Friday, September 28, 2007

Simply Senile?

Yes, my mother is still here. Yesterday I was sitting in the bath with my husband, trying to figure out why my mum is irritating me more than usual. In fact, why I have tension behind my eyes, at the back of my neck and even at the bridge of my nose. And when I asked my husband about it he said, "She's going senile." So that's the answer to it all, thank God. The answer to why she tells the same stories over and over again. The answer to why she gives me advice about this, that and the other when I haven't asked and the reason she asks me fifty times, "where is the flour?" instead of looking for it.

By the way, I recently had a sexual ephiphany. I am not one of those women who orgasms at the drop of a hat or the flick of a tongue (do those women even exist outside of the Penthouse letters page?). Usually it has to be: candles, quiet, he does this for five minutes, then does that for ten minutes, then I do this to him for five minutes, etc etc, until the big explosion. Well guess what, the other day I was in bed with my husband nearing the big finale when my mother shouts up the stairs: "Where's the pasta?"
I shout back: "In the corner cupboard!"
Rustling, banging, clanging. "I can't find it!"
"IN THE CORNER CUPBOARD. THE ONE IN THE CORNER!!!!" Please don't come up the stairs.
Saucepan bangs on floor. Sausage screams, "That's my Barbieeeeeeeeeeee! Give me my Barbie."
Mother: "Yes! I have found it. It was in the corner cupboard, not the one over the cooker where I was looking. Why didn't you say so?"
And after that interruption I still managed not to lose my cool and climax. I've come a long way baby. I'm going to pat myself on the back for that.

I guess you think I am a bit negative about her. But on the upside, one of the best things she ever did for me was make me lose weight. I put on a lot after I had the first baby (seven years ago) and when Scarlett was six months old I went to Austria about thirty pounds overweight. Basically she put me on a diet and made me walk five hours a day. Also she'd make me swim across the Danube, like, twenty times, and when I climbed out she'd say, "Six more laps and you can have a stick of celery." And in I'd go again.

It worked like a dream and all the flab melted away. But then the next summer I put it all on again (well most of it), and every summer she whittled it away, and I yo-yoed back and forth. Then a couple of years ago I started going to the gym and it stayed off for good. But if it hadn't been for my mother telling me, "You are so fat. It is terrible! Why you keep stuffing your face?" well, maybe by now I would be one of those lock-ins who has to be craned out of a window. Actually my husband said he'd leave me if I got that fat again, which may seem cruel but I think is fair because frankly I'd leave him if he became fat. Call me superficial.

Emma's plans to roast a cow were shelved when she heard a Hindu had been invited to the party

And now at my mum's request I am having this huge party. I've already invited twenty-five guests. It is going to be a barbecue and my husband has invited a Hindu and I'm not sure how I'm going to cook whatever I'm going to cook for the Hindu (who doesn't eat cows), on a grill full of hamburgers. I suppose I could cook a veggieburger on one side of the grill. But whichever way you slice the cake I'm going to have to roll up my sleeves and wash the grill, which hasn't been washed for five years. In fact there are many things in this house that haven't been washed for five years and my mother has made me wash them all. Which can only be a good thing, can't it. So why do I feel like killing myself?

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Prick Lit

I’m here to let you know about an exciting new trend. At long last, it’s fashionable to hate women! At last we can spread the word that women are whores and bitches and get a publishing deal to boot. Ms. Robinson wrote about how prostitution memoirs have become the latest trend in chick lit. And now that everyone knows that it’s fun to be a prostitute, it’s good to know that being a misogynistic prick is hip, it’s cool, yeah, it’s right on!

I suppose it was inevitable. I suppose to some extent women have had it coming. I often wondered how, for years and years, any woman could say: “Men are pigs.” “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” “Men are basically only good for one thing, sex.” Etc. etc. Men were supposed to sheepishly take it. The argument went that men had oppressed women for so long, surely they wouldn’t mind taking a little kicking.

