Today I was thinking about a man called Felix, who holds pride of place for the most unsuccessful seduction attempt ever directed at my person. I will recount it for your amusement and to see if you can top it.
About fifteen years ago, I met Felix, a handsome, sophisticated man of Austrian descent, at a London party, which I was at with my mum (I was living at home at the time). He was a youthful fifty and quite witty and amusing and evidently loaded. He was there with his young red haired girlfriend, Alison, who spent the evening deep in conversation with my mother.
The couple proceeded to invite us for dinner at their house the following week. So we turn up, eat a wonderful meal, smoke dope through a hole they'd cut out of an apple (what is the point of that by the way?) and then I dance with Felix, while my mother dances with Alison. It's all pretty seductive, but I'm thinking, I'm not going to get off with Felix in front of my mum, because that is just too gross.
Felix decides he needs to go buy some fags, so I go with him. As we walk back from the shop, it starts to rain, and he tells me that Alison has recently discovered sleeping with women and 'absolutely loves it'. He also confides that she quite fancies my mother. Because we are stoned, we laugh about getting home and finding Alison and my mother rolling around naked in front of the roaring fire. Mercifully, I know my mother is not up for that kind of thing, and when we do return, all they're doing is dancing, and all their clothes are still on.
We dance some more and at some point Felix tries to kiss me and I think okay, let's call this a day, things are getting a little too weird. I tell my mum we should be going. Mum seems pleased to be leaving, even though it is absolutely pelting down with rain. The couple, however, are having none of it. They hang onto our arms, begging us to stay the night, saying there are plenty of beds. Then, in a last desperate attempt, they mention that they have bought chocolate croissants for breakfast. I hesitate at the mention of the croissants, but even the lure of chocolate can't keep me from hot footing it out of there.
Okay, you could say we could have seen where the evening was headed. But honestly, did they really think we'd be up for some ghastly ménage a quatre?
Felix phoned me a couple of times afterwards, asking me to come over, but I declined, deciding he was too cuckoo, even for me.
Can you top that? Even if you can't, any tales of rather desperate and unsuccessful seduction attempts would be gratefully received!
First day of school, and once again I am left thinking, "Are American parents certifiable?"
A mother who has a first grader told me, "Did you know that the public middle school is not running buses to my area, so my daughter is going to have to walk to school in sixth grade. She's going to have to cross York Road all by herself!"
I said, "Excuse me madam, but are you on crack?" No, I didn't, but I rolled my eyes, I couldn't help it. I was walking to school on my own, crossing at least four main roads, at age eight, as was everyone else. And she was worried about her daughter crossing a not particularly busy road at AGE ELEVEN.
"Surely she'll be able to cross the road on her her own by then," I ventured.
"But I don't want her crossing the road. I don't want her crossing any road by herself!" she snapped back.
I chuckled to myself, wondering where this mother's overprotective streak would end. Would she, for example, insist on sitting by the bed the first time her daughter had intercourse?
"Good work, Paul," she'd say to the boyfriend. "You've done some excellent clitoral stimulation, but you need to pay a little more attention to Clare's breasts. Good! Work your tongue around her nipples in a circular motion. Yes, I think she's almost ready for penetration now. Wait, I'm going to get my camcorder out to record my little girl's journey into womanhood. Okay now Paul, I think we're ready. Not so fast! Take it easy. There you go. Everything okay, Clare? Good ...I'm getting some lovely shots. Oh gosh Clare, I think I'm tearing up ...."
As we entered the cinema, She discovered she’d forgotten her glasses, And panicked that she wouldn’t be able to follow the story in a blur. But most of the shots were close ups So she got the drift Just your typical English tale of A man taking acid by mistake at a funeral and trying to jump off the roof, While a dwarf did a sixty-nine with an old man in a coffin. When the film was over, we went outside Lightning was splitting open the night sky, so we ran, laughing Through the rain I felt so young and carefree Like I was nineteen. We went to a bar, she told me Her troubles with men When we walked home after the rain She said the smell in the air Reminded her of walking beside an Italian beach, the waves crashing Against the shore I said the wet Baltimore street in the lamplight didn’t exactly remind me of an Italian Beach But as she kept talking about it, suddenly I could see the waves, rushing Across the street, over the cars Lapping at our feet.
