Wednesday, April 12, 2017
Lady Victoria's lovers
As a chivalrous ape, I feel moved to defend Lady Victoria Hervey (pictured above left) from the cruel mockery of the mob. She is reportedly “mortified” about the existence of a secretly filmed sex video in which she is ravished by Mel B and her oafish husband. She fears that the video will be used as evidence in on-going divorce proceedings between Mel B and her husband (although I can’t for the life of me see why).
Nevertheless, the crass and lumpen elements of the on-line media have jeered at her apprehensions, declaring that she who cavorts with the Scary Spices deserves her fate. Their logic is defective, to put it mildly. Consenting to a threesome with a married couple does not give them the right to make it public knowledge, far less secretly film the event for later disclosure. The lack of sympathy for Lady Victoria cannot be unconnected with her aristocratic status. One gets the impression that those who are currently lampooning her would have hooted and cheered as the blade of the guillotine descended on poor Marie Antoinette.
A further mitigating point is that Lady Victoria was apparently the victim of a wily entrapment, quite unaware of anyone’s intentions until the last second. Here is an account of what happened given by a close friend:
“It was all a blur and everyone was very drunk. She told me one minute they were laying in bed watching a movie together, then they got carried away and Stephen was on top of her and Mel was kissing her. Next thing she can remember they all woke up naked in bed in the morning.”
This description suggests what occurred was in a grey zone between aggressive seduction and date rape. Mel B should hang her head in shame for using her celebrity status to lure Lady Victoria onto the marital bed, slyly waiting for the opportunity to force kisses on her stupefied lips, making her flesh putty in the hands of her predatory husband. It’s the sort of behaviour that gives pop stars a bad name.
Thus far, I have offered no opinion on the practice of three-in-a-bed romps. It’s not my business to approve or disapprove of human mating practices. My old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, told me he regretted the one occasion on which he participated in a fleshy entanglement with two women. It ended in farce when his bedmates clashed heads after simultaneously attempting the same manoeuvre. Regrettably, he could not suppress his laughter at their slapstick mishap, which totally ruined the mood. The last thing women who have butted heads want to hear is the guffawing of the man they were trying to oblige.
One would hate to think that Lady Victoria suffered the additional trauma of butting heads with Mel B. Hopefully she avoided that misfortune by adopting a passive role. Sometimes the safest course of action for a lady is to lie on her back and let other people do the work.
Labels: erotic videos, Scary Spice, seduction, threesome
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
He lived long and prospered
Silly Trekkies have been bleating and tweeting at William Shatner for not going to Leonard Nimoy’s funeral. Beam them up to the Bozo Asteroid. Mr Shatner had a previous engagement at a charity fundraiser and sent his daughters to the funeral instead. It was a logical decision that Spock would have approved of. I’ve not seen the Shatner girls, but I bet they’re a pair of lookers who are in far better shape than their pop. Had I been Leonard Nimoy, I would have given them permission to snort my ashes until they got high.
Now if Captain Kirk had not attended Spock’s funeral, it would have been an unforgiveable snub. I lost count of the number of times that Spock saved Kirk’s bacon by keeping a cool head when the captain was chasing alien totty. Furthermore, a party animal like Kirk could only have outlived a celibate Vulcan if the latter had fallen in the line of duty. “To fear death is not logical,” Spock would have said, before embarking on a suicide mission to save the Enterprise from being flushed down a wormhole into cosmic oblivion. He would still have worn a space diaper, because no bladder in the universe is controlled by logic.
We should not forget that Spock was half human, of course. Spock’s mother was a schoolteacher from Wichita Falls with a thing for pointy-eared dudes. His Vulcan genes must have been dominant, though, because he could do all of their tricks, including the telepathic face-palm and the knockout neck-pinch. He also possessed superhuman strength, because I clearly remember him kicking Kirk’s ass when they got into a scuffle. I thought he was an even-money bet to successfully defend his honour against a female gorilla.
Did Spock ever show his human half? The only time I can remember him doing so was during his verbal jousts with Doctor McCoy. I don’t believe a full-blooded Vulcan would have allowed himself to be goaded by the doctor’s obvious trolling. Spock’s desire to have the last word and show McCoy up as an irrational Earthman had a distinctly human tinge to it. They never quite got to the stage of exchanging “Yo Mama” insults, but the spirit and attitude were very much the same.
