Money Factory

Happy New Year...

2008-01-04T11:38:00.000Z

No, I'm not dead.

Well, I continue to be "on the wagon" but it is a delicate balance.

I have been very happy at home and getting, on average, lots of lovin' at home. It is, however, either feast or famine - Olympic-standard humpage with begging for more, or the big pants and bedtime cold shoulder.

My wife reads me well - when the sexual frustration starts to get my (little) head thinking of misbehaving, she jumps me and sucks me dry. She blows me and blows my mind. We go off the deep end and into pure, unadulterated debauchery. Then, well, nothing.

Now I love my wife but I don't understand her. When we make love, she has multi-orgasmic experiences that leave her purring and the next night does not want to be touched. One night she is pleading for me to ravage her body and the next is pushing me away.

I am a man. I am pretty simple. I want it all the time. Furthermore, the more sex I have, the more I want it.

I understand the hormonal cycle and yet this switch from horniness to frigidity seems largely unconnected with the lunar calendar...

Ho hum...

Time for a joke:

Now he's no longer PM, Tony Blair has started jogging daily near his home. Every day, he'd jog past a hooker standing on the same street corner. He learned to brace himself as he approached her for what became a daily exchange. "Fifty pounds" she would cry "Five pounds!" Tony would fire back. This ritual between Tony and the hooker became a daily occurrence. He'd run by and she'd yell, "Fifty pounds!" He'd yell back, "Five pounds!" One day, Cherie decided that she wanted to accompany her husband on his jog. As the jogging couple neared the working woman's street corner, Tony realized she'd bark her £50 offer and Cherie would wonder what he'd really been doing on all his past outings. He figured he'd better have a darn good explanation for the 'Boss' As they jogged into the turn that would take them past the corner, Tony became even more apprehensive than usual. Sure enough, there was the hooker. Tony tried to avoid the prostitute's eyes as she watched the pair jog past. Then the hooker yelled, "Serves you right, see what you get for a fiver!"

New beginning?

2007-08-10T16:00:00.000Z

Well, it is over a year sinceI last wrote.

I have, at least for the moment, managed to kick the escort habit - it is several months since I misbehaved.

It is a beginning - but only that. As with any addiction, it only takes a moment's weakness to fall off the wagon and, once one has broken that vow, it is all too easy to let it spiral away. Sexual addiction is difficult, perhaps more difficult than other addictions - sexual motifs surround us. Temptation is constant and one cannot abstain totally if one is in a relationship - or at least it would not be fair to one's partner to do so.

So, much as 20 years on, someone will refer to themselves as a "recovering alcholic", I am a recovering sex addict. I'll never be cured but I might just not fuck up my life.

Neglected blog, reasons unknown II...

2006-05-02T18:21:00.000Z

I am sorry.

It's been too long since I put anything up here. Thank you to those of you who emailed to ask if I was ok.

I said there were some issues that I needed space to sort. I feel I need to explain some of what is going on.

It may be a while till I post again as the issues have not gone away yet.

Work is just all-consuming.
My business has been to the brink of disaster and back. The need to focus has been huge and I think I have got that mainly sorted now. But it came close to bankruptcy. Not so close I'd worry about selling the Ferrari (the joys of limited liability) but I might have had to cut back on some luxuries in the future... To be honest (and this makes me sound way more altruistic than I really am), I put in the effort for the people who work for me - they have mortgages to pay, families to support. They left good jobs to work for us. They deserve me busting my balls to make sure they have security too.
Sex at home is non-existant.
Partly my fault - stress is not an aphrodisiac - but my wife has to shoulder a big chunk of the blame too. Some minor health issues have not helped. Nevertheless, it was back to the old days of big pants and turning away at my touch - times when I really needed some affection. Things have turned around a bit - two weeks in Antigua seemed to re-energise her libido...
Family issues to sort out.
Schooling for one of our children became a bit of an issue. I don't want to get too specific but we have a very bright child that was failing. We needed to do some fast and intense work with the child and the schools to resolve it. We now, we think, have the optimal solution but it was touch-and-go for a while.
Legal issues to resolve.
I have had no respite from this. My mother is trying to get me to help in a law suit in which she has staked her net worth. I think she is mad. My firm has been sued a couple of times (tough times attract vultures). I am ahead of the game but these things are a bit of a lottery. Conference calls over the weekend with lawyers are my least favorite way of spending time.

These are the reasons I gave back in February. They fully explain why I haven't posted - I am way too busy. I also have not had time to read a blog in months. I feel that I have fallen so far behind that I can never catch up with your stories.

But there is another reason.

A bigger reason.

A shameful reason.

I have fallen off the wagon.

I have been seeing escorts again.

I loathe myself for it but I am still doing it. I can give you all sorts of crap self-justification - I needed some affection, some attention, some release. But it is just because I am weak. I am selfish. I crave sex and I couldn't deny myself. I am ashamed but not enough to stop. I will try - this post is perhaps the beginning but I am not even ready to make that promise yet.

There is no defence.

Not as exciting as it looks V...

2006-03-06T10:30:00.000Z

Enjoy...

Not as exciting as it looks IV...

2006-03-03T14:46:00.000Z

Enjoy...

Not as exciting as it looks III...

2006-03-01T14:18:00.000Z

Enjoy...

Not as exciting as it looks II...

2006-02-28T08:54:00.000Z

Enjoy...

Not as exciting as it looks...

2006-02-27T12:03:00.000Z

Enjoy...

Neglected blog, reasons unknown...

2006-02-24T10:38:00.000Z

Going through a bad patch at the moment.

Work is just all-consuming.

Sex at home is non-existant.

Family issues to sort out.

Legal issues to resolve.

Need some space to sort out these issues.

Here's an escort agency for me...

2006-02-23T15:23:00.000Z

I think my vow to avoid escorts is under threat!

As you know, two of my main weaknesses are sex and cars.

Now I find there is this new agency. What am I going to do?

Enjoy...

That age old question....

2006-01-20T11:53:00.000Z

Why can't women put the loo lid down? They are always on at men to put the seat down and I do (and have done for about the last ten years).

Every. Time.

But when I put it down after use, I put down the seat and the lid. That way one doesn't stare into an open bog every time one walks into the smallest room.

The inconvenience becomes equal. We both have to "lift to pee". We both have to return it to the "down" position. What is difficult about that?

Men get it in the neck for leaving the seat up but criticise a woman for the same sin and one is "stupid" or "nitpicking" or "a pedant".

Why?

Is this of earth shattering importance? Well apparently, yes, if a bloke falls foul of the rule...

Enjoy....

Inspired neologisms...

2006-01-16T16:58:00.000Z

The Washington Post's Mensa Invitational once again asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing of one letter, and supply a new definition.

Here are this year's winners:

Cashtration (n.):
The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.
Ignoranus (n):
A person who's both stupid and an Assh*le.
Intaxication (n.):
Euphoria at getting a taxrefund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.
Reintarnation (n.):
Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
Bozone (n.):
The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.
Foreploy (n.):
Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.
Giraffiti (n.):
Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.
Sarchasm (n.):
The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
Inoculatte (n.):
To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
Hipatitis (n.):
Terminal coolness.
Osteopornosis (n.):
A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
Karmageddon (n.):
It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
Decafalon (n.):
The grueling event ofgetting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
Glibido (n.):
All talk and no action.
Dopeler effect (phr.):
The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
Arachnoleptic fit, (phr.):
The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
Beelzebug, (n.):
Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
Caterpallor, (n.):
The color you turn afterfinding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.

Enjoy...

Slow on the uptake...

2006-01-13T09:01:00.000Z

It's apparently International De-Lurking Week (well I think technically it's National DLW but I find national boundaries too restrictive in this era of globalisation...) and I've only just realised.

So, delurk (all three of you) and show yourselves. As an added incentive, I will donate real money to charity - £1 per visitor who shows themselves by the end of this weekend. The worthy cause is the Asian Earthquake Appeal. Hell, since it's only the three of you, I'll probably make it more.

Just let me know your name or alias and approximately where in the world you live. Why you bother frequenting this page with its introspective drivel would also intrigue me but since that might expose you to ridicule, you can leave that out.

So, do your bit for "Charideee" and de-lurk.

Enjoy...

Eat lead, shitbag...

2006-01-12T13:19:00.000Z

This post is way off piste (though I'm not sure there is a particular piste for this blog...) but I hope you find it better than inserting hot coals up your nostrils...

Waiter Rant's recent post on pooper scooping, or rather gratuitous lack thereof, prompted me to relate a story in the comments. Buried as it is in the vast numbers of comments (it's a high traffic site), I thought I'd relate it here...

I come from a family of restauranteurs and my uncles are far from conventional. This story relates to one of them. He ran a trendy a cafe in a seaside town. Cappuccino and paninis when such things were exotic.

Anyway, one summer, every morning a stray mutt took to walking by, cocking its leg and pissing up against the door of the cafe. Every day my uncle would curse, mix up some bleach and hot water and clean it off.

He tried chasing it off but that only seemed to make the thing more determined to stake its claim on a daily basis.

Now, my uncle had an air gun. Not a poxy child’s toy but a powerful killing thing. He claimed it was to shoot the sea gulls that plagued the rooftops, though I suspect that he also wanted to go armed into the cellar - you never knew when you might find a rat (we didn’t have a rat problem but then again we had an armed pest control operative…). In quiet moments, he’d open the back door of the cafe and practice shooting targets (the chipped plates and cups that could no longer be used) from the comfort of his chair behind the bar. I think you can see where this is going…

So, the inevitable lightbulb goes on in his head. "I’ll teach that dog a lesson." Not harm it, you understand. Just give it a smack up its arse, so it’ll never forget. You wouldn't want to take a leak in a public place if you found that you couldn't sit down comfortably for a couple of days afterwards.

So he waits. Armed.

Sure enough the mongrel arrives early the next morning for its "morning constitutional" and cocks its leg.

My uncle takes aim...
Right up the chocolate starfish...
He squeezes the trigger...

But then has a change of mind. He might hit the poor thing’s balls. As a man, that is too cruel to contemplate. Or do some real damage. He moves his aim - a glancing blow to the haunch will have the desired effect - a bee sting.

He squeezes the trigger but that hesitation - and sudden compassion - was his (and the dog’s) downfall. In the same instant, the leg goes down, the head turns and SMACK.

Head shot.
Dead dog.
On the fucking steps of the cafe...

SHIIIIIIT!

A moment of panic and my uncle is up and out of the cafe like greased lightning. A glance up and down the road confirms that it is empty. He drags the dog out into the road and arranges it quickly to look like roadkill. He rushes nervously back into the cafe for a ciggie and a cup of coffee to calm the nerves.

The first few vehicles pick their way around the corpse. Then comes the bin lorry. The dustbin men jump down to clear away the dead dog. "Here John," says the first one. "This dog has been shot!" My uncle’s heart starts to race…

"Shot? In Eastbourne? Don’t be so fucking stupid," says number two and hefts the evidence into the crusher…

Enjoy...

A plea...

2006-01-11T10:35:00.000Z

Could the annual herd of fat divs with two week New Year resolutions who storm into the health club please remember the following?:

Bring a towel to wipe the sweat and gunk off the equipment after you use it;
Do not slam the weight machine when letting the weights down, as we will need to carry on using it when you re-establish your relationship with Pizza Hut next week;
Wear some pants under your shorts. The blob with a pair of ox-bull balls in full view on the leg curl machine nearly made me hurl over the treadmill in disgust;
Try and refrain from making those grunting and wheezing noises until my iPod gets fixed;
Understand you'll get much better weight loss result if you don't drink 2 bottles of Lucozade. Try 2 litres of water instead;
Don't munch power bars either - those are not biceps they are fat rolls and you aren't going to improve matters by eating more calories. Losing weight is more about not putting as much in as it taking more out.

Apart from that you're all doing just fine and the rant is now over.

(Thanks to Assisant K for making me aware of you all...)

Enjoy...

New Year Resolutions (redux)...

2006-01-09T19:00:00.000Z

This time last year, I set out my New Year resolutions for 2005. This exposed me to potential ridicule. So, for those of you hoping to have a good laugh at my expense, how did I do?

Stay faithful to my wife
Tick. Job done. But not as easy as I'd have liked... My wife seems to be happy with a couple of shags a month. Usually mid-cycle. Fuck, that isn't enough. One a week and I am like a caged lion... But weeks without? She always has a valid reason ("too tired", "got to get up early", etc.) and I have been partly to blame (cold, back problem, travelling, etc.). But this was not the easiest thing to keep to - particularly when having dinner in Paris with one of our secretaries who was there on a city break when I was there on business. Mmm, much flirting, a bit of touching and, had it not been for a sudden moment of clarity on my part, a proposition would have followed.
Avoid escorts
I still occasionally cruise the escort agency websites but I have let my membership to Captain 69 (the escort review site) lapse. Other than chance encounters (that did not involve an exchange of bodily fluids), I have not seen an escort in 2005. Tick.
Spend more time with my kids
Well, a bit. Not in the way I'd like... Bah!
Earn enough to retire
Cross. My worst year for a while in compensation terms. Still a seven figure amount but my deals just didn't come together.
Keep a clean driving licence
Tick. Don't know how - saw 150mph on a UK motorway...
Get fit again
Yeah but no but yeah. I ended the year fitter than I started it but also heavier...
Have fun
Tick. Lots of fun things were done. :-)
Blog more
Failed. To be pedantically exact, 2.29 posts per week versus 2.39p/w in 2004. In my defense, the last few months of 2004 were momentous for my marriage. It is difficult to replicate that over a longer period.
Actually do something sensible with my money
Tick. I made a chunk of money investing in 2005. That Japan rally was soooo good...
Hold the world to ransom with my giant "laser" ## mwhah, hah, hah ##
Damn. Maybe next year... Actually my point was that the absence of free trade and the overuse of agricultural subsidies are killing the world's poor. The politicians have done nothing in this area and the empty (though very worthy) posturing of a few pop stars have not really moved the situation forward.

So what are my resolutions for this year? Well, being a fundamentally lazy bastard, I thought that I might try some stuff that I can deal with easily:

Masturbate more - god, that'll be tough...
Procrastinate more - why do today...
Drink - excess is good...
Watch more TV - I've been missing some good stuff...
Gain weight - about 5kg should do it...
Assume full responsibility for my actions - except the ones that are someone else's fault..
I will not suffer in silence - not while I can still moan, whimper, and complain...
I will gladly share my experience and advice - there are no sweeter words than "I told you so!"...
At the weekends, I will not sit in my living room all day in my underwear - I will move my computer into the bedroom...
Before I criticise a man, I will walk a mile in his shoes - that way, if he gets angry, he's a mile away and barefoot... (Ah, the old ones are always the best...)

Enjoy...

And a Happy fucking New Year to you too...

2006-01-03T11:19:00.000Z

Well, my new year got off to a bang, in a few senses of the word...

Following our busy Christmas, Mrs. S and I decided that we would see in the New Year quietly.

It was all going to be so good.

Some shooting.
Some fine wine.
Some dirty sex.

What could be better?
What could go wrong?

Bang One
I took the eldest two out to a family shoot. This was meant to work on a number of levels. Firstly, I’d have a bit of “quality time” with my son, who is never happier than when trying to shoot stuff (should I be worried?). Secondly, I’d prise my teenage daughter out of the house into *horror* the fresh air. Thirdly, by getting them to tramp around the countryside, they’d hopefully be tired enough to go to bed early (I think you know where this is heading…). Finally, I’d get to have some fun blasting lead in the vague direction of some pheasant and partridge.
It inevitably didn’t turn out the way it should. The daughter got pissed off at one of our dogs pulling at the lead and let him go, ruining a key drive. Everyone pissed off at us and daughter goes to sulk in the Range Rover. Son points his gun at someone in jest (a massive deal breaker of an error) and is banished to said car, where he and daughter proceed to fight. The only danger I pose to the local wildlife is that they die laughing at my ineptitude with a gun.
Bugger.

Bang Two
We had politely declined each of the New Year’s Eve party invitations. This was going to be about the family. A sumptuous feast with great wine. And a little quality time for Mr and Mrs...
The 1976 vintage Bollinger was chilling nicely in the fridge. The caviar was being spread onto blinis. I reach into the fridge for some smoked salmon and accidentally pull the bottle out. Hands full, I merely succeed in slowing its progress to the stone flags, where it explodes in a shower of glass, bubbles, and expensive wine.
Shit.

Bang Three
Ahh… The kids had been put to bed (kicking and screaming in the case of the eldest) well before midnight. Good food resting comfortably in our bellies, the wine we’d drunk was loosening things up nicely (non-vintage champagne does the trick almost as well...). The bedroom was warm and candle lit (yes, I am an old smoothie). Ravel’s Bolero is queued up on the CD player (corny, I know, but sometimes it pays to stick with the classics...). My wife was wearing a rather attractive piece of lingerie that I’d bought her for Christmas.
At last…
We kiss and cuddle, we stroke and suck, we bump and grind.
Fuck, this is good. At last something is going right. Until…

Bang Four
On the stroke of bloody midnight, the fireworks go off. There I am, sliding balls-deep into my wife from behind, having the time of my life and some fucker is trying to put me off. “Whoosh… BANG,” they go. Our country house is away from the centre of the village but my neighbour has set up a display a couple of fields away, seemingly aimed at my house. “Happy New Year, Honey.” I say, trying to keep my concentration. “Mmm, mmm, mmm!” my wife answers. Then the dogs start barking. The little one hates fireworks and the big one will bark if the little one sets him off. “Bang, BANG.” “Woof, WOOF.” Pump, pump. “Bang, BANG.” “Woof, WOOF.” Pump, pump.
Arse.
Now I’m worried that the children come down and find me humping away with mummy like a pair of demented baboons and be scarred for life.
“Shall I go and calm the dogs?” I ask.
“Noooo! Ahhh, ahhh, ahhh” is the answer.
“What about the kids?” I fret.
“D-d-don't s-s-stop! Oh, oh, oh. J-j-just h-h-hurry up-p-p. Ngggh.” was the reply.
Right, so I have:

a wife who wants to be pounded to orgasm;
the artillery to the left of me;
wild animals to the right; and
the psychological welfare of my children depending on me coming in the next 30 seconds.

Given my problems, this is not a good combination…
Fuck, fuck, fuckity FUCK.

My uncle once said that there is nothing so over-rated as a bad fuck (and nothing so under-rated as a good shit). He would have laughed long and hard at the events of that night.

So my New Year was a disaster. Hope yours was better.

Mine improved beyond all measure the next night, when the dirty sex was rather more successful. Mmmm.

Enjoy…

And a Merry fucking Christmas to you too...

2005-12-31T10:48:00.000Z

I hope that you, dear reader, had a great Christmas and a fabulous New Year.

I had a perfectly hideous Christmas.

Don’t get me wrong, I am no Scrooge – all “Bah, humbug” about the season of goodwill. I love spending time with my children, seeing their eyes light up as they open each present. I love the good food, the excellent wine. I love the smell of candles and incense that fills the house. I love the rooms covered in holly and fir, decorations glistening. I love the cold, walking the dogs and coming back to a log fire. I don’t even mind the long nights, as the warm glow of the lights in the house is so welcoming.

So what was the problem? In a word - relatives.

Salvatori Towers seemed to be functioning as a five star hotel for my in-laws. Now, they are nice enough people: you won’t find me cracking mother-in-law jokes*. My father-in-law in particular is a jovial old soul with a lovely dry wit. My sister-in-law is harder work, as are her four children and husband. And my mother. Well, she’s the worst of the lot.

