Wednesday, March 22, 2017
Panty business
How much should a woman charge for her dirty knickers? I’ve been pondering this question after reading a news story about a married lady with a thriving mail-order business. Mistress Dani, as she likes to be known, has a website where customers can pick and choose panties with a selection of different soilings. Yet she prides herself on offering much more than items from her laundry basket:
“Our clients want an authentic experience and it’s all about intimacy – so it’s important they feel like they’re getting attention,” she explains.
If you’re wondering how a transaction involving underwear can give a man the attention he needs, it’s all about the flow of information. He asks Mistress Dani what her knickers smell like – she tells him they exude the fragrant aroma of steamed mussels with a dash of lemon. He tells her what he has done with the knickers after receiving them, often with photographic evidence – she praises his ingenuity and pretends to be flattered (I suppose you’d call that aftercare service). By such means, the client feels he has acquired something more meaningful than panties.
All of which suggests she is making them pay through the nose for the service, which might be considered apt given the part played by their noses in enjoying the product. According to Mistress Dani, one of her clients was a married man who could no longer sleep with his infirm wife:
“He just wanted the smell of a woman,” she explained.
You have to admit that’s a valid necessity. If a man goes without the smell of a woman for too long his nostrils start twitching. However, the Mistress is extending her range of services to cater for clients with stranger desires. Apparently, many of her customers crave humiliation, which can be provided in ways that do not require face-to-face contact. For example, her clients can ask for their picture to be displayed in a rogues gallery of panty-sniffers which appears in her website. She will also play the part of schoolmistress, ordering men to write out lines for her inspection. Those who want the premier service can ask for a sample of her urine to abase themselves with. Again, there is no indication of what she charges for these services, but they don’t seem to require a lot of woman-hours. Even a modest fee could generate massive profits.
Of course, Mistress Dani doesn’t have to disclose her fees if she doesn’t want to. As long as her clients think they’re getting value for money, it’s nobody’s business. Nevertheless, once a businesswoman starts using the news media to advertise her wares, she should expect to have her trading practices scrutinised. The market for soiled panties and related services won’t work efficiently if no one publishes their prices. Let’s hope the problem is solved by more suppliers entering the industry to provide a healthy does of competition. My ape instincts tell me there are a lot of women out there who could give Mistress Dani a run for her money.
Labels: humiliation, knickers, mail order business, panty-sniffers
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Chinese take-away
I’m glad to hear that the Chinese authorities have not disclosed the full name of the panty thief recently arrested in the city of Yulin. His family name is said to be Tang, but that shouldn’t reveal his identity. There are vastly more Tangs in China than women who’ve had their knickers stolen. Mr Tang’s guilty secret was discovered when a ceiling collapsed under the weight of his contraband, said to number in the thousands. Women living in his apartment building had been complaining about their disappearing underwear, so it was easy for the police to join the dots.
Preserving Mr Tang’s partial anonymity will make it easier for him to lead a normal life if and when he is cured of his fetish. At the relatively young age of 30, he should respond well to aversion therapy and a diet rich in insect protein. Sadly, job opportunities for ex panty thieves are limited, even in countries with a good record of rehabilitating offenders. I don’t know what his career plans are, but I think he’d be pretty safe to employ in my neighbourhood. There is very little underwear to steal in the jungle.
I’m going to mention Mr Tang’s case when I visit the safari camp on New Year’s Day. The manager’s wife is terrified that a new world war will start in 2015 because of the film about Kim Jong Un. She arrived at this conclusion after reading threats of dire revenge made by the North Korean regime, which the BBC foolishly published on its website:
“Making and releasing a movie on a plot to hurt our top-level leadership is the most blatant act of terrorism and war and will absolutely not be tolerated,” declared the regime’s official spokesmen. “If the US administration allows and defends the showing of the film, a merciless counter-measure will be taken,” he added.
I’ve already told the manager’s wife that the North Koreans can’t make war without China’s support, but she doesn’t believe that China will restrain them. I will cite the case of Mr Tang to demonstrate the growing maturity of the Chinese. In the dark days of Chairman Mao, knicker bandits were publicly humiliated and forced to eat their own toe jam. Economic modernisation has brought China to accept that ideological subversion is not the root cause of every strange act. They now realise that many of their citizens have mental problems, which has brought them closer to the West.
As for the film, it seems that North Korean attempts at cyber-blackmail have failed because crowds are queuing to watch it at independent cinemas. I fear that many of them will be disappointed. A movie isn’t guaranteed to be good just because it offends Kim Jong Un – otherwise you could make a fortune by filming a fat Korean oaf wallowing naked in pig excrement. Thus far, the critics are unimpressed and the rabble are unamused. The pudgy upstart of the peninsula might yet have his vengeance by making his enemies waste their time and money in crowded movie theatres.
Labels: China, film critics, Kim Jong Un, knickers, panty thief
Wednesday, October 08, 2014
Size and shape
A journalist has disrespectfully implied that Queen Victoria had a huge arse by disclosing the size of her knickers. The aforementioned undergarment was recently put up for auction with a reserve price of two thousand pounds sterling. It was worn by the monarch in her dotage and its waist is allegedly 52 inches.
