With this post I am on such thin ground I can feel the ice breaking under my feather weight.
Today I found the assertion that “Erotic lovers view marriage as an extended honeymoon, and sex as the ultimate aesthetic experience”. Be that as it may. I most certainly would never describe sex as the ultimate AESTHETIC experience. It’s gore. If not blood most certainly sweat. Enter condoms – that most evil of inventions since Lord Byron used dried oxens’ bladders to keep population under control; condoms re-instated AFTER a brief and most marvellous interval in the sixties and seventies. The contraceptive pill. Happy days. All we were concerned about was NOT getting pregnant. Yes. Those were the days. Now sex is sex with surgical gloves on. How I do my washing up. Barrier method: Marigold – yellow – guaranteed to keep a skin between hot water and my fair hands. I hate condoms. With a vengeance. Seriously. Has anyone ever considered the exhilarating surge when sperm, unhindered, hits the end of a woman’s tunnel and what it does? No. Thought not.
Where were we? Aesthetics. To me rubber is as un-aesthetic as it can get. Enough to drive you back into the nunnery and dream of better times.
PS Don’t forget to wash your hands next time you touch anyone (by accident)
PPS I wonder how sperm feels being tripped up at the first hurdle
Dear Tom, before I say anything about your epic voyage into the swamps of first marriage, car engines and the Angolan judicious system, let me briefly vent my this minute’s two spleens.
Both have to do with sex, so right up your street. Or is it ‘streak’?
Yes, this comes from reading (quality) papers: One article asks whether you’d let your teenager have sex at home. YES, PLEASE. I didn’t nurture the apple of my eye with my organic self for him to be furtive and catch cold just because testosterone does what testosterone does. Give me a break. In the morning his friend with benefits and I look at his childhood photos. And coo over how sweet he was/is when he is asleep. Yes, that good a MIL I will be one day. I hope he won’t read this. He is 21 and a lot taller than me. Even his hair is longer than mine.
So far so nothing. Two pages later I encounter the MILF. That’s a MIL with an F. Enter sweet little innocent me. Who’d have thought what the F stands for: “Mum I’d like to fuck.” No, not your own. Your friends’ mothers. I let all the Angel’s friends’ mothers pass before my inner eye and I do not think any of them will put temptation into the Angel’s way. I myself whilst being hugged and not averse to watercooler moments with the bright and beautiful of the Angel’s friends at three in the morning (in my own kitchen) can not see any of them make a pass at me either. Mainly because the Angel is strong, and anyway he didn’t invite his friends over to make out with his mother.
One thing is for sure: Being a potential MILF I can talk about this subject where FILFs cannot. They’d be carted off and shot (by other fathers).
Sweethearts, I’ve lost it.
There is so much I’d like to say, convey. It’s all too much. Spoilt for choice. So let’s just stick with the base.
By no stretch of the imagination do I think I have seen it all. I don’t want to see it all. I like to keep some innocence, some wonderment, the chance of a surprise, intact. You will be caught unawares: On recommendation of a trusted source I dived into the blog of a big arsehole (you may take this in its literal meaning). Though by all his accounts he does give good head too. I am not particularly interested in what use people put orifices to: Do what you must, spare me the detail. Though will always pass you a roll of toilet paper should you run out. So far so boring. Butt (!), and here is the twist, he is bi-sexual yes, really. Talk about a pain in the …., only doubled. An expert. Sweet.
What’s so awful, and please do not spare me your feedback, I can feel urge rising to puncture that guy’s balloon – badly. And I mean badly. The way he waxes lyrically wants me to punch him. Naturally, and clinging to remnants of civilized behaviour, I will “internalise” this into one of those many dialogues I hold in my head. Should I ever combust I will have proven my theory that it’s better to let it all hang out than keep it in. Not that I am a candidate for bowel cancer (yet).
Totsy, Phil, if the last sentence leaves you baffled as to its hidden meaning I am more than happy to expand.
Before you continue reading this, a word of warning: My boiler packed up days ago, I am freezing, there is no hot water to keep myself or the dishes clean. I am glad that someone invented hot water bottles. Yes, I am in a seriously bad mood. On top of which the internet keeps cutting out (so both you BHB and Magpie will have to wait for my finely chiselled answers to your comments on “I am a girl” till I find time to rewrite the damn things lost in the ether AGAIN). If only the cat had the courage to die too I’d be a much happier woman.
I don’t know where to start venting my spleen: I too came across Magpie’s statistic (this is with reference to his comment on Grannymar’s usual Thursday’s Finest). I shan’t go into detail why some children were brought up to think that the stork only delivers to the young, but at least I finally understand GM’s penchant for sexual preoccupation in her ‘jokes’. And this will sort her toy boys from the old girl – Viagra not withstanding. I have never dreaded old age – that mist in the distance – but might be pushed over the edge by GM and her unveiled references. Will consult my mother on this before buying a ticket back in time.
Once more being appalled at GM’s sense of humoUr I have since been advised by an authority higher than my conceited and ill-informed self that the less you can partake in any joy of life the more you will dwell on it. Let’s put it another way: What you, GM, might pass off as self-deprecation in the best of English tradition is just putting yourself, and all other 60 +, down; leading - according to the teachings of our Cheerful Monk and Ramana – to a self fulfilling prophecy.
At least I now know what a ‘cougar’ is. And a ‘Silver Fox’ (this is why every woman needs at least one gay friend – you learn things which will NOT help you to survive when push comes to crash).
Bike Hike Babe drew my attention to Tiger Woods.
I am not familiar with the notches on his bed post. Neither do I care. What consenting people do in their free time and behind closed doors is their business. As is dealing with the emotional fall-out afterwards.
There was a time when life was simple: Wives at the ready with their wooden rolling pin on the late return of their husbands. When roles reversed, men usually just suffered in silence or, if given to temper, re-enacted Shakespeare. Now we have “Hello” magazine.
Judging by BHB’s clip poor Tiger Woods is paying through his balls for what comes natural to him. Having had his trousers unfastened in public, his (golf) balls will now miss many a hole. I feel for the guy. Wish I were his sister. I’d have words with his wife as to emasculating her husband in full view of everyone; and give her a state of the art rolling pin as a belated wedding present, so much more useful than letting it all hang out on the playground of the media and its salviating readership.
What does the world and his wife expect from someone who swings it like him? It’s well known that testosterone levels run high in men of power and success; and power, on whichever stage, attracts groupies only too willing to tempt with their candy. Some of my aunts and my mother are still hyperventilating since it came to light that their hero, the man who managed the Cuba Crisis and averted the threat of the Third World War, yes, the good JFK himself, availed himself of many a woman.
With power comes prowess. It’s simple. And if I had been an intern under the charming Bill Clinton himself the only reason I would NOT have taken advantage of his attention is because I don’t touch, never have, other women’s men.
I despise women who can’t keep their mouths shut (after the event as it were). Do have sex with a married man if you must but do so with integrity and discretion instead of dropping the guy in it afterwards.