Wednesday, June 07, 2017
Natural sweetener
Apparently there’s a product called MySweetV that can improve the taste and smell of a woman’s coochie. It’s promotional website contains the following sales pitch:
MySweetV is formulated to give your secretions a semi-fruity taste and sensual smell. You should always taste better than the next chick!
The same idea is repeated in the product’s twitter feed:
MySweetV makes your milkshake taste better than the next chick by giving your secretions a semi-fruity taste and sensual smell while working with your body’s Ph levels.
I would advise them to send out free samples to get some reviews instead of hoping that everyone will believe their hype. These reviews should be written by the tasters, not the buyers, so the claims made for MySweetV can be verified. I doubt there will be any reluctance on their part – humans who have eaten something tasty are rarely shy of boasting about it.
None of which means I approve of the product, which seems to be based on the premise that a woman’s vulva is some kind of hors d’oeuvre that must be sniffed and eaten like an oyster. This idea is unhelpful, in my view, because it encourages the taster to focus on his own enjoyment rather than the pleasure he should be trying to give. The prime objective of oral sex is to gratify the receiver – pleasant sensations on the tongue are an agreeable perk, but should not be thought of an end in itself.
MySweetV's marketing campaign has provoked a few hostile reactions. An article in an online newspaper has denounced the quest for an appetising vagina as bogus and demeaning. This is the advice it gave to its female readers:
Your vagina is not supposed to be entirely odourless. It’s not supposed to smell like roses and taste like a ripe plum. Your vagina should smell and taste like a vagina.
This is a fair point, and well made, but it begs the question of what an unseasoned vagina is supposed to taste like. Is there an authentic vagina flavour? Call me an innocent ape, but I really have no idea. If you blindfolded me and gave me different things to lick, I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a vagina and a shrimp cocktail.
My only source on this vexed question is Mr Krayzee Eyez Killah, the rap singer who told Larry David that vaginas come in as many different flavours as ice cream. He went on the claim that Thai pussies were a particular delicacy. Maybe Thai women eat special herbs and spices to make their juices tasty. In the absence of data, we can only speculate.
Truly, the Earth is full of unsolved mysteries. No one, to my knowledge, has got to the bottom of the Bermuda triangle. Do the ships that disappear there fall prey to pirates, or are they swallowed by a giant vortex? What affects the taste of a woman’s coochie is an enigma of comparable magnitude.
Labels: Bermuda Triangle, coochie flavouring, oral sex
Wednesday, January 18, 2017
Political favours
I’m trying to get in touch will Paola Saulino, an Italian actress currently traversing her country on a prize-giving tour. Ms Saulino (pictured above), promised to perform oral sex on any man who voted “no” in a recent national referendum. This is what she wrote on her Facebook page:
“I will practice oral sex with due and careful craftsmanship, thus fulfilling my duty, without losing even a drop of your essence, strictly looking at you in the eye. All this to those who will vote no in the referendum.”
The referendum was held to approve reforms the Italian prime minister said were essential, which convinced most voters they were as essential as tits on a bull. When the no-vote prevailed, Ms Saulino felt obliged to honour her promise to millions of Italian men who defiantly rejected the demands of their government in the hope of getting a blowjob. She is giving updates on her progress as she travels from city to city:
“First step of pompatour is gone, “ she wrote after leaving Rome. “A little bit tired but everything is ok.”
Who can blame her? Although only 51 men claimed their reward in Rome, that’s more pro-bono work than most lawyers do in a year. I hope she’s getting advice from a competent throat specialist on the best kind of mouthwash to use.
Maybe she’ll recoup her expenses by writing a book about the pompatour when it’s over. It isn’t everyday that a woman tastes the semen of so many different men. There could be interesting regional differences between the southern coastal cities and the industrial centres of Milan and Turin. We might finally get some hard data on how garlic and olive oil affect the virile juices.
