Here we go again. In an attempt to get away from it all, hubby whisks me off on a romantic night in DC. First he presents me with the gift of cheese. What is it about cheese that sets my loins aflame? Once again he had found his mark. And this was no ordinary cheese. No common or garden piece of Gouda. No rubbery cheddar or Dairylea square. Oh no. This cheese was art. One piece was studded with dried apricots, another had been rolled in rosemary. I savored every bite, then guzzled down as much as my stomach could hold without exploding and glugged down the Moet. Next we performed the activities that are required by law to be performed amongst married persons who find themselves naked, covered in champagne and in a bed and breakfast. Once the saucy part of the evening had been completed it was on to the concert.
I was to see George. My husband, who is 29, has no real knowledge of who George Michael is and how Careless Whisper is a milestone of sorts, the song that most of us thirty somethings did our first slow dance too. And so I found myself at this concert: 20,000 middle aged women in tight spandex screaming for George. And since I’d had a few glasses of champers I found myself screaming myself hoarse for George too. It was time to let go. It was time to say, I am an embarrassing old crone and this is where I can dance like a spaz and let it all hang out.
All I can say is that it was heaven. I was so close to the stage I could see into George’s eyes, into his very soul. I believe his sweat splattered me and I don’t think I will ever wash again. Although, I have to say, he doesn’t look too good for 42. All wrinkled like an old prune. Is this simply the way stars look who haven’t had ‘work’ done? Or is he suffering from some mysterious illness? I think we deserve to be told.
After the concert, things got a bit less romantic. When we got into bed, while I was still humming Georgie’s hits under my breath, I could immediately see there was a problem. There was a feather duvet under the sheet which just made me feel like I was suffocating. My husband fell asleep after about five minutes. I lay there for about five hours and then decided to take two cushions off the sofa, place them on the floor and sleep on those. Suffice to say, that wasn’t very successful either. I slept for about two hours before waking up in a really shit mood.
And then things got a bit less romantic still, when I insisted on wrapping all the left over cheese in cellophane and lugging it home. Yes, I had become my mother. There was no way I was leaving stuff at the hotel that I had paid for.
So when I got home I was carrying a reeking and sweltering bag of cheese.
Had it gone off?
It certainly smelt like it had.
Did I eat it?
Do you really need to ask?
Ever had a dirty weekend that ended with a whimper not a bang, and left you with the smell of cheese on your hands?
Although Japan is one of the most sexless societies in the world (a WHO report released in March found that one in four married couples in Japan had not made love in the previous year, while 38% of couples in their 50s no longer have sex at all), it has launched one of the most bizarre and yet kind of sweet trends in the last few years. Yes, "elder porn" is all the rage in Japan and the old goat who's most well known (and who works his magic on female porn stars aged between 20 and 80) is 73 year old Shigeo Tokuda who's famous films include Maniac Training of Lolitas and Forbidden Elderly Care.
Ryuichi Kadowaki, president of Ruby Productions, a specialist in Elder Porn, says they started producing adult videos with people in their 30s to good sales. They crept up to 40 year old actors and they sold even better. Kadowaki says they went up to actors in their 50s, then 60s, and now they're producing an entire line of adult videos with actors in their 70s.
And their star, says Ruby, is Tokuda. "To be honest, I don't understand why people are buying these videos," he says. "I think our older customers must feel a sense of security by watching videos with an actor who is in the same generation."
Ruby says it's targeting the elderly audience and considering selling videos in retirement homes. Ruby also says it's just completed a deal to release some of Tokuda's movies in the U.S.
Japan does have a higher percentage of people over the age of 65 than any country in the world. Ruby Productions says it's just meeting a demand of an aging Japanese society.
Tokuda says his friends are envious, because he's in a job where he's valued, something many seniors lack. "Seniors get depressed because they don't have anything to do. They go crazy," says Tokuda.
How it all started was when Tokuda retired from the workforce he found himself at a loose end and decided to take the plunge into elder porn with the blessing of the wife he'd been married to for 44 years! And they say romance is dead. The guy's such a sweet old grandad, seriously.
And well, good on him. It certainly beats playing bridge or golf.
Not so long ago I informed you all about the emergence of a new literary genre I term Prick Lit, in which men 'reclaim their masculinity', grab their pipes and slippers and bow down and worship at the altar of Hugh Hefner and his inflatable friends.
And to the Prick Literati I say, fair dos, have a little cry about the fact that your penis is too small and no one will sleep with you. But at least be droll about it! Please! The latest author to have a rant is Dick Masterson who has written a book called Men Are Better Than Women. Well you can guess what that is about. But to give you a flavor, on his website he writes:
As I cover in my book, only three of the top 100 highest grossing films of all time star women in the lead role. Women can’t direct movies for shit. Also, what would happen to cinema if men weren’t working the movie cameras? Every scene would have the actors’ heads cut off. Never let a woman take your vacation pictures.
No comment is needed on the extent of Masterson's mental problems, but let's have a look at his pic (above). Now, I don't think I am stepping too far out of line to say that Dick's problems are more than mental. Looking at this picture it is clear he is, well, deluded in his choice of facial hair and sunglasses. Basically I don't think there is a woman in a two hundred mile radius of Masterson who would sleep with him. However, if he stepped out into the local gay leather bar he'd be beating them off with a stick. So take comfort in that, Dicky.
So, while Masterson is one sort of arrogant git, there are a whole other group of men in pain, or as I call them, Whingers, like Dave Itzkoff, who penned a memoir called Lads.
Dave Itzkoff is a short, effeminate looking man with a voice like Minnie Mouse, who wonders why no one likes him. He thinks it is because he is short and has a high squeaky voice but it's actually because he's a whiny little rodent with no redeeming features. Here he chronicles his experiences as a hack at a series of lads magazines. You should feel sorry for the guy because no woman wants to sleep with him. He gets one girl into bed and she tells him to stop in mid-thrust! This is how unattractive he is: He can't even get a girl to make out with him even while she is on Ecstasy. Oh God. One should feel sorry for him, but his ponderous writing and bad attitude really leaves a bad taste in the mouth, and, what more can I say about this book than, don't bother?
And lest you think that I don't like these men just because they are ugly, tis not so. I love men who can make an arse of themselves and Toby Young does this, with bells on! Most women won't sleep with him for love nor money, but he just accepts it as his fate. Instead he concentrates on becoming famous. In fact, Toby is so obsessed with becoming famous that he will do whatever it takes - even pose naked with a book over his crotch. He is an unbelievably funny British writer who has written two books about how to succeed as a loser on two continents. The Sound of No Hands Clapping is the hilarious tale of how, after being asked to write a Hollywood script, he moves to LA for three months, dragging his long suffering wife behind him. He rubs everyone in LA up the wrong way and ends up leaving with no movie deal and with his tail between his legs.
So, all I'm saying, prick litters is, if you're going to show that you're a bit of an idiot, at least be funny about it, please?
You know that woman who said you were the best lover she ever had...well... she was probably lying. I have a friend called Jessica who tells every lover she wants to keep as a boyfriend that he is the best she's ever had even if they are only so-so. She says it makes them feel secure. Right.
And yeah, it's true, all the boyfriends I've had have asked me, "Am I the best ever?" but I usually avoid the subject. Because while most of them are good at one aspect of the sexual smorgasbord, rarely is one man good at everything, or at least, not without recourse to several months of training by me in my sexual boot camp training program which I call 'the Kaufmann Academy.' After men have completed this two month program they would be able to satisfy the most frigid bad tempered woman on the planet (apart from me). Or, more the point, the reason I don't answer the question about are you the best is that truly, who really remembers the details of the ins and outs of a lover of more than a year ago?
Frankly I think Jessica's attitude is stupid. But what about the other approach, taking the guy by the balls and squeezing until he cries? That's the approach of another friend called Paula who has a tough love attitude to men. While lounging in bed with a post-coital cigarette after their first go round, she gives every lover a graphic and explicit run down of exactly what was wrong with their performance.
