Fan mail. I do so enjoy it. But for all you gentlemen out there, I know that maybe I come across as some sort of lewd tart, but I really am a sensitive soul and would appreciate some tender missives of romance comparing my eyes to limpid pools of Nutella etc. But I suppose I must take what I can get. And what I got today was this:
Not sure if you remember me, but you posted to my blog Everyone has a Badside way back when. In case you haven't been by the blog in a bit, for the last month I've been posting about a little adventure I've been going through. Basically, I've been abstaining from full ejaculations for the purpose of kicking my admittedly high libido into the stratosphere. The journey is set to end soon and I've devised a wonderful way to bring it to a close. I'm asking some of the lovely ladies (this definitely includes you) who I know from blogging to join me in my orgasm, semi virtually. I'd love it if you would send me a pair of your used panties to pleasure myself with during the big cumming. I do realize that this is completely out of the blue, but I'm hoping that the idea of a mysterious man getting off to your scent and taste would turn you on. Obviously, you can remain completely anonymous in all this if you choose. Which ever way you decide, I invite you to read about the results in the days to cum.
So I replied:
Re the question of sending you my soiled knickers, my first thought was, this would leave me out of pocket since I would have to buy the knickers and pay postage.
I will post this on my blog and see what my readers think.
What I am now thinking is, what's the story? Apart from the cost, this isn't exactly a fair proposition, now is it? I mean, what do I get out of it? The thrill of thinking what Fred would do with the panties? Not my cup of tea I'm afraid. I prefer not to think of their ultimate destination.
No, this definately calls for a swap. But what is a fair swap? I suppose I can see Noel Edmonds on Swap Shop saying something like, "We have Emma, offering a pair of soiled knickers. In exchange she wants a male pair of skid marked undies."
Except that I wouldn't want that, now would I? It is strange how the male and female minds are so very differently wired, isn't it?
It seems that in this game it might all be about getting the freshest knickers to the right punters. In Japan they have soiled panty vending machines, but I think it's a bit of con, because unless they are each marked with a freshness date, how can you really guarantee that they are freshly soiled and reeking? You can see how angry Japs might kick these machines if the pants aren't smelly enough.
Anyone out there who wants to get in touch with Fred and send them your panties (females only I'm afraid), please do be my guest. Let him know what you think would be a fair swap.
As for me, I'm wondering if there isn't a niche market here for selling soiled briefs to teabag makers? The tea could be called Pudenda Brew and have the jingle:
This delectable brew is better than whisky One sip from the cup and you'll want to get frisky
I just heard about a new British tourism initiative called ComedyEngland, which plans to take tourists to places where British comedy programs have been filmed, and can honestly say I have never heard of anything less funny in my life.
Apparently, some tourism executives who were not high on cocaine (or maybe they were) dreamt up the "have a laugh" holiday schedule which includes a weekend break in Slough to get a flavor of Ricky Gervais's The Office and a day trip to Guildford to spot landmarks from Four Weddings and a Funeral. Binley Woods, Coventry - home of Hyacinth Bucket of Keeping up Appearances - and Billericay, the Essex stamping ground of Gavin from Gavin and Stacey fame, are also among the attractions listed by VisitBritain as part of ComedyEngland.
The most visited places for comic nostalgia are expected to be Torquay, location for Fawlty Towers, Holmfirth in West Yorkshire, setting for Last of the Summer Wine, Turville in the Chilterns, the parish made famous by The Vicar of Dibley, Norwich, home to Steve Coogan's I'm Alan Partridge, and Cricket St Thomas, Somerset, the village where Peter Bowles and Penelope Keith filmed To the Manor Born. Another suggested trip is to Morecambe to see Eric Morecambe's statue.
To which I say, Slough? Why would anyone want to visit Slough? Now I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth, more like a rusty tin one (if you want to know all about my colorful childhood you can read about it in my potted bio: the long road from bastard to nob), but at least my mother had the foresight to make sure that if we had to live in a council flat it should be in St. John's Wood. You can be poor and look at attractive architecture you know! So who in the name of God would want to go to Slough?
And okay, Norwich is quite nice, but what the heck is the point of going if you don't bump into Alan Partridge and his combover crossing the cobbled streets and saying "Knowing Me, Knowing You, Aha?"
What these twits at VisitBritain have failed to notice is that the comedians are what people want to see. A better initiative would be to just have the comics flown to your house, to prance about in character, for a hefty price. I would give my left arm to have Richard Griffiths come to a party as Uncle Monty and am willing to pay up to $100,000 for the privilege of hearing him say, "Flowers are essentially tarts...prostitutes for the bees. There is something very special about a young, firm carrot."
What do you think? A good idea, what? What famous person would you like at your party, what would you like them to do and how much would you be willing to pay? When I become a millionaire I will fulfil all your deepest darkest desires....
Yes, it's forty. Forty measly men makes a sex addict!
I just read a review of self styled sex addict Kerry Cohen's book Loose Girl: A Memoir of Promiscuity. Kerry apparently can barely remember all of the 40-odd men she's slept with (her list includes "that guy with the dog" and "the one who kept talking during sex as though we were just hanging out")
At first I checked my calendar. It wasn't April 1st. This wasn't some ridiculous practical joke.
I'm sorry, but forty doesn't make you an addict. You just felt desperate, slept with a handful of people to shore up your fragile self-esteem, they didn't like you the next day, you felt like shit. Ergo you're an addict? I don't think so.
I'm getting a little tired of half-arsed addicts.
What if I said to you, I confess....I am addicted to chewing my cuticles. I'm a Cuticle Chewing Addict. I have chewed through six pounds of cuticles over the years. Can I be helped? Can I break free from this powerful addiction? Would you have any sympathy for me? Thought not.
Other made up 'addictions' include:
Those who are caught in flagrante with someone other than their partner. Their excuse: "I was asleep."
Yes, if you ever need a convenient excuse to get yourself out of a hole, say you have the medical disorder known as Sleepus Bonkimus, otherwise known as: sleep sex.
Also, no, please don't laugh, there are actually people who blame being fat on a disorder they call: Stuffing my face all night and then pretending I didn't, otherwise known as: sleep eating. For your information, sleep eating is a sleep-related disorder, although some specialists consider it to be a combination of a sleep and an eating disorder. It is a relatively rare and little known condition that is gaining recognition in sleep medicine. Other names for sleep eating are sleep-related eating (disorder), nocturnal sleep-related eating disorder (NS-RED), and sleep-eating syndrome.Sleep eating is characterized by sleepwalking and excessive nocturnal overeating (compulsive hyperphagia).
If there are any doctors or addiction specialists out there, can you explain why sleep eaters only eat cakes and don't, say, raid the salad drawer?
No, I'm getting pretty tired of everyone wanting to be in the addicts club. Of claiming to have an addiction, however ludicrous. And if you can't have an addiction, have an allergy. And if you can't have an allergy, have a sensitivity.
Do share your heart-wrenching, traumatic addictions on this blog. Becaue I care, I really do.
At last I am happy with my garden, the lilies bloom, the roses blush, I can relax with a Pimms and survey my handiwork and sigh with middle aged contentment. Then I notice there is a small, cute rabbit who is nibbling the clover that is mixed in with the grass. How absolutely adorable, the children agree, to have a pet mowing the lawn!
The honeymoon period regarding the rabbit lasts about a day when I see him eating the leaves off the lilies. The scoundrel! I spend my day chasing him away. I don't want to tell my husband about it because he would probably dispose of it. He has offered to 'take care of' my friend Daisy's three retarded/psychotic pets:
Crazy Cat One: will launch herself at you with absolutely no provocation. They have to use gardening gloves to get her in the crate and she once hung from Daisy's husband Darren's nostril by one claw while he spurted blood.
Crazy Cat Two: Pisses in all plant pots but will not piss in the cat litter. Also has eczema.
Retarded Dog: Sleeps in the bed with them which may be why they never have sex. Frequently eats stuff and vomits all over the house.
By taking care of them, I of course mean that John has said that for $10 he will be an Animal Hit Man, and will take them away in the middle of the night, no questions asked, and they will never return. Animal Hit Man is definitely a lucrative home business, but I don't know if he would actually carry out these cold blooded killings or whether it is all front. So far Daisy is for at least some of the animals being murdered but Darren says he will not allow the hit nor will he have them put down by a vet since it is 'bad karma.' I keep reminding him that a house that smells of cat piss can be very bad karma too.
Anyway,I tell the kids I am angry with the rabbit and am going to try and make it relocate to the neighbor's garden. Then I go upstairs and, seizing the bull by the horns, have a quick romp in the hay (with John). When I come downstairs again both Sausage and Scarlett stare at me, looking very worried. Yes, they were meant to be playing in the garden, or so I thought....
Sausage says, "We heard you crying." She puts her arms around me.
Scarlett's lower lip starts quivering. "We heard you crying upstairs in your bedroom."
"Oh." What are they on about? Oh yes, I see, my yowling during sex, yes, I suppose it could be construed as crying.
"We know you're upset that the rabbit ate your flowers."
Right. Put on a sad clown face. "Yes I am, I'm very upset. And that's why I was, um, crying."
"It's going to be all right," says Scarlett, starting to cry.
"It will," I reply. "We're going to find a way to stop him eating the flowers."
We have a group hug while I wonder: is it wrong to lie to kids?
Also, to all the gardening nuts out there: any tips on how to stop rabbits eating your plants? A friend recommended sprinkling chili powder on them. Might try that.
Today I read a very reputable article in The Sun about a new survey which shows that brainy babes find it harder to have an orgasm – because they are too busy thinking.
A German survey [no source given, naturally] found that the more educated a woman was, the less likely it was that she would be satisfied by sex.
In the study 62 per cent of women who had completed their education said they often had problems achieving orgasm.
Only 38 per cent of women with a lower educational qualification said they had such problems.
The study conducted by a German lifestyle website surveyed over 2,000 women between the ages of 18 and 49.
So I'm thinking about this. And I think there is something to it - I'm going to go out on a limb here and say I'm smart - because in my early twenties I was definitely thinking too much during sex instead of reacting and orgasms sometimes remained, well, elusive.
I've often wondered what the attraction of sleeping with braindead arm candy would be. There would be no ego boost in pulling her because she would fall for all your lines. Then she'd believe you when you told her you'd had a vasectomy (because you don't like wearing a condom). Then you'd tell her you'd read a survey that said swallowing sperm would protect her from getting breast cancer. No, from the few times I've dabbled with a himbo I can tell you that dealing with a guy with a head full of air in the sack is pretty damn tedious especially when you have to explain everything three times.
But I'm very curious about this. So many men seem to be attracted to bimbettes with big bongos. So...can any men tell me whether your average bimbo is more of a barrel of monkies in the sack or whether your smarter type chick is more fun because she has the imagination to make up great role play situations...and can always think of new clever ways to have more orgasms?
Gyms, I know they're nonsense and a huge waste of cash. I know one could easily, if one had the self-discipline, get up at five and go for a brisk run etcetera etcetera, but I am not such a person. In fact, in the last five months I have actually put on weight while working out at the gym, which means that, duh, I've been eating too much. I read some nonsense in a women's mag just now that said, "Spend as much time exercising as you do eating." That would mean I'd spend half an hour per day exercising which doesn't really cut the mustard - or the flab, if you're very swiftly imbibing 3,000 calories, mostly made up of lard, like I do.
So off to the gym I go. First I do the aerobics class or step class. Sometimes I fall off the step if I have a hangover. Then I do the exercise bike. I have recently become addicted to some new fangled virtual reality bikes they have where you are meant to feel like you are cycling in a verdant orchard rather than stuck between two fat, sweaty men who smell of Old Spice. My problem with gyms is that a lot of the people there stink.
The bane of my life is this old geezer who gets on the bike beside me the second I get on. He is a skinny little octogenarian and God bless him for keeping fit, but in seconds he is red faced and drenched. And his sweat really stinks. But worse than that, he sounds like the worst heavy breather telephone pervert you've ever heard. It's like PANT WHEEZE PANT until I'm feeling like this geezer is coming on to me. I know he's not but I just know this panting is what he does while he has sex.
So what I did of course, was to try and block out the panting. And yes, this was one of those times I despised myself for being tight. There is a hole in the virtual reality screen where you can plug in your headphones and listen to music. Of course, I'm too cheap to buy single pronged earphones, so I use the two-pronged ones you get free on airlines and I could only stuff one prong in. So I am blissfully listening to music in one earphone to try to shut out the sound of the heavy breather. And then I root in my handbag and find an orange foam earplug to shove in my other ear. And then there is just music and a faint pant pant and all I have to do is hold my breath so I don't smell his sweat and I'm enjoying myself. Really I am.
So what about you? Can you stand the physical proximity of fleshy sweaty people at gyms, and what's the creepiest thing that's happened to you at the gym recently?
Also, don't sob but I don't think I will be buzzing around the blogosphere too much at the moment, because the kids are on holiday and I have to supervise them. But if you miss me, you can find me (alongside 105 other bloggers) in the blog compilation You're Not the Only One that dear Peachy put together. Proceeds go to the Warchild charity. More details here.
I have just got a blast of the stinky new novel 'Wetlands' by German author Charlotte Roche, who was inspired to write it while perusing the douche aisle of her local store. She was struck by the number of products telling women that their natural odors and growths were enemies, meant to be eliminated and perfumed. I feel amazingly out of the loop. I thought that everyone knew that douches were downright harmful. And I'm also surprised they sell them in Germany where until recently hairy armpits and legs were virtually a fashion statement.
