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The 14,400 times a day man
The 14,400 times a day man
It’s about time to declare war on the clichés, therefore this critic of the myth that men think about sex ten times a minute… but then gets a little distracted.
It is offensive, reductive and patently unprovable to suggest that men think about sex every six seconds. It may be true of your average acne-riddled 13-year-old knob-frotter, still bug-eyed and panting from his first bean flick, who hasn’t got anything else to think about anyway and decorates his bedroom with posters of topless models, all smooth and goldenskinned with full, meaty breasts and trim little pussies with just a tangle of auburn hair in which to twine their long-nailed fingers. But the suggestion that a grown man like me (who gets his share of it, thank you very much) can’t live through a tenth of a minute of his working day without thinking about the smooth buttocks of underage Thai girls mud-wrestling in Baileys, is an insulting cliché perpetuated by women, explicitly to undermine the professional and social credibility of men.
I’m employed as a solicitor/researcher at the largest university in Scandinavia, for Christ’s sake. A respected man. Studenten83 of the faculty of law. How could I possibly maintain my position if I was unable to sustain periods of deep judicial reflection without thinking about putting my cock in something?
I have to keep abreast (mmmm, breasts) of my clients. You think I’d ever get any work done if every time I went down (mmmm, went down) to correspond with the financial institutions I was overcome by fantasies of Aylar Lie in rubber boots and pleated hockey skirt playing bell-end Ping-Pong with Marcus Schenkenberg? You think my head if my head was full of her plump, glistening lips, porn-bronze skin and long eyelashes gazing up at his big Swedish ball bag, playfully flicking one bollock ant then the other with her darting slippery tounge, that I’d be able to maintain a firm grasp (mmmm, firm grasp) on the big international finance institutions? Ye gods, I’d never be able to help a client, nor write any legal reviews. Somebody else’s clients and articles would soon end up plugging my slot (mmmm, pluggi… no, wait, that’s no good).
Every six seconds, I ask you. It just isn’t feasible.
What about when I’m playing football in Slottsparken? That’s just 90 minutes of pure Corinthian toil, unsullied by even a milli-moment of lechery. Do you think that in the frequent lulls to catch my breath after darting diagonal runds worthy of a man barely 18 years and straight out of the military-training (mmmm, barely 18 ) if I happen to catch a sight of a young mum wheeling her baby towards the embassies (mmmm, some sort of asses) I pause even momentarily to stare at her roling, fecund hips and fantasise about rescuing her child from a marauding Doberman so that she takes me back to her place to show me how grateful she is? You think it even occurs to me to imagine easing her jeans down over the mottled and creamy maternal flesh and making sweet love to her while the rescued toddler plays with his Lego in the next room? What kind of monster do you think I am? And what about when I’m driving? I am hardly likely to be thinking about sex then. I am the most disciplined and single-minded driver you have ever known. Great driving is all about driving defensively: slow to first gear at every intersection and lock both ways before proceeding smoothly to… HOT DANG! Would you get a load of the tumblers on that! Set them free, darling, that’s cruelty to puppies, that is! You could pick locks with nipples like that. Shouldn’t be allowed.
I’m not saying that men don’t think about sex occasionally. Sex is everywhere: adverts, pop videos, shop windows, gardening programmes, chess boards (the hooters on that queen, pork chops (mmmm, chops), phones, spoons, rolls of Sellotape, mountains, eggs, pencils, I mean, Christ, it’s not me that’s sex mad, it’s the culture. You’d have to be pope Benedict not to get a hard-on just listening to the weather programme on radio Tango (mmmm, naked women readen the forecast).
When I am happily bound in a relationship I’m pretty much a monk in the rumpy department. I would never go into a lap dancing club, for example, but if I’m walking down Vaci Utca (main street of Budapest) past Vörösmarty Square and suddenly there is a great big poster of a woman in a pink negligée prowling horizontaly across a shagpile carpet with her powerful, bronzed thighs all sweet-scented and lickable in scary shoes, then is that really me thinking about sex? Am I thus complicit in the shameful exploitation of the chain? Am I, by proxy, a seedy little turd who has to get his rocks off ogling smacked-out Albanian refugees for banknotes? If, as a result of seeing their demeaning and sexist advertisement, I am forced to stop at the first dark alley and knock one out into a clean hankerchief, am I to be considered in cahoots?
Six seconds, really. The truth is that most days I don’t give sex so much as a second thought for hours at a time. Blow job. Especially if I’m working. Indeed, I think I have proved that the very point by writing this article without giving shyly teased clitoreses or sexily fingered perinea even the briefest mention. