Thursday, July 15, 2010

Sex and the Shitty

Nothing amuses me more - and I'm including my recurring daydream about Elvis Costello castrating Simon Cowell with a heat-warped sliver of Robson & Jerome's "Unchained Melody" - than hearing about other men's sexual shortcomings.

Please ignore the word shortcomings. That's not what I mean. Nor am I overly concerned with male genitalia which is unnaturally shaped, pubic hair which has been treated akin to topiary or any unseemly odours which may or may not be the result of poor personal hygiene.

What I enjoy hearing about is blokes that that are just shit in bed.

You know the sort of thing. For instance, a female friend bemoaning some outwardly God-like creature who - to your great relief - proved to be as gifted at foreplay as Douglas Bader was at country dancing.

It's sad, true - and indicative of thesis-level psychological issues - but, nonetheless, I should imagine that I am not alone in garnering an enormous amount of satisfaction from the knowledge that many of the man who pull with the smallest amount of effort don't really know what to do once they've sussed out the front-fastening bra.

(I do worry, however, that I care about this much more than they do. They're already on to the next oestrogen-raddled conquest who fancies dangling from a bicep for five minutes before reaching for the Ann Summers bag.)

And why shouldn't it? You spend your life attempting, in vain, to become erudite, cultured and witty - only to find that the opposite sex is more in favour of vacuous, six-packed near-racists with the IQ of topsoil and the sensitivity of a chain smoker's taste buds. It is desperately reassuring for my type to discover that, despite their ability to build shelves as soon as look at them, in bedroom matters, such Philistines have barely progressed beyond insert tab 'A' into groove 'B'.

All we have to do is wait patiently for the decent women to drink a lot of gin and shag against type out of curiosity. Then we'll show 'em. Haha! (We're at the end of the bar, wearing mostly black, and reading James Thurber, if you need a shortcut.)

There are times, however, when I envy the traditional male's uncomplicated outlook on sex in general. I read too much, frankly. My animal instincts bounce from ovary to Bovary in a fairly confused and frenetic manner - and, at times, I have distressing intimations that the act over which we all obsess is a faintly ridiculous thing to want to do. However, biology will out. (I'd wear clown shoes and a set of Venetian blinds, if I thought it would help.)

Still, I am convinced that, in a way, I lucked out when the insecurities were distributed. Feeling as though one is lucky to get a shot at all is perhaps essential to do a thing well. Nothing is more depressing, in such a case, than the suggestion that the other person failed to enjoy themselves. My God! To blow it after working SO bloody hard to get that far in the first place? Pure laziness.

Of course, you'd also be worried about the next guy along who was being terribly amused by tales of your inability to locate certain gynaecological landmarks with the aid of a sat nav and a large print edition of The Joy of Sex. Not a happy prospect.

Perhaps I'm overstating the issue. Perhaps, indeed, I thought this blog entry would be longer and now I'm vamping.

My point, such as it is, is this. While on the one hand, I often think to myself: "Guys! Sort yourselves out. All you need to do is show a little respect, a little care, a little selflessness and your report cards will be much less damning", on the other, I kind of hope you carry on being so fucking useless, because it a) makes me laugh and b) makes me feel much better about myself.

And that, in all honesty, gives me the horn a little bit.

2 Comments:

Blogger Clair said...

Good, you're back, and avec un corker, aussi.

Ovary to Bovary - a good song, methinks?x

15 July 2010 at 12:42  
Blogger Kentonist said...

I thank you, kind miss. Been working on the film and writing both new music and the novel, so creatively busy... but so little feedback! : )

Also, the trouble with one's own projects is no fucker pays you, so I've been living the skint life too.

Although, Ovary to Bovary will surely make my fortune at last. x

15 July 2010 at 17:31  

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