So that’s 14 people.

For a week.

A. Whole. Fucking. Week.

Three meals a day. Dishwasher going 6 or 7 times a day. Drinking their way through my cellar (“Mmmm. The Pichon Longueville was delicious but I noticed some Sauternes in your chiller, shall I open that for pudding?”). Go ahead... I drank my way though the experience.

There is a Danish saying that “Fresh fish and houseguests should be thrown out after three days.” Very, very true…

And I got off lightly. Last year they stayed for two weeks.

I’ve told them that they’ll have to amuse themselves next year as we’re going to Barbados. Even though we’re not…

Enjoy…

* This is a lie.

Two men were in a pub. One says to his mate, "My mother-in-law is an angel."
His friend replies, "You're lucky. Mine is still alive."

What do you do if you miss your mother-in-law?
Reload and try again

A guy brings his dog into the vet's surgery and says, "Could you please cut my dog's tail off?"
The vet examines the tail and says, "There is nothing wrong with it! Why would you want this done?"
The man replies, "My mother-in-law is coming to visit and I don't want anything in the house to make her think that she is welcome!"

(c) Bob Monkhouse c.1751 (mayherestinpeace)

Kerry Packer RIP...

2005-12-30T15:25:00.000Z

Australia's richest man, Kerry Packer has died aged 68. I met him a couple of times - I did a fair amount of business in Australia with him and the other "robber barons" of the Outback, Robert Holmes à Court and Alan Bond. They were colourful characters, to say the least. Robert was by far the "nicest" (though it is a relative term), though I was to have an unwitting part in his downfall during the 87 crash when his over-leveraged business failed. He never recovered and died suddenly just three years later, aged 53. Alan then contributed to some major changes in my life by going spectacularly bust at the expense of many of my (then) clients. Kerry was the most stable financially, despite his gambling addiction.

He was a "high roller" of the first order. His gambling was legendary and he was known to lose huge sums in a night at the tables (and to win big too). He was volatile and overturned blackjack tables were not uncommon. However, my favorite story was of him gambling alone at a high-stakes table in a casino. In walked a Texan, resplendent in ten gallon hat and boot-lace tie, a blond on each arm. Seeing another high-roller playing, he demanded that he be allowed to join. The croupier apologised profusely but said Mr Packer usually played alone. However, he asked Kerry if he'd mind if the Texan joined him. Kerry looked the Texan up and down and said "Nah, I'm playing alone."

The Texan, slighted in front of his lady friends, drew himself up to his full height and said, "Do you know who I am?! I am worth $100million and I demand to play on this table."

Kerry eyed him cooly and said "$100million? I'll toss you for it."

Enjoy...

Yule blog...

2005-12-23T11:04:00.000Z

Merry Christmas to one and all (who want it*). I probably won't have time to post between now and the New Year, as I will be busy.

I personally will be spending much of my Christmas burning all those fricking "round robin" letters that people put into the Christmas cards they send. They go on and on (and on and on) about how perfect and talented their own kids are and how perfect and complete their lives are.

Wankers.

The little time I have left over - there are thousands of them - I will be spending either playing with my kids, fucking my wife, or sinking slowly into an alcoholic haze... Perfect.

Enjoy...

*Please accept with no obligation, either implied, or implicit, my best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low stress, non-addictive, gender neutral, celebration of the winter solstice holiday (summer solstice in the Southern Hemisphere), practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion, or the secular practices, of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of of others, or their choice not to practice religious, or secular, traditions at all.

I also wish you a financially successful, personally fulfilling, and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2006, but not without due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures, whose contributions to society have made the United Kingdom great (not to imply that the United Kingdom is necessarily greater than another country), and without regard to race, creed, colour, age, physical ability, religious faith, or sexual preferences of the wishees, and those of whom this salutation is addressed.

By accepting this greeting, you are accepting these terms:

This greeting is subject to clarification, or withdrawal.
It is freely transferable to a third party, but without any alteration to the original greeting.
It implies no promise by the wishers to actually implement any of these wishes for her/himself, or others, and is void where prohibited by law, and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wishers.
This wish is warranted as expected within the usual application of good tidings for a period of one calendar year, or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday period greeting, whichever shall occur first, and warranty, either implicit or implied, is limited to replacement of this wish, or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wishers.

Moral dilemma II...

2005-12-15T15:58:00.000Z

If you answered that you would have:

Tossed the keys for the Lambo to your mate;
Told him to drive the old lady to the hospital; and
Waited with the girl for a bus or a taxi to see if she really is your perfect partner...

then you are not only a lateral thinker but also a saint (or you've seen this before). Congratulations! (Well done to Anon...)

If you answered that you would have:

Run over the old lady to put her out of her misery
Fucked the girl vigorously over the bonnet of the car; and
Taken your mate in the car for a beer to discuss whether she was a good shag or not...

then you are a bloke...

Enjoy...

Moral dilemma...

2005-12-15T09:40:00.000Z

Let me pose you a question.

You are driving home on a dark, cold night in your Lamborghini Gallardo. The wind is howling and windchill is making the temperature gauge's -5degC seem generous. It is not a night to be caught outside. The heated seats and climate control mean that you are comfortable and the four wheel drive means the icy conditions are not unsafe. Joss Stone's husky voice seranades you gently as you work your way through the frozen city.

Then you slow for a junction. Picked out in your lights and huddled into their light coats against the bitter cold are three people.

An old lady who looks like she is on death's door. She won't last for long out there.
Your oldest friend who once saved your life. He looks like he is turning blue.
The beautiful girl you met at a party last week. You fell hopelessly in love with her but she had to leave before you got her number. She's already shivering.

They are waiting for a bus - one that might not come for hours on a night like this.

You suddenly look at the one pitiful passenger seat in your car...

What should you do?

These are, I'm sure the options running through your mind:

Save the life of the old lady - a wonderfully altrusitic act;
Pick up your friend - a wonderful opportunity to repay him a blood debt that you have owned for many years; and
If you abandon this girl now, you will lose her, your perfect soulmate and perhaps your one chance for happiness, forever.

Not easy is it?... But that's why it's called a dilemma...

Enjoy...

Fire and Ice IV...

2005-12-06T14:08:00.000Z

Fire and Ice: Part I
Fire and Ice: Part II
Fire and Ice: Part III

I lay on my back as Victoria straddled me, taking me deep inside. She shivered in pleasure as she slid down. I pulled April until she straddled my shoulders. She leant forward to lick and nip Victoria's firm breasts.

I lapped at April's pussy like a thirsty dog. I teased my teeth gently over the folds and sucked gently. My tongue darted around the tangy pucker of her anus. My wetted thumb probed inside her, as my tongue fluttered at the entrance to her desire. She rolled her hips approvingly as she kissed Victoria.

Ahh, Victoria... My attention had been on pleasuring April but Victoria was now moving like a woman possessed. My mind became accutely aware of her desire - her hips were riding up and down ruthlessly, as she sought release. She ground her pubic bone against mine and shivered in contentment.

We turned and I made April, still partially clothed, drape herself attractively on the bed. I pushed gently into the warm depths, pulling her thighs to me. Victoria straddled her shoulders and allowed April to lap at her sex once more.

We each moved closer to the edge of our own gratification.

Tongues, cocks, pussies, fingers: all working for their own enjoyment, for the pleasure of others.

Unbelievable.
Faster.
Unrelenting.
Firmer.

Urgent.

Deeper.

As Victoria and I kissed, we completed our triangular tryst - a circle of climaxes, rolling onwards, higher, deeper as it reverberated around the three interlocked souls.

Enjoy...

Fire and Ice III...

2005-12-05T09:40:00.000Z

Fire and Ice: Part I
Fire and Ice: Part II

I opened the champagne and poured three glasses, watching a blond goddess bringing her Sapphic lover to orgasm.

“Your turn, April,” I said, pulling her firmly to me. I folded her in my arms and my hands roamed freely over her toned body. Her pencil skirt was slashed up the back and my hand found its way up above her stocking tops to her thighs and pert bottom. As I reached down her thighs parted and I followed the lacy thong to my goal. Curling my fingers underneath the flimsy fabric, I found that she was deliciously sensitive. I played delicately with my digit - teasing, circling. Her legs almost buckled with pleasure. I picked her up and carried her to the bed. Pushing her skirt up, I devoured her moistness until she whimpered quietly. Victoria, now gloriously naked, laid on the bed kissing her. We pulled open April's black silk blouse to reveal small, pert breasts. Victoria's sucking and nibbling on her erect, sensitive nipples pushed April's mind and body over the edge. She convulsed with an orgasm that was a wonder to behold - body rigid, flushing furiously at the neck and breasts, before relaxing into bliss.

“Did you like that?” asked Victoria, kissing April.

“Oh yes, V.” she replied.

“Tell him what you want to do next”

“But...” April blushed, rather charmingly I thought.

“You will have to say it.” commanded Victoria.

“Do I have to?” She bit her lip.

Victoria curled her hand lovingly in April's hair and pulled her head closer. “You know you do,” she purred aggressively - like a cat playing with a mouse.

April struggled to hold my gaze. “I want to suck your cock.”

I looked at her soft, luscious mouth and stroked her pretty, bee-stung lips. “Tell me, angel, what is it that you like about sucking cock?” I asked, as I straddled her on the bed.

“It is the taste... the hardness in my mouth...” she whispered softly, eyes down-turned.

My erect member waved in front of her.

“And what about my come pulsing into your mouth? Do you like that?”

“Yes,” she said quietly, flushing red. Pinned to the bed, she eyed my manhood hungrily but waiting for my assent.

“Do you want to suck this now?”

“Please...” She tried to take the tip in her mouth.

“Not yet, my angel,” I said and pulled Victoria to me. “V will suck me first while you watch.”

Victoria's lips enfolded me once more, working and pumping. April's eyes watched as her partner performed her magic. She was so close that she could see every detail: the veins, the colour, watch Victoria's lips sliding seductively along the object of her desire. But she could not touch, pinioned below me. Her frustration was tangible but her body spoke only of arousal. I waited until her hands sought out her own erogenous zones.

“Now, you can suck me,” I said. Victoria lifted April's head and pushed her soft lips over my cock. I leant forward and let the sensations roll over me. The soft, slick wetness of April's mouth. The heat and suction as she tried to bring me to orgasm, to taste my sperm. The pressure from Victoria's hand, milking me into her friend's mouth. Victoria's tongue kissing me deeply.

“I want your sperm first,” Victoria whispered in my ear, nibbling on the lobe.

“You can have it, my dear, but you have to share it with April.”

April almost cried when I pulled out of her mouth and lay on the bed. Victoria moved to take me in her mouth once more. “Suck her pussy, slut” I instructed. April got behind the kneeling Victoria and did as she was asked.

Victoria's head bobbed up and down, the speed increasing, her hand pumping - there was no way I could resist. Warm saliva ran down my thighs as she worked lovingly. I wrapped my fingers into her hair. I pulled her down... Hard, insistent, delicious... Rushing up... FUCK!

And then, I could slide back from the blackness of my own gratification to focus...

April had joined Victoria on the bed. They kissed each other until the evidence of my pleasure was gone. All the while, my hands were stroking their bodies: neck, back, thighs, breasts, stomach, pussies. Ahh, their pussies: soft, slippery, succulent. I was tumescing once more.

“Now, the fun can really begin.” I said.

To be continued...

Fire and Ice II...

2005-12-01T09:38:00.000Z

Fire and Ice: Part I

We retire to my suite. Introductions completed - the blonde is April and the brunette's name is Victoria - I ordered some Krug.

I put down the 'phone, smiling at my good fortune. My mood improved yet more when I turned around to see Victoria kissing April deeply, her hand slipping under the hem of April's skirt and caressing her slim, stockinged thigh. April cupped Victoria's face tenderly. This was not for my benefit but their own.

It seemed rude to interupt, so I drank in the scene - two beautiful women lost in their own pleasure. I moved closer and they parted briefly - the leaves of a Venus flytrap enticing in their prey with honey, enveloping it gently but firmly. We took turns to kiss, our tongues jousting.

Victoria kissed me hard, darwing me close, biting my lips. April was soft and gentle - but their differences disguise the fact that, like fire and ice, they both burn. They undressed me, releasing my cock to their ministrations first hands and then Victoria's ruby lips.

The doorbell rang and I grabbed a robe - it was the champagne and strawberries. The waiter's eyes bulged as he wheeled his trolley into the sitting room. There were the girls sprawled on the sofa, kissing furiously and oblivious to the interloper in our midst. I pushed him gently back to the door - his gaze was locked onto the sofa, even when I pressed a $50 note into his palm.

"Have a good evening, sir."

"Don't worry, I will." I slammed and bolted the door behind him.

I turned to see Victoria laying on the sofa, her sleek blue dress pushed up over her hips and April with her blond hair buried between her stockinged thighs. Whilst April concentrated on her musky target, Victoria said huskily, "Why don't you join us?"

To be continued...

Fire and Ice...

2005-11-30T09:37:00.000Z

"Good evening, ladies" I said.

The two women halted in the hotel corridor and assessed me.

"Well, it has been so far" said the blond, eyeing me cautiously. Her blond hair framed an elegant face, with ice blue eyes. Her lips were plump and succulent, her skin alabaster white and flawless.

"So has mine been - it would be a shame to let it end so early".

"Indeed, but what have you in mind?" asked the brunette, arching her eyebrow at her companion. Her blue eyes were dark and piercing. Her mid-winter tan made her glow with health.

"Well, I generally find champagne is a good place to start." I replied.

She considered the situation. Her gaze was more certain and assured. She held her slim frame confidently and, in her heels, matched me for height. She knew she could handle herself and others with ease. "Start?" she smiled.

The blond shifted her weight. Silk rubbed seductively on silk. The sound was enough to distract me and wonder what was under that wrapping.

"Well, one would always want to end the evening satisfied and sated," I suggested, recovering my concentration.

The brunette was weighing up the risks, a little unsure of how to proceed. "Hmm. I hope that you don't think we can be bought with cheap champagne." Her blond friend nodded, happy that her friend had taken the initiative.

"Far from it, ladies" I countered. "I would not be so presumptuous. I'm sure that your affections cannot be won by any but the most generous spirited of men. Perhaps, we could discuss the topic over some vintage champagne in the bar downstairs?"

"Do you think that champagne is available from room service?" asked the brunette, her blue eyes sparkling provocatively.

"But of course! Ladies, follow me..."

To be continued...

Bad fictional sex...

2005-11-29T09:02:00.000Z

Just as I said that I will write my first fictional account of an erotic encounter, the Literary Review announces the longlist for its "Bad Sex in Fiction" award.

This is an omen...

Still I won't be in bad company - it turns out that eminent writers such as John Updike, Salman Rushdie, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Giles Coren and Paul Theroux can mess up writing about squelchy activities. Royally. The Guardian helpfully lets you read the passages in full.

My particular favorite is Coren's

"...he shot three more times, in thick stripes on her chest. Like Zorro."

I rather hope that is ironic. It certainly is funny...

So will I proceed in the face of this terrible karma? Hell, yes! For two reasons:

If these literary titans can fuck up their huge reputations with bad porn, then I feel totally empowered to blow my negligible status in one large outpouring of hackneyed prose.
Er... I've already written some of it and I'm too lazy not to use it...

Enjoy...

Echoes from the past III...

2005-11-28T09:33:00.000Z

Sorry to go all weird on you but those escorts in New York have really been preying on my mind.

I thought that I might write some fiction about what might have happened. Just to be clear, this is the first fiction that I will have put in this blog (other than the jokes). Everything else has been a reasonable facsimile of actual events (with a few names and details changed to protect my identity).

I'm not convinced this exercise will be entirely healthy for my sanity (I guess we'll see...) and, as it will probably read like a cheesy letter from the letters section of Penthouse ("Imagine my surprise when all her sister's clothes fell off and the cheerleaders joined in..."), it might do very little for your mental well-being either...

First episode tomorrow.

Enjoy...

George Best RIP...

2005-11-25T20:59:00.000Z

George Best has died.

As he is a man after my own heart – and a hero of mine, I thought that I’d record his passing with a few words, particularly as I feel that – but for a bit of self-control – I could go the same way.

Probably the greatest footballer that the UK has produced, he was a titan in his prime. A bigger (and sexier) celebrity than David Beckham (and with more skill in his little toe), he was called the greatest footballer in the world by none other than Pelé . His own comments about David Beckham were somewhat less generous, "He cannot kick with his left foot, he cannot head a ball, he cannot tackle and he doesn't score many goals. Apart from that he's alright." About Paul Gascoigne (another revered England player), he said, "I once said Gazza's IQ was less than his shirt number and he asked me: "What's an IQ?".

However, sadly, he proceeded to squander his prodigious talents by drinking and womanising. He knew that he was lost. He once said "In 1969 I gave up women and alcohol - it was the worst 20 minutes of my life." Tragically, his most famous quote was, “I spent a lot of money on booze, birds and fast cars - the rest I just squandered.”

He suffered from alcoholism. Having wrecked his own liver, he then set about destroying someone else's - the transplant that saved his life. It killed him.

The most famous story surrounding him was that he was holed up in a 5 star hotel. He ordered more champagne from room service. The waiter arrived to find George, sprawled on the bed with the then Miss World, the rather gorgeous Mary Stavin naked beside him. The bed was covered in ten pound notes (his winnings at a casino that evening) and empty champagne bottles were strewn around the room.

The waiter shook his head in disbelief, and said sadly, “George! Where did it all go wrong?”

These stories you may have heard. However, my own favourite story is unique and was from an Irish friend. He and some London-based Irish mates had invited a team of their friends over from Dublin for a “London Irish vs Irish Irish” football match. After the match, they were ensconced in a Chelsea pub, drinking up a storm. Seamus, my friend, then spots George Best drinking at the bar. Now Seamus can charm the birds from the trees, sell refrigerators to the Eskimos: he has the gift of the gab and has not so much kissed the Blarney Stone, as swallowed it whole.

He strolls over to George and starts. About how he is a boyhood hero, how he’d watched all his matches, how all his friends had been inspired to play football because of George’s success and how those very friends had come over from Ireland to play footy one last time before they were too old. “It would be a great honour to us all (and we’d be forever in your debt),” said Seamus, “if you would present this trophy to the winning side.”

George looked at him, smiled and said, “Fuck off.”

Enjoy…

By the way (tech question)...

2005-11-24T11:37:00.000Z

I used to have something that showed who the referring pages were to my blog. It used to appear below the hit counter and above the sitemeter logo.

It now seems to have disappeared (for me, at least). The code still apppears to be in my template.

Any ideas?

----

Edit - it's back of its own accord - bizarre...

Thanks for your help.

Echoes from the past II...

2005-11-23T09:11:00.000Z

Thank you for the comments on my last post.

I have been forced to think about some uncomfortable home truths.

I think about being unfaithful. I want to be unfaithful. But I will not be unfaithful. I will resist. But that act of thinking and desire makes me feel guilty. My wife would be horrified if she knew that I can see a pretty girl walk by and see myself wrapping her legs around my head.

My inability to control my desires and thought processes worries me too on a longer term level.

The pangs of remembrance and the draw of forbidden fruit were brought to the rushing out of the hidden recesses of my mind in New York. They are right back at the front of my consciousness. I need to fight to submerge them once more. Like a buoy, they can be forced underwater. They can even be held there for long periods. But a moment of weakness brings them rushing back to the surface.

I wonder sometimes whether I will be ever free of temptation. A girl in a bar watching me, an internet site whose URL is seared in my memory, a fantasy that I know I can play out at the touch of a button - they all call out to me.

An alcoholic can chose to never go into a pub, avoid parties, change his friends. I cannot avoid fantasising about sex - it is hardwired into my brain. I cannot avoid sexual imagery - it surrounds us in modern society. I cannot avoid having sex - it is an integral part of my marriage.

Am I condemned to be for ever more buffeted by the memories of my past desires? Like being trapped in some ghastly tank, the ripples bounce off the inescapable sheer sides, washing over me and threatening to drown me. Every gasp for air just amplify the waves. Can I ever find inner calm?

Perhaps my salvation is in becoming old. Maybe Oscar Wilde's maxim, "An inordinate passion for pleasure is the secret of remaining young" works in reverse. Can one can lose the passion for pleasure by aging? I think not.

At least not in this reprobate - I'll be in the geriatric ward wondering if the pretty nurse can be persuaded to give me a blowjob.

Enjoy...

Echoes from the past...

2005-11-21T09:08:00.000Z

This week I was in a hotel in New York. I was lonely. I was horny. A dangerous combination...

I'd taken a client to dinner. The client is female, attractive and young. We have flirted goodnaturedly throughout the dinner but we both know that it is going nowhere - we are both married and unwilling to stray. But we have fun, pretending otherwise.

It has nevertheless raised my frustration levels to ball-busting levels.

I return to my hotel a little drunk and with my libido boiling. I walk out of the lift, heading to my suite. I see two women walking towards me.

I immediately register the following facts:

They are pretty.
They are sexy.
They are escorts.

Not everyone would make them - they are not streetwalkers in fishnets and thigh-high boots - these are high-end escorts, courtesans. However, to my practised eye the signs are clear - a little too much make up, a fraction too much perfume, heels that are not really practical, clothes that are a touch too revealing to be appropriate for a Tuesday evening. Their bags are larger than average (all the better for holding the lube, toys, condoms, make-up, stockings, lingerie, etc. that any self-repecting escort carts around). There is also their gaze (and gait) - confident, assured, sexual, knowing. And they are leaving a 5 star hotel at midnight (not the usual time to start a night out). They eye me up, knowing that I know.

I consider the situation - probably all it will take is for me to engage them in conversation: a greeting; an invitation for a drink; a couple of sexual innuendos... And we could be ensconced in my room, three bodies entwined. Naked, kissing, stroking, licking, tasting, testing, sighing, sweating, probing, pumping, coming... Pleasure unbounded.

God I want to.

I can feel the cash in my pocket - the key to this sexual feast.

But I smile benignly and allow them to pass. Their eyes flick downwards - I am not interested and therefore they switch off.

They are my past, not my present or future...

But the hotel porn gets a bit of a beasting...

Enjoy...

OK, one last and final reason...

2005-11-14T09:07:00.000Z

I was reading Temptation musing on how she would like a cage for Christmas (some women are just soooo easy to buy for...) and it reminded me of a funny story.

We'd got a puppy and, as part of the house training, bought a big cage for the puppy to sleep in. The theory is, if you are interested (No, not really. Ed.), that the dog will not soil it's own bedding, so confining it trains it to control its bodily functions overnight. Are you still reading? (With barely contained excitement... [yawn] Ed.)

My kids however, loved the idea of the cage and were playing at being "the puppy in the cage".

Anyway, I was having an important conference call one week-end. Clients, lawyers and colleagues were all hanging on my every word as I outlined the next big deal. I have the phone on hands-free, speakerphone mode, as it was going to be a loooong call.

Into the library walks my then 4yo boy. "Daddy, daddy!" he cries. I tried to continue my monologue but it was obvious that the boy wasn't going to wait for daddy to finish.

"Hold on chaps," said I. "I'll just sort out my son..." I didn't mute the phone... "Yes, D, what do you want?"

"Daddy! Can you put me in the cage again?!"

That took some explaining...

Enjoy...

Yet more reasons...

2005-11-11T08:51:00.000Z

More lazy blogging from me. I really ought to apologise but I can't be arsed - I'm that fucking indolent*.

In fact this isn't just lazy, it's plagarism. I saw this on Alex Asks and thought, "That's close enough - no one will notice". Alex Asks, by the way is a fine repository of stories and jokes that really shouldn't be allowed out in polite company. He is probably the UK equivalent of God hates kittens and his attitude is summed up by his profile: "I got a blowjob last nite. And not just any old blowjob, but a full on, swallowing every last drop, blowjob. Ah, I love my girlfriend’s mum." My only excuse for not linking to him earlier is that I am bone idle...

A first-grade teacher, Ms. Brooks, was having trouble with one of her students. The teacher asked, "Harry, what's your problem?"
Harry answered, "I'm too smart for the 1st grade. My sister is in the 3rd grade and I'm way smarter than she is! I think I should be in the 3rd grade too!"
Ms. Brooks had had enough. She took Harry to the principal's office. While Harry waited in the outer office, the teacher explained to the principal what the situation was. The principal told Ms. Brooks he would give the boy a test. If he failed to answer any of his questions he was to go back to the 1st grade and behave.
She agreed.
Harry was brought in and the conditions were explained to him and he consented to take the test.
Principal: "What is 3 x 3?"
Harry: "9."
Principal: "What is 6 x 6?"
Harry: "36."
And so it went with every question the principal thought a 3rd grader should know.
The principal looks at Ms. Brooks and tells her, "I think Harry can go to the 3rd grade."
Ms. Brooks says to the principal, "Let me ask him some questions."
She asks, "What does a cow have four of that I have only two of?"
Harry, after a moment: "Legs."
Ms. Brooks: "What is in your trousers that you have but I do not have?"
The principal wondered why would she ask such a question!
Harry replied: "Pockets."
Ms. Brooks: "What does a dog do that a man steps into?"
Harry: "Pants."
Ms. Brooks: "What starts with a 'C', ends with a 'T', is hairy, oval, delicious and contains thin, whitish liquid?"
Harry: "Coconut."
The principal sat forward with his mouth hanging open.
Ms. Brooks: "What goes in hard and pink then comes out soft and sticky?"
The principal's eyes opened really wide and before he could stop the answer, Harry replied, "Bubble gum."
Ms. Brooks: "What does a man do standing up, a woman does sitting down and a dog does on three legs?"
Harry: "Shake hands."
The principal was trembling.
Ms. Brooks: "What word starts with an 'F' and ends in 'K' that means a lot of heat and excitement?"
Harry: "Firetruck."
The principal breathed a sigh of relief and told the teacher, "Put Harry in the fifth-grade, I got the last seven questions wrong......"

Enjoy...

* Actually, I am rushed off my feet at work and blogging eats into valuable down time. Sadly, there is not much action at home - work, sickness, tiredness. Bah!

More reasons not to mess with children...

2005-11-10T18:12:00.000Z

Following yesterday's post, I was sent this stuff by a loyal reader (thanks Dave).

A kindergarten pupil told his teacher he'd found a cat, but it was dead.
"How do you know that the cat was dead?" she asked her pupil.
"Because I pissed in its ear and it didn't move," answered the child innocently.
"You did WHAT?!?" the teacher exclaimed in surprise.
"You know," explained the boy, "I bent over and went 'Pssst!' and it didn't move."
A small boy is sent to bed by his father.
Five minutes later....."Da-ad...."
"What?"
"I'm thirsty. Can you bring me a drink of water?"
"No, You had your chance. Lights out."
Five minutes later, "Da-aaaad....."
"WHAT?"
"I'm THIRSTY. Can I have a drink of water??"
"I told you NO! If you ask again, I'll have to spank you!!"
Five minutes later......"Daaaa-aaaad...."
"WHAT!"
"When you come in to spank me, can you bring a drink of water?"
An exasperated mother, whose son was always getting into mischief, finally asked him, "How do you expect to get into Heaven?"
The boy thought it over and said, "Well, I'll run in and out and in and out and keep slamming the door until St Peter says, 'For Heaven's sake, Dylan, come in or stay out!'"
One summer evening during a violent thunderstorm a mother was tucking her son into bed. She was about to turn off the light when he asked with a tremor in his voice, "Mommy, will you sleep with me tonight?"
The mother smiled and gave him a reassuring hug.
"I can't dear," she said. "I have to sleep in Daddy's room."
A long silence was broken at last by his shaky little voice: "The big sissy."
It was that time, during the Sunday morning service, for the children's sermon. All the children were invited to come forward. One little girl was wearing a particularly pretty dress and, as she sat down, the pastor leaned over and said, "That is a very pretty dress. Is it your Easter Dress?"
The little girl replied, directly into the pastor's clip-on microphone, "Yes, and my Mom says it's a bitch to iron."
When a woman was six months pregnant with her third child, her three year old came into the room when I was just getting ready to get into the shower. She said, "Mommy, you are getting fat!"
She replied, "Yes, honey, remember Mommy has a baby growing in her tummy."
"I know," she replied, "but what's growing in your butt?"
A little boy was doing his math homework. He said to himself,
"Two plus five, that son of a bitch is seven. Three plus six, that son of a bitch is nine..."
His mother heard what he was saying and gasped, "What are you doing?"
The little boy answered, "I'm doing my math homework, Mom."
"And this is how your teacher taught you to do it?" the mother asked.
"Yes," he answered.
Infuriated, the mother asked the teacher the next day, "What are you teaching my son in math?"
The teacher replied, "Right now, we are learning addition."
The mother asked, "And are you teaching them to say two plus two, that son of a bitch is four?"
After the teacher stopped laughing, she answered, "What I taught them was, two plus two, THE SUM OF WHICH, is four."
One day the first grade teacher was reading the story of Chicken Little to her class. She came to the part of the story where Chicken Little tried to warn the farmer. She read, ".... and so Chicken Little went up to the farmer and said, "The sky is falling, the sky is falling!" The teacher paused then asked the class, "And what do you think that farmer said?"
One little girl raised her hand and said, "I think he said: 'Holy Shit! A talking chicken!'"
The teacher was unable to teach for the next 10 minutes.
A certain little girl, when asked her name, would reply, "I'm Mr. Sugarbrown's daughter."
Her mother told her this was wrong, she must say, "I'm Jane Sugarbrown."
The Vicar spoke to her in Sunday School, and said, "Aren't you Mr. Sugarbrown's daughter?"
She replied, "I thought I was, but mother says I'm not."
A little girl asked her mother, "Can I go outside and play with the boys?"
Her mother replied, "No, you can't play with the boys, they're too rough."
The little girl thought about it for a few moments and asked, "If I can find a smooth one, can I play with him?"
A little girl goes to the barber shop with her father.
She stands next to the barber chair, while her dad gets his hair cut, eating a snack cake
The barber says to her, "Sweetheart, you're gonna get hair on your Twinkie."
She says, "Yes, I know, and I'm gonna get boobs too."

Enjoy...

7 reasons not to mess with a child...

2005-11-09T17:16:00.000Z

I think most parents will be able to relate to these stories...

A little girl was talking to her teacher about whales.
The teacher said it was physically impossible for a whale to swallow a human because even though it was a very large mammal its throat was very small.
The little girl stated that Jonah was swallowed by a whale. Irritated, the teacher reiterated that a whale could not swallow a human; it was physically impossible.
The little girl said, "When I get to heaven I will ask Jonah."
The teacher asked, "What if Jonah went to hell?"
The little girl replied, "Then you ask him. "
A Kindergarten teacher was observing her classroom of children while they were drawing. She would occasionally walk around to see each child's work. As she got to one little girl who was working diligently, she asked what the drawing was.
The girl replied, "I'm drawing God."
The teacher paused and said, "But no one knows what God looks like."
Without missing a beat, or looking up from her drawing, the girl replied, "They will in a minute."
A Sunday school teacher: was discussing the Ten Commandments with her five and six year olds. After explaining the commandment to "honour" thy Father and thy Mother, she asked, "Is there a commandment that teaches us how to treat our brothers and sisters?"
Without missing a beat one little boy (the oldest of a family) answered, "Thou shall not kill."
One day a little girl was sitting and watching her mother do the dishes at the kitchen sink. She suddenly noticed that her mother had several strands of white hair sticking out in contrast on her brunette head.
She looked at her mother and inquisitively asked, "Why are some of your hairs white, Mom?"
Her mother replied, "Well, every time that you do something wrong and make me cry or unhappy, one of my hairs turns white."
The little girl thought about this revelation for a while and then said, "Momma, how come ALL of grandma's hairs are white?"
The children had all been photographed, and the teacher was trying to persuade them each to buy a copy of the group picture. "Just think how nice it will be to look at it when you are all grown up and say, 'There's Jennifer, she's a lawyer,' or 'That's Michael, He's a doctor.'
A small voice at the back of the room rang out, "And there's the teacher, She's dead. "
A teacher was giving a lesson on the circulation of the blood.
Trying to make the matter clearer, she said, "Now, class, if I stood on my head, the blood, as you know, would run into it, and I would turn red in the face.."
"Yes," the class said.
"Then why is it that while I am standing upright in the ordinary position the blood doesn't run into my feet?"
A little fellow shouted, "Cause your feet ain't empty."
The children were lined up in the cafeteria of a Catholic elementary school for lunch.
At the head of the table was a large pile of apples. The nun made a note, and posted on the apple tray: "Take only ONE. God is watching."
Moving further along the lunch line, at the other end of the table was a large pile of chocolate chip cookies.
A child had written a note, "Take all you want. God is watching the apples.

Enjoy...

Sex on the beach...

2005-11-02T13:55:00.000Z

Strange to relate but my first orgasm with another person was not with Sue.

Shortly after Sue and I began our exploration of the carnal arts, I went away on holiday. By coincidence, I met a girl I vaguely knew on the plane. We chatted and worked out that we were staying quite close,so we agreed to meet up during the holiday.

I really wasn't very interested - she so wasn't my type - not very bright and yet seemed to have a head two sizes too large for her body (I occasionally wondered if her brain actually rattled in there...). She thought herself a "looker" - and quite a few men agreed - but she did nothing for me. However, that lack of interest proved to be a powerful aphrodisiac as far as she was concerned. She wanted me and wasn't going to take "no" for an answer.

So... We went out drinking as a foursome (my male mate and her female mate making up the numbers). We drank too much. I was still uninterested, even with beer goggles on. This only served to steel her determination further. She engineered it that her mate distracted my friend so we would be left alone.

We walked on the beach in the moonlight. A romantic cliche but I was unmoved. So, she jumped on me.

Now, I could have resisted but what man can turn down sex when it's offered on a plate? Not this one for sure. To my credit, I actually thought about my relationship with Sue and whether I should let this go any further. Er, but to my debit, I decided unilaterally that it was not an "exclusive relationship" (ironically, she also came to the same decision independently too - but that is another story...).

I thought, "Well a snog won't matter." She put her hand inside my shorts and I thought some sticky finger action wouldn't necessarily make me a bad person. I reciprocated, massaging her breasts and tweaking her rock-hard nipples softly through the thin material of her sundress. As we kissed, my hands roamed and slid up her tanned thighs, lifting her flippy skirt to reveal white cotton panties. My fingers sought out her moist folds, she came almost immediately once my squealing and biting my neck, all the while giving my hard cock the attention he required to ensure my brain was never going to have a say in what happened next.

I pushed her back onto the sand, cool and soft in the late evening darkness. I pulled off her panties and rammed my cock fully home - she was so wet there was no resistance. She hooked her legs around my back and pumped away vigorously looking for that second orgasm. I turned her over and slipped two fingers inside her pussy, whispering in her ear that I was going to fuck her hard. I pulled her onto her knees and pounded away with little regard for her comfort and every consideration of my own pleasure. Slightly surprised, I exploded in her (sad to say but this was unprotected teenage sex). She screamed loudly in pleasure (so loudly that we thought we better move to more private surroundings).

Why could I come with this girl and not my girlfriend? Was it the frisson of sex in the open? Partly, yes. However, I think the clue was that I didn't care about her. I had no interest in her pleasure (though she enjoyed herself immensely) whereas, with my girlfriends, I wanted them to get the pleasure and cared little for myself.

However, this incident was like breaking the floodgates, breaching the dam. Back in the UK, I could now orgasm with Sue (something she put down to my two week absence and abstinence rather than a spell of uninhibited shagging with a holiday "slapper").

That was my first case of infidelity. It was also the first time I justified it by telling myself that it didn't matter because I didn't care about the person I was fucking. And so the die was cast for my future as a sexual predator...

Enjoy...

Early days V...

2005-10-31T08:17:00.000Z

My Caroline issue resolved itself, much to my relief, when she moved away.

Time to get some action...and her name was Sue.

Sue was a nurse and a few years older than me. I was, I have to admit, relying on the old adage that their are two certainties in life: death and nurses. We dated a few times. We danced. We snogged. My hands started to wander. Not much was happening. I began to wonder if the adage had any validity - but, in this case, proved true.

I remember it vividly. We were in a taxi queue outside a disco. We were cuddling. I felt her fingers slip through my button fly, curling round my somulent cock. And, joy of joys, my cock responded. This was what he wanted - someone to wake him from his slumber. I have always liked women to show an interest in sex - to be an active partner. The lie-back-and-think-of-England brigade hold no attraction.

Here, in the market square of an anonymous town, her interest (and ministrations) were having a very positive effect.

Soon, she had slipped her whole hand inside my chinos and was carressing my erection. I was dizzy with anticipation. The taxi couldn't come soon enough (and apparently, as far as she was concerned, neither could I...). The car took us to her place - but I wondered if I'd lose my virginity there in the back of a cab, with the lecherous taxi driver ogling us in the rear view mirror.

We fell through the doors of her halls of residence with her leading me literally by the cock - her hand stuffed down my boxer shorts. We ripped each other's clothes off once the door of her room slammed behind us.

We got naked - there was no embarrassment on her part (a first for my girlfriends). That "pack of three" was at last going to get some use. She rolled one on my diamond hard cock and pulled me to the bed.

Bliss.

The feeling of slick warmth enveloped my dick as I slipped inside her. All those years of anticipation and I was not disappointed. How good was that? After all the anticipation, the worry, my relief to have lost the virginity that had haunted me for years was so huge I almost cried.

We began to move. It felt wonderful. How different to the dry rubbing of my hand. The subtle pressure, the glorious grip all round my cock began to register after the initial pleasure of slippery heat. This was fabulous. I didn't want it to stop. We fucked each other stupid - contorting our bodies into weird and wonderful positions, until she begged me to stop. I hadn't come but I didn't care. I just wanted to go at it again. We kept waking during the night and copulated like randy rabbits - it was as though our pubic hair were velcro and we needed a crowbar to separate our genitalia.

I was loving it.

I was priapic.

I was unable to come.

Enjoy...

Early days IV...

2005-10-27T07:18:00.000Z

As Kirsty went on her tearful way after 9 months (strange that she was so upset - she gave me a "it's me or your friends" ultimatum and I chose the people I was closest to...), in came Caroline.

Caroline was a bright Northern lass. She had curly dark hair and piercing blue eyes - a killer combination. It was those eyes that first attracted me. They were staring at me across a crowded room, laser-bright, sparkling with mischief. I had to get to know the owner...

The fact that she was also the owner of a fabulous body did help my enthusiasm (yes, I am/was shallow)...

She was serious and thoughtful - ah, such a wonderful change after Kirsty. We had long intense, studenty conversations that put the world to rights. We had long intense petting sessions that gave her shivering, gasping orgasms. And she refused to reciprocate.

