Recently, I had an article placed in the South African edition of Gentlemen's Quarterly magazine. Rather brazenly perhaps, I had submitted it for consideration in their humour column. Glad though I am to have had a piece committed to print by an organisation bound by the need to turn a profit, I was mildly alarmed when I bought the July/August 2011 edition this week and found my offering in the sex column. Admittedly, this reduces the likelihood that no-one will laugh because claiming to be funny generally disposes people to make you work harder for their laughter. However, anyone reading this month's sex column will not walk away with stylistic guidance or consolation in numbers about a perceived failing of theirs. If a grim warning that has nothing to do with STDs is what they are looking for, satisfaction may be within their grasp. This piece is not my usual style and does make me come across as rather an embittered practitioner of the sexual arts. I may be embittered from time to time about sex but woe betide anyone who calls me a practitioner. One must consider one's audience though. Anyway, the editors at GQ lopped a few sentences off the original text and toned down some of the illustrative examples. Below is what I submitted. If you have the magazine article to hand, notice the difference in the final fantasy that eventually caused the couple to split.
In the words of Ace Ventura, “Do Not Go In There.”
Sigmund Freud once wrote, “I am accustoming myself to the idea of regarding every sexual act as a process in which four persons are involved.” That’s two lovers and two fantasies. This is the kind of information that people wish they never found out. When I did, all I could think about was that during oral sex, I was the one developing cramps in my deltoids from prising apart her labia and repetitive stress injury from speed balling the clit for forty minutes with the tip of my tongue, while some twit from a teenage vampire movie called Robert was responsible for all the, “uuhs” and “yeses”, as well as the winning drop goal. Well fuck you little neck nibbler, you come round to the house the next time its leak week and knock yourself out.
I found the Freud quote in a book called Who's Been Sleeping in Your Head: The Secret World of Sexual Fantasies by Brett Kahr. Now this is not a book review, but this book is out there and it should be kept as far away from your partner’s bookclub as Robert Pattinson should be from her clitoris. Dr. Kahr got his material from 13 000 volunteers who were paid to be interviewed and 3 000 patients in his marriage counselling practice, so no-one can accuse him of ruining his sample by accidentally living next door to Mr. and Mrs. zooporn.com or across the road from level 33 freemasons who jerk off to images of the pope photoshopped into Victoria’s Secret catalogues.
According to some promotional bumf on Amazon, “Kahr, by unmasking the myths and destroying the guilt and ignorance surrounding sexual fantasy, offers readers a chance to lead richer and less conflicted lives.” Bullshit. Not if you are in a relationship. It is the relationship equivalent of fissile uranium and I’m referring to explosions that attract divorce lawyers, not Kleenex. I am not in a relationship at the moment mainly because I am sick of doing the cunnilingus trench digging for Jesus, her friend’s father, her friend’s brother, Vladimir Putin or that old staple of autoerotic and consensual sex bring-a-friend parties – Mr. William Bradley Pitt. Or, more specifically, William Bradley Pitt from Fight Club.
I lent this book to my therapist who has kept it for 9 months. Let me tell that when a therapist picks up her pad and pen, you know you have said something fucked up or significant. If she borrows a book from you and keeps it for 9 months, especially after you’ve let slip the odd pert-breasted, ramp-model-thighs, schoolgirl-in-tartan-skirt fantasy, don’t expect Discovery to cover your sessions forever.
Provided you can keep it to yourself, this book will help anyone who thinks they jerk off to crazy stuff or did when they were teenagers – and I’m not just talking about an English teacher with a perm and a landslide ass. For those with residual guilt about their teenage onanism (fancy dinner party word for masturbation), this book is like a five star hotel pool in the Seychelles with a lie-low that features four slots for cocktail glasses. For starters, most of the priests and youth pastors who told schoolboys to, “Banish lustful thoughts from your filthy minds!!” were getting so worked up because, on a nightly basis, they were conjuring up scenarios in their heads that would have got them chucked out of the Playboy mansion. The book didn’t actually feature fantasies of the clergy as a separate topic – the author had some dignity – but the probabilities are not on the side of the Church being populated with the pure of mind. One guy featured in the case studies was a wealthy, fit banker who was dating an employed, as opposed to aspirant, model and had regular sex with her taut, flawless body. Yet most nights he put on a DVD featuring fully-clothed lesbians with boxing gloves who hit the shit out of each other and, as they did, he beat off to it. You see what I am talking about.
Here’s another little bit of information you’re gonna wish I never told you. A sizeable handful of men in the UK make their money enacting rape fantasies for, mainly, women. There are rules of engagement here but I couldn’t help thinking, “What do these guys call themselves and how do you register dissatisfaction as a client.” Take names for starters. If you want to enact a rape fantasy, you aren’t going to hire ‘Ned Flatley The Tender’ or ‘Come Screw With Hugh.’ No, you want ‘Vladnorg the Persistent’ or ‘I Am He Who Understands None of the Parts of No.’ Now in terms of feedback, can you imagine a disappointed customer saying, “Vladnorg, I have to level with you. I really do not feel sufficiently violated or even tempted to take a 5 hour shower. Let’s just call it £100 pounds for the whole fiasco and I’ll cover your Tube fare.”
If you take one thing from this book, it is that you must not be tempted to ask your partner her most private fantasy. In response to his question on this matter, a Polish guy was informed by his partner that she often flicked her bean over the thought of being taken from behind by a man of Caribbean descent with a monster whopper. The four year relationship came to a shuddering halt as the image lodged itself in his head. You were warned.
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