And now, as more and more men are more feminized, are more in touch with their emotions, do more childcare and housework etc - all good things - there inevitably had to be a group of men who decided they didn’t want to do what women wanted them to do: i.e., be nice, sensitive, and have the ability to operate a clitoris without causing friction burn. They decided it would be so much more fun to just stand up and simply tell it like it was: That women are scum and are put on this earth with the sole purpose of sucking their cocks.

Monmouth has done a brilliant satire of the genre on his blog, but here’s a quick rundown of the biggest knobs currently dominating the Prick Lit scene:

Tucker Max whose books include Suck My Dick You Stupid Cow and So I Came In Your Eye and it’s all swollen up, get over it Bitch

Quote: "Don't mistake me-staring at dozens of immense fake breasts spilling out of sports bras is fun for a while, but it gets old quick, especially when those breasts are attached to faces that tell the story vacant personalities do not. These women have circled the drain a few times, and no manner of plastic surgery or trips to the spa can hide that despair that years of whorish behavior and emotional prostitution leaves in the eyes."

Chad Kultgen. His book is called Just a Typical American Asshole

Quote: "Bloussant is a pill taken daily that is guaranteed to enlarge tits by at least one cup size ... I crushed up all the pills into a powder that I've been mixing into as many of Casey's meals as I can. I've been doing this for about a month and so far the results could be better."

Eric Schaeffer. Author of the book I love women really, my emotions are just buried really deep, under my ex-girlfriend's head in the back garden

Quote: "I mean we're men. We're wired to see a woman, smash her on the head with a bone, drag her unconscious body back to our apartment by the hair, and f*** her. I think you all should give us a break and, in fact, a little credit."

Neil Strauss. Wierdo who gives seduction tips. His most famous book is: I need a lot of fancy tricks to make women sleep with me because I have a very small penis

Quote: "Seduction is a dark art. Every woman I met seemed disposable and replaceable. The better a seducer I became, the less I loved women."

Now, I don't want to brag - but I anticipated this trend back in May when I penned a Prick Lit piece from the point of view of legend in his own lunchbox troika. For those who don’t know troika, it is quite obvious that he has never met a woman worthy of riding his pork sword. So I did him a little favor. Knowing Nigella Lawson is his ideal woman, I constructed this fantasy scenario for the dear boy. And now, without further ado, I give you:

When Troika met Nigella

The scene: A dinner party in Islington, which Nigella is catering for a group of stuck up media types.

While Nigella is in the kitchen, troika approaches her from behind, slaps her arse and burps.

“Got any Stella? The Belgian beer they’re serving out there tastes like rat's piss.”

Nigella spins round, cleavage a-quiver over her low cut gown.

“Do you mind? Who do you think you are, talking to me like that, not to mention man handling me in such an intimate way?”

“Yeah, I know who you are. Nigella pissing Lawson. So, do you?”

“Do I what?” says Nigella, licking batter provocatively from her spoon.

“Have any Stella?”

“I can’t think what you mean.”

“Never mind," Troika says, taking the spoon from her and throwing it aside. “Listen, this might be your lucky night, because I quite fancy putting my pork sword into your toad in the hole.”

“I beg your pardon? I am married you know.”

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll be in and out in under ten minutes.”

Troika grabs her tits, sticks his head between them and makes a snuffling sound.

She starts to pant. “But what about my soufflé? It’s in the oven. It’ll be ruined!”

“Stuff your soufflé.”

“Oh, well, I must admit you are rather a charmer, albeit in a rather Neanderthal way. Go on then. How do you want me?”

“Oh, just lie down on the granite top and show us your muff.”

“Very well.” She lies down, lifts up her dress and urgently pulls down her knickers.

Troika kneels down and spreads her legs.

“Fucking hell, just my luck to pull a posh bint with a stubbly chuff. I don’t want to get razor burn off your badly shaven minge.”