Once you are married for a few years and have small kids, orgasms become, not a luxury like they used to be, an optional extra in your life, like an Dove Ice Cream Bar, but something so essential, so integral to your mental stability, that now, if I go for more than a couple of days without one, I am foaming at the mouth and prowling the carpet like a rabid animal. I am wound so tight these days that if I get a free hour, I collar my husband, and make him my sexual slave. I really do feel so much better after an orgasm, so much less cranky. Also, having orgasms makes me want to do housework, which is extremely strange, but I’m not going to fight it.
So yesterday, I give the kids lunch and say to my husband: “I’m going upstairs, come join me for a roll in the hay.” He looks at me with what I thought was a look of comprehension.
I am really in the mood. I shower and shave my entire body. I lather myself in body lotion. I put on a suspender belt and sheer black stockings with seams. I actually straighten the seams. I do my makeup so that I look like a shimmering, fragrant rose. I put on a corset and do all the laces. At this point I scream down the stairs,
“John, will you put the kids in front of a movie!”
He screams back, “Okay!”
The reason I didn’t go down the stairs and tell him this face to face, was because by this point I looked like a high class (I hope) prostitute, and even if I’d put on my dressing gown, the kids would have seen my glossy pink lips and stockings and asked me if I was going to a fancy dress party etc etc.
So I go into the bedroom, light some scented candles, douse myself in Hypnotic Poison (it’s a perfume) and arrange myself on the bed in the most seductive pose imaginable. I’m so going to enjoy this, I think, my skin already tingling in anticipation.
I hear the front door slam. A few minutes later I get off the bed and look out the window. The car has gone.
I lie back down on the bed and indulge in some delightful sexual fantasies involving a man and a woman pleasuring me at the same time. Yes, I know I could have finished myself off, but why have cotton when you can have silk, know what I mean? I was prepared to wait for John to come back from wherever he had gone. But after a while I was beginning to get a bit hacked off. After about an hour I decided I’d exhausted my sexual fantasy repertoire, put on my dressing gown, drank two glasses of wine and went on the computer.
Two hours later John returns with the kids. I say, “Dearest, where have you been?” Well, okay, maybe the words I used were a little more fruity. He replies, “I took them to a movie. You shouted down the stairs to take them to a movie, didn’t you?”
“I said, put them in front of a movie, not take them to a movie. There’s a difference. I mean, how the fuck did you expect me to have sex with you while you were sitting in a movie theatre with two kids and a box of popcorn?”
“Well, I dunno, I just thought you’d gone off the sex idea and wanted me out of the house. You often want me and the kids out of the house on Sunday afternoons.”
“Look, I’m sorry about the miscommunication,” I purred. “But now can you just put the kids in front of a video and come upstairs and do your marital duties? Because frankly, I’m about to explode.”
This time he got the message.
Next time I will text him the message to avoid miscommunication: “Put the kids in front of a video and come upstairs. I am going to ravage you.”
Yeah, that would work quite well, except for the fact that he doesn’t have a cell phone.
So, say you're a young man who wants to give back to society. Say you're also a young man who likes big tits. For years you try and combine your two interests - philanthropy and massive hooters - and get nowhere, until a genius idea grabs you by the balls and won't let go until you launch a site called My Free Implants, which helps women who have, for years, suffered the indignity of being small breasted.
This unbelievably brilliant idea was cooked up by one Jason Grunsta while he was off his skull at a Vegas bachelor party being entertained by strippers. Grunstra took pity on one of the strippers, who did not have implants and was devastated that she couldn't afford to purchase the two magical bags of saline. Grunsta and his pals immediately reached deep into their pockets. After they'd all finished playing pocket billiards, they managed to find a total of $70 in their pockets, which they gave the stripper towards her surgery. Once Grunstra got back from Vegas, he founded the site with his pal Jay Moore and it's doing very well.
And now, to achieve their dream, all these small breasted lovelies have to do is put up pictures of themselves on this site. And then lovely, caring men, called 'benefactors' pay $1.20 each time they e-mail these women, of which each woman gets $1.00 of the total.
The goal for these ladies is to hook these lovely benefactors and keep em chatting and chatting, until the tip jar is full and the implants are paid for. In fact, once the girl has cyber-chatted her way to the $4,000 needed for the procedure, the site pays the money directly to the cosmetic surgeon.
Just imagine the fuzzy feeling of deep satisfaction you'd get in your privates, knowing you'd helped women like Brittany achieve their goals. Here's her moving testimonial:
"I HAVE BOOBS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Thank you guys sooooooooooooooooooooooooo freaking much!!!! I am completely shocked right now!! I don't even know what to say!!! Other than THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!