It turned out that a near fatal motorcycle accident aged 15 had left her both physically and mentally scarred. She had been left with some scarring to her legs and chest, which really was no issue for me (or anyone who was anything but a perfectionist - trouble was, she was). The real issue was that she thought that she was infertile as a result of the internal injuries and was not interested in sexual experimentation until she knew more about what was happening.

I was tempted, being a heartless bastard, to ask if she'd also damaged her mouth... Anyway, hamstrung by my lack of erection (I was still pretty terrified by the opposite sex) and her refusal to allow anything other than finger inside her, I really didn't know what to do. She had no interest in stimulating me and I had no idea how to take it to the next level.

Fuck!

Was I condemned to find girlfriends who were visually perfect but mentally damaged: partners who were happy to take but not keen on the giving bit?

In hindsight, my non-threatening, nice guy persona made me attractive to this demographic but my virginity wasn't going to cure itself...

To be continued...

Early days III...

2005-10-26T09:35:00.000Z

And trade I did. Kirsty was what I thought I wanted - a tasty bit of posh totty. She was slim, long limbed and beautiful.

Sadly two things were to doom this relationship.

Firstly, it turned out she had been sexually abused as a child (by one of the staff - she was truly posh). Unsurprisingly, she was reluctant to get sexual (not what a teenage male intent on getting his dick wet really wants to hear). But I was cool with that (a proto-metrosexual teenager - one of a kind...). I would take my time. I would be loving. I would be gentle. I am rather proud that she told me later in her life (I met her 10 years after the relationship ended) that she owed her sexuality to me - I reawakened the sexual being that had hidden deep inside her after the abuse.

What I was less proud about was that I was still getting no action after six months. She was even less willing to reciprocate my sexual advances than Lizzie had been. Some trade... (Yeah, I know - I'm a heartless bastard)

The second issue - and the one that ultimately doomed the relationship - was that she was pretty stupid. Conversation was far from sparkling. I realised that I needed some intellectual stimulation from the relationship, especially if I wasn't getting any physical stimulation. Once the topic left the party circuit and our friends there really wasn't anything there. You couldn't even get a cruel entertainment from it. Wind-ups such as "did you know that the word gullible is not in the Oxford English Dictionary" cease to be much fun when they succeed every time - like shooting fish in a barrel.

To be fair she wasn't as dumb as her friends. They were dead from the neck up (the blokes were "Tim Nice-But-Dim", the girls were body by Barbie, brains by Mattel). I remember sitting in the drawing room of one friend, watching the news and one of the girls saying, "What's apartheid". Remember this was the late 70's / early 80's - and apartheid was a massive issue around the world, dominating the news media - us "right-on" students were boycotting South African products.

I gently explained the mechanics of separation by ethnicity and the girl said (and I kid you not), "Oh that's nice! I don't like black people either."

Jesus....

To be continued...

Early days II...

2005-10-24T08:33:00.000Z

So there I was:

Naïve, sexually desperate, virginity a millstone around my neck. Not an attractive look...
Stuck in a rut, depressed, going nowhere. Just the attributes young ladies seek out).

Fan-fucking-tastic (or not). What happened? Well nothing. Until I got lucky...

As always in my life, fortune smiled on me.

A very pretty girl took a shine to me for no discernable reason. I plucked up the courage to ask her out. We fumbled in each other's clothes. I found out about the female anatomy first hand rather than from the two-diminsional paper porn that had formulated my erotic fantasies.
But not everything was "wine and roses". Lizzie had big breasts - not my thing at all. Don't get me wrong - large boobs don't turn me off but they don't attract me like they do some men. I can definitely take them or leave them. There were two problems with this scenario.
Firstly, she seemed to be obsessed with me taking an interest in her mammaries - no I wasn't being overly attentive but rather I wasn't obsessed enough - her previous boyfriends had been very er... well, focussed. Whilst she responded beautifully to my fingers elsewhere on her body, she wanted more breast action but less of other forms of naughtiness (we were still innocent teenagers). This was not all bad: she loved kissing - my lifelong love of kissing comes from Lizzie (I could quite happily snog for Britain). Long, slow, succulent kisses. Fast, insistent, deisre- filled kisses. All good.

Secondly, whilst my hands wandered, her hands never got below my waist. Perhaps because I didn't have a raging hard-on, she was embarassed. But without some stimulation down there, nothing was going to happen, for me at least... Probably my fault for masturbating like a sex-starved simian whenever I was on my own for more than five minutes. But my virginity wasn't going anywhere.

However, the best thing about going out with Lizzie was that I suddenly became hot property with the "Laydees". Yes, that old effect of "if some other girl wants him, then so do I" came into effect. Virgo intacto, I nevertheless had become a minor "player" and I had the chance to trade...

To be continued...

Early days I...

2005-10-21T09:32:00.000Z

My first sexual experiences were nothing to write home about (So why the fuck are you writing about them? Ed). I'm sure that a lot of young people struggle to find their feet, sexually (Well, there's your problem - feet don't really come into sex (except at the advanced levels). You need to aim a little higher. Ed).

My very early encounters with the opposite sex were disasters. I was too nervous to touch them.

I went out with a girl for a month when I was aged 13 or 14 and didn't even touch her breasts (they were the largest of any of the girls that I knew). I didn't want to be presumptuous (Presumptuous? This kid is so stupid he couldn't pour water out of a boot with instructions printed on the heel. Ed). The irony was she chucked me because I wasn't interested in her - what I hadn't realised (and wouldn't understand for many years afterwards) was that she was as sexually curious as I was (See? What did I tell you? An intellect rivalled only by garden tools. Ed). Worse than that, she told everyone that I hadn't grabbed a handfull of her cleavage, which ensured that I appeared naïve, stupid or gay (admittedly, I was guilty of the first two) - none of which served to make me immediately attractive to the other females in the group.
I decided to withdraw hurt from the dating scene and regroup on the sidelines. Well, truth be told, that was the only option I was given. I resolved therefore to masturbate like a rabid monkey. On the one hand this seemed a reasonable decision at the time, on the other hand, well, my palm was getting hairy.

My virginity hung over me like a cloud - my desperation was so palpable you could smell it on me a mile off. I couldn't have got laid if I was the only man at a nymphomanics' convention.

To be continued...

Early days...

2005-10-20T09:17:00.000Z

I thought that I'd be self-indulgent for a moment (For a moment? What the fuck is the rest of the Blog??? Ed.) and go back to describe my early sexual experiences - the ones that formed me as a sexual being.

My first experiences of a sexual frisson were all onastic - I discovered that pressing my willy gave me pleasurable feelings when I was about 10. I then developed that into something more sexual over the next couple of years. Pornography (of the Penthouse variety) entered into the equation at about 12 or 13. I suppose that I discovered it at one of my uncle's houses. We had a very liberal upbringing - parents smoking pot (I could roll a mean joint aged 10...) and sex was far from a taboo subject. I had two bachelor uncles, who would leave their Playboys lying around. No-one would blink an eyelid if I picked one up and read it.

Thus, my early sexual focus was very visual - probably not healthy for a male (we are very visual - as opposed to cerebral - in our sexual stimuli).

As I once told Virgin Slut, my masturbation has always been a stolen moment, a furtive act. It has therefore tended to be a very clinical experience - though one backed by wild fantasy - how to get one's rocks off in the minimum amount of time. Wild fantasy? Well anything from very plain vanilla stuff to the craziest shit that you can imagine. Domination, ladyboys, submission, bondage, mind control - fucked up stuff (though to be fair this is not common - I am pretty catholic in my tastes even if I can be very eclectic).

To be continued...

Show me the way...

2005-10-14T17:25:00.000Z

This made me giggle...

(Click on the image to enlarge it)

Enjoy...

Blogging is soooo last year...

2005-10-13T08:11:00.000Z

Well, if we needed any confirmation, blogging has become as passe as sex with the lights out. Final nail in the coffin was when I jumped in the car last night and heard the tail end of the first episode of a "Woman's Hour" play called The World of Margaret. It appeared to be about a married couple discovering how blogging improves their relationship and their sex. I mean how fricking unlikely is that?

If Radio 4 has discovered it, blogging is way beyond mainstream. If Woman's Hour is covering it, we are all has-beens.

Fuck, I hate being a cliche.

Actually, the rather posh voice of the lady playing Margaret and her somewhat rocky relationship reminded me of a joke:

A nice, calm and respectable lady went into the pharmacy, right up to the pharmacist, looked straight into his eyes, and said, "I would like to buy some cyanide."
The pharmacist asked,"Why in the world do you need cyanide?"
The lady replied, "I need it to poison my husband."
The pharmacist's eyes got big and he exclaimed, "Lord have mercy! I can't give you cyanide to kill your husband! That's against the law! I'll lose my license! They'll throw both of us in jail! All kinds of bad things will happen. Absolutely not! You CANNOT have any cyanide!"
The lady reached into her purse and pulled out a picture of her husband in bed with the pharmacist's wife. The pharmacist looked at the picture and replied, "Well now. That's different. You didn't tell me you had a prescription."

Enjoy...

Neglect

2005-10-08T08:28:00.000Z

I am not dead - I've been neglecting you, dear reader. Not out of choice but because I have been busy elsewhere. So busy that I have very little to tell you other than about the inside of my office, planes, airports and business hotels. I will return soon - I have tapped some thoughts into my blackberry and once I have a chance to transfer it to Blogger, we might get some posts up.

In the meantime...

One day, in line at the company cafeteria, Joe says to Mike behind him, "My elbow hurts like hell. I guess I better see a doctor."
"Listen, you don't have to spend that kind of money," Mike replies. "There's a diagnostic computer down at Woolworth's. Just give it a urine sample and the computer will tell you what's wrong and what to do about it. It takes ten seconds and costs £20.00. It’s a lot quicker than a doctor."
So Joe deposits a urine sample in a small jar and takes it to Woolies. He deposits £20.00, and the computer lights up and asks for the urine sample. He pours the sample into the slot and waits. Ten seconds later, the computer ejects a printout:
You have tennis elbow. Soak your arm in warm water and avoid heavy activity. It will improve in two weeks.
Thank you for shopping at Woolworths.
That evening while thinking how amazing this new technology was, Joe began wondering if the computer could be fooled. He mixed some tap water, a stool sample from his dog, urine samples from his wife and daughter, and a sperm sample for good measure. Joe hurries back to Woolies, eager to check the results. He deposits £20.00, pours in his concoction, and awaits the results. The computer prints the following:
1. Your tap water is too hard. Get a water softener. (Aisle 9)
2. Your dog has ringworm. Bathe him with anti-fungal shampoo. (Aisle7)
3. Your daughter has a cocaine habit. Get her into rehab.
4. Your wife is pregnant, Twins. They aren't yours. Get a lawyer (Next door).
5. If you don't stop playing with yourself, your elbow will never get better.
Thank you for shopping at Woolworths

Enjoy...

Working my arse off - hopefully...

2005-09-19T20:38:00.000Z

I'm trying to get back in shape having gained about a stone over the last 5 years. Fuck me, it's boring. No food and either sweating my arse off in the gym or pounding the streets in my running shoes - where's the fun in that? Now, I might have once been a tuned athlete but that was in a team sport - I always had someone else there to motivate me.

What I need is this:

WEIGHT LOSS PROGRAM FOR MEN
A man was ordered by his doctor to lose 75 lbs.
As he wondered how in the heck he would ever do that, he ran across an ad in the newspaper for a GUARANTEED WEIGHT LOSS PROGRAM.
"Guaranteed. Yeah right!" he thought to himself.
But desperate, he called them up and subscribed to the 3-day / 10 pound weight loss program.
The next day there was a knock on his door, and when he answered, there stood before him a voluptuous, athletic, 19-year-old young lady dressed in nothing but air and some Nike running shoes. She introduces herself as a representative of the weight loss company, and shows him a sign around her neck.
The sign read, "If you can catch me, you can have me!"
Without a second thought he took off after her. A few miles later,huffing and puffing, he finally caught her and had his way with her.
After they were through and she left, he thought to himself, "I like the way this company does business!"
The same girl showed up for the next two days and the same thing happened. On the fourth day, he weighed himself and was delighted to find he had lost 10 lbs. as promised.
He called the company and ordered their 5-day / 20 pound program.
The next day there was a knock on the door andthere stood the most stunning, beautiful, sexy woman he had ever seen in his life, wearing nothing but Reebok running shoes and a sign around her neck that read, "If you catch me, you can have me."
He was out the door after her like a shot. This girl was in excellent shape and it took him a while to catch her, but when he did, it was worth every cramp and wheeze.
For the next four days, the same routine happened. Much to his delight, on the fifth day, he weighed himself and found he had lost another 20 lbs, as promised. He decided to go for broke and called the company to order the 7-day/ 50 pound program.
"Are you sure?" asked the representative on the phone. "This is our most rigorous program."
"Absolutely," he replied, "I haven't felt this good in years."
The next day there was a knock at the door and when he opened it he found a muscular guy standing there wearing nothing but pink running shoes and a sign around his neck that read,"If I catch you, you're mine."

Now that would get me motivated...

Enjoy...

Indestructi-porn...

2005-09-15T10:49:00.000Z

I'm indebted to Scary Duck for pointing me to an extraordinary article that "Gentlemen's Literature for Relaxation" (a.k.a. wank mags) seem to barely degrade at all.

He found that magazines, newspapers and old bits of wood thrown away up to 46 years ago were in almost perfect condition, with pornography lasting the best of all.

He displayed a 1979 copy of the men's magazine Playboy which was in near mint condition, and said its thick wax coating could be the reason for its longevity.
"The best preserved was the pornography," Mr Ximenes said. "It was a bit ironic."

Now this has some important implications. We should all buy as much porn as possible - it will lock up carbon and help us to reach our Kyoto targets.

It also means that, as Fark concludes, "porn will be this civilization's gift to the next civilization." Excellent! Stuffy professors in 3005 discussing whether Miss June has silicone tits. I can't wait.

Enjoy...

Post script:
Boing Boing points out that the kaolin in the paper (the ingredient that gives the paper its shine) is mildly radioactive - so my environmental plan of porn saving the world may be a little off base.

Even more worrying is what is happening to us when we rub our genitals on the paper. What? you don't do that? Well, clearly, I don't either, but I may have a friend who does...

Hair today, gone tomorrow...

2005-09-13T14:16:00.000Z

Sorry, I've been meaning to post this for a while but I've been sidelined on other things... Last night, I noticed my wife had shaved her pussy (she usually is a bit "brazilian") and that reminded me. Well, actually, it reminded me to bonk her brains out - but it also reminded me of this interesting recent Economist article about the sexual development of hair.

Quite fascinating...

However, the author suggests that pubic hair did not become evolutionarily redundant because of smell. I thought that it had a lubricating function as well, stopping the skin from chafing so easily.

Nevertheless, it makes some interesting points particularly on beards:

"The theory here is that sexual selection has kept facial hair in men, presumably because this advertises their male hormones. But why, then, do so many men, in so many cultures, shave them off? ... perhaps, shaving is popular because facial shape in humans is a sexually dimorphic characteristic. Men tend to have squarer jaws than women, and they shave to highlight this. If so, this would explain the trend for emphasising the edge of the jawline with a fringe of hair. But moustaches are a mystery, to evolutionary biologists and to practically everyone else.

Finally, I came across this hooker joke that tickled my fancy:

Tony Blair started jogging near his home in Chequers. Every day, he'd jog past a hooker standing on the same street corner. He learned to brace himself as he approached her for what was almost certain to follow.
"Fifty pounds!" she'd shout from the curb.
"No! Five pounds!" Tony would fire back.
This ritual between Tony and the hooker became a daily occurrence. He'd run by and she'd yell, "Fifty pounds!" He'd yell back, "Five pounds!"
One day, Cherie decided that she wanted to accompany her husband on his jog. As the jogging couple neared the working woman's street corner, Tony realized she'd bark her £50 offer and Cherie would wonder what he'd really been doing on all his past outings. He figured he'd better have a darnn good explanation for the 'Boss'. As they jogged into the turn that would take them past the corner, Tony became even more apprehensive than usual.
Sure enough, there was the hooker. Tony tried to avoid the prostitute's eyes as she watched the pair jog past. Then, from the sidewalk, the hooker yelled, "See what you get for five quid?!"

I can't help but feel that Cherie gets the shitty end of the stick from all and sundry. I should feel sorry for her but I do wonder if she isn't her own worst enemy sometimes.

Enjoy...

How was it for you?

2005-09-12T09:58:00.000Z

Continuing on the theme of bad things about using escorts...

One of the somewhat distatseful aspects of the escort scene is the concept of reviews. Yes, that's right - the "customers" get to review the "service providers". The two most famous in the UK are Captain69 and Punternet. The US has The Erotic Review. These sites allow "punters" to mark the girls for looks and performance. They also allow some commentary to describe the experience. Furthermore, they are searchable so you can find your particular kink more easily amongst the thousands of escorts listed.

Now, I am not going to get on any moral high horse. I have to admit that I have used these sites (and would advise anyone thinking of using escorts to do so too). There are many rip-off artists out there (anything from fake pictures to people who just want to steal your money, knowing that most men are unwilling to go to the police). Moreover, you will have a better experience if the escort and you are compatible and, whilst this cannot be guaranteed from a two paragraph comment, at least you have some guide. It is usually better for the escort to have some reviews, firstly as advertising (escorts will usually link to favorable reviews from their webites) and secondly because it is probably helps select clients with whom they are more likely to be able to "click".

However, it is not all wine and roses. Fake reviews abound - you can usually tell them (gushing prose that sounds too feminine or a single positive reviewer who has never reviewed any other girls). One agency owner offered a discount for favorable reviews. Agency owners lurk on the forums to tout for business.

Furthermore, I have to admit that I have also written reviews. This was usually at the extreme - to highlight a favorite girl who didn't seem to get the recognition she deserved or to prevent some other poor sap from being ripped off or disappointed.

In addition, the forum on Captain69 is consistently one of the funniest and most erudite spots with regards to sex on the internet. I am sure they wouldn't object to being characterised as a collection of very bright, amusing perverts... A number of the escorts take part enthusiastically - and are usually amongst the best contributors.

So given all that, what's not to like? Both sides gain. Both sides like it. It is a business after all... But it isn't, is it? Not in a conventional sense. There are some moral restrictions that still apply even if you are paying for sex. These are the most objectional aspects:

Men often treat the girl as a piece of meat ("she took a real pounding from behind").
They can display a disgusting attitude to the women ("I gave her a huge facial, which I didn't think she was really expecting").
They even don't seem worried by a girl's distress (one infamous review had text along the lines of, "She seemed unhappy to be there and upset about the situation. I therefore got on with it as quickly as possible").
They feel duty bound to boast about their prowess ("She must like my huge dick as she appeared to be really enjoying herself, as I came for the third time").
Whilst I accept that some crude rating system makes sense, the way the clients rate the escorts' bodies and faces can be quite unpleasant ("Not as firm or slim as I would like" - imagine how attractive the overweight business man is who is writing that...)
The way they rate the girl's sexual prowess ("BBBJ not as deep as I'd like" - well, I bet you weren't exactly Don Juan, pal...).

Now this may be hypocritcal in the extreme, as you might say that I am guilty of all of those sins writing in this blog. Whatever your views, I am certainly not encouraging you to go and visit my wife to try her out. I am not selling her as a piece of meat. I am in no competition to appear to be a wonderful person / lover / whatever. I try to tell it warts and all.

I would like the girls to be able to review the punters - now that would be interesting...