“Oh, oh, please! Thrust your tongue deep into my vulva.”

“All right, but only because you’re not a chav. Not every piece of skirt would get this sort of regal treatment.” He goes down on her for a while.

“You brute! You animal! You’ve ignited a flicker in me that’s about to set me aflame. Oh, there. Stay right there!” Presses his head into her crotch.

“Oh chuffing hell, I’ve been on the job three minutes, what gives? I haven’t got all night to wait for you to come, you know. I’m going to flip you over and finish off like that.”

Rolls her onto her stomach, and, after a few thrusts, pulls out, punches the air and shouts “Goal!” spraying his load in every direction.

Troika idly wipes his cock on the velvet curtains, before zipping up his fly.

“Sorry about that, some of it got on this tray of pistachio sprinkled apricots stuffed with crème fraiche. I think they should be good to go if you wipe them down a bit. See you around, love.”

Troika wanders off.


Monday, September 17, 2007

Little Stalker

I answered the phone today to my daughter’s stalker, a seven year old called Tammy who knows Scarlett’s phone number and isn’t afraid to use it. On some occasions, several times a day. Now, luckily, I’m not a big one for answering the phone, so I don’t usually have to chat to her. Nevertheless, it is a tad disconcerting to come home sometimes to find that the Little Stalker has left a sequence of messages, asking, in a faint, plaintive tone, whether Scarlett can come over for a play date.

This time, as I answered the phone, without so much as a hi or hello, a babyish voice asked, “Did Scarlett get my letter?”

I knew at once it was Tammy. My brain knotted itself into a pretzel, trying to figure out what she was talking about.

“What letter?” I finally asked.

“An invitation to my birthday party?”

“No, she didn’t.”

Long silence punctuated by wheezy breathing.

“So is she coming to my party?”

“I don’t know when your party is, but I’ll ask your mum about it, okay?”

Long silence.

“Is there anything else?”

“I just wanted to know if she got my letter.”

Oh yes, Tammy is an old style type stalker. Surely all of us have at one time or another stalked or had someone stalk us. And we all know what stalking means, or rather, what it used to mean. Phoning the guy you were in love with who would rather eat cat food than go out with you again and just listening to him saying, “Hello? Hello. Who is this?” before gently replacing the receiver and crying yourself to sleep. Not that I’ve ever done that. Okay, maybe once or twice to an ex-boyfriend I was still sleeping with who had since moved in with his girlfriend. But I digress.

Sure I’ve dabbled in stalking, but I’m simply too lazy to be full on. Sitting outside someone’s house in a car all night waiting to see their new partner or rummaging through their rubbish bin for an old pair of their socks you can lovingly treasure. Sorry, but no. It’s simply too much like hard work.

And then, hurrah, the Internet came along. And everyone who’d ever had a restraining order slapped on them breathed a huge sigh of relief, knowing that they could now cyber-stalk anyone they liked without the threat of jail time.

The only rule of cyber-stalking is, don’t be a fool and leave footprints, like Felicity Jane Lowde, who hassled
Rachel From North London on her blog to the point where Felicity found herself with a six month sentence, simply for being an enormous pain in the arse.

Don’t get me wrong, I can sympathize with cyber-stalkers. I mean, I can see how easy it is to fall into it. You read all about some person on their blog. You get a totally subjective view of the person, usually a very rosy view, since the person wants you to like them. Before you know what’s happening, you have fallen for a bunch of pixels on a screen. And say you do end up hooking up with that person eventually in the real world. What happens when it all goes pear shaped? What torture to still read his blog, read about the women he’s dating, long after he’s forgotten about you. In the old days, when relationships ended, you never saw each other again. If necessary, you moved to a new town to make a fresh start. But these days an ex-lover/blogger (blover) will be on the Internet until he decides to take down his blog. It makes moving on difficult and is fertile ground for stalk-maniacs to take the final leap into insanity.