You guys are amazing!!!!!!!! I LOVE YOU ALL!!!!! I'm gonna go scream now!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Good luck ladies!! NEVER QUIT!!!"
Moore counters criticism of the site by saying, "It's a bit old-fashioned, but many men like being providers and helping women out financially. Also, many men have a fantasy of building the 'perfect woman.' It sounds science fiction-ish, but I think it holds true for some men."
So, what are you waiting for? Ending poverty and hunger can wait, surely? Start cyber-chatting with these flatties and turn them into hotties!
My husband John just returned from Vienna, where he'd been to collect my daughter Scarlett, who'd been vacationing with my mother. He and Scarlett were split up for the flight and John found himself seated between a man and a woman. He was looking forward to a nice, relaxing time with a dash of sexual fantasizing thrown in. Like every red blooded man, he enjoys flying Austrian Airlines, which, if you are unaware of the fact, features a spectacular selection of top totty air hostesses. Unfortunately, the flight was not quite as enjoyable as he had hoped.
Poor old John. To explain what happened next, maybe I should explain that despite having a rather filthy mind, he looks the picture of fresh faced innocence (even though he is twenty-eight). He was also wearing shorts, has rather firm thighs and a non-confrontational disposition. He had fallen into a deep sleep, only to find himself rudely awakened by someone squeezing his bare thigh. For one blissful moment, he thought that he had wandered into a commercial for Lynx:
But alas, when he opened his eyes, he noticed that the hand perilously approaching his nuts was not manicured and feminine, but hairy, and belonging to the middle-aged businessman beside him.
"What did you do?" I asked.
"I elbowed him in the ribs, but he didn't seem to get the message, and for the rest of the flight would occasionally brush his hand against my leg."
He claimed he would have shifted away from the businessman, but for the fact that he was caught between a rock and a hard place, or maybe a blancmange and a hard on, because the woman on the other side of him was so fat that she had to keep the armrest up, so overflowing was her bulk. He said she was quite pleasant, only you can't exactly spend a flight crushed against a chubby woman's bosom just to get away from a randy man's fingers, can you?
I asked him what he would have done if the randy businessman had been a sexy businesswoman, and he said, "Well, I would have thrown a blanket over my knees and said, 'Go right ahead.'" Not sure if he was serious....
What would you have done? Pressed the alarm and said, "Help me stewardess, this man is fondling me?" I'm not sure they would have taken him all that seriously. In any case, he can clearly handle himself. Has this kind of thing ever happened to you (someone you found unattractive or even attractive touching you on an airplane?). Do give me all the details, and I do mean all the details.
Also, if you have any problems regarding life, the universe or phantom fondlers, please be aware that I am have a column called The E-Spot and am more qualified than Dr. Phil to give answers to life's tough questions (if you don't believe me, think on this, how much experience to you think Dr. Phil actually has had of a carnal nature, not much I should venture). So please, do unload your problems by writing to me at emma.theespot[remove]@gmail.com (please say if you wish to remain anonymous).
Well, after much toing and froing and heavy sexual fantasizing, I have finally realized who I want to have an affair with: myself. No, I'm not referring to Madam Palm and her five daughters, although they are a nimble bunch who have never let me down in a crisis. I'm referring to Me, Myself and I.
While my husband has been away this past week, I sat down and thought about what makes me happy, and came to the conclusion that it is spending prolonged periods on my own. The happiest time I can remember, in recent memory, is three years ago, when I left my two kids with my mum in Vienna and spent two weeks in my flat in London (I rent it out to tenants but they sometimes let me stay in the spare room at a pinch). I just adored striding around London in kitten heeled mules, sipping cappuccinos and having light lunches with friends at Harvey Nichols. It was heaven on earth!
I had a tenant living in the flat at the time, Lucinda, a pale, fey creature who wore tiny little white vests on her flattish chest, coupled with 1950s style thrift store coats, and would waft about, acting like she was Virgina Woolf (which was okay, the flat is in Bloomsbury). I had never met this creature before, because another tenant had procured her for the flat.
The first time I met her I was stressed out, because I had come to London to sort out a visa situation. So I burst into the flat on Sunday afternoon and found these three sexy Australian boys sprawled around the place, all tight t-shirts and jutting cheekbones and jutting hipbones. On the table was a pile of croissants, pastries, fruit etc. etc. I immediately thought, Lucinda, if you have actually been eating any of this, then I hate you, because she was like a white envelope, if you'd have turned her sideways she would have disappeared.