Now,on that note, another joke from my mother:

Three men were sitting together bragging about how they had given their new wives duties. Terry had married a woman from England, and bragged that he had told his wife she was going to do all the dishes and housework. He said that it took a couple days but on the third day he came home to a clean house and the dishes were all washed and put away.

Jimmie had married a woman from America. He bragged that he had given his wife orders that she was to do all the cleaning, dishes, and the cooking. He told them that the first day he didn't see any results, but the next day it was better. By the third day, his house was clean, the dishes were done, and he had a huge dinner on the table.

The third man had married an Australian girl. He boasted that he told her that her duties were to keep the house cleaned, dishes washed, lawn mowed, laundry washed and hot meals on the table for every meal. He said the first day he didn't see anything, the second day he didn't see anything, but by the third day most of the swelling had gone down and he could see a little out of his left eye. Enough to fix himself a bite to eat, load the dishwasher, and call a landscaper.

Enjoy...

Who am I to judge?

2005-09-07T21:09:00.000Z

Bad things happens to men who use escorts.

No, I don't mean they get divorced, arrested or catch social diseases. Well that does happen but I was talking about something else - their moral compass gets put seriously out of kilter.

Take relationships.

Now, to be clear, I'm not looking for any female company, as I am aiming to remain faithful but, were I currently single (and having experienced commercial sex), I'd really struggle with the whole dating thing. I mean, look at it:

the embarrassment of the first approach (will I be shot down in flames?);
the struggle of the first date (where do I take her, what have we got in common?);
the first kiss (have I interpreted the signs correctly?);
the first sex (what does she like, is she just faking it?);
the longer term relationship (is she only with me till she finds something better, am I with her till I find something better?).

God, it's so random.

Compare that to calling an escort, where there is no effort required other than a shower and a visit to the cash-machine. You will get laid. There is no relationship.

And let's not get started on sexual compatibility. The thought of spending weeks getting some scrumptious piece of totty into bed only to find that she thinks "doggy style" is perverted beyond the bounds of human decency would fill me with dread. I might have read both Debrett's Etiquette and PJ O'Rourke's Modern Manners but I still don't know the acceptable way of asking a young lady if she will provide OwO, CIM, DATY and A-levels (unprotected oral sex, come in mouth, cunnilingus and anal sex, for the uninitiated) on the first date. With an escort you can ask the question on the first phone call (if phrased correctly).

Now this isn't a paean for the use of commercial sex but it illustrates why it fucks you up.

But it goes further.

Perhaps the worst thing is that one starts to think every woman would have sex for money. We have an extremely attractive Polish cleaner. I'd sit and watch her leaning over to polish a table and think what it might cost for her to polish my knob (hmm, three interesting usages of the word polish). Not, notice, "I wonder if I could chat her up and get some rumpy-pumpy for free".

More than that, I started to believe that I can price where any girl could extract money to sleep with me. I used to catch myself looking at a girl and thinking "Hmm, £300 per hour and a bit more if she offers some of the more exotic services..." That said, in my sexual frustration that preceded my use of escorts, I'd "price" women in pints of beer (as in how many pints would I have to have downed before I'd be unfaithful with her).

And yes, I realise that pricing women was a very bad thing (unless I plan to go into the brothel business as a second career).

One is reminded of the (perhaps apocryphal) story about Churchill and a young lady to whom he'd been chatting for the evening:

"Madam," he said, rather drunk. "Would you sleep with me for 1,000 guineas?"
"Why, Mr Churchill," she replied, blushing, "Do you know, I do believe that I would."
"Well madam, would you sleep with me for 5 guineas?"
"Mr Churchill! What kind of lady do you take me for!" she stammered in indignation.
"Madam," said Churchill, puffing on his cigar, "we have already established what type of lady you are. We are now merely haggling over the price."

Enjoy...

Spammers can just fuck right off...

2005-09-06T16:36:00.000Z

Sorry, I have had a few spam comments (I delete them the second I see them). I wish these fuckwits would get a life. If no-one has any objections, I've turned on this word verification function. This means that you have to type in a randomly generated word which prevents automated systems from adding comments to the blog (since it takes a human being to read the word).

God, you'd think they wouldn't be so desperate as to infect my backwater of the Internet. It's not like I'm a massive traffic site. Perhaps I ought to keep a log and publish a list of people who were sufficiently stupid and pathetically incompetent enough to believe that Money Factory would assist in their business dominating the Interweb thingy. Tossers...

If anyone hates this, let me know (but you'll have to leave a comment to do it...)

Enjoy...

Hiatus...

2005-09-05T18:01:00.000Z

A number of things are conspiring to keep me from blogging. Firstly, I am busy as a beaver (and sadly I mean the furry, dam constructing animal, not the beaver I like) at work taking on more responsibility. Secondly, that business move involves me moving out of my cosy (and private) office back onto the moshpit of the trading floor. Thirdly, I have been trying to get fitter and than involves spending time in the gym. Finally, it is the shooting season and I seem to be blasting away with more abandon than ever before.

So, I will need to find time and space to get my posts back up to speed. Given I can't blog at work (too many pying eyes) or at home (I am dead if I get caught), I will need to snatch moments here and there to being you news from chez Salvatori.

In the meantime, enjoy...

Katrina...

2005-09-02T14:45:00.000Z

There is an old MI5 adage that every civilisation is only four meals away from anarchy. We are seeing the horrifying proof of that statement played out in front of our eyes in downtown New Orleans, courtesy of the global media.

My heart goes out to those caught up in the devastation. It makes me very grateful for the basics of life.

Stay safe.

Embarrass me do II

2005-08-24T18:22:00.000Z

Smeg-ma n.
Foreskin feta found underneath Kojak's roll-neck and around the banjo (qv) or cheese ridge. Also knob cheese, knob Stilton, knob yoghurt, Helmetdale (qv).

I remember many years ago being at a drunken dinner party. It was friends and their fiancees (or girlfriends but mainly fiancees - it was that time of life when every one was about to get married). I rose to pour some more claret into the glasses around the table. I topped up each glass but stopped before one girl's glass as I was getting to the dregs of the bottle.

"I'll open another bottle..." I began.

"Oh yes!" she interrupted, "I wouldn't want any smegma in my glass"

Unfortunately for her, this comment caught a brief lull in the raucous conversation.

"What did you say?" her incredulous boyfriend asked (indeed, none of us could quite believe it)

"Er, I wouldn't want any smegma in my glass" she said uncertainly.

The sound of wine shooting out of one unprepared chap's nose broke the silence.

"Do you know what smegma is?" her boyfriend gently asked.

"Well yes, of course, it's the sediment at the bottom of a bottle of wine... Isn't it?"

"And where did you learn that?"

"Oh, my last boyfriend told me..."

Well that is just inspired. Think about it. It is a verbal time-bomb - specifically targetted to go off at the most embarassing moment. You will only use the word in a desperately inappropriate circumstance. Yes, it's a shitty thing to do to someone, but it has its own brilliance.

She almost died of shame when we told her what it meant (but only after we had milked it for all it was worth).

And anyway, everyone knows that the real word for the sediment in red wine is jism...

Enjoy...

Embarrass me do...

2005-08-23T17:40:00.000Z

A couple of posts (one on GWAOTM and one on Erosblog) reminded me of two embarrassing episodes in my life.

The first incident involved my precocious reading skills and my unbelieveably liberal upbringing. I read "Inside Linda Lovelace, (the "autobiography" of the star of porn classic "Deep Throat") aged about 12. I picked the book up in our house (I think my father and mother had both already read it). I wasn't too worried about my parents knowing about me reading it, either. So far so good.

However, my infamous uncle came round and discovered that I was reading it - my mother ratted me out. He saw the opportunity... He made sure I was quizzed on it by his then girlfriend (it may have been that my uncle had lent it to my parents in the first place).

Made me blush something rotten having to explain the plot of "Deep Throat" to an attractive 22yo woman.

Scarred for life.

Second episode to come...

Enjoy...

Happy Birthday to me...

2005-08-21T09:37:00.000Z

Well, this blog has made it to one year old...

To misquote Shakespeare's Marc Antony, "I come not to bury this blog but to praise it". It has been very good for me to vent my guilt and insecurities. Whilst catharthis is perhaps an overused word when bloggers justify their reasons for pumping their thoughts into cyberspace, I guess it is accurate...

So I plan to continue. There are some things I'd like to change - perhaps a little less writing about sex with my wife (sometimes even I find it too personal) and a little more about my earlier escapades (don't worry there are lots of stories). The title bothers me - the nymphomania bit. It is a pejorative word and I don't like that - so any synonyms (that are not horrendously politically correct) would be appreciated...

Enjoy...

Cathy redux...

2005-08-19T07:24:00.000Z

Well, she cancelled, so my willpower was not tested.

Thanks for your expressions of concern - I was not about to throw everything away, as I don't think sex was on her mind. I can display high levels of self-control.

I guess that she didn't want to revisit her old life in the same way I didn't - even if we have some bonds of friendship.

However, it could be that she is just mad as a box of frogs (which was one of her endearing qualities) and can never get her life together to be in the right place at the right time (read Mistress Matisse passim for the examples of many other sex workers being disorganised). Perhaps this contact with my past will come back to the surface at another time - but not today.

In the meantime (and I think this will be more for my male readership - though bi-curious ladies feel free), why not while away the weekend with Daisy Duke shaking her booty for you. Yes, you can make Jessica Simpson dance in a skimpy bikini at your command and satisfy that inner Dom.

For those older readers who want to relive the original (and glorious) Daisy Duke as played by Catherine Bach - you may just prefer to go here for an extensive gallery of shots of hotpants.

Enjoy...

Old flame...

2005-08-18T16:06:00.000Z

Help...

Cathy, my favorite (and retired) escort, has called me out of the blue and wants to meet tomorrow. For lunch. Platonic. She wants help - I was a good friend. I am far too nice and trusting to turn her down.

It's not that she'll ask me for money that worries me - I can afford it and I only made the money by understandng its value.

No. It's that I know that I'll start to feel those old feelings when I see her - and I think she knows it too.

I am not the type to be forward, so I know won't suggest anything. But if she says, "How about we go to a hotel and I fuck your brains out," I think I'm lost...

Holiday Romance....

2005-08-17T10:31:00.000Z

I stroke her silken hair.

I kiss her naked body.

I caress her glorious curves.

She shyly lets me part her legs and seek out her most intimate folds. She's wet - I dip a finger inside: the sensation making me diamond hard. I circle her clitoris with my finger whilst my tongue plays with hers. My digit is my pen, writing her a love letter on the lips of her pussy - dipping into the inkwell of her desire to replenish its inspiration. Her neck is soft as I nuzzle into it. Her body trembles, as the waves of pleasure roll over her.

"Taste your love," I whisper, as my fingers find her mouth - and she suckles happily.

My libido can resist no more and I slip between her legs. Looking into her eyes, I let the head of my cock rest against her moist labia before sliding gently deep inside. The heat is almost too much to bear. I am still. Savouring the moment. Before begining to move; slowly at first. We rock together, kissing and caressing, the pace accellerating.

I turn onto my back and ask her to suck me. She willingly obeys, licking and sucking with her mouth, pumping and rolling with her hands.

She straddles me - riding my hardness. Her hands seek out her own breasts and as my hands join hers, they move to her clitoris. I tease her nipples, circling them with my fingers, occassionaly tweaking them softly. Her head is thrown back - her white neck pulses. Her stomach clenches as the next orgasm overtakes her. She turns away from me and rocks on my manhood. My hands seek out her perienum and anus. My lubed thumb presses the taut ring of muscle and I feel it relax and soften. She pushes back against the pressure and my thumb impales her - she moans with pleasure. I can feel the ridges of my cock sliding in and out of her pussy.

I turn her over onto her knees and hold her wrists - partly to restrain her, partly to allow me to push harder into her pussy. I withdraw. She knows what will happen next - and pushes her hips back. My cock slides into her velvety anus. I pause, letting her get used to the new sensations. Her hands work her clitoris as my speed increases...

"What do you want me to do with my hands?" she begs, imploring my guidance.

"Put your fingers inside your pussy," I decide.

The tightness and my wife's moans of pleasure drive me over the edge. We come together - hard - and collapse into a long embrace.

Not romantic for some (ewww - bottom sex... TMI) but I enjoyed it - I hope you did too....

So much shit to do...

2005-08-16T09:33:00.000Z

I'm back, with some sexy stories to tell. But no time to tell them at the moment...

I got a week of my two-week break but now I'm back in the firing line at work.

Amuse yourselves with "Exciting links for a dull day".

God! How crap is that? I can't even be bothered to select one of the links for you. Fuck, I'm a lazy sod.

Enjoy...

Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck....

2005-08-03T19:00:00.000Z

Back in the office, jammed by work, pissed off to be at my desk, fixing another major crisis that is largely created by others and dumped on me to sort out.

Wife and children in deepest Chianti-shire soaking up the Tuscan sun and culture. Fuck!

Enjoy...

What did you do at work today, Daddy?

2005-07-28T12:19:00.000Z

AKA Cockblogging Thursday

I suppose every job has its downside...

Mine is well paid but it has been pretty shit for the last year. It's getting worse and looks likely to mess up my valuable holiday time with wife and kids. Mrs. S is likely to have a major strop when I jet off mid-vacation for work, leaving her with only a nanny, maid and cook for support... Cue major emotional blackmail. If she thinks I'd rather spend 14 hours travelling to go to a vital business meeting (and then 14 hours back) than lying by the pool with her in a bikini, watching the kids having fun, she is mad (but that's what she'll say...).

Still, could be worse - at least I don't have to inspect a cetacean's wedding tackle on a regular basis. Though, I suppose there are some people out there for whom holding an odontocetid's penis would be a pleasant task.

As an aside - I know that lots of ladies say that size isn't important but that just makes me feel a little inadequate.

I'm off on business and hols for a few weeks and I don't know how much time I'll have for blogging. Feel free to browse the archives while I'm gone.

As always, enjoy...

Blub your heart out...

2005-07-27T07:04:00.000Z

Forgive me coming over all metrosexual for a second but I have to 'fess up to something...

I cry at movies and plays.

Almost anything sets me off.

But I have to say when I was watching the "Railway Children" with my kids last night and, the moment Jenny Agutter says "Daddy! My Daddy!", as her falsly imprisoned father returns, I cried like a baby. I'm choking up now just thinking about it. I'd challenge any father, particularly one with a daughter, not to wipe a tear from his eye at that moment. It's partly the circumstances, partly the delivery, and partly the writing. Most writers would have plumped for "Daddy, daddy!". It's that little "my" that changes the cadence and delivers a killer punch - the lost years returning to her.

As an aside, I also have to admit that I'm "wierded out" by the fact that it is Jenny Agutter delivering that line - she, who was one of my first adolescent fantasies when she goes skinny dipping in "Walkabout". And don't even get me started on that shower scene in "American Werewolf in London"... I get hard-on's in movies too - perhaps I'm not so metrosexual after all.

So, dear readers, a question for you...

What makes you cry at the movies or am I just a big girl's blouse?

Enjoy...

Betty doesn't take shit from anyone...

2005-07-26T08:12:00.000Z

Hey Bomber! Dat ho will put a cap in yo ass...

(There goes the knighthood...)

Enjoy...

Shoulder to cry on...

2005-07-20T18:05:00.000Z

Celeb watching is so not my thing...

But... If Sienna wants a shoulder to cry on, I'm here for her - that's all I'm saying...

I mean, what a prat that Jude Law is... However, if you wanted proof that men pretty much want to play "hide the salami" with any female with a pulse, then Jude just provided it.

As an aside, it sort of makes you wonder about whether he wanted to get caught because I think you'd have to assume that, if you're famous, there is a high probability that someone will sell you out to the papers. Reminds me of something my uncle, a renouned bachelor, once told me, when, as a young man, I said you shouldn't bother trying to chat up a beautiful girl because she would already have a boyfriend.

"Salvatori," he said. "You could not be more wrong. Firstly, most men are too scared to approach them - don't be one of them. Secondly, no matter how beautiful the woman, there is some man who is tired of taking her shit." (Political correctness was not his strong point...) However, his point was apposite (if somewhat controversially made) - men split from beautiful women all the time. I made capital out of that at university many a time.

Enjoy...

Ladder Theory...

2005-07-15T16:32:00.000Z

Sally: We are just going to be friends, OK?
Harry: Great, friends. It's the best thing... You realize, of course, that we can never be friends.
Sally: Why not?
Harry: What I'm saying is - and this is not a come-on in any way, shape, or form - is that men and women can't be friends, because the sex part always gets in the way.
Sally: That's not true. I have a number of men friends and there is no sex involved.
Harry: No, you don't.
Sally: Yes, I do.
Harry: No, you don't.
Sally: Yes, I do.
Harry: You only think you do.
Sally: You're saying I'm having sex with these men without my knowledge?
Harry: No, what I'm saying is they all want to have sex with you.
Sally: They do not.
Harry: Do too.
Sally: They do not.
Harry: Do too.
Sally: How do you know?
Harry: Because no man can be friends with a woman that he finds attractive. He always wants to have sex with her.
Sally: So you're saying that a man can be friends with a woman he finds unattractive.
Harry: No, you pretty much want to nail them, too.
Sally: What if they don't want to have sex with you?
Harry: Doesn't matter, because the sex thing is already out there, so the friendship is ultimately doomed, and that is the end of the story.
"When Harry Met Sally", Nora Ephron

Whilst I really don't want to put any traffic his way and perpetuate some of the misogynistic crap he spouts, I had a look at this site: Intellectual Whores. However disgusting some of the author's (Dallas Lynn) message is, as with any poisonous propaganda (and this guy has probably studied Goebbels, IMHO), there is a strong underlying thread of truth, and I'd like to examine that as a theory.

His basic premise, from which he backs out all sorts of hateful shit (this guy has some issues), is that men and women are fundamentally different in the way that they approach relationships (well nothing insightful there, you might rightly say). However, I do like his basic theory:

All men and women rank their acquaintances on a ladder of attraction;
Men rank them on a single ladder;
Women have two ladders - one for men that they want to have sex with and one that they don't ever want to have sex with.

Now that obviously means that men always want to have sex with all their female acquaintances. That may seem pretty extreme for most women to grasp (and a few men for that matter) but in my experience, it's pretty true. There are some exceptions to a man wanting to shag everything in a skirt but they are somewhat proscribed. The reasons Dallas gives why a man would not try and put his hand up her skirt are if the man:

Is gay;
Is already seeing someone far more attractive than the woman; or
Finds the woman so unattractive that he would only sleep with her, were he drunk (which, if you think about it isn't really an exception at all).

To that I'd add, if the lady is such a mentalist that doing so would end up having you pursued by a bunny-boiling haridan till the end of your days (Dallas isn't the only one with "issues"...).

Women are clearly different. Yes, she won't find you attractive if she's a lesbian. Yes, she won't sleep with you if you're way less attractive than her current beau. But - and this is crucial to his argument (and I agree) - she has a group of male friends that she does not think of in sexual terms - what the proponent of this theory calls "intellectual whores" or "cuddle bitches" (both hateful terms that show the type of problem he has). These are men who she likes and is quite happy to spend time with but never wants to sleep with.

I have been in this situation - had female friends whom I was desparate to fuck but who would only let me take them out and entertain them before they went home and rang an abusive, illiterate boyfriend to come round and screw them (in both senses of the word).