I don’t know who the current owner is, but he should have donated it to a museum rather than allowing a bunch of undie-collectors to haggle over it. Anyone who would pay thousands of pounds for a big pair of panties cannot be trusted with a big pair of panties. When I think of how the royal bloomers might be defiled, it makes me want to thump my chest.
In discussing the size of Queen Victoria’s behind, one should never forget that she was widowed at a relatively young age. A big bum can be a great comfort to a bereaved matron who might suddenly feel weak at the knees. If she has to sit down on the nearest hard stool, her meaty rump will cushion the load.
Her buttocks were believed to be moderately fleshy when Prince Albert was alive. This helped to keep the sparks flying in their marriage, enabling them to produce a brood of nine. Having served the nation so effectively, the royal arse was entitled to expand when no longer required for duties of state.
The booty of Jennifer Lopez has received a much kinder press, possibly because people are scared of her. Latino women have a fiery reputation, so pundits likely to cross her path have praised her backside to cover their own ones. Even Diddy the rapper has jumped on the bandwagon by describing the Lopez butt as “a work of art”. He used to be her daddy-boo, so maybe he still dreams of kissing it. A witty plastic surgeon could have ruined his flattery by saying “Yes, and I’m the artist!”. J-Lo might have blown a fuse, but she would have been safe to handle with a pair of rubber gloves.
No one knows what Jennifer’s bottom will be like when she’s eighty years old. Maybe it will be big and round, or maybe it will just be big. A man who might be qualified to answer this question is William Shatner, who has personal experience of the relationship between age and body-shape. When asked how he had evolved since his first voyage on the Enterprise, he said:
“I’m a little more rotund than I was when I was doing the series but roundness is a good shape. It’s part of nature. My tip is to run as fast as you can.”
Shatner says he is open to offers for further Star Trek appearances, but could he still play Kirk? Maybe a clever writer could dream up a story where Jim is in a fat farm on Bulbous Major and solves a Vulcan murder mystery. Being too heavy to move around, he would achieve this through pure deductive reasoning while lying on a massage table. Spock would be green-blooded with envy.
Labels: arse, buttocks, Jennifer Lopez, knickers, Queen Victoria, rump, Star Trek
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
The peacock's tail
Scientists have discovered a trick used by peacocks to attract more females: they hide behind a bush and pretend they’re have sex by making suggestive clucking noises. This convinces any passing peahen that the male is an alpha stud who’s busy servicing her rivals. Consumed with jealousy and lust, she hunts him down to get her share of the action.
Perhaps we should consider whether the same strategy would work for men. Suppose a fellow panted heavily and shouted “Who’s your daddy?” with his bedroom window open. How would this influence women passing by in the street below? My gut feeling is that they wouldn’t be impressed. They would ask themselves questions like “Why is the window open?” and “Why is his partner not making any noise?”. Women are much less easy to fool than peahens.
Having said all that, it would be wrong to believe that the human female is immune to the attractions of reputation and swagger. Have you heard the news that Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez have reunited in the biblical sense? After getting jilted by Selena a couple of years ago, I’m sure you all know that Justin went on a rampage of sleeping with prostitutes, sucking strippers’ titties and generally being a bad boy. Far from further alienating Selena, it seems these additions to his résumé have induced her to reconnect. Once again, she is spreading her legs for the Bieb.
Her parents are allegedly wringing their hands in horror, but that’s probably because they never studied biology at graduate level. There’s no point reasoning with a female in oestrus. I once tried reasoning with a female gorilla in oestrus and she bit me. What Selena’s parents should do is let Nature take its course until she finds out whether Justin has turned into the dashing desperado of her imagination. My guess is that he hasn’t. There aren’t many boys who can compete with a girl’s fantasies.
Sometimes a female gives the wrong impression of being in oestrus. Looking at the picture below, you might think the deed depicted was hormonally influenced. In fact, the actress Kristen Bell is rebuking her co-stars at a movie premiere. A few minutes before, her red panties had been exposed by a gust of wind, causing her escorts to laugh. The butt-gropes were an entirely appropriate response to their uncouth behaviour.
It goes without saying that one should never snigger at a lady’s underwear. My friend Lady Chuffington once accidentally gave me a glimpse of her purple knickers. I would have said nothing, but her hard stare and pursed lips suggested she held me at fault for some reason. Realising that the incident could not pass without comment, I formulated the following response:
“A fine pair of bloomers, milady! The colour is especially vibrant, if I may say so.”
“You many indeed, Bananas,” she replied, before giving me her hand to kiss.
It’s usually possible to defuse an awkward situation if you keep your wits about you.
Labels: Justin Bieber, knickers, Kristen Bell, mating tricks, oestrus, Selena Gomez
Friday, September 02, 2011
Hopping mad
I do hope the Czech authorities are lenient with Benji the kangaroo, who ran amok in Prague, stealing ladies’ knickers as he hopped from garden to garden. A kangaroo doesn’t do such things out of malice or depravity, and he must have learned the behaviour from a human role model. Benji’s owner was quick to deny culpability:
“He certainly didn’t pick up the habit from me,” said 35-year-old Petr Hlabovic defensively.