Lucinda said, "Oh hi, you must be Emma. I went to a rave last night so I'm kind of deaf this morning."
I got to learn a lot about Lucinda during my stay, because although she was ostensibly doing a PhD in something like The Symbol of the Vagina in Feminist Poetry, she was basically just hanging around the house trying to pretend that one of the pretty boys was her boyfriend (the other two were gay).
She'd bend my ear all day. "I really think that men are basically cunts, and I really tried to have sex with women. I really tried to be a lesbian, but I just don't like the taste of pussy. I love tits though."
"Tough luck. Being a lesbian usually means licking pussy at some point."
"And I really wanted Graham (the Aussie boyfriend), to make a commitment to me. But then, the last few weeks, he hasn't wanted to have sex and I said, 'What's wrong?' and he finally admitted he had caught chlamydia while he was visiting his folks back in Oz a few months back."
"Hmm, he didn't give you the old story about getting chlamydia from a toilet seat?"
"How did you know he told me that?"
"Because I've heard it all before. You don't get chlamydia from a toilet seat, okay?"
Somehow I don't think it sunk in.
Anyway, during these two weeks, Lucinda made me feel so good about myself. There but for the grace of God go I, I thought: I used to be like that. A hopeless romantic getting involved with chlamydia ridden young hotties who are obviously playing away. Also, it rapidly transpired that she hadn't eaten any of the breakfast buffet that Sunday. She lived, seriously, on crispbread and stuff like cucumber slices sprinkled with chilli pepper. And yes, she had been or maybe still was anorexic, and yes I did feel sorry for her, but there was nothing I could do for her.
And I basically swanned around London during that holiday, shopping for clothes and waiting for my visa to come through. And this past week while my husband has been away, I've just been so happy to just do my own thing. I've done a few chalk pastel portraits and some of flowers, and drunk a lot of wine and lounged about and put my younger daughter in camp.
I miss my husband, in the sense that I miss moaning at someone, and I definately miss having sex, but generally it is so nice not to have kids or a husband about and to just have this lovely clean house and this lovely selfish affair with myself. Self-love is severely underrated, I reckon. What say you?
Well, my friend Daisy just told me, "Darren's just started dental school. He cycles off every morning with his back pack."
"You must be so proud," I said. "It's always a great feeling, isn't it, when the oldest one starts college?"
"Yeah, but he still makes me do his laundry."
We laughed our heads off, because Darren isn't her son, he's her forty-three year old husband. Although, truth be told, he does look like a student, a slobby student, with an appalling haircut. He's already started economizing, since the fees for dental school are $100,000, and now cuts his hair with hair clippers. The only comment I can make on his haircut is that doing it himself was a false economy.
How Darren decided to become a dentist goes something like this. He was a bio-chemist who liked sitting in a lab staring at test tubes all day, but was useless at writing grants or publishing papers. So, he was fired from his job, and then sat about at home, staring out of the window for a few months, then decided he wanted to be a doctor. So he applied to med school in Adelaide, since the couple had once lived in Australia and were keen to move back, and flew off to the Land of Kangaroos for an interview. In fact, he was down under for several weeks, having a wail of a time, hanging out in youth hostels and puffing on bongs. When he returned, many nights of the munchies had put ten pounds on him. He was also a couple of thousand dollars lighter in the pocket. I suppose all that would have been okay if he'd gotten into med school. Alas, he hadn't.
So then, when he got back and had started staring out of the window again, Daisy said, "Why don't you become a dentist? It's almost as good as a doctor, right?" And when she still wasn't getting too much response, Daisy took the bull by the horns and more or less wrote his application for a dental school here in Baltimore, which he eventually got into.
So yesterday, Daisy went to a party the University was holding for all the dental freshmen, where Darren was the oldest freshman by twenty-two years. She said there were lots of cute girls there and she told Darren, "If you have an affair with any of these girls, I will cut your nuts off with nail scissors." Meanwhile, she was drooling over all the hot young guys. "One of them was all over me, eager as a puppy," she gushed.
"Yes, those young uns can be awfully cute, can't they?" I said. Indeed, their attraction is in their naivety and optimism. Some of the younger generation actually believe they can change things, bless their cotton socks! Although I must say, I wasn't really like that at college. I went on a march once for 'Grants not Loans' and then loans came in and I thought, well, that wasn't exactly much of a success, was it? I was always pretty cynical about stuff like that. But a lot of young people are just so sweet. They're like, "I'm going to be a politician and stop injustice!" And you want to pat them on the head and make them a nice cup of cocoa and tuck them into bed and say, "There, there, of course you are. But now it's time for teddy bye-byes." Or, if they are attractive young men, I suppose you might want to tuck yourself into bed with them.
