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
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Hello Dolly!
My females have been shaking their hairy haunches to the music of Dolly Parton and I’m not ashamed to admit I joined them. The feisty diva’s latest CD is a must buy for anyone with an ear for cheerful ditties, sung in the chirpy-yet-defiant voice of a busty-yet-diminutive southern belle.
Miss Parton is now wealthy enough to produce her own albums, having previously been frustrated by shallow and avaricious record companies that will shun a female artist whose nipples are lower than her rib-cage. In a recent interview, she was quick to point out that being her own boss had its advantages:
“I don’t have to listen to anybody,” she explained. “I’m the only person that I have to tell to kiss my ass.”
She was speaking figuratively, of course. There are very few humans whose spines are flexible enough to kiss their own behinds, and I’d be very surprised if Dolly could get within 12 inches at her age. Thankfully, a singer of her rare and extraordinary genius will never have to attempt this inelegant feat to entertain her adoring fans.
“It ain’t really about the money, it’s about the art.” she declared when pressed on the matter.
I couldn’t agree more. There’s nothing remotely artistic about smooching your own rear end, even if the perverts and ghouls would pay top-dollar to witness it. A lady of style does not sully her image by performing unnatural stunts.
On the subject of ladies’ bottoms, a woman of infinitely lower pedigree than Dolly Parton has displayed a photo of her naked posterior in an English law court. Accused of the heinous crime of punching a lesbian, she claimed the rainbow-coloured flower tattooed on her backside proved she harboured no prejudice against the Sapphic sisterhood. This dubious “evidence” immediately sowed seeds of dissension among the jury, who were subsequently unable to agree a verdict. The authorities decided against a retrial, so the woman walked free with a triumphant smirk on her face.
It disappoints me that 12 honest citizens could so easily be distracted by a wholly irrelevant arse snap. How could they be sure it belonged to the defendant in any case? There was no question of exposing her rump in open court, which might have given the judge a stroke, and you can’t accept the word of a queer-basher. As a result of their pusillanimity, a truculent hussy will be free to inflict further aggravations on innocent lesbians and their collaborators.
Had I been a member of the jury, I would have pointed out that law-abiding women do not deface their buttocks with rainbow-coloured tattoos. The fact that she shamelessly displayed a photo of the alleged tattoo was proof enough of her brazen and disruptive character. And if the derriere in question did not belong to the accused, she was guilty of perjury to boot.
There are times when it doesn’t need much deliberation to determine a person’s guilt – you could say it was written on their butt cheeks.
Labels: arse tattoo, arse-kissing, Dolly Parton, queer-bashing
Friday, October 31, 2008
Quantum of tookus
Wonderful to see my friend Danny Craig doing his Action Man stuff in the latest Bond flick. How far he has come from the whiny insecure actor who came to see me after signing on with Madam Broccoli.
“I’ll be another George Lazenby!” he wailed. “The critics will pan me and the actresses I kiss will eat garlic!”
“Don’t talk rot, Danny!” I cried. “The critics will worship you – and if any actress dares to eat garlic before you smooch her, stick a funnel in her mouth and pour in Listerine until she chokes!”
Thus reassured, Danny went on to do marvellous things in Casino Royale, jumping about like a Mexican bean and allowing his gonads to be whipped for Queen and country. Quantum of Solace is destined to be an ever bigger hit, not least because of the greater variety of totty for Bond to exert his loins upon. There’s a love scene in the film which I had a modest role in choreographing. During the shoot, Danny phoned me to say that he’d soon be planting kisses on the naked back of Miss Gemma Arterton, his delectable auburn-haired co-star:
“All the way down from her neck, GB!” he boasted excitedly. “Not bad, eh? It beats running like a hare in the action sequences!”
“All the way down!” I exclaimed in horror. “No, Danny, no! James Bond does not kiss arse, no matter how peachy and succulent! You must put your foot down!”
“But I don’t actually kiss her arse!” he protested. “Obviously they’ll cut before I get there or we’ll never get a 12A rating!”
“It doesn’t matter, Danny,” I replied. “Even implying that James Bond smooches butt is an absolute no-no. You must protect the integrity of the character for yourself and future generations of fans. Please insist on starting at the small of her back and working your way upwards.”
“You could be right,” he mused. “I’ll probably strain my neck going all the way down. Going up will give me a better posture and I’ll finish in shot.”
Those of you who’ve seen the movie will know that Danny acted on my advice. His mouth travels up Miss Arterton's spine while remaining a safe distance from her ravishing rump. Having said that, I have my doubts about Bond nibbling a woman's body like a gigolo – he’s obviously not a man for fannying about when he's got a lady where he wants her. I’m not convinced that any foreplay is actually necessary: the mere prospect of being pumped by 007 should bring a woman to within a single penetrative thrust of orgasm. Female agents of a more belligerent persuasion might feel the earth move if he forced them against a wall and stroked their crotch vigorously with his Walther PPK. Not very true to life, admittedly, but very much part of the fantasy. A man who cheats death fives times a day shouldn’t have to fiddle about with a lady’s bits and pieces to get her in the mood.
Although I love the Bond films, I have to say that my females are not the least bit impressed by 007 and his macho posturing. As well as being insufficiently hairy for their taste, his arms are too short for the kind of games they enjoy. They also assume he must be infertile, having mated with countless women without fathering a single child. This makes him little better than a eunuch to a female gorilla. They are intrigued by his gadgets, though, and were very fond of the late Desmond Llewellyn, who played ‘Q’. Age is no barrier to being a babe magnet in the jungle if your equipment is up to scratch.
Labels: arse-kissing, Daniel Craig, Gemma Arterton, James Bond