As part of a new wave of literature that I will call 'shit lit' Wetlands is a warts and all insight into a woman's scents, farts and excretions, and also talks about using avocado pits to masturbate. Ardent fans of the authoress have shown up to her readings with avocados as presents and, in several instances documented in the local media, the unprepared have fainted at some of the scenes. In one of those, the protaganist Helen describes saving dried semen under her fingernails as “a keepsake” to savor later. That in itself is a rather bizarre keepsake, unless you are Monica Lewinsky.
I know you're keen to get down and dirty with this, so here goes. Wetlands (Feuchtgebiete in German) by Charlotte Roche, rough translation of the first few pages:
"As long as I've been aware, I've had hemorrhoids. For many, many years I thought I couldn't say anything. Because hemorrhoids only grow on grandfathers. I always found them to be so un-girly. I was so often at the proctologist because of them! But he advised me to leave them alone as long as they weren't causing me any pain. That they didn't do. They just itched. For that, my proctologist Dr. Fiddel gave me an ointment.
For the external itching, you squeeze a hazelnut-sized amount onto your the finger with the shortest nail and rub it on your pink starfish. The tube also comes with a point attachment with many rings inside, so that you can feed it into your ass and squirt it in there, thereby quieting the internal itching.
Before I had that kind of cream, I'd scratched so determinedly in and around my asshole in my sleep that the next morning I would have a quarter-sized dark brown spot in my underwear. As I said: very un-girly.
My hemorrhoids look really special. Over the course of the years, they'd forced themselves more and more out of my asshole. Now they are cloud-like flaps of skin once around my whole pink starfish that look like an anemone's tentacles. Dr. Fiddel calls it the cauliflower.
He says that if I want it gone, it would only be for aesthetics. He'll only remove it for people that are really burdened by it. Good reasons would be if my lover didn't like it or if my cauliflower made me anxious about sex. That I wouldn't admit.
If someone loves me or is even only hot for me, then my cauliflower shouldn't play a role. Besides, I have already for many years — since I was 15 until now, and I'm 18 — despite my wild cauliflower had successful anal sex. Successful, for me, means I came, even though there was a cock only in my ass and nobody was playing with any other part of me. Yeah, I'm proud of that."
Okay, who's turned on, or even remotely interested in reading this crap? Okay, why is this a best seller? It is gross. The author claims she is breaking new ground because she is being radical by saying that women's genitals don't smell of roses. Really, I didn't know that. Apparently critics say this is giving a radical new angle on feminism? To which I say: My arse. My hemorrhoids.
Frankly I'm all for natural scents, so enough of this literary toss. I'm going to get myself a job at Flatulent Technologies(Got gas? Well, we would like to capture and bottle yours, and we will pay you cash for it!).
Also any ideas for a shit lit book I could write featuring I don't know, the time I went on a tapeworm diet, how I like to drink cow urine and how I like to make love to dogs. Am I turning anyone on yet?
As news ricocheted through the fashion world that Kate Moss has just been dropped from her Agent Provocateur modelling contract and replaced by a 20-year old called Alice Dellal, I realized we were on the wave of a new trend that kicked off with Amy Winehouse's Crack Chic look and has been gathering momentum ever since.
Now, I know some people think Kate's too thin, and maybe she is, but I think her bone structure is to die for and that she's really beautiful. Not that I think that Ms Dellal shouldn't have got the contract. But she's - well - yes, she has a strong look, but well, how shall I put this, she's not as pretty is she?
No, I think there's definately a trend for edgier, uglier looking people on the fashion/celebrity scene. And Ugly Modelling Agencies are popping up like pimples on a chin. And frankly, I say if these people can make money by looking, er, unique, then good luck to them.
Who would have thought that an odd-looking bird like actress Rumer Willis, daughter of Demi and Bruce, would ever grace the red carpet? It was pretty unfortunate that she got none of Demi's va-va-voom and plenty of Bruce's chin and then some (maybe he had a gay affair with Desperate Dan)?
But she's working it. Her fugly look is working for her and she's getting noticed:
I am, frankly, confused about the new fugly fashions sweeping the runways. Parents of teenagers are probably very excited as these outfits would reduce any sexy Lolita to a girl who no man would want to touch with a ten foot pole. I'm pretty sure these fashions were designed by those crack pots who run organisations like Born Again Virgins - make yourself pure by donning black woollen socks and formless smocks.
So what do you reckon, are ugly people finally going to get their fifteen minutes of fame? I think, maybe, but that, alas, it's just a fashion trend ....
Who am I? Displaced Londoner now living in the States with my two little girlies and long suffering husband. Co-author of hilarious parenting book Cocktails at Naptime www.cocktailsatnaptime.com
My mom's an Austrian, my dad's a Brit, which makes me a Britaustrian, or possibly an Austrish?