One last fact we should remember about Spock, which reflects well on the late Mr Nimoy, was that quite a few ladies found him attractive. Not all them, by any means – it was the bookish type of woman who seemed most likely to find his angular eyebrows bewitching. Here is a comment I got on an ancient post from a blogging author and mother:
“As a child, I watched Star Trek and privately worshipped Spock. His detached air and beautifully articulated sentences captured my nerdy imagination; his pointy ears, intelligent face and unconventional good looks didn't hurt a bit either.”
Her confession amused me and made me wonder whether Spock’s aloof style could be turned into a seduction technique. It’s got to be better than moaning with your mouth full.
Labels: Leonard Nimoy, seduction, Spock, Star Trek, William Shatner
Friday, October 28, 2011
French twittering
Although I don’t make a habit of interfering in human politics, I do feel obliged to offer words of support to Monsieur Eric Besson, the 51-year-old French industry minister who accidentally publicised a twitter message intended only for the eyes of his shapely young wife. The tweet went thus:
“When I come home I am going to bed. Too exhausted. With you?”
His treacherous followers forwarded this message widely before he could delete it. Consequently, he is being mocked throughout France for propositioning the ravishing Madame Besson with words that Basil Fawlty might have used to persuade Sybil to put on her crotchless knickers. The French expect better of their prominent men, having been raised in the belief that seduction is an exquisite art form perfected, over the centuries, by the nation’s bushy-eyebrowed poets.
This jeering at Monsieur Besson is a grave injustice, for even a one-eyed rooster could see he was paying his wife the greatest of compliments. There he was, making his way home, so dog-tired that he planned to hit the hay without even watching an episode of CSI Miami (with subtitles). Yet he still expressed a desire for physical intimacy with his mouth-wateringly sultry spouse. And let us acknowledge that Twitter is a wholly inadequate medium for romantic solicitation. Even the noble Lord Byron might have tweeted “Fancy a shag?" while riding home on his horse, his buttocks sore after a long day in the saddle. Sometimes a man has to get to the point instead of pussy-footing around with fancy language.
Now the French claim to be a nation of great lovers, but is this really true? There are baboons who claim their rumps are smoother than a billiard ball. I suspect the Gallic reputation for amorous indulgence is a myth created by overblown characters such as Maurice Chevalier and Pepé Le Pew. Even they did nothing particularly special, unless you believe that kissing a woman’s arm from wrist to shoulder while talking like Inspector Clouseau is guaranteed to turn her innards to putty.
The kind of love the French really excel at is self-love. Their cuisine, their fashion and even their affected language are presented to the world as the apogee of human culture and achievement. In the jungle, this kind of boasting would immediately be seen the defensive posturing of a beta male. You don’t make big noises in front of your rivals unless you’re scared they might rub your face into their armpits.
I shouldn’t end this French-themed post without offering my warm congratulations to Carla Bruni, who has given birth to a healthy baby girl at the age of 43. May little Giulia have the looks of her mother and the stature of her father. I was disappointed that some newspapers described the new-born infant as “President Sarkozy’s daughter”, as if there was any need to emphasise the point. Ms Bruni may be whimsical and impulsive, but she wouldn't allow any oily-arsed non-entity to plant his sprouts in her allotment.
Labels: Carla Bruni, France, Sarkozy, seduction, Twitter
Monday, May 23, 2011
Electronic seduction
A men’s magazine has published data proving that women are agreeing to sex sooner. Apparently, bombarding a woman with text messages and emails can reduce the number of dates required to get her into bed. I feel sorry for all the ugly girls who used to attract men by being an easy lay, and have now lost their competitive advantage. There are always losers when new technology arrives.
The winners appear to be men, but I’m not convinced they have gained all that much. Whether they chat to women in person or on-line, they still have to put in the hours. Virtual communication is effectively overtime, which they wouldn’t bother doing unless it shortened the journey to Humpsville.
