A ball-tearer of an idea......

 

DID you cop a gobful of that bullshit relationships piece that some tired old slapper wrote in one of Australia's quality mainstream dailies or the Courier-Mail the other day?
It's not the size of the wave that counts, it's the motion of the ocean, thundered this self-proclaimed expert on all things sex, the relevant degree obviously tucked deep with the hidden folds of her glory box.
Didn't see it? Doesn't matter, for you'd know the general thrust – what poor schmuck men have to do – must do – to pleasure their women. Open any glossy magazine, any features section. It's in your face, day in day out, in breathing, living, demanding colour.
Now that we've lurched into the new millennium – or the new womllennium as the femo-Nazis are no doubt demanding – what are the chances of seeing less of this lopsided claptrap aimed at cutting us poor bloke bastards down a size or three.
Especially at this stage of our development when we're well and truly straddling the barbed wire fence of acceptability, one leg stuck in the SNAG 90s; the other in some brave new world where even some of the staunchest feminists of the last millennium now say perhaps they got it wrong and men need to revert to the testosterone-laden hunter-gather they once so despised.
Reading that rubbish the other day got me to musing how long I'd last as this paper's features editor if I'd agreed midweek when this pimply faced young male cadet wandered up to me and said he had a beaut concept for a feature article on how women could improve their love-making techniques – learn a few extra steps in the horizontal folk dancing department. Our discussion went something like this:
Him: It'd just be a little light-hearted piece about how women should learn to give a hand job properly.
Me: Don't do it, son!
Him: Well, shit, Frank, someone's got to tell them that a cock doesn't have a flip top, for Christ's sake!
Me: Don't do it, son!
Him: That the aim of the bloody exercise is not to send your knob flying across the room in the quickest time possible.
Me: Don't do it, son!
Him: Why the fuck not?
Me: For one thing, I like this job. Secondly, I'm rather fond of these nuts. Had 'em all me life. Look good as a set too. Damn it, I'd miss them, son. It's as simple as that.
Well, he's a nice young kid so I took him down to the journos' local and tried to explain to him that as a general rule women know they're sitting on a fortune and really get quite miffed if, even just occasionally, their male sexual partners might like to bank a deposit somewhere else, with or without their help.
I let him down as gently as possible to this basic fact of life, and I'm glad to report that he's also scrapped plans for a second feature on giving top-shelf blow jobs.
That got us to thinking about that poor English lass who was not only prepared to swallow more than just her pride in admitting the total pleasure it gave her to give the current boyfriend a hundred lashes with the robert young.
We both agreed that it was a travesty of justice, not only because the arsehole circulated her private sex message to the world via the internet (one therefore has to question her taste in men) but that this former public schoolgirl wasn't granted a damehood in the Poms' New Year's honours list.
Still, I think the young fella know understands sexual protocol in the modern era especially for a family newspaper like The Bug, and hopefully he'll be keeping both his heads down low from now on.
In fact, I've just realised that he reminds me a lot of another journo mate of mine and a conversation we had at that very same waterhole right in the middle of that SNAG period of the past two decades.
"I'm giving women away," he declared one night over some for the road. "I just don't know what they expect from me any more."
I knew he meant us. Men.
"I try to be thoughtful and do the right thing" he mused. "I always insist that they pay their share now. If I'm walking along a street at night, I'll cross over so as not to frighten a women who might be walking towards me on the same side."
I nodded and topped us his pot.
"I do my share of washing up and that stuff. I try my hardest on the work bench to give them as much pleasure as possible. Give them a rub. Even talk afterwards. Sometimes.
" But they're not any happier. I don't know whether they want more – or less. It's more confusing than ever.
"You know what I think, Frank," he said, not expecting an answer. "One day women won't wan't to have us around at all. Men will just be kept in cages and milked for their semen."
We both agreed that it would be an absolute tragedy for that to happen and not to be selected.
It was at this point that he emitted this pathetic little sob and I instinctively put my hands around his shoulders, just as I imagined a SNAG should have reacted.
He whispered, "thanks for that" and our lips touched ever so briefly.
He left journalism soon after – virtually retired from the human race, to the north coast somewhere. I still think of him sometimes. I do hope he's okay now.