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Ugly and addicted to sex?

Ugly and addicted to sex?

So David Duchovny has just been admitted to a clinic for sexual addiction, joining a list of other male Hollywood celebrities who have admitted to a similar condition, including Michael Douglas and Russell Brand.

But at least these people could presumably get sex from wherever they wanted. I mean, Duchovny’s married to the gorgeous Tea Leoni, Douglas to the beautiful Catherine Zeta Jones.

What happens if you’re ugly, poor *and* have sexual addiction? Or is it something that only rich handsome men (poor them!) seem to get?

Brings a whole meaning to "Hello, Dave"…

Brings a whole meaning to "Hello, Dave"…

Apparently, British women thinks blokes called Dave are the most well-endowed. Which ought to be good news for David Lloyd.

Fortunately, Mark Boulton, James Cridland, Mark Thompson and Mark Byford would seem to have nothing to fear either. (Wonder what goes on at BBC executive meetings…)

This blog post is brought to you because there are tons of things I do want to say, but summoning the energy to say them in a vaguely cogiscent and amusing manner fails me at the moment!

Want to get 2m hits in two weeks?

Want to get 2m hits in two weeks?

Then forget about learning Ajax, Ruby on Rails, or even CSS. Forget about micro-marketing, niche-marketing or blog-marketing your website.

Just set up the simplest website you can think of, announce that if you get to 2m page impressions within a year, your girlfriend will go in a threesome with you for a bet, and watch the page impressions flood in. One million hits in one night. Amazing, really.

If women have dildos, what do men have?

If women have dildos, what do men have?

One of the things I loved about Sex And The City (aside from Miranda *sigh*) was the aspect of eavesdropping on women talking honestly about their sex lives. Only slightly tainted by the reality that it was probably crafted by a crew of gay male writers living in Los Angeles.

Fortunately, the blogosphere comes to the rescue with this revelation on what South African women talk about in the office: dildos. A singularly fascinating conversation that’s all the better for feeling real, and not being crafted for a mass audience.

What does amuse/amaze me is the laissez-faire manner in which women seemingly talk about their sex toys (although I’m surrounded by women at work and I’ve yet to hear them discussing dildos). You won’t catch men crowding round the water cooler discussing their sex toys – mainly because they don’t have any aside from Penthouse, but also because it’s just not done, man. Would men want/need sex toys anyway?

I’ve never really seen the point of dildos either (I mean, as a device … I’ve seen a few dildos in my time, thanks to the lesbian ex-flatmates). You can’t get more artificial than a dildo in terms of placing it inside or around small intimate areas. Surely even a cucumber would at least have that sheen of all-to-goodness nature around it?

The sounds of lesbians mating…

The sounds of lesbians mating…

As anyone who’s had the great fortune to sleep in the same room as me can testify (although I will deny it to my dying day), I can snore and sleep through anything. If an aeroplane was to crash into the Millennium Stadium, you can pretty much bet that I’d sleep through it and wake up to realise there’s a massive crater outside my window. I’ve slept through alarm clocks, people tickling me, everything. When I slumber, I slumber.

But not, apparently through the sounds of lesbians mating. I was pretty much solidly asleep until at 3am, I was woken by the sounds of someone having a fitting cough. At least I thought it was whooping cough. Then the sound became curiously elongated, and rising in pitch. With some accompanying pants. Putting two and two together, and remembering who I’d left on the couch when I went to bed after another unsatisfactory night with my lesbian friends in a lesbian bar watching lesbian foreplay (which seems to involve lesbians grappling each other as if wrestling, or punching each other in the arm), it was them pesky lesbians again.

After a few breathy moans, a couple of “Oh YEAH!!!”‘s leading to high-pitched yelps, the sounds seemed to die down, and I was just left with the blissful white noise of the TV in the living room.

Then 5 minutes later, the moans started up again. For 10 minutes. Again, leading to the breathy moans and the high-pitched yelps. Then died down. Then started up again 5 minutes later. And so on.

So my sleep was rather fitful. When I emerged from my bedroom at 9am, the yelping lesbian emerged from her room, beaming from ear to ear. I mean, beaming. She was practically begging me to come and talk to her in the living room. And when she says “talk to me”, she means I should just sit back and listen while she luxuriously launches into a dramatic sunny monologue about just how beautiful life is today. All because she got a sodding shag. Admittedly a shag I’ve been encouraging for months, if only to give some people some happiness. Little did I know it’d stop me sleeping.

So I declined her unkind invitation, and tried to get back to sleep. Which didn’t work. So I decided to go into town for some “me” time. Whereupon the lesbians kept texting me with various invitations to go back and join them in lunch, dinner, food, and cinema. Which isn’t that unusual, aside from it happening 4 times over 3 hours. And women just need to understand that No sometimes means No!

Women just need to understand. Sometimes, we prefer to be alone when we shop for shoes and computer gadgets.

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