Almost every youthful idealist ends up a cynical, bitter person by forty, bogged down with debt, a job they can't stand and a pack of moaning, demanding kids. Or have I got it wrong? Maybe you're the exception? Do you remember what you thought you were going to achieve when you were young? And did you ever achieve it?
I met my friend Polly yesterday at the pool, who is a teacher at one of the more pretentious preschools here, and who is getting pretty exhausted by the parents there.
"I have to make believe like every child is special to their parents. It's a gigantic pain in the arse, since most of them aren't. If there's nothing off the charts special about the kid's academic achievment, the parents will try and make out he's special in some other way. Like, one mother has already been in touch with me, even though school doesn't start for another three weeks, to talk about her son. She told me, 'I just thought I should tell you that Brendan's mother and I are in a same sex relationship and his uncle was the sperm donor. And I am just hoping that the unique circumstances of his conception will not alienate him from the rest of the class.'
"I just said, 'Oh, I'm sure Brendan's situation isn't that unusual and he will fit in just fine."
"I bet she didn't like that," I said.
"No,of course she didn't. She didn't even seem to want Brendan to fit in. She wanted him to be special."
So, there we were, laughing our heads off about this, when Polly said, "Uh-oh, here comes someone whose kid is going to be in my class in the Fall."
"You mean Nicola? Oh, poor you, she's cuckoo for cocopops."
Nicola came up to us. She's got this wierd manner about her, in that she always stares over your shoulder while she's talking to you. She's one of those people who has simply never gotten the message that I think she's a tedious nutcase.
Nicola said, "Where's Scarlett? I just see Sausage in the pool."
"Oh, Scarlett's been staying in Vienna with my mother for the past few weeks."
"Really?" Nicola replied, aghast, as if I'd told her Scarlett was working sixteen hour days at a sweat shop.
"Yes, quite a relief, just having to look after the one, you know! I bet you couldn't spend even one night away from your daughter, Anna, could you?"
"Probably not, but not because I couldn't bear to be parted from her," replied Nicola. "It's just that I'm still nursing." Right. Bear in mind that Anna is FOUR AND A HALF YEARS OLD. Nicola went on, "And I would hate to artificially break up that nursing relationship before she was ready to give it up."
"I must say, I simply don't get this stuff about nursing a four year old," I said. "I mean, you advocates of extended breast feeding always point to third world countries, where women nurse for much longer than we do in the West, making out that's the 'natural' way. But they only do that because there is often no other adequate nutrition for the child other than breast milk. And since there are many other sources of nutrition here, why nurse for more than one or two years?"
"Oh, none of this was planned," replied Nicola. "I thought I would give up after about a year."
"Believe me, you would have if you'd had biters like I did. They practically chewed my nipples off, so I weaned them both at one."
Nicola ignored me and continued to ramble. "But since Anna did not choose to wean at one year, I decided to keep going. And here we are, still nursing!"
More like, you didn't want to give it up, is what I didn't say. This mother is at the upper echelons of overprotective. You know the type, they have to stand by the slide while their kid is using it, in case, oh, I don't know, the child falls off the slide and kills itself, an all too common occurrence in playgrounds today [said in a sarcastic tone].
Well, after Nicola had chewed Polly's ear off about what an advanced reader Anna was and could Polly possibly let her start on War and Peace, (okay, maybe I am exaggerating a tad here), because Anna's already reading at a first grade level, she eventually sodded off. I rolled my eyes at Polly.
"You do know that you'll have to tell Nicola that because her child is so special and has such a special nursing relationship with her mum, that Nicola is welcome to come to the classroom and breastfeed her daughter any time. Tell her that the school want to nurture their special relationship."
Polly looked a bit scared. I was joking, but I think Polly was wondering whether it was not so far fetched that Nicola might turn up in the classroom one day and lift up her shirt, ready to breast feed her special child.
Who am I? Displaced Londoner now living in the States with my two little girlies and long suffering husband. Co-author of hilarious parenting book Cocktails at Naptime www.cocktailsatnaptime.com
My mom's an Austrian, my dad's a Brit, which makes me a Britaustrian, or possibly an Austrish?