She should also acquire a broad knowledge of the ejaculatory exclamations uttered by her countrymen. I’ve often wondered whether Kevin Kline’s cross-eyed groan in A Fish Called Wanda was based on anything real. The character he played, Otto, was an American of Italian ancestry, so the nature-versus-nurture debate may be relevant. He also worked for the CIA. Who knows how that would affect a man’s climax?
So you must be wondering why I want to communicate with Ms Saulino at this delicate stage of her mission. It’s because the manager of the safari camp, contemptible villain that he is, has whispered his intention to visit Italy for the ignoble purpose you can guess. He’s been practising his Italian using an on-line tutorial so he can pass himself off as a naturalised citizen. Paola would be a fool to fall for such a trick, but he might get lucky, and that offends my sense of fair play. I want to give her a warning so she can send the manager packing with his bodily fluids un-siphoned.
My legal sources tell me that “soliciting oral sex through deception” is not actually a criminal offence in any known jurisdiction. Pretty incredible, don’t you think? I guess too many powerful men benefit from this legal loophole.
Labels: Italy, oral sex, pompatour
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
Quid pro quo
Madonna has taken the art of political campaigning to a new level. At Madison Square Garden, she offered hovering voters the following deal:
“If you vote for Hillary Clinton, I will give you a blowjob, OK? I’m good. I’m not a douche, and I’m not a tool. I take my time.”
Sensing some ambivalence in the audience, she added:
“I have a lot of eye contact, and I do swallow.”
You could argue it’s sexist not to offer women anything, but she may have assumed the female vote is already in the sack. From another point of view, a man might feel aggrieved at the implication he will sell his vote for sexual favours. If such men exist, the manager of the safari camp is not one of them:
“If you won’t change your vote for a blowjob, what will you change your vote for?” he asked.
I sensed he would pooh-pooh any answer I gave him, so I scratched my chin and remained silent.
The fatal flaw in Madonna’s proposal is that there’s nothing to stop a man from agreeing to the bargain and voting for a different candidate. The secret ballot is a devilish impediment to such innovative forms of electioneering. She could reduce the risk by denying the inducement to 50-year-old men with beer bellies and Donald Trump. The demographic data indicate those groups are very unlikely to vote for Mrs Clinton.
In truth, I doubt that Madonna will win many votes for Hillary. Her tactics are too outrageous for the typical swing voter. If I were a member of the Clinton team, I would ask Pamela Anderson to join the campaign. She’s the kind of celebrity who appeals to voters who don’t know anything about politics, government, current affairs and other complex subjects. Sometimes you need an advocate who can simplify the issues to words of one or two syllables.
Pammie has recently been speaking out about the dangers of pornography. She says she has dated men who preferred watching porn to having sex with her, blaming their aberrant (and some would say wasteful) behaviour on their addiction to adult entertainment. She’s probably right, although we can’t rule out the possibility that they went off Pammie after realising they preferred women with smaller breasts. Those who have gorged excessively on Black Forest Gateau sometimes acquire a liking for cupcakes. Whatever their problem was, you have to give Pammie credit for raising public awareness of the issue:
“I want a sensual revolution because in the age of technology people are becoming desensitised and there are these multiple images and videos that get stranger and weirder,” she said.
I don’t think I’ve seen the really weird stuff, but I agree with the gist of her argument. Once you go down that path there’s no telling where it will end.
Is it too late for pornography to become an election issue? I can’t see it swinging voters in one direction or the other. But it might persuade the undecideds to stay at home.
Labels: American politics, Hillary Clinton, Madonna, oral sex, Pamela Anderson
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Oral hygiene
“I’m doomed,” he confided to me. “This is what happens when you go out of your way to please women, GB. Be wise and learn from my downfall.”
“Pull yourself together, manager!” I exclaimed. “There’s nothing to worry about unless you have the human papillomavirus. Why don’t you have a blood test to put your mind at rest?”