How many times have I heard the following:

"You're like a brother to me"
"I feel like I can talk to you about anything"
"You're so nice"

All of those are the kiss of death. What I know now, is that, if I ever heard those words, I'd never get to "make the beast with two backs" with the lady in question. It was the story of my school days - as soon as I tried to take it further with girls with whom I'd been spending time, I'd be cut dead. This, unsurprisingly, confused and frustrated me (now we see whence my issues come...). It also might explain why men are so poor at reading women's signals - the "I just want to be friends" one doesn't exist in our lexicon.

However, once I was on the Varsity team and "mad, bad and dangerous to know", I had to beat off the ladies with a shitty stick (# pauses to muse on what sort of wierdos will now find this site after that last phrase #).

Thus my experience fits almost perfectly with the Ladder Theory. But it doesn't make it right to say things like: "Women seem to especially like it if you are more devoted to your bad music, biker gang, forearm tattoo or marijuana. " That's just wrong (coming from a man that used to enjoy sticking his willy up an escort's bottom)...

Enjoy...

Puzzle....

2005-07-12T07:42:00.000Z

OK - it's just a thinly disguised attempt to put up another picture of the rather lovely Ana Hickmann in lingerie. I have put a larger, easier version here if you are struggling to do this in the confines of my page.

Thanks to Boobs & Legs for the link. She has put up a fiendishly difficult puzzle in which your perseverance is rewarded with a rather intimate shot of her. Very time consuming but lovely.

Enjoy...

Propaganda...

2005-07-11T16:05:00.000Z

Forgive me but one last post before we get back to sex...

The media has really been pissing me off here. Every news bulletin is interviewing some commuter asking "Are you scared to use public transport?". If the person has the temerity to answer "no", then they follow up with "Really? Are you sure?". They have gone out of their way to show streets that are empty and busses and trains that are less than full. And yet when I look out of my office window, I see as many people in London as I always do. My train this morning had its normal, overcrowded, standing-room-only (well not in first class where I sit...) environment. All my staff are in work. That is the news story.

What do the terrorists want? To spread fear...

What have ordinary Londoners done (often, admittedly, because they have no choice) is not give into that fear - to stop the terrorists from winning. They have got on with their lives.

And what do our loyal media try to do? Deepen that fear, perpetuate the threat, show the terror...

A simple question: whose side are they on?

Thank you...

2005-07-08T08:09:00.000Z

Britain Gives The Terrorists a Message...

Thank you for all the emails and expressions of concern. I am very touched.

Londoners will not be bowed or intimidated by this - not an issue - but your support to all of us who live and work in London is welcome.

It's for all those who have lost someone, for those who are critically ill in hospital beds, as we sit here in good health - all those families blighted.

Our thoughts are with you......

As evidence, London is almost back to normal, people at work, cars on the street - the best answer to the terrorists. Fuck 'em.

To quote Churchill again:

"I see the damage done by the enemy ...but I also see the spirit of an unconquerable people."

I am still very angry about the attack on Londoners. However, I want to make clear that my anger is aimed at the terrorists, not the Muslim community. The true Islamic faith would find the actions of the bombers abhorent.

Two posts yesterday had particular resonance for me. The first was Monmouth's on Bus Number 30:

"The number 30 from Hackney Wick, perhaps by coincidence, already represents everything the Islamo-fascists hate. It wends its big red way from one of the most diverse neighbourhoods in East London. ...in London the first thing you'll notice, particularly in the East End, is the enormous variety of languages, dress, ethnicity. ...no. 30 had representatives of each one of the three great monotheisms peacefully riding along together, rubbing shoulders... The prayers at their funerals will be in many tongues, in churches, synagogues and mosques."

We have to remember that what these dickless cowards want is to drive divisions between communities (as did the Catholic and Protestant hardliners in Northern Ireland). The best response, as Monmouth hints at, is to draw the communities together and for the communities to cut off the life blood of terrorism - they thrive on two things: hate and cash.

Which brings me to the second - a sadder tale from Bridget Who of being approached by a Neanderthal tosser, where he suggests to her that we attack Britain's Muslim community - one small, sad success for the bombers.

How we act now will determine how pleased the shits will be. Let's leave them disappointed.

Finally, a confession. I have to admit to being rather selfishly relieved - I regularly go through one of the stations attacked (though earlier than the terrorists struck). I have been expecting an attack since the beginning of the year - with the election, the UK presidency of the EU and the G8, this was when they would strike. I feel guilty that one of the thoughts going through my mind yesterday was "Ha! Missed me."

Just let me at them...

2005-07-07T11:24:00.000Z

Well, inevitably, the bastards have struck...

How little they understand the English:

Hitler tried to bomb the British into submission and ended up committing suicide in a bunker. There is a lesson there for Al-Qaeda. Wankers.
The IRA tried for decades to break the English spirit by bombing us. It merely delayed the inevitable settlement - yes, delayed it - the British government wanted a solution but couldn't negotiate with the tossers.

It is times such as this that the British unite to defeat the aims of their foes.

Churchill summed up the views of his people:

"...we shall not flag or fail.

We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender..."

My thoughts go out to anyone who has been injured or killed and the relatives that have to cope with loss.

That the jihadists timed an attack when the G8 are (hopefully) trying to "make poverty history" and (again hopefully) put in place environmental reforms to protect the planet, shows what a bunch of arseholes they really are. Give me a few hours with a shotgun, a knife and some electricity with some of these fuckwits...

May the terrorists be afflicted with suppurating sores on their genitals and die in agony, alone and unloved. Or alternatively, may the SAS hunt them down (it's sort of the same thing).

Independence...

2005-07-04T11:51:00.000Z

to all my American readers.

Trust me - we celebrate the fact that you are nothing to do with us as much as you do!

Enjoy...

BTW, thanks to a lovely (and private) lady who showed me where the Spell with Flickr program is... You know who you are, even if I can't tell everyone else...

Get with the programme...

2005-07-01T12:00:00.000Z

MIT are doing an online survey of bloggers. Some of the questions are a bit dumb ("why do you blog" does not have a "because I want to whitter on about my sex life" option...) but I think it is essentially a good idea.

Give them some of your time by clicking on the link below:

Enjoy...

Hell hath no fury II

2005-06-28T08:46:00.000Z

Whilst the last story seems to be true (wide coverage in the dailies and an eBay item suggest some basis in reality), I rather hope this one isn't...

Jake lay dying while his wife held a candlelight vigil by his side. She held his fragile hand, tears running down her face. Her praying roused him from his slumber. He looked up, and his pale lips began to move slightly.

"Becky, my darling," he whispered.

"Hush, my love," she said. "Rest, don't talk."

He was insistent. "Becky," he said in his tired voice. "I have something that I must confess."

"There isn't anything to confess," replied the weeping Becky, "Everything's all right, go to sleep."

"No, no, I must die in peace, Becky. I . . . I slept with your sister, your best friend, her best friend, and your mother!"

"Shhh, Darling," whispered Becky, "I know, I know. Let the poison work."

Enjoy...

Hell hath no fury...

2005-06-24T10:39:00.000Z

This eBay item caught my eye - a £25,000 motor car (a rather spiffing Lotus Esprit) for 50p.

There is, inevitably, a hilarious backstory that has a particular resonance for me. I'm sure my wife would extract her revenge on me by trashing my cars (before progressing to my soft and squidgy bits).

The preening wideboy standing by the car is a "shock jock" at a radio station called "Kerrang".
The Lotus is (was) his pride and joy.
He was interviewing one Jodie Marsh*
Flirting outrageously on air, he declares that he'd leave his wife and children for her.

Only problem is that his wife is listening at home...

And he registered the car in her name...

Oh dear...

* Jodie (for those of you who don't live in the UK or are lucky enough to have not had her thrust down your throat by tabloid editors wishing to show quasi-pornographic photo's) is an ex-lapdancer, Z-list celebrity (for no obvious reason other than a propensity to display way too much flesh in public) and MAW (model/actress/whatever).

Enjoy...

I'm not sure he meant "brownie points" in that way...

2005-06-23T14:11:00.000Z

I was struck by a post in Annie's Blog (thanks to the ubiquitous Erosblog for pointing it out) that suggested men in a committed relationship are muppets if they don't do some straightforward stuff to win over their wives. It is a simple message but one that I can only echo.

Compliments, presents, quality time all serve to put the lady in question in the mood. And they require (I'm ashamed to admit) frighteningly little time and thought.

Take a recent example - I've been travelling on business - five countries in four days (hence the lack of posts). So, at the final airport, I grab some presents for the kids and a bit of costume jewellery for the wife - total cost was less than £100; time spent 30 minutes that would otherwise be spent in the first class lounge. As a result, I came home as a conquering hero rather than an inconsiderate, stay-away bastard - got myself shagged within an inch of my life (including some very naughty stuff - "brownie" points indeed).

I chilled out on a scorching Fathers' day by lounging in the pool but got the kids to splash about with me whilst the wife spread out on a sun-lounger to top up her tan. Lot's of fun for me and for the kids. I'm not a sun worshipper so no (peeling) skin off my nose. However, as reward for giving her what she wanted, I get to come in her mouth (at her suggestion).

The next day, coming home late from the office and passing a florist, I grab a bouquet of flowers. The guy is closing and gives me a huge bunch for not very much. Time in the florists - three minutes. A few kisses, hugs and compliments completes the process (for the sake of clarity - I'm kissing my wife, not the florist). The result? My wife performs sexual practices that would make a professional blush.

Now, this correlation is not fool-proof (and trust me, us men are fools). Get in the dog-house and you'll be digging for a long time before you're out of the gulag and into her affections once more. It's also overly simplistic - life gets in the way of everything (work, children, chores all damp the libido). Furthermore, it suggests that women are uncomplicated can be "bought" by such easy measures. They are not - but for God's sake, it can't hurt to make them feel desired, valued, loved.

It does amaze me how blokes will spend all day at work and then half the weekend on the golf course and then wonder why all privileges have been withdrawn... For all my faults - and there are to many to even begin to list - I've never done that.

Enjoy...

I've gone off sex...

2005-06-15T10:59:00.000Z

I've gone off sex.

I have been off it for about three minutes now and I'm at my wit's (or is that wits'?) end.

This has been happening on a regular basis and sometimes the three minutes can run consecutively. They may amount to even as much as an entire hour.

I have tried bungee jumping, water skiing, sleeping, reading purient posts in the blogshere (mainly about anal sex), writing purient posts on this blog (mainly about anal sex), going on holiday, avoiding tsunamis (I never much liked sushi bars anyway), watching blue movies, making blue movies, driving fast cars very fast, falling in love, parachuting, farting Tubular Bells, and even on occasion chatting to my colleagues.

None of it does it for me!

Am I obsessed and in need of counselling?

I draw the line at drugs, meeting Jeffrey Archer, snuff movies and paedophilia so, no nonsense suggestions there please. So, boys and girls, what to do when one is BORED??????????????

Teamwork...

2005-06-10T01:06:00.000Z

"We're a team - and that means you do exactly what I say..."
Michael Caine, as Charlie Croker in The Italian Job.

Work continues to be painful in the vein of "opinions are like arseholes: everybody has got one..." I just people would trust my experience on stuff rather than questioning it for several weeks then concluding that we should do what I say but only:

to shut me up;
because I've always got it right in the past; and
because it will be my fault if it goes wrong (thanks)...

In the meantime, they are conspiring to create more fuck-ups than Wayne Rooney in a brothel.

So, with no time for originality, you will have to settle for somethinfg regurgitated. It is a joke that haunts me a little, as I have slept with enough women (to be clear, I paid for the majority of them) that I am not sure that I'd recognise them all:

A man standing in line at a check out counter of a grocery store was very surprised when a very attractive woman behind him said, "Hello!"

Her face was beaming. He gave her that "who are you look," and couldn't remember ever having seen her before.

Then, noticing his look, she figured she had made a mistake and apologized. "Look," she said, "I'm really sorry but when I first saw you, I thought you were the father of one of my children," and walked out of the store.

The guy was dumbfounded and thought to himself, "What the hell is the world coming to? Here is an attractive woman who can't keep track of who fathers her children! "
Then he got a little panicky. "I don't remember her," he thought but, MAYBE.... during one of the wild parties he had been to when he was in college, perhaps he did father her child!
He ran from the store and caught her in the parking lot and asked, "Are you the girl I met at a party in college and then we got really drunk and had wild crazy sex on the pool table in front of everyone?"

"No", she said with a horrified look on her face. "I'm your son's second grade teacher!"

Perhaps, I'll tell you about a long-lost (and unrecognised) college fuck-buddy who had moved in next door and my wife had befriended...

Enjoy...

Is she just using me?

2005-06-06T08:04:00.000Z

Women!

They just want one thing from us men. Sex.

All of last week, I was in bed early, awaiting my wife who was downstairs messing around in the kitchen (what do they do in there all day long?). I'd slipped into bed naked save for a dab of cologne.

When she finally came to bed, I would snuggle seductively next to her, only to have her harrumph, turn over and go to sleep. Doesn't she see the effort I make? The sexy new boxer shorts? The new chinos that show off my pert (even if I do say so myself) buttocks to perfection? Did she look at my hairy legs in those shorts as I bent over, washing the car? No. Not a word. Not a single compliment!

Then, on Saturday night, I'm in bed early having had the kids run me ragged. I'm tired, I want to go to sleep. And there's my wife, late to bed, climbing in next to me, dressed in nothing but a push-up, half-cup bra and thong, rubbing herself up against me expecting sex! I mean; the cheek of it.

And not just lights-out, missionary-position, lie-back-and-think-of-England sex. She wants swinging-from-the-chandalier, bend-me-over, roger-me-stupid, fuck-me-up-the-arse-and-call-me-a-whore type sex. Well, I complied but reluctantly (only for the love I have for this woman, you understand).

Now I feel dirty, used. What should I do?

Pander to my wife's unnatural desires? Or go to sleep? ;-)

Enjoy....

Pigs on the rampage...

2005-06-03T07:57:00.000Z

I have been neglecting this blog. Not out of a willful lack of interest but a chronic shortage of time. I have been plunged into a morass of shit by my colleagues, who, I have decided, would struggle to arrange a panic on a doomed submarine...

So, to keep you busy, I will pass on something that landed in my inbox....

Letter written by a heartbroken man to his estranged partner:

Dear Audrey:
I know the counsellor said we shouldn't contact each other during our "cooling off" period, but I couldn't wait anymore. The day you left, I swore I'd never talk to you again. But that was just the wounded little boy in me talking.Still, I never wanted to be the first one to make contact. In my fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess my pride needed that. But now I see that my pride's cost me a lot of things. I'm tired of pretending that I don't miss you. I don't care about looking bad anymore. I don't care who makes the first move as long as one of us does.

Maybe it's time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt. And this is what my heart says... "There's no one like you, Audrey." I look for you in the eyes and breasts of every woman I see, but they're not you. They're not even close.

Two weeks ago, I met this girl at Flamingos and brought her home with me. I don't say this to hurt you, but just to illustrate the depth of my desperation. She was young, maybe 19, with one of those perfect bodies that only youth and maybe a childhood spent ice-skating can give you. I mean, just a perfect body. Jugs you wouldn't believe and an arse like a tortoise shell. Every man's dream, right? But as I sat on the couch being blown by this stunner, I thought,
"Hey, look at the stuff we've made important in our lives. It's all so superficial".

What does a perfect body mean anyway? Does it make her better in bed? Well, in this case, yes. But you see what I'm getting at. Does it make her a better person? Does she have a better heart than my moderately attractive Audrey does? I doubt it. And I'd never really thought of that before. I don’t know, maybe I'm just growing up a little. Later, after I'd tossed her about a half a pint of throat yoghurt, I found myself thinking, "Why do I feel so drained and empty?" It wasn't just her flawless technique or her slutty, shameless thirst, but something else. Some niggling feeling of loss. Why did it feel so incomplete? And then it hit me. It didn't feel the same because you weren't there, Audrey, to watch. Do you know what I mean?Nothing feels the same without you. Jesus, Audrey, I'm just going crazy without you. And everything I do just reminds me of you. Do you remember Carol, that single mum we met at Pontins last year? Well, she dropped by last week with a pan of lasagne. She said she figured I wasn't eating right without a woman around. I didn't know what she meant till later, but that's not the real story. Anyway, we had a few glasses of wine and the next thing you know we're banging away in our old bedroom. And this tart's a total monster in the sack. She's giving me everything, you know like a real woman does when she's not hung up about her weight or her career and whether the kids can hear us.

And all of a sudden she spots that tilting mirror on your grandmother's old vanity unit. So she puts it on the floor and we straddle it, right, so we can watch ourselves. And it's totally hot, but it makes me sad too, 'cause I can't help thinking, "Why didn't Audrey ever put the mirror on the floor? We've had this old vanity unit for what, 14 years, and we never used it as a sex aid."

Saturday, your sister drops by with my copy of the restraining order. I mean, Vicky's just a kid and all, but she's got a pretty good head on her shoulders and she's been a real friend to me during this painful time. She's given me lots of good counsel about you and about women in general. She's pulling for us to get back together, Audrey, she really is. So we're drinking in a hot bath and talking about happier times. Here's this teenage girl with the same DNA as you and all I can do is think of how much she looked like you when you were 18. And that just about makes me cry. And then it turns out Vicky's really into the whole anal thing and that gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and how that probably fuelled some of the bitterness between us. But do you see how that, even then, when I'm thrusting inside your baby sister's cinnamon ring, all I can do is think of you?It's true, Audrey. In your heart you know it. Don't you think we couldstart all over again? Just wipe out all the grievances and start fresh? I think we can.

If you feel the same way please, please let me know.

If not, perhaps you'd contact me anyway and let me know where the Sky remote control is?

John

Enjoy...

Don't come near me with that thing...

2005-05-24T07:41:00.000Z

I was struck by Virgin Slut's recent musings on anal sex.

The first thought that crossed my mind was that (he says, pulling on his cardigan and slippers) in my day, a virgin was someone who wouldn't let you get past "first base". Today that seems to include girls who let you plow the "Hersey Highway" whilst they engage in a spot of frigging... Mmm, nice... You go, girl...

Now, I'm not being judgemental here - VS is still a virgin and it would appear both she and her partners are having fun (and I'm all for that...). I think it's a great development. I genuinely hope every girl follows suit. Its just as Cicero might have said (but without his condemnation):

"O tempora! O mores!"

Secondly, it is striking how anal sex, as Belle de Jour put it, has become the new oral sex. Anal sex has for some time been very far from being the last remaining taboo, of course (the last time I checked, cannibalism and necrophilia were still struggling for acceptance...).

Everybody is at it. And enjoying it. It seems that what was once the preserve of a few pornographers in under-the-counter publications is now mainstream. It even makes it into a blockbuster movie, with Bridget Jones not only taking it up the "Gary" (Gary Glitter = shi... well, you get the picture) from Hugh Grant but also liking it enough to go back and do it again... Right there in your living room... With your parents watching...

Indeed, there are some signs that the status of anal sex as any kind of taboo is under attack. Even in the US (home of the most ridiculous attempts to legislate against what consenting adult choose to do behind closed doors), State laws against sodomy were struck down by the Supreme Court in 2003. Hooray for that.

Finally, I was worried by "Two Way Street..." in that she insisted on reciprocal anal play with her partner: "...any guy who is not willing to have his own arse violated is certainly not going to violate mine". Gulp...