I hope they’ll search Hlabovic’s house for incriminating evidence before accepting his denial. I’ve often heard rumours of knicker-collecting men, who display their stolen artefacts as trophies to their beer-guzzling buddies. The home of such a brigand would be a highly corrupting environment for a kangaroo.
A more innocent explanation is that Benji was influenced by what he saw on TV. Kangaroos are impressionable creatures, and I believe that re-runs of The Benny Hill show are popular in the Czech Republic. Who could blame Benji for mimicking the antics of a pie-faced buffoon who gets cheap laughs by ogling busty women? He simply wouldn’t have known any better.
The kindest thing to do with Benji now would be to send him back to his native land. Australians are a patriotic bunch, and have a notably relaxed attitude to knicker-theft and other larrikin pranks. I would expect them to welcome Benji home as a returning hero and present him with a harem of females for his (and their) amusement. Bush nookie is a popular pastime in that part of the world.
One émigré animal who certainly shouldn’t be repatriated is Nico the gorilla, who petulantly tossed away the flowers he was given on his 50th birthday, and greedily wolfed down the fruit cake he later received. A gorilla that spoiled wouldn’t last five minutes in Africa. If I ever dared to pour scorn on a gift from my females I’d be walking with a limp for the next three months.
It has to be said that humans are not always astute in their choice of presents. Back in my circus days, I remember getting a silk necktie for my birthday from the female acrobats.
“I’m sure I shall find an excellent use for it,” I said to the girls.
“You’re supposed to wear it around your neck,” they explained.
“Yes, I believe that’s what a man would do with it,” I replied. “We gorillas are not so conventional in our use of ornamental textiles.”
I initially considered wearing around my chest as a nipple protector, but soon realised that such an application would be pointless. A gorilla’s nipples are pretty secure at the worst of times, and I’ve not met the human who would dare to pinch them without prior consent.
I eventually settled on using it as a line to hang pot plants on. This was a great success, allowing me to cultivate an impressive range of herbs and medicinal narcotics. As we say in the jungle: if it can’t be used in horticulture, you may as well give it to the crocodiles.
Labels: Australia, kangaroo, knickers, nipple protector, The Czech Republic
Monday, January 11, 2010
Ride of the Valkyries
The manager of the safari camp attempts to humour me by claiming that a bullet-proof bra has been invented in Germany. I am not impressed by his apocryphal assertion."The Germans invented bosom armour centuries ago,” I remind him. “Brunhilde 'Iron-tits' Kugelbrecher charged into battle with a pair of metal cones sprouting from her bust. As well as protecting her jahoobies from missiles, she could impale a man’s head on her spiky bodkins.”
“That’s not the same thing,” retorts the manager. “A metal bra would cause bullets to ricochet everywhere and get hot after being sprayed with automatic fire. Brunhilde’s titties would have been well and truly cooked.”
“It’s just as well such weapons did not exist when she was alive,” I remark. “What materials is the contemporary boob-protector made of?”
“Ordinary fabrics with extra padding,” he answers.
I later discover that the garment cited by the manager offers no protection whatever against bullets. German policewomen have been advised to wear it underneath an ordinary bullet-proof vest. Once again, a gullible human has been fooled by a misleading news headline.
It follows that metallic bosom armour remains state-of-the-art, and not just for women who do battle in horny helmets. It is also the most effective countermeasure against the insidious groper who will exploit any opportunity to manipulate a woman’s melons. I’m thinking particularly of those degenerate dentists who cannot resist the temptation to paw their female patients, often when they are prone and defenceless on the chair. The number of fiends arrested for this offence continues to accumulate.
A chastity belt would be going too far though. Call me an unadventurous ape, but I’ve never been comfortable with the idea of a two-legged creature going about its business with an object pressed against its crotch. There are certain areas of the body that Nature intended to be well-ventilated, the gusset being the most obvious one. I pity the medieval maidens who had to wear those ungainly groin-padlocks, which through contact with bodily fluids may have poisoned many a cha-cha. The modern human female is will rid of such treacherous and unhygienic appliances.
I’ve never understood the need for knickers either. Why do women wear them? Do they hold something up that would otherwise fall down? Do they prevent things from rubbing against the naked flesh, causing discomfort or embarrassing pleasure? I suspect they are one of those fashion fads that arose in the days of Marie Antoinette, and got passed down through the generations from mother to daughter. If a famous woman like Angela Merkel or Hilldog were to publicly renounce her knickers, great swathes of the female population would surely go commando.
A lot of men would miss seeing panties hanging on clothes lines and having a quick sniff of them in the laundry basket, but they can’t expect women to dance to their tune in these days of gender equality. The gentlemen among them would obtain vicarious pleasure from imagining the sensation of cool air circulating around the female crevices.
Labels: bosom armour, chastity belts, Germans, knickers