The main drawback, from the woman’s point of view, is the risk of fraudulent seduction. One often hears of literate prison inmates acquiring the goodwill of their cellmates by drafting letters for girlfriends and wives. How long before some nerdy poet starts offering to write tender love messages for paying customers? Women imagining themselves to be the muse of an artist would end up as the game bird in a poacher’s sack.
Male gorillas are lucky in not having to jump through the hoops required of the human male. Women are fickle, and the wrong word at the wrong time can ruin hours of painstaking wooing. Female gorillas, by contrast, don't care what text messages you send them as long as you thump your chest and uproot a few saplings. Smells and deeds are what turn them on.
And yet there are still men who can seduce women without any form of electronic communication. In some cases, indeed, they barely need to say anything intelligible at all. Let us never forget the words that Christiano Ronaldo used to persuade a waitress to mate with him on a visit to Los Angeles:
“Me, you, fuck, fuck?” asked Ronnie with a look of boyish sincerity on his face.
The second “fuck” was probably unnecessary, but there’s no harm in repetition if making your meaning clear is of paramount importance. The encounter was a fruitful one, with the waitress bearing Ronaldo a son and letting his family have custody of the baby. Her reward for this selfless act of breeding was $15.1 million. Apparently, Ronaldo’s mother insisted he pay the waitress this extravagant sum so the boy wouldn't be greeted by a toothless hooker if he ever decided to visit her. Never again will I doubt the farsightedness of the mother of a Portuguese footballer.
Seduction works both ways, of course, although women generally have an easier job of coaxing men into servicing them. The human male is like the female peacock in being aroused by visual displays. We saw a good example of this at the royal wedding, when the bride’s younger sister wore a dress that covered her rump like plastic wrap on a peach. I don’t know who she was trying to excite, but I hope he had the effrontery to goose her at the party that evening.
Labels: Pippa Middleton, Ronaldo, seduction, sexting
Friday, January 15, 2010
Seduction tricks
Someone has asked me to contribute to a fund for a Korean man who tried to hypnotise a woman into bed. After failing in his attempt he was arrested and heavily fined. I won’t donate a penny. If hypnotists are allowed to get away with that kind of chicanery, no virtuous maiden will be safe unless she wears ear plugs. Instead of looking for macho sympathisers to reimburse him, he should thank the judge for being so lenient. I would have imposed the ancient Roman penalty involving fish paste and a ram’s horn.
Although human seduction techniques are irrelevant to a gorilla, I like to keep an eye on current developments. Apparently there is a society which helps men to perfect such wiles. A favoured method is for the seducer to invite the object of his lust to offer her opinion on a quirky topic he is supposedly debating with his buddies. Once enticed into communication, she is beguiled with pre-planned banter designed to make her feel she is being courted by Oscar Wilde’s heterosexual twin. If all goes to plan, she will consent to sexual relations before her charmer exhausts his bag of tricks.
Such tactics would never work with female gorillas. Too much clever talk is viewed as pretentious in the jungle. “Ignore the words, observe the deeds” is the motto they follow when sizing up eligible silverbacks. I remember the case of a wily chimpanzee who tried to chat up a pubescent female gorilla. He told her all kinds of tall stories about edible snakes and suckable coconuts. She listened to him with an amused look on her face and then immobilised him with a headlock. He must have spent hours lying on the ground with her vice-like ankles wrapped around his neck. He couldn’t move his head for a week after she released him.
Now I’m not saying that human females should adopt a similar approach. What works in the jungle might cause an unpleasant ruckus in a singles bar. But if a man sounds too clever, he ought to be reminded that his words are merely noises from a vibrating Adam’s Apple. The shrewd girl-about-town will listen to him with a twinkle in her eye and say “How you talk!” when he’s finished. If he looks annoyed, it means she’s seen through him.
It seems to me that the authentic ladies’ man learns his craft by hanging out with women and finding out what they really want from a lover. The fellow who only approaches a woman when he wants sex will never be a Casanova in my view. The same principle applies when the genders are reversed, of course. A lady gorilla who expects the alpha male to jump all over her when she’s in season might be gravely disappointed if the big guy feels he’s being used like a sperm bank.
“Where were you last week when I wanted a fruit smoothie and my back needed scratching?” I asked one of my horny females the other day.
She had no good answer to my question.
Labels: Casanova, headlock, hypnosis, seduction