My first experiences with anal sex were with escorts who (other than a spot of rather pleasant rimming), are happy to leave my chocolate starfish well alone, thank you. However, what to do if my wife one day pulls out a 10" strap-on and asks me to bend over? I am totally "banged to rights" - I do it to her, (well, sadly not with 10" in my case), so by any notion of human justice, she can do it to me.

Or not.

Sorry, but I'm not going there...

Ever...

It's not natural... ;-)

Publish and be damned II

2005-05-23T18:06:00.000Z

With apposite timing, this article dropped into my mailbox at work today. Originally written by the erudite Tim Price, who writes extremely well on investment themes, particularly hedge funds, it sums up some of my thoughts from yesterday... If he objects to me repeating it here, I will happily remove it... I have not credited his firm in case that it causes some bizarre regulatory issue (though it recommends no investment).

______________________________________________

In a show of solidarity with the workshy Trots who have withheld their labour at the BBC, today's commentary is also a repeat. It was originally published on August 10, 2004.

They live in a high-octane world. What they do is risky. They're grotesquely overpaid, they have few scruples, and their influence on the markets is out of all proportion to their true size. They're fast, extremely short-termist and utterly unregulated.

Yes, they're journalists writing about hedge funds.

Speculative features on hedge funds continue to surge in popularity. Once the preserve of rich sophisticates, hedge fund articles have mushroomed from a niche position in speculative publications into blanket coverage across ordinary newspapers. Some commentators believe that with such explosive growth in the sector, problems are inevitable.

"These guys are opportunistic," says hedge fund manager Peter Madeupname. "They are constantly on the search for new commissions, and they have very little discipline."

Hedge fund journalists can and do employ a wide range of cliches. By and large, they engage in high speed, computer-aided jeremiads to take advantage of the gullibility of buyers. These strategies have certainly worked in the past: since 2000, column inches devoted to hedge funds have increased by 153% per annum versus minus 78% for pieces on conventional assets. Is the flood of journalists into this space tantamount to a gold rush? Certainly, hedge fund journalists tend to move in herds and crowd out more traditional commentary.

Recent wild swings in investor pessimism have been attributed in part to the speculative features of hedge fund journalists. Hedge fund journalists have a market impact way beyond their true numbers, mainly because they write so much - some commentators believe they account for half the financial commentary in tabloid publications - and also because they often employ hyperbole, a strategy which magnifies the impact of their articles. "Apocalyptic death march of blood-letting horror", as William Facile for the New York Times recently wrote, on the performance of the HFR Market Neutral Index, which reported a monthly loss of 0.03%.

Some journalists have suggested that hedge fund managers boil babies in acid. Others, that hedge funds represent an unfair challenge to traditional fund managers, in that they offer the possibility, however slight, of a positive return.

Meanwhile, competition among hedge fund journalists is increasing as more and more pieces are created. There are particular concerns about the way hedge fund journalism is now packaged and sold to retail consumers. Some editors are buying senior pieces which are relatively stable but many are buying more junior pieces which are often haphazardly constructed and of dubious worth. There are now as many as 8,000 critical articles circulating in the marketplace, not all of them commissioned by Forbes, compared with just 15 ten years ago. That's making it ever more difficult for hedge fund journalists to find an edge, and forcing them to use ever riskier high speed strategies to get their features into print. In a rumour-driven market beset by supply, some editors are even returning commissioned pieces.

As new hedge fund journalists spring up to fill apparently insatiable retail demand and as competition among them increases, the risk of less reputable or just plain untalented hedge fund journalists entering the field rises. As things stand, hedge fund journalists are unregulated. Some commentators suggest that planned regulation of hedge fund journalists simply won't work. In Europe, where there appears to be a greater appetite for hedge fund journalism, there is still a lack of the necessary skills to analyse them properly. A lot of interest in hedge funds by journalists is deemed to be superficial. Many analysts have also voiced concern at the massively derivative nature of hedge fund journalism.

The biggest users of questionable hedge fund journalism are BusinessWeek, Forbes, the New York Times, the New York Post and Bunty Magazine. These entities now have about 80% of their overall column inches in shoddy hedge fund journalism and this is expected to rise to 100% in coming years."

Tim Price

Enjoy...

Publish and be damned...

2005-05-22T08:49:00.000Z

I have had cause to be exposed to journalists recently. A deal that I have been working on has gotten some column inches. I have been required to brief the slavering hordes of Fleet Street to further the aims of my client.

It frightens me when they write on a topic that I understand. Journalists don't even remotely understand the issues. They don't portray both sides of the story. They manuipulate the facts to sensationalise the piece. They make no pretence at even bothering to get to the truth behind the headlines (or, given that "truth" is often a relative viewpoint, even look at the story from more than one angle). They are consumed by jealousy of anyone richer, more famous or more successful than themselves (basically anyone...). They filter the facts through a whole set of personal and political biases. Well, that explains the Guardian, then...

I have, naturally, used the slipshod, dissolute nature of financial journalists to my advantage...

Now, I do not find any of this, in itself, worrying at all - I have achieved what I wanted and distorted the truth to help ensure that my client can succeed. No-one (apart from the few financiers on the other side - who can afford it) will be harmed.

But think of the wider implications. I read the papers avidly. I read them for the financial news, obviously, but most of that I discount because I know what is really going on... But it is the current affairs - this is where I get my world view... What if, as Thomas Jefferson said,

"Advertisements... contain the only truths to be relied on in a newspaper."?

Then again, he had little respect for my profession:
"Banking establishments are more dangerous than standing armies."

It is of deep concern to me that the rest of the newspaper could be as poorly researched as what they write on financial markets:

"How is the world ruled and how do wars start? Diplomats tell lies to journalists and then believe what they read."
Karl Kraus

How much of what we read is crap? How much is distilled down to a soundbite or headline that is designed to catch our attention but leaves truth and honesty far behind?

So I'll leave any budding journalists out there with this thought:

"The recipe for perpetual ignorance is: be satisfied with your opinions and content with your knowledge."
Elbert Hubbard.

Enjoy...

Why did you marry your wife?

2005-05-16T12:02:00.000Z

Love.

Next?

Actually, a recent comment, which I promised to answer, asked:

Hi, I have been browsing through your blog, and I haven't had a chance to read all of your past blog entries, so I am not sure if you already answered this question, but, when you descibe your wife I often wonder what originally attracted you to her? You seem very sexually free, and she very sexually controlled at times. What gives? Sorry, if you think this question is too personal!

Too personal? I've talked about sticking my willy in my wife's bottom - I think I can handle a bit of emotional analysis...

I sort of answered that here: Surviving a sexless marriage.

And no, this isn't going to be an RTFM post - as this blog has got longer, it has become more difficult to keep up. I noticed that I repeated one of my own jokes the other day - how wank is that?.

To save you looking it up, I married my wife for two reasons: firstly, I love her at a deep emotional level and secondly, because there was powerful physical attraction (both remain undiminished as far as I'm concerned, BTW). Nevertheless, your question is valid - there was for a long time a deep incompatibility between us sexually. My sexual needs (particularly in terms of kink) seemed to rise quickly and plateau. My wife's were apparently on a parabolic course, rising initially with mine but then fading away, gently at first but then dwindling to almost nothing. This happened after marriage. Hence my stark choice - to be faithful and sexless, unfaithful and fulfilled sexually or challenge the status quo to achieve fufillment in the marital bed. It took me a bit of time to realise that the first option was not for me - my fidelity was rock solid for years. The second option seemed nice initially but I could see in it the seeds of destruction for the ones I loved. So I settled on the third - but it is not always easy...

Marriage has it's downsides though - take my Mother-in-Law (please).

Ah, the last resort - you know I'm running short on material when a mother-in-law joke comes out...

A man, his wife, and mother-in-law went on vacation to the Holy Land.
While they were there the mother-in-law passed away. The undertaker told them, "You can have her shipped home for £5,000, or you can bury her here in the Holy Land for £150."
The man thought about it and told him he would just have her shipped home. The undertaker asked, "Why?" Why would you spend £5,000 to ship your mother-in-law home, when it would be wonderful to spend only £150?"
The man said, "A man died 2,000 years ago, he was buried here and three days later he rose from the dead. I just can't take that chance."

Enjoy...

Election 2005 II...

2005-05-10T08:53:00.001Z

Yes, I know you come here for the sex, dear reader, but I write for me. Don't worry, I'll be back to sex soon (not for you but because it obsesses me)...

Well, we have another Labour government. However, it has the weakest mandate of any majority parliament in modern history. Just 36% of the vote and 22% of the electorate put the government in power (the Conservatives polled 33%). Unfair? Perhaps, but I will not rail against the UK's “first past the post” electoral system - it has delivered remarkable stability in the country, whereas proportional representation would have lead to decades of paralysis and political fighting, IMHO. It brings to mind the words of Winston Churchill,

“Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all
the others...”

Though Winston also said,

"The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter."

So what have we got? Tony Blair, memorably once termed “the strangest Tory ever sold” by The Economist, is in with a vastly reduced majority - inflicting on him the “bloody nose” that media commentators had demanded the electorate inflict on him. “Hooray”, his critics may say. Blair's principle mistake in office has been to take to heart a single Marxist maxim (except, unsurprisingly, it was taken from Groucho not Karl...),

“The secret of success is sincerity. Once you can fake that, you've got it made.”

The British people have become sick of him as a result. Where does Blair's insincerity come from?

To understand the obsession for spin, tyrannical control of the party and a decided flexibility when it comes to political principle, it is necessary to understand the New Labour that Tony has created. When he took over the party, it was at the extreme left of British politics (though moving toward the centre). It still clung to “Clause 4” - the commitment to take the whole economy into public ownership (ah, at last, the other Marx brother...) - which had to go. He had to unify the party behind a combination of Seventies, old-world, "one nation" Tory policies (yes, Conservative policies), rephrased for the Nineties, and a tacit acceptance of the "hated" Thatcherite restructuring that had already re-envigorated the economy. To regain the centre ground (where the bulk of voters live), it was necessary to hijack the natural ground of the Tories. He was also pragmatic enough to realise that Thatcher's reforms had been essential and should not be undone - it was their presentation that needed to be changed to make them palatable to the electorate. It is not surprising that in reaching out unashamedly to the left, right and centre, he had some problems appearing sincere...

So, I don't like him, I don't like New Labour. The Labour Party is in power with a vastly reduced majority (albeit with a far from ringing mandate). So what's the problem? Well, Labour has been long on rhetoric and short on action for two terms - initiatives are launched and relaunched as though they are new policies but are subtle reworkings of the old - principally due to the need to keep this unholy alliance of disparate political views stable (to ensure his own re-election). Now that he will stand down, he has the chance to push through some real action - reform of the delivery of public services to ensure better productivity (particularly the NHS), democratic reform of the House of Lords, tackling the pensions crisis, dealing with disability welfare. These are issues that a Conservative government will never be able to address, as it needs the "caring" Labour Party to deal with these issues in a cold-hearted, brutal way.

However, we have crippled the Blair's ability to deliver on any of those thorny issues. We are in for more fudge and obfuscation. As Alexis de Toqueville once noted

"Democracy is like a raft. You never sink, but your feet are always wet."

So, to summarise this election in the words of a little known American politician, Dick Tuck, who after losing an election remarked:

"The people have spoken. The bastards."

Enjoy...

Election 2005....

2005-05-05T14:20:00.000Z

A topical post for today, as the British people - proud of their ancient tradition of democratic government - stay at home in a wave of apathy and watch Footballers' Wives on TV.

The Labour Party today announced that it is changing its emblem from a red rose to a condom because it more accurately reflects the government's political stance.

A spokesman said. "Condoms allow inflation, halt production, prevent the next generation developing, protect a bunch of pricks, and give you a sense of security while you're actually being screwed. We think that you're stupid enough not to notice that, for once, we are being honest."

Asked why they were ditching the rose emblem that had served New Labour so well, he replied, "The rose was appropriate. As everyone knows, it smells sweet and looks attractive but when you look beneath there's just a bunch of pricks. However, since we no longer look attractive, the condom is now a more accurate metaphor."

Lest you think that I hate the Labour Party (I do), I should also add that I find almost any politician intolerable...

As I've said before, my view is a little like the Groucho Marx comment that he "wouldn't want to belong to any club that would have him as a member" - I think any politician prepared to do what it takes to get elected is totally unsuitable for high office (Mr Blair is a prime example...).

If you want to know my politics, I am resolutely centerist (and therefore to the left of Blair) on most social issues but with a strong libertarian tendency (small government is good, given what I think of politicians). When it comes to economic policy, I am somewhat to the right of Genghis Khan.

So, Labour are wrecking the economy. The Conservatives are a bunch of bigots. The Liberals, the least libertarian, will have us in a control economy before Charles Kennedy sobers up. Not much of a choice... Even the smaller parties are shit - UKIP are little Englanders, the Greens are loony, BNP fascist...

Enjoy...

Honesty pays II...

2005-05-04T09:36:00.000Z

I was struck by a couple of recent posts by DTG ("Owning it" and Faking it) that dealt with honesty in a marriage and a sexual relationship. It echoed some of my thoughts in "Honesty pays?" but more directly those in "Staying faithful to my wife, unfaithful to my desires".

But, having recently relived one of my past experiences in escort-land for your prurient delectation, I was struck by the "honesty" one can achieve with a courtesan. Now, clearly, the whole thing is "dishonest", as the girl is only there because you are paying her. Nevertheless, you have no fear of honesty - there is no relationship to be blown apart if you want to, say, dominate her. She will not recoil in disgust as you ask to suck her toes. A spot of rimming will not result in you being forced to sleep on the sofa. If you don't like what shes doing, tell her and do something else.

Thankfully, there is no "honesty" from the girl in return - she will not tell you that you are doing it all wrong (even if you are humping the pillow rather than her).

I'm not recommending escorts but it is a pity that we cannot be as open and accomodating with partners as we can be with strangers...

It is a fact of life that we have to compromise with partners and that compromise will always leave one party (but probably both) feeling unfulfilled. See "Clouds on the horizon..." for another example...

And a note of caution:

"The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity."
Dorothy Parker

Enjoy...

Probationary test...

2005-05-02T09:27:00.000Z

Part I - Gross Moral Turpitude
Part II - The Interview
Part III - Dictation

Part IV - Probationary test

I worked the vibrator around her pussy as my fingers gently teased her tight brown hole. Cathy pushed back and moaned. I knew she liked this, she liked to have her arse played with while we fucked. She liked anal sex more than any other woman than I have known. I flicked my tongue over her anus, feeling her sphincter loosen to my ministrations. She was close to coming again.

“Now, Miss Minx, I want to see how you can take the pressures of the job.” I slipped my cock deep inside her pussy and my thumb pressed past the tight muscle into her rectum. She pushed back hard.

“God, yes. Fuck me…”

I grabbed hold of her bound wrists as leverage and began to pound away. This was going to be hard and fast. That was how she wanted it. That was how I wanted it. Her head was bucking, her hair flicking backwards and forwards – she came again: her anus suckling on my thumb deliciously; her pussy rippling around my tightly-sheathed cock.

I led her over to the bed and lay her down onto her back, trapping her hands behind her. I put her head over the edge of the bed and stood over her. I waved my dick over her face, slapping her cheeks with my penis. "Taste your juices..." I said and pressed my cock in her mouth. The angle of her head allowed me to slide my cock deep into her mouth and down her throat. She sucked hungrily. "I love fucking your face, Miss Minx. This is how you will spend much of your time with me... You want that, don't you?" She couldn't answer but I could feel her thrust her hips up as I rubbed her clit. I took that as assent.

I joined her on the bed and slid her towards me. I put her ankles on my shoulders and thrust deep inside her. We screwed hard again while I called her “my fuck-slut”. I bent her double and whispered in her ear that I was now going to fuck her arse.

“No, please, Mr. S! I’ve never done that before, not even with my boyfriend…” How she kept a straight face when she said that, I’ll never know…

“Miss Minx. Total obedience and flexibility, remember… You do want the job, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir...”

“So, you want me to fuck you in the arse, my little slut.” She loved it when we talked dirty...

“Yes, sir.”

“So tell me…”

“Please fuck my arse, sir…” she smiled sweetly...

With that I pressed my glans against her soft, puckered anus. It relaxed to let me in to the lubed and velvety interior.

“You’re a filthy little whore, aren’t you my dear?…”

“Yes, sir – fuck me…”

“You’re my filthy little whore, aren’t you?…”

“Always... Now fuck me hard, please, sir - I want you to come.”

I pistoned into her. Her eyes rolled back into her head and she issued a low, gutteral moan. I orgasmed hard, with my cock buried deep in her arse, my tongue in her mouth.

It was a great way to start the evening.

Enjoy…

Dictation...

2005-05-01T08:37:00.000Z

Part I - Gross Moral Turpitude
Part II - The Interview

Part III - Dictation

“Mr. S., I think that we need to de-stress you. Let me help.” Cathy walked seductively towards me, her hips swaying. She sucked her index finger coquettishly.

She slid between my thighs and replaced her finger with my cock. Fuck, that felt good... All that anticipation, all that temptation - rock hard in her mouth. Her head bobbed, her saliva dribbled... She gazed deep into my eyes. I could feel the pressure rising. “How does that feel, sir?”

I unknotted my tie and slid the silk around her wrists - pulling them tight together as she held my penis in her hand and mouth. Her grip tightened in anticipation.

“Very good, Miss Minx,” I replied. “But I think I need examine your credentials more closely. Sit on the sofa. Have you dressed appropriately? I need my staff well dressed at all times. Hitch up your skirt... I need to see. Higher...”

Cathy was wearing stockings and suspenders on her long, long legs. It was my turn to get between her thighs, which parted for me. I kissed her hungrily, our tongues jousting, nibbling her lips. My hands gripped her breasts - she pushed her chest out (she liked her breasts to be treated a little too roughly for my tastes). I slipped down to taste her - I pulled her black lace thong aside and my fingers found her wetness. I lapped and probed at her engorged lips until I felt the familiar contractions and she bucked so hard it was all I could do to keep two fingers buried deep inside her curled up onto her g-spot.

“Mmm,” she murmured quietly.

“I'm very disappointed in you, Miss Minx. I think you should realise that, whilst I expect - no, demand - that you get full job satisfaction, you have neglected my needs. You need to be punished.”

“Oh please, no...” She said, winking.

# Don't try this sort of stuff with an escort unless you know her very well... #

I undid her hands and stood her up by the sofa. I then tied her hands (note: allow her to hold one end, so that merely by letting go, she frees herself) behind her back. I bent her over the back of the sofa. Slap. She recoiled (I'd never played like this with her).

“I didn't hear a thank you...” I said.

“Thank you, sir - can I have another?” Hmm... Slap on the other cheek. “Mmm - thank you”

I reached out and grabbed a condom a vibe and some lube from her “bag of tricks”.

“This is not the only form of punishment for you tonight. I am going to fuck you hard, Miss Minx. I will also fuck your arse. Do you understand, Miss Minx?”

“Yes Mr. S. I deserve it. I am your whore to do what you want with.”

With that I slid the vibe into her pussy and began to work lube into her anus.

To be continued...

The interview...

2005-04-29T10:31:00.000Z

Part I - Gross Moral Turpitude

Part II - The interview

Cathy had found out that our text sex was occurring in a set of meetings. This got her into “teasing secretary” mode. "Oh you naughty boss..." She had given me an idea...

“See you tonight. Come dressed for an interview,” was my parting comment...

There was a knock at the door of my suite.

“Ah, come in, Miss Minx,” I said. Cathy had put on a charcoal suit and white blouse. The suit was a little too fitted to be totally appropriate for an office environment; the skirt a little too short; the heels a little too high; a little too much cleavage on display. Perfect, in other words...