“What if I test positive?” he asked
I scratched my head and thought carefully before replying.
“If that lamentable eventuality should occur, I’d be obliged if you left me your nose hair trimmer.”
It’s a particularly poignant tragedy when someone contracts a deadly disease by giving pleasure to others. I blame the scientific community for not doing more to develop effective countermeasures. If they can pasteurize milk and pickle herrings, there must be a way of making the coochie safe for human consumption. Why can’t they create a sauce that would destroy all the virulent bugs while adding flavour to the dish? It’s never a bad idea to give people an incentive to take precautions.
One has to feel sorry for Mrs Zeta-Douglas, of course. I hope her husband makes it clear that the infected snatch he slurped on belongs to another lady, preferably one he savoured in his carefree bachelor days. An actress renowned for her beauty doesn’t want the public to think she’s a purveyor of poisonous juices. It’s hard to admire a woman’s face when you believe her nether regions are corrupted by a malignant effluvium.
Mr Douglas isn’t the only celebrity who’s been making statements of potential embarrassment to his spouse. At a recent awards ceremony, Victoria Spice found it necessary to elevate a microphone before addressing the hall.
“Oh I have to raise this, that doesn’t happen often!” she quipped.
The audience immediately understood this to be a reference to her husband’s manly appendage and roared with laughter. Mr Becks was not at the event, but the couple’s son was, which caused Victoria to repent of her bawdy remark:
“Oh my God I’m so sorry Brooklyn, they told me to be funny but that was completely off the cuff!” she said.
If Mr Becks is not man enough to give Victoria a regular seeing to, this intelligence should have been guarded like a state secret. Let’s hope Brooklyn recovers from the shock of hearing his mummy make light of daddy’s waning potency. A teenage boy who discovers his father is having problems in the stiffy department might well begin to doubt his own ability to raise the Jolly Roger.
Now that the cat is out of the bag, perhaps young Brooklyn should be sent to Michael Douglas for counselling. No one is better qualified to give advice on surviving the damage caused by a careless tongue.
Labels: embarrassing jokes, human papillomavirus, Michael Douglas, oral sex, Victoria Spice
Monday, June 28, 2010
British women are bored
A survey has revealed that two-thirds of British women are completely bored with life. I can’t say I’m surprised. Back in my circus days, I was frequently accosted by English girls who wanted to escape their humdrum existence.
“Can I join the circus, GB?” they would ask.
“It takes years of training to perform in the ring,” I would explain.
“I don’t have to be a performer, I could be your personal assistant,” they would say.
Tempted as I was by such propositions, practical considerations forced me to decline:
“That’s a very kind offer, but you wouldn’t be entitled to a trailer and I couldn’t keep you as a house pet. Here is the card of my mentor, Dr Whipsnade, who is the patron of a society for aspiring young ladies. Give him a call and I’m sure he’ll set you on the right path.”
I regretted not being able to help them myself, but at least I placed them in good hands.
When I told the manager of the safari camp about the survey, he had no doubt at all about the cause of their discontentment.
“Of course they’re frustrated!” he exclaimed. “Most British men prefer watching snooker on TV to pleasuring their wives!”
“The survey made no mention of sexual dissatisfaction,” I said.
“Trust me, Bananas, when a woman says she's bored that’s code for ‘my husband doesn’t go down on me’.”
“Your decoding abilities astound me,” I replied. “You ought to run a translation service for couples with communication problems.”
I was being sarcastic, of course. Oral sex is nothing to be sniffed at, but it isn’t the answer to all life’s problems. Nor is it good for the health if it goes on for too long. There must come a point when the recipient feels like a lemon that’s had the juice sucked out of it. In any case, the contentment gained from satisfying carnal desires is ephemeral. It does not provide an antidote to a deeper malaise of the spirit.
