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Friday, November 26, 2004


'I had an orgasm once, but somebody told me it was the wrong kind'

-Woody Allen-


A vulgar, but hilarious story struck my eye while I paged through a 1996 copy of Sky magazine; called the SEX ISSUE, completely dedicated (you guessed it) to the joys, and travails of sex. Reading the magazine, I was reconfirmed in my notion that the British constitute the major league of madcap fornication.

Flipping through the magazine’s pages, teeming with facts, stories and insights to the sex mores of British commoners and stars alike, such as Oasis' Liam Callagher:

"I love sex, I just get out there and get on with it. I’ll have sex whenever."

Don't take Liam for his word though, as he continues:

"But music’s my ultimate high – it’s special. I’ve always sung me cock off."

Jenny; a masseuse working in a London sex parlor confesses to a female perplexity:

"I’ve learned a lot about men, I’m always amazed how men will just take their clothes off, however disgusting their bodies are."

As is good British custom, this special issue of Sky magazine is invigorated with superior irony, such as the account of a porn star’s professional ethic:

"She licks her lips. She’s really enjoying it and she’s… she’s actually going to join in. Her huge swirling tongue is definitely not in her cheek…". The entertaining evaluation (empirical I wonder?) by the magazine’s staff, of 20 lurid sex toys is a riot; such as the verdict on a Banana Vibe Multi-Speed Vibrator, a bright yellow contraption disguised as a corn cob: "Q: How to explain it through customs? Munch on it as you walk through, and no-one will suspect a thing.
Q: Verdict:? It’s quiet enough to use when your flatmates are in. Also scores high marks on the disguise/camouflage front, as it can be hidden away in a fruit bowl."

A frenetic libido leaps off these pages, shared in breathless abandon by males and females alike. I rate British women- whom I have observed as tourists, in business liaisons, and in countless soaps and sitcoms- as the most carnivorous species of trans-European womanhood.

On their part, British males –collectively sharing their pre-coital angst- are foraging in packs, smashing pubs and getting pissed in soccer stadiums- ousted from their homes by the insatiable zest of their feisty girlfriends and wives. As an act of territorial vengeance, British males have annexed the European continental podium to settle their inhibitions. The resulting hooliganism should be regarded as a token of repressed sexuality.. One has to give them credit though: Mad dogs and English(wo)men are one hell of a climactic lot.



From the Sky magazine contribution "When You Have Sex In The Bath" by Zoe Ainsworth

"It all starts with me and my ducks in a fluffy bubble bath, bobbing about and generally having a fun time, when Tommy decides to come and play too. In he jumps, relegating my ducks to the floor without even a little puddle to play in, inviting himself into the bath for a bonk.
Minutes later we are happily bonking away and water is bubbling its way onto the floor so the ducks are having a nice time too, and everything gets quite energetic and vigorous and it’s really getting to be good and I forget about my ducks and then we try to change position and we’re stuck. Together. Down there.

Not a problem: we’ll just cool it for a second, then resume activities, put the ducks back in and relocate to the top of the freezer or something. This is fun. Sorry, my mistake. We really are stuck. Stuck as in a vacuum-packed sex stuck. As in "ouch." It takes a while for us to grasp the severity of the situation, at which point we embark on a lengthy but strangely unfriendly conversation along the lines of: "ohmygodwhatthefuckshitbollockswhatthe…" " Don’t move!" "Oh yeah, right, let’s stay like this then shall we, we’re bloody stuck!’ "Don’t you think I hadn’t fucking noticed!" "Bollocks!" "Aaargh.." "Iyaminpaaaiiin!" "Ohmygodfuckshit."

This is really not comfortable. I have just vacuumed up my boyfriend’s knob. I didn’t want to keep it, honestly. Unfortunately the slanging match has absolutely no effect on the vacuum situation and so we panic some more, spectacularly failing to get out of the bath and flailing about wildly with lots of water flying up my nose in a jet-propelled kind of way until the realization dawns. We are going to have to go public. "bollocksbollocksbollocksbollocksbollocks."

I’ll spare you the ensuing, even more embarrassing details, but the pair somehow manages to call a 999 emergency number, eventually resulting to be carried off onto a stretcher and driven to a hospital by four "Shining knights in yellow ambulance jackets".
The scene described by Ainsworth as the ambulance workers evict the love struck couple from their disastrous bathroom is a little gem:

"None of the semi-muffled laughter of the telephone operator here – they simply piss themselves when they see us, and as they finally carry us out on a stretcher, they can’t resist telling us all of their silliest hospital sex stories. Add to this half the street coming out to look out for any available dead bodies and you’ll understand that the remaining 10 months of our year-long tenancy were not fun."


Excerpts from WHEN YOU HAVE SEX IN THE BATH – by Zoe Ainsworth – Sky magazine December 1996


posted by Walter at 11/26/2004