I was tempted to fuck her then and there - press her up against the wall and taste her familiar juices; pull that skirt up and feel her pussy that fitted my dick so well; have her suck my dick and turn her so I could slide into her from behind... But I resisted.

“Mr. S? I'm here for the interview,” she replied - she had slipped into the role, not even acknowledging me.

She sat demurely where I indicated. But I noticed her skirt rode up just a little.

“Now Miss Minx, I am looking for a new PA. I want someone who can take care of my life, look after my needs. All of my needs...”

“I am used to looking after my employer’s every requirement,” Cathy responded.

“I am a very generous employer but I am extremely demanding.”

“I think you'll find that my previous employers were more than satisfied...” she smirked.

“Hmm. We'll see,” I said sternly. “I require extreme flexibility and unquestioning obedience from my PA. Is that something that you can live with?”

Cathy was a little unsure - what direction was this heading? She was game though... “I have tried many interesting and challenging positions in my life. I'm sure that I can deliver whatever you want...” She pushed her chest out provocatively and a little defiantly.

“Hmm... What skills do you think you can offer, Miss Minx?”

“Well I have passed my O-levels and A-levels” she said confidently

# This is escort-speak for oral and anal sex - Mmm... #

“What about dictation?” I said, unzipping my fly.

“I think you'll find my speeds will do the job.”

“So, if you think you can cope with the demands of the job, I think we can offer you the role.” I began stroking my cock.

“Mr. S! What are you doing?”

“I think you know, Miss Minx. I have had a stressful day. I need you to help me unwind. Come here and suck this cock.”

“I thought you'd never ask...”

To be continued...

Gross moral turpitude...

2005-04-28T07:58:00.000Z

This is for Jay (now get off my back, already)...
It is part of my past...

Part I - Gross Moral Turpitude

I was sitting in a business meeting in a plush midtown Manhattan office listening to one of my clients droning on to a potential investor. I'd heard the pitch seven times already. It didn't get any better with repetition. The deal sucked. In fact, it sucked donkey dick.

I nevertheless, strangely, had a raging hard-on. I wanted something that sucked. And I knew I was going to get it...

“Punting” (bonking escorts) in the US is very often a waste of time. A market characterised by a bunch of ice-cold, calculating, plastic-boobed, fake-tanned wannbe porn starlets and controlled by duplicitous, dishonest, overpriced agencies meant my US experiences of escorts were always poor. I never met an Alexa, who sounds totally difffent experience.

Also, prostitution, unlike in the UK, is illegal - I believe the crime is Gross Moral Turpitude (wonderful term - almost worth the hassle to be convicted of such a ridiculous crime...).

I had therefore already given up on misbehaving whilst in the US - going to jail for a lousy, expensive punt with a cold, clock-watching Barbie figure was not on my agenda.

So what was I up to?

Well, it wasn't my client getting me hard, to give you a large clue. He couldn't enthuse a cheerleader on speed.

First, off I was having great text sex with my favorite escort, Cathy, right there in the meeting.

# Blackberries are great for this. You look like you are answering a vital email (thus establishing your credentials as a “big swinging dick” - a mover and shaker who cannot be out of contact for the hour of the meeting) whilst you are, in fact, telling a hooker how good her mouth feels around your cock and how you are going to lick her pussy till she comes. #

Secondly, my client had arranged for dinner alone with his US colleagues which meant I finally had a free evening without the muppet. Hooray!

Finally, Cathy was not in London but on holiday in New York. I would therefore able to shag her senseless all night - something that made my balls throb with anticipation. And, to add to my pleasure, I could simultaneously stick two (well-lubed) fingers up at the ridiculous laws of the State of New York that attempt to get in the way of what two consenting adults chose to do behind closed doors...

To be continued...

Randomness...

2005-04-27T09:30:00.000Z

Amazing - this bloke has obviously been browsing my blog...

"We've all heard that a million monkeys banging on a million typewriters will eventually reproduce the entire works of Shakespeare. Now, thanks to the Internet, we know this is not true." - Professor Robert Wilensky

Well, before the pedants jump on me, he actually said it in 1996 but it could have been about my blog.

Enjoy...

What was that about?

2005-04-25T09:45:00.000Z

I mentioned in my comments that Mrs. S. and I had been going through a “dry patch”. Nothing sinister, just very busy schedules, some illness and other factors getting in the way.

So a couple of nights ago, there we were in bed. Kids asleep, not too late, no obvious distractions - perfect conditions for a bit of rumpy-pumpy...

I slid over to my wife and started kissing her neck. “Get off - I just want to sleep,” was the romantic response. Thanks, darling. Normally that would be enough of a hint (I can pick up these subtle female signals, you know). However, I have to admit that my balls were sufficiently blue that I had to push it a bit more. I kept kissing and I got lots of “harrumphs”. Undeterred (I was so sex deprived that I wasn't going to stop unless she actually told me to stop), I slid between her legs to tease my hard cock over her pussy. This is something my wife likes in foreplay - the feeling of my cock pressing against her her labia to her is preferable to a probing finger or tongue.

# As an aside, I suspect that this is down to upbringing rather than sensation - it is rude to touch/lick/suck but pudenda-to-pudenda contact is “acceptable” behaviour (in the privacy of your own home, with the lights out) #

Anyway, as I eased my glans over her pussy, it happened. My cock slid easily and deeply into her vagina.

What the fuck?

This only happens if she's very, very turned on. But mere seconds before she was saying she didn't want to make love. I made a comment about it along the lines of “I guess you want this too” but she brushed it off - “it's not about need”. She then orgasms but is all grumpy.

I'm sorry but orgasms don't leave me grumpy...

She isn't “comfortable” in any position that we try except doggie (which coincidentally is the position that gets me to orgasm fastest). She brushes off anything that might make it a more pleasurable experience for her (and bear in mind that she has orgasmed once). Taking the hint, I up the tempo and come pretty quickly for me. She comes again... No post-shag murmuring either, just silence as I cuddled her.

Now, clearly I was a shit (no new news there...) for pushing it when she didn't seem in the mood but what is going on?

She was clearly horny and her body wanted sex as badly as I did but she trys to avoid it?

We had had no argument. I had committed no heinous offence for which my wife was withholding privileges. I have been - by my standards, at least - the model husband recently (home earlier, flowers, little affectionate kisses when we are alone, talking to her rather than watching the “electric fish tank”, chores done). Indeed, the next night I got treated to a sort of hot sex extravaganza.

So why, when her body clearly wanted sex desperately did she seek to deny both me and herself? I'd get it if she was "tired" and "not turned on" but "tired" + "turned on" = "quick hot-and-horny shag" to me...

Reminds me of the classic and age-old joke:

A man is walking along a deserted beach early one morning when he finds an old oil lamp. Giving it the clichéd rub, the inevitable genie appears. The genie, rather pissed off at the interruption to his sleep offers the bloke a single wish. He thinks about it and says “Well, I have a phobia about flying and I am scared of ships but I really want to visit America. So, I'd like a bridge across the Atlantic, please.”

The genie snorted in disbelief. “No, that's impossible. Think of the engineering challenge, the billions of tons of steel and concrete. Sorry, that is just ridiculous. You'll have to think of something else.”

The man thought hard again. “OK. What I want is to understand women. What makes them laugh: what makes them cry: why they love. That way I'll never be unsure how to relate to my partner.”

The genie replied, “Do you want six or eight lanes on that bridge?"

Enjoy...

Honesty pays?

2005-04-14T09:07:00.000Z

Virgin Slut asked me some time ago how it felt to keep secrets from my wife, the woman I love.

As you know, dear reader, I fucked my way around the globe in an orgy of debauched and depraved whoring - I'm not proud of it but I can't say I didn't enjoy myself. So, how do I feel about deceiving my nearest and dearest about that period in my life?

Well, not good, in short. But also it has been way easier than I ever thought.

Before you assess that statement and (rightly) judge me to be a souless pig, you should hear my side of the story. There are several strands to this:

Lying
The first thing to make clear is that I have never really lied to my wife. “Whoa there...” I hear you shout. But it's true. My wife has never asked the right (or wrong) question. My alibis were cast iron - there always was a “business trip” or a “client dinner”. I just didn't come home and give her the full truth “dinner was lovely and, by the way, I played 'hide the sausage' with a Russian hooker afterwards”. I am happy I never had to lie, as it is good on two levels. One is obviously that I don't ever want to lie to my wife. Two is that I am a terrible liar: I stutter; I blush. I get the details wrong.
Now, you may wonder how I can have carved a successful career in investment banking - a veritable pit of vipers and shysters - whilst being pathologically unable to be “economical with the actualité”. Well it's simple. Lying I'm not good at. Spinning a wonderful and totally plausible yarn based on a partial and selective truth? That is my real skill (and gets you further in IB than lying will in a million years...).

Damage
If I were ever tempted to confess my past sins to my wife, there is the sure knowledge that it would cause catastophic and painful damage to the ones I love most - my testicles... Seriously though, one just needs to look at the heartbreak caused to a wronged partner by infidelity (see this post by the Odd Wife) or consider the traumatic effects of divorce on children to know that you don't want to go there. I could not do that to my wife, my children - the people I love more than life itself. Why didn't that stop me or make me think twice before unzipping my fly? The the pent-up frustration of enforced celibacy coupled with the red-mist of lust is the only answer I have. Not pretty but it is what it is... So, I genuinely think it is kinder to Mrs S (and not forgetting me and my testicles) for her not to know. The truth goes to the grave with me.

Knowledge
The next element of my seemingly sanguine attitude to the deception that was my life is that I think my wife knew. By that I don't mean that she caught me but rather she is smart - way smarter than me. She also has known me longer than I care to admit. If she couldn't work out that something was going on then she is not the woman I married. So how come I am still here, marriage (and testicles) intact? Well, I think she didn't want to know - the reality of certainty, the consequences of proof, were too terrible to contemplate. She had reasons to question me and never did. She didn't - doesn't - want to know. It wasn't tacit acceptance of the situation - when she realised that I still loved her, I was still attracted to her but all that was missing in the relationship was (hot, spicy, perverted) sex, she set about changing that. Oh boy, did she change that...

Confessional
Lastly, I do have a conscience. It does gnaw away at me to have a secret. I do feel the need to confess my guilt but I surpress it hard in any context that would reveal the truth. That is why I am here - blathering away in cyberspace. It is as though by me anonymously telling you, someone I don't know, what I have done, it lessens the burden. Unlike a religious confessional, I am not looking to be absolved of my sins - I just want to see it set out: the twisted logic, the depths of depravity, the road to personal redemption. I do not seek your forgiveness. I do not even need your understanding (though that is comforting on the occassions it is given). I just need to have the information out there. By being out there, it is as though it will not destroy me from within. This blog is my catharsis...

Now let's recap...

2005-04-11T09:29:00.000Z

So let's recap...

I am difficult to arouse;
I find it difficult to achieve orgasm - not everyone can bring me off;
I am more interested in the pleasure of my partner than I am in my own;
I need a relationship and affection to have truly fulfilling sex;
I am not interested if you want to do it too much; and
I don't come often but when I do, it's an event.

Fuck. I'm a woman...

Thought for the day:

Why is there only one Monopoly Commission?

Enjoy...

Ding! Ding! Seconds out! Round two....

2005-04-08T16:42:00.000Z

Right, I can stop squirming now... This is the last of my sexual performance problems .

1. Slow to arouse

2. Slow to orgasm

3. Copious come

4. Slow recovery

When / if I finally get to orgasm, that is it...

Game over.

You can pull at it, you can suck it, you can bounce up and down on it. It will get hard (reluctantly) and stay hard (willingly) but a second serving of "baby custard" will not be forthcoming.

A couple of talented ladies have managed to get me there twice in an hour (it took a lot of work and was strangely unpleasant for all parties involved...) but realistically its best to take a break for dinner / watch the rest of the movie / continue the car journey / apologise to the other occupants of the underground carriage (whatever is appropriate) before trying to repeat.

Again not much of a problem but I am surprised at the number of women who insist on flogging a dead horse, as it were, and really take it as an affront to their womanhood (or worse their attractiveness) that you won't (note, not “can't”) come again.

Given problem no. 2, it isn't going to happen, however much I want it to. My preferred modus operandi with an overnight escort was shag before dinner, shag before bed and shag in the morning - this would give me a chance to recover. Now this isn't age - I can masturbate myself to three orgasms in an evening quite comfortably (well, not counting the soreness...).

Thankfully Mrs. S is usually happy with one monster romp at bedtime but occassionally she wants more (screw on the sofa, quick shower then bonk in bed). I really struggle then...

Thought for the day:

Why don't you ever see the headline "Psychic Wins Lottery"?

Enjoy...

Open the flood gates...

2005-04-07T08:42:00.000Z

So, another day, another confession...

1. Slow to arouse

2. Slow to orgasm

3. Copious come

There is no polite way of saying this, so I better just (literally) blurt it out...

I seem to produce rather more semen than is usual.

I actually knew nothing about this until I began seeing “ladies of the night” - none of my girlfriends mentioned it. It started with a girl commenting “Wow, you needed that...” as she examined the filled condom and then moved on with, “God, have you ever thought of a career in pornography?...” when I came over the breasts of another girl. One girl asked if I was related to Peter North (not WS!). Virtually every time I came, it garnered a comment. One girl had a fit of the giggles.

Now exactly where is the problem, you might ask? Well, all of the above was pretty good for Salvatori's ego, I have to admit. The issue started when an escort, who gave the most wonderful blow jobs, accused me of trying to drown her, when I came in her mouth. Another choked on it (the jism spurts out fast too). Another was sure I'd somehow pissed in her mouth (I hadn't), as there was too much for it just to be semen. I now find it difficult to come in anyone's mouth - including my wife's (to be clear I haven't tried with anyone else for a while). Even with her, I have to get to the point of no return in her pussy before I can ejaculate in her mouth (though some of that may be her technique...).

Thought for the day:

Think of how stupid the average person is, and realize half of them are stupider than that.

Enjoy...

Slow train coming...

2005-04-06T10:07:00.000Z

In my series of confessions, this is the next sexual problem from which I suffer.

1. Slow to arouse

2. Slow to orgasm

I find getting to orgasm difficult. I can be rock hard and very turned on but it can take literally hours to get to orgasm. This was a prime example.

Now there are many men that would love to have such a problem (and many women who'd like their man to have such a fault). However, it is actually rather dull, as women usually wonder what's wrong; they get bored (“Aren't you finished, yet?”). I remember one (professional) lady saying “You can't fuck me for a whole hour, you know”. Ah! Romantic words indeed - ideal to put anyone in the mood...

As with any male sexual problem, worrying about it is only going to make it worse. Thus, well-intentioned but solicitous comments only serve to make it more difficult. As one thing that turns me on hugely is seeing a woman getting pleasure, any commentfrom my partner along the lines of “Am I doing something wrong?” (as opposed to, “Oh God, baby, harder... Fuck, I'm going to come again!”) is a massive turn off.

If I sense the woman is flagging or merely “putting up with it” till I come, then it is game over for me. This happens more frequently than I had imagined. Over time, I became increasingly self-conscious about the effect that I was having on my partner - was she really enjoying it or just "keeping going" so I could come?

I have even considered faking an orgasm a few times. One time a girl I picked up was giving me an over-vigorous hand-job and I was starting to feel rather more pain than pleasure. This, if ever, was a moment for a bit of mock gurning and convulsions. However, it is a bit difficult when she is screaming “Come in my face, baby” (that situation resolved itself with my cock detumescing rapidly and remaining resolutely on strike until the lady in question agreed to cease and desist - I didn't see her again...).

As I make love to my wife au naturel, faking is rather difficult, particularly in view of problem No. 3 (more of which tomorrow)...

Thought for the day:

Why do they sterilize the needle for lethal injections?

Enjoy...

Not rising to the occassion...

2005-04-05T16:38:00.000Z

A couple of posts (Ski Jump II and Sanding the Pool Cue) alluded to sexual performance problems I have. Since this blog is my therapy, I thought that I'd get them out in the open - a problem shared is a problem halved (unless, of course, it is a dose of the clap...).

In fact there are four problems from which I suffer. I will now reveal all. These posts took quite a bit of courage to write, so be gentle with me...

1. Slow to get aroused

I find it very difficult to get aroused with anyone other than a long term partner. With my wife, just the thought of her can get me hard. Kissing her luscious lips will do it. Cuddling her works very well too. Any type of sexual intimacy has me turned on in an instant.

However, when I was seeing escorts, I could be kissing an fondling a Playboy model and the heat-seeking missile would often be malfunctioning - my brave helmeted warrior would be hiding. Why? Guilt and fear are not big turn-ons for me (remember I was doing this for sex - denied to me at home - not to satisfy a kink, so I was thinking about how shitty the whole scenario was). Being professionals, they knew not to worry/comment but merely get on with finding the right buttons to press (for reference, sucking the reluctant hero seems to do a pretty good job of coaxing him out...).

I'm fine once I'm aroused - I am priapic to the last. What happens to the guilt? It is the red mist of lust that overpowers it (not proud of that but it is what it is...).

But I'd be lying if I said it was only guilt. I had the same issue with one night stands before we married. Mr. Todger was not always interested in playing. Fear was the issue. I wanted to be a “great lover”. I wanted her to be screaming my name as she came for the twentieth time. Wicked Wife correctly commented on this here. I want to give pleasure more than I want to receive.

Performance anxiety... Not good.

It sort of put me off dating for a while - would the trouser snake emerge from its lair at the appropriate moment? Women can say the most crass things too - "Does this happen often?", "What's wrong?", "Is it me?". Comments only guaranteed to make sure that playing "hide the sausage" will not be on the agenda for the foreseeable future... Ladies, please ignore it, act like this always happens and it'll get better...

I sort of doubt I'd have the problem now away from escorts (I'm assuming that there is no guilt for a second - I believe that I can deliver the goods) but I guess I won't ever find out.

Thought for the day:

Why is lemon juice made with artificial flavour, and dishwashing liquid made with real lemons?

Enjoy...

Nailed...

2005-04-01T16:26:00.000Z

I am as busy as a one-legged man in an arse kicking competition, so you'll have to settle for some regurgitated stuff.

Saw this on a private site to which I belong but I thought it was so funny that I'd repeat it here...

A woman goes into a pet shop looking for a parrot. The assistant shows her a beautiful African Grey parrot.
"What about this one, Madam? A beautiful bird, and it’s an absolute steal at only £20."
"Why is it that cheap?" the woman asks.
"Well", replies the assistant, "it used to live in a brothel and as a result, its language is a touch fruity."
"Oh, I don't mind that", said the woman, making her mind up. "I'm broad minded and it'll be a laugh having a profane parrot". So saying, she buys the parrot and takes him home.
Once safely in his new home, the parrot looks around and squawks at the woman, "F**k me, a new brothel and a new madam."
"I'm not a madam and this is not a brothel" scolds the woman trying not to laugh.
A little later, the woman's two teenage daughters arrive home.
"Un-f**king believable. A new brothel, a new madam, and now two new hookers," says the parrot when he sees the daughters.
"Mum! Tell your parrot to shut up: we're not prostitutes,"
complain the girls but nevertheless, they all see the funny side and have a
laugh at their new pet.
A short while later, the woman's husband Dave comes home.
"In-f**king-credible, a new brothel, a new madam, new hookers, but the same old punters. How ya doin', Dave?"

Enjoy...