"Please don't twiddle a woman's nipples like you're tuning the radio again, okay?" she'll say, blowing smoke rings. "And don't ever touch a clit without lube. Oh and don't let the door slam you in the face on you on the way out."
The truth is that what makes someone good in bed is impossible to quantify. There is a mixture of chemistry, the ability to be relaxed about sex and laugh when things don't go to plan and the ability to sense when the lady (or gent) want to be touched roughly or softly, the ability to ... well, you fill in the blanks.
Personally I would never tell a particularly awful one night stand that he was appalling. I'd just do the sensible thing and get an unlisted number. It's fairer that way, and prevents a guy from crying himself to sleep for weeks.
What's your policy? If you sleep with someone who bangs you like a cheap gong do you give a blow by blow criticism of everything he/she did wrong or do you say it was wonderful or do you just leave in the middle of the night and hope s/he doesn't know where you live?
Last night was quite a wild one for me. I took a little crack:
Then it was on with my glad rags and I was off to get me some cock.
After a lively evening of playing Spot the Slut,
I got chatting to a lady called Beryl who I have a feeling wasn't a lady.
Which brings me to my thought for today. If you are a straight man, maybe this thought will cause you several days of shitting yourself as you scroll through all the lady loves in your past. If you are a lady don't worry about it. I ran this question past lady-killer fingers who was like, "whatever, so I might have slept with a guy, who cares?, it's like worrying about the 55 spiders I'm supposed to have swallowed in my sleep statistically." To which I say, surely unwittingly sleeping with a guy is a lot more freaky than eating spiders? What I mean is, by the law of averages if you've slept with a fair few women, surely one of them was a post-op transsexual? I only mention this because I just saw a program about transsexuals and a lot of them really, and I mean, seriously, looked like women (rather than Beryl).
I asked my husband if he worried that he'd accidentally shagged a transsexual and he said no he wasn't because they don't have them in Ireland. If you went to a doctor in Ireland and told him you were a man trapped in a woman's body he'd lock you in a mental hospital and throw away the key.
But if you're not lucky enough to be Irish then think about it.
Have you ever been with a woman who said she didn't lubricate naturally and needed KY?
Have you ever been with a woman who you had anal sex with and it felt a bit, well, different?
Please don't say you would have known it was a chap because of his Adam's apple, because that can be removed with an operation called a Chondrolaryngoplasty.
Food for thought. Also I wonder what they do with the discarded penises?
Well, I was gobsmacked when I saw a video today for the insanely catchy tune: I Kissed A Girl by Katy Perry:
I was hoping it was going to be rude, but all it involved was some floozy getting turned on by another teens cherry chapstick. I guess Katy Perry is less a lipstick lesbian than a chapstick lesbian. So listen up, Ms Perry, I suggest if you really want to make some waves, why not do something a little more interesting than licking her chapstick. [Is this song really meant to be shocking? I don't think it would shock even seven year old Scarlett who knows all about lesbians]
So without further ado Katy, here's some lyrics for your next song:
I SHAGGED A SHEEP
This was never the way I planned Not my intention I got so brave, drink in hand Lost my discretion It's not what, I'm used to Just wanna try you on I'm curious for you Caught my attention
I shagged a sheep and I liked it The taste of her grassy bad breath I shagged a sheep just to try it I hope my boyfriend don't mind it It felt so wrong It felt so right Don't mean I'm in love tonight I shagged a sheep and I liked it I liked it
No, I don't even know your name It doesn't matter You're my experimental game Just human nature It's not what, good girls do Not how they should behave My head gets so confused Hard to obey
I shagged a sheep and I liked it The feel of her furry back flaps I shagged a sheep just to try it I hope my boyfriend don't mind it It felt so wrong It felt so right Hope I don't get a UTI tonight I shagged a sheep and I liked it I liked it
Sheep are so magical Cute hooves, sodden lips, so kissable Hard to resist so touchable Too good to deny it Ain't no big deal, it's innocent
I shagged a sheep and I liked it The pong of her hooves deep in sheep shit I shagged a sheep just to try it I hope my boyfriend don't mind it It felt so wrong It felt so right Don't mean I'm in love tonight I shagged a sheep and I liked it I liked it
Well, it is Sausage's fifth birthday on Saturday and as usual my husband is trying to get me - kicking and screaming - to involve myself in the concept known as having a 'kids' birthday party' aka hell aka screaming brats in my house. So. It was time to think of new concepts. Concepts that involved maybe, having a bunch of five year olds at a birthday party on the sea, sans me.
