Tag Archives: sex

1896. A compromising situation

Dear Heart Throb
I really don’t know who to turn to. I am eighteen and my uncle’s wife claims to have information on me that could prove embarrassing. I don’t know whether to confront her about it or ignore it and hope it goes away. She claims to have photos of me in a compromising situation even though I know I’ve never been in a compromising situation like that. It’s amazing how photographs can be doctored these days to make them look real. Any suggestions?
Disgruntled Nephew.

Dear Disgruntled Nephew
You seem like a nice young man. How awful to be accused of being in a compromising situation and never having been in a compromising situation. You’ve got the worst of both worlds.

May I suggest you make a list of possible compromising situations – experiences that theoretically would embarrass you if knowledge of them got out into the public arena. An example could be getting videoed while stealing something valuable from a shop; or being caught having an affair with a popular film star. Things like that. Then choose one from the list and GO OUT AND DO IT. Make sure it gets noticed and recorded, and then leave it in a place where your uncle’s wife will find it. Doctoring photographs simply doesn’t work. She’ll want the genuine stuff. You’ll find that often the general population will be in awe of you and your compromising situation. You’ll be something of a celebrity.

Hope this helps.
Heart Throb

1673. Why some pronouns are proper

Stephan had a reasonably well-paid job until the company was sued by Stephanie for using the wrong pronoun. It was obvious that it should have been “she” and “her”?

Stephanie had a reasonably well-paid job until the company was sued by Stephan for using the wrong pronoun. It was obvious that it should have been “he” and “him”?

Stephan had a reasonably well-paid job until the company was sued by Stephanie for using the wrong pronoun. It was obvious that it should have been “she” and “her”?

Stephanie had a reasonably well-paid job until the company was sued by Stephan for using the wrong pronoun. It was obvious that it should have been “he” and “him”?

Stephan was an expert at forging references. It was a handy skill to have when looking for a job. But now there simply wasn’t a need for it. Enough money had been made.

1618. Reproductive toxicity

Just as Leopold was about to undergo purgation for reproductive toxicity, disaster struck. His wife had insisted that he have such a treatment and it was while flying to Los Angeles to see the experts that something happened to change his mind. He met a high altitude safety technician. She was delivering cut lunches to all the passengers when she leant over to ensure that Leopold’s safety belt was properly fastened. “We don’t want you to fall out of your seat when the plane crashes do we, sweet pea?” That was enough to convince Leopold that the proposed purgation of his reproductive toxicity should be put on hold.

Quite frankly, enough was enough. Upon arrival in Los Angeles Leopold and Angelina (for that was her name) booked into a motel where they mutually enhanced not only Leopold’s reproductive toxicity but his toxic masculinity as well. It was what used to be known as “a dirty weekend”.

Upon his return home Leopold’s wife was convinced that the expert’s purgation had indeed worked, for he no longer showed any interest in her. That was the beginning of the end; or rather the beginning of the beginning. They drifted apart. Leopold’s wife revelled in her new-found independence and ran for Congress. She was duly elected and had an extremely fruitful career demanding the destruction of male reproductive toxicity up and down the county.

Leopold’s ex-wife became something of a celebrity but, I’m sorry, I can’t remember her name.

1593. A bit of a romp

Jock was all of nineteen and more than halfway through his apprenticeship with a building firm. He loved to party on the weekends, and if he didn’t have to work he would have loved to party every night of the week.

One Saturday night he was invited by this guy and his girlfriend to go back to their house for “a bit of a romp”. Jock thought it a good idea, and followed the couple’s old van to their house in his car.

Would he like a beer? A coffee? Anything? Jock thought he’d like a coffee. Why not? He had a night of “romping” ahead of him and plenty of time later for a beer or two.

Twenty minutes after finishing his coffee he knew it had been laced with something. One of his hands started to shake, and he felt scared. There was no reason to feel scared but he did. He was terrified, in fact, of something unseen. He stumbled outside and got in his car. He drove off.