If you ask me, these bored British broads need to get back to Nature. Look at my females. Their lives are as free and unfettered as birds in the sky. They roam; they forage; they pluck fresh fruit from the trees. If they get the urge to run amok, there’s not a power on Earth that can stop them. They don’t have to worry about snoopy neighbours or disapproving fishwives. The only malicious gossips in the jungle are parrots, and they can be silenced by sticking a knob of toffee on their beaks.
My advice to any world-weary women is to spend a few months on an uninhabited tropical island. Live off shell fish and coconuts; strip off and swim in the ocean; climb trees until your rump is as brown as a berry and as firm as an apple. The experience will change your whole outlook on life and make a new woman of you. If you’re still bored after that, you probably need a good seeing to.
Labels: bored women, female gorillas, oral sex, tropical island
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Uncurbed enthusiasm
A heated argument breaks out at the safari guesthouse about the TV comedy show Curb Your Enthusiasm. It concerns an episode in which the petite black comedienne, Wanda Sykes, breaks off her engagement with a rap singer on discovering that he is “running around town eating pussy”. The ladies present are of the opinion that Wanda had acted appropriately, denouncing her fiancé as a slimy-tongued philanderer who ought to have his lips sown together. The male guests take a contrary position, arguing that Miss Sykes had overreacted. She should have realised, they say, that a rap singer is a breed of man for whom eating pussy is like eating popcorn – a snack of negligible significance. One of them goes so far as to suggest that Krayzee-Eyez Killa had proved his fidelity to Wanda by reserving his own private parts for her exclusive satisfaction.
You are doubtless now expecting to hear of my own contribution to this debate. “Gorilla Bananas surely intervened to smooth ruffled feathers and cool heated tempers,” I hear you say. “He devised a compromise formula that coaxed the bickering humans into renewing their cross-gender camaraderie.” Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. My lips, on this occasion, remained firmly sealed (if not actually sown together). Life is not an episode of The Waltons and there are times when the antagonists must settle their differences without my arbitration. I cannot always play the part of a hairy King Solomon.
What I was motivated to do was watch the episode in question on the HBO video-on-demand channel. One must always examine the evidence before making judgements about alleged sexual misconduct. In the opening scene of the show, Mr Killa recites the lyrics of a new composition:
If you say anything
You’ll beg me to die
Coz I’ll make you suck my dick
Then I’ll nut in your eye
I’ll stomp on your world
As if my name is Godzilla
I’m coming for you motherfucker
I’m your Krazee-Eyez Killa
In virtually his next breath, he informs Larry David that performing oral sex on women of diverse ethnicities is one of the great passions of his life:
“You’ve got all different flavours of pussy,” he explains. “The best pussy to eat is Asian pussy.”
The man clearly believes that oral sex is a panacea for life’s problems – a heinous punishment to inflict on an enemy in one context becomes a gourmet delicacy in another. Such are the nuances of ghetto culture. Yet natural justice demands that we consider the matter from the viewpoint of his fiancé. For a wife to have the taste of her private parts compared unfavourably with countless Asian women is undeniably a gross humiliation. Had I been betrothed to Mr Killa, I simply wouldn’t have stood for it:
“If the taste of my pussy isn’t good enough for you I’ll serve it to someone else!” I would have declared frostily.
On the other hand, it does seem rather harsh to dump a fellow for habits he presumably acquired during his bachelorhood. Shouldn’t a man contemplating matrimony be given a chance to mend his ways?
So on due reflection, I would have advised Wanda to take Krazee-Eyez back on condition that he gave up his promiscuous pussy-eating compulsion. A mere declaration on his part would not suffice. To prove his sincerity, he would be required to eat raw chillies for a month in order to cleanse his palate and permanently numb his taste buds. Purged of his ability to appreciate the subtle flavours of a woman’s cha-cha, he would surely be cured of his indecent obsession. Even the most hardened addict can learn to kick the habit.
Labels: Asian pussy, chillies, flavours, Larry David, oral sex, taste buds