Luckily I was able to make my idea bear fruit. Here at the harbor is a pirate boat that takes kids on a 'pirate experience' manned by adults who dress in pirate costumes, who may or may not be escapees from a mental institution, who talk pirate all day long and also fire (water)pistols at the gang of bad pirates in the little dinghy that sails alongside the pirate ship.
So I said to my husband, "I've got it. We will put the kids on the pirate boat. We don't have to even go on. We will just let the adult pirates do things with the kids!"
My husband said, "Do you want to rephrase that?"
"You know what I mean. The kids will be contained on a ship in the middle of the harbor. What can possibly happen to them? And of course, beside where the pirate ship casts off, is a fabulous french patisserie where I can truffle in a sow's trough of almond croissants. Heaven!"
So it seems that casting the kids off to find buried treasure is the way to go. There is one small problem though. A kid called Angie who is coming to the party.She was the one who went to school wearing her brother's cock ring on her finger. Which is fine, no harm done. The problem is that her mother told me Angie jumped off a rollercoaster the other day. Her mother said, "Well, it didn't occur to me to tell her not to jump off before she got on."
Me: "Well it wouldn't, would it?"
"It was just going round and round and Angie said she got bored. And because she's so tiny she easily slipped free of the restraints and jumped off."
"Wow. She's quite athletic isn't she?"
"Yes. It wasn't that dangerous actually, because it was only a kids' rollercoaster and she jumped out onto the platform which was only ten feet off the ground."
I really don't need Angie deciding to jump into the Chesapeake Bay, which looks like an oil slick. Or for that matter, me having to jump in after her.
Today Scarlett (7) asked me, "Mummy, what are you reading?"
To which I replied, "Adam's Curse: The Science That Reveals Our Genetic Destiny by Bryan Sykes."
Scarlett: "What's it about?"
Me: "Well, this geneticist is saying that the Y chromosome is so weak that in 125,000 years men will probably have died out. What do you think we'd do if there were no men?"
Scarlett, deadpan: "We'd all have to be lesbians."
Even I was shocked by her matter of fact knowledge of lesbians and impressed by her practical solution to what I would have thought was an insurmountable problem. I thought she'd at least say, "I'd miss my daddy."
Which made me think of what the world would be like without men. Or at least, without sexual attraction. Think how many times a day you think about sex or men and then think about what you would think about instead. Frankly, I don't want to think about flowers and trees and the price of cornflakes. Sexual attraction really is the spice of life, however much we may sometimes hate men staring at our breasts and whistling at us from building sites.
My only experience of imagining a man-less world is when I used to frequent the Ladies' Pond on Hampstead Heath (above), which is a pretty idyllic place to relax at, with wall to wall women, mostly topless. Some of them look like this:
and some look like this:
All around me, spread out on the grass, would be lots of nubile lovelies oiling each other, snogging each other and yes, of course there would also be the occasional Peeping Tom up a tree with binoculars, trying to get a glimpse of this North London flesh fest.
But while the atmosphere was very tranquil and relaxing, after a while it also became somewhat dull. There was definitely not enough sexual tension in the air to keep it interesting for more than a few hours. For all the conflicts and misunderstandings between men and women, I can't imagine a sausageless world being much fun.
What do you think the world would be like if it was just inhabited by women?
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?