a beach was acquitted of sexual assault. The judge ruled that he was innocent of this charge because his act was not aimed at an unwilling victim. He may nevertheless have been guilty of the lesser crime of “disorderly conduct”.
This seems like a balanced and well-considered judgement. I’ve seen countless baboons pleasuring themselves in open country, and I never felt insulted or abused unless they made eye contact and thrust their organ in my direction. If a human did that it would obviously be a gross outrage, worthy of clamping the culprit in irons and attaching a ball-and-chain to his leg. Never be too soft in dealing with the gawker-stroker.
It’s worth remembering that many of the great men of history were vigorous self-abusers. They generally jerked off in private, although a few medieval kings did it in the presence of a manservant holding a spittoon (which was thought to be civilised in those days). William Gladstone, the British prime minister, said it was a necessary release of surplus sexual energy that allowed him to reform prostitutes without cheating on his wife:
“I have never been guilty of the act which is known as infidelity to the marriage bed,” he boasted.
On the subject of wives, some academics from Oxford University have postulated that women decide which man to marry from the way he kisses them. I can well believe it, but it doesn’t tell us what kind of kiss will bring a woman to the altar. One assumes it must be mouth-to-mouth, although mouth-to-arse would be a more fitting inducement for certain types of union.
It reminds me of those Technicolor Hollywood movies, where the macho hero forces his lips on the mouth of the feisty heroine, who pummels his back for ten seconds before melting into his arms. Are there really women who would marry a man who rape-kissed them in that fashion? If I ever met a woman like that, I would subject her to a prolonged inquisition on a psychiatrist’s couch.
Labels: arse-kissing, forced-kissing, Gladstone, kissing, masturbation, Sweden