He didn’t have a clue where he was going. He just drove, quite slowly because things were a bit fuzzy, but he had to get away. There was someone standing under a street light. It was a hitchhiker. Jock stopped.

“Can you drive?” asked Jock. The hitchhiker could. “Can you drive me home? Someone laced my coffee and I’m not thinking straight.”

The hitchhiker drove. When he got safely home Jock gave the hitchhiker money to get a taxi to where he was going. All night Jock sat up in his bed staring at the door. He was scared stupid. He thought someone would come through the door to get him.

This was a turning point for Jock. He settled down (ever so slightly), met someone, fell in love, and they now have five kids. Most weekends Jock takes the kids camping or fishing. Or they just mess about. A good story, eh?

1517. Is it Robbie’s lucky day?

He was getting on in life, and for all his obsession with sex, Robbie had never “done it”. It’s all he could think of half the time – sex sex sex. How come every male under the sun had “done it” and he’d never “done it”?

When he walked into a room all he could think of was sex. He wondered what it was like. Was it something to do with his childhood that prevented him from “scoring”? How come his father had never told him how to go about doing it? How was he meant to go about it now that he was older? He was sure that everyone – absolutely EVERYONE – was doing it. He decided he was too old and decrepit now to fumble around and “learn the ropes”. That would be embarrassing. He’d seen a bit of porn and it all looked complicated.

And that was when he met Mabel. Mabel was the best thing since sliced bread. He invited her to his fourteenth birthday party.

1478. Sex in the classroom

Ms Daphne McHathaway was a wonderful teacher. She had a class of ten-year olds. They loved her. Well, they did until…

Everyone was stunned to hear her say, “Class! Class! What do you know about sex?”

There was a stunned silence. Then brave Johnny Overall ventured to say, “Not much, Miss. Perhaps you can tell us about it.”

“I’m not sure I’d be allowed to,” said Ms McHathaway. “You had better ask your parents first.”

Not every child went home and asked their parents. Some were too scared to broach the subject. Others simply blurted it out at dinner time. “Can Ms McHathaway tell us about sex?”

There was outrage from some quarters. Opposition against Ms McHathaway went from the frying pan into the fire. It grew into a conflagration. In the end, the parents were called to a meeting at the school.

“You should not try to usurp the duty of parents,” expostulated Mr Freddie Turnbull.

“I don’t know what the problem is,” said Ms McHathaway. “All I wondered, with the separation of church and state, whether I was allowed to teach them about sects.”

1310. Sage advice

My mother is like really nosey about my private life. Last night I went out with Jeff and my mother wasn’t like very happy about it. Jeff’s the one that got Sheree pregnant. And he’s the center midfielder in the school’s football team. Anyway my mother said, “Now listen Carol, if Jeff tries any funny business, clock him.”

Well I tried, but it was all over before I had time to even look at my watch. I don’t know why my mother needs to know this stuff, so I made it up and told her it took about three quarters of an hour.

(I’ve just realized that this story might not make sense to some: Brit and Austral and NZ: to strike, esp on the face or head; to strike sharply or heavily: e.g. clocked him in the face. )

Poem 57: There was no music in the air

There was no music in the air
but it seems she didn’t care,
she was all over me.
We could’ve done it then and there.

There was no music in the air.
Her lips were red. Her skin was fair.
She was all over me.
She touched my knees and tossed her hair.

There was no music in the air.
By now she’d thrown off most her gear.
She was all over me.
She’d more to give than I could bear.

There was no music in the air.
Don’t you know that I’m a queer?

At last she’s over me.

 

 

Poem 46: I think I left my wallet

(The poetic form selected for this week is the French triolet).

I think I left my wallet underneath a bed.
I wish I could remember whose bed belongs to who.
Was it Cynthia’s or Brenda’s? Jill’s or even Fred’s?
I think I left my wallet underneath a bed.
Meg’s perhaps or Elsie’s? Jane’s or Winifred’s?
I really hope it’s Moira’s; I liked the kitschy-coo.
I think I left my wallet underneath a bed.
I wish I could remember whose bed belongs to who.