There’s this stubbly, unwashed guy at the library where I sometimes go to use the Internet, who I know for a fact sits there all day, every day, writing emails to a woman called Sophie. If I sit next to him I read his stuff, and it’s always a very very long email about some long held grudges: “I don’t know why it ended, maybe I couldn’t give you what you needed but the way it ended was simply so wrong you were so cruel. Why did you hurt me the way you did and go off with my best friend Greg I trusted him to drive you to the airport how was I to know that he’d book a ticket and fly off with you to San Francisco you bitch Sophie how could you do that to me etc. etc.”

I’m not sure if he actually sends these emails. But if he does, I’m pretty sure Sophie doesn’t read them.

It’s kind of admirable that he keeps going though. Warms the cockles of my heart. Ah, ain’t love grand?

Monday, September 10, 2007

There's something rotten in the state of Denmark

Actually, make that Moscow. And, well, not rotten exactly, more burnt. A penis, to be precise.

As I read the news today about a Russian lady who in a craving for smoked sausage, set fire to her ex-hubbie's penis, I now pose the question: Is there something deeply rotten in the state of marriage today?

What happened was, that after divorcing her husband, this woman was forced to cohabit with him for three years in a cramped apartment, due to the current housing shortage in Moscow. Now, in her defence, she said she was fed up to the back teeth with him watching pornography and having affairs (although since he was her ex, surely what he did with his penis was his own business?)

The straw that broke the camel's back came in the shape of a bottle of vodka. When, after sustaining a fractured foot in a car accident, he asked her to bring home a bottle of vodka, she did so. He drank the vodka in front of the TV and fell asleep. While he was asleep she got the urge to 'torch his whole body', but when she tried to do so, alas, the alcohol evaporated too quickly and her fantasy of turning him into a burning totem pole came to naught!

Not to be discouraged, she persevered, made a torch out of a newspaper, splashed his groin with alcohol and lit it.

Her ex sustained first-degree burns to his lower abdomen and was hospitalized for several days with his sex organs taking the heaviest blow. The woman could face assault charges.


Yes, I am a sympathetic person, and yes I can understand how, because of the housing shortage in Moscow, you might see red when your stinking old fart of an ex asks you to go and get him some vodka. But is that any reason to set fire to his penis?

This tale of love gone sour was brought to me by my darling
Gorilla Bananas, who comments that:

"Any gorilla can see that the root cause of the marital malaise is disappointed expectations. A wife wants her husband to be her knight in shining armour, utterly devoted to her happiness, utterly immune to temptation. The problem is not that no men are capable of this. Quite a few are, as a matter of fact, which leaves women stuck with a typical Joe Jockstrap (or worse) feeling terribly let down.

It would surely be much easier for women if all men truly were selfish pigs who neglected their spouses and exploited every opportunity to chase available skirt. At least they’d know what to expect and could evaluate their suitors purely as breeding stock. The worst feeling for a housewife is the knowledge that she‘s lumbered with a lemon which she can’t return to the store."

I have had a go at poking a pointy stick at modern marriage myself and you can find my efforts here in a piece called Romantic Illusions. So do come on over and give me a piece of your mind. If I don't agree with your point of view, I promise I won't torch your penis or anything else.

Saturday, September 01, 2007

The E-Spot: Does the Male Multiple Orgasm Exist?

I know that some of you may think that I make these problems up, but I don't. Fact is stranger than fucktion, as it were. Today I found this rather desperate missive in my in box. Yes, he has a lot of problems. But I'm a caring sort and I'm going to sort the poor lad out.

Dear E-Spot,

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat wondering, am I normal? Please help!

Thanks so much for your time

Cross-Eyed When I Cum

Dear Cross-Eyed When I Cum,

Calm down. JUST CALM DOWN. Emma is here to sort you out. Now then, what's all this fuss about?

1.I have a terrible problem with my partner laughing at me when I orgasm - perhaps it's something to do with the fact that I go cross-eyed at the key moment?

That's a no brainer. Do her doggie style so she can't see your ridiculous face when you come. If for some reason you do not enjoy doing her from behind, you could wear a paper bag on your head while you do her missionary, or, if you are an agoraphobic, maybe she could wear the bag. You could also glue different pictures of porn stars onto the paper bag too, thus increasing your arousal...Think of the fun you could have. Instead of fantasizing about Jenna Jameson you would be making love to her!

2.I have a penchant for my partner wearing just pearls, tennis socks and rubber gloves when I make love to her, is there anything wrong with this?

No. But do start to worry if you find yourself unaccountably aroused by men in fingerless leopardskin gloves and skin tight pink spandex. These are early symptoms of SigueSigueSputnikitus, a disease which, when full blown has horrific symptoms including an inability to realize that heavy metal music is total rubbish as well as a compulsion to quote Des'ree lyrics such as these in public places as if they were Shakespeare when in fact they are in fact, shite:

'See the man, over there, He's a Leo,
check his hair. Virgo eyes. Aries smile.
I like the Leo. Check his style'.

3.Is there such a thing as the male multiple orgasm? How far apart do they need to be to qualify as being 'multiple'?

To qualify as multiple, the orgasms need to occur within a fortnight of each other. If you have to have a cup of tea, a full night's sleep or a three course meal between orgasms that does not count as 'multiple.'

Personally, and yes I know I am not a man, I have never quite seen the point of multiple orgasms. Okay, so I can sometimes masturbate and have three or four orgasms a few minutes apart, but I cannot say that there is the same level of satisfaction from a few piddling little ones as from one stellar one that feels like your groin is about to explode and your cranium is going to hit the roof, if you know of what I speak.

I asked a male friend about whether male multiple orgasms exist and he said he can have multiples, but he agreed with me, that they are not as intense as one isolated one. He says that this is how he does it: When you are having intercourse and are almost about to come, say, more than two seconds from ejaculating, stop thrusting and just keep your penis in her vagina and relax. You will still come...but hold on, do not start pumping again. The orgasm will happen. You're basically having a partial orgasm. Now you will still be hard and if you wait a little while before you start thrusting again, you will come again. The second one is not as intense as the first one but it is still great to come off twice.

I am sure there are some of you out there who can give Cross-Eyed more advice on this.

Peter Stringfellow takes a roasting

4. Is it true that older men make better lovers? Though I am well preserved, at forty-two years I now find myself creaking and aching in places that I didn't before. Yes, we are slower and more tentative in our love making - 'cause we don't have a bloody choice!

I'm afraid I am very much of the opinion that I have to have a young lover. My husband is twenty-eight (to my thirty-six) and I only have to glance at him in a certain way and he has an erection. This is bloody useful when you have kids and often have to resort to five minute sex while they are busy eating ice cream in the kitchen or busying themselves with torturing the local cat. If I had to stoke an erection for minutes I think I would simply not have the patience. Simply put, yes I have had sex with older men and most did not really do it for me, the erections took some work to get up and then sometimes they'd lose them mid-thrust and it was quite a yawn. Although my experiences are by no means typical and I'm sure there are older men who are spectacular lovers. I just only experienced a couple who were good. Also, when you are the much younger girl having sex with a man twenty years plus older than you, it is a bit unequal, they do all these 'tricks' that have obviously worked on someone over the years, and expect you to moan and groan when really you think, "That isn't my G-Spot, so can you stop vibrating your finger up my snatch because it's pressing on my bladder and I'm going to wet myself if you keep it up much longer."

Hope all this has put your mind at rest.

Love always,

Please, dear readers, feel free to give Cross-Eyed more advice on this matter. And please, if you have a problem, send it in. Write to me at emma.theespot[remove] and please say if you wish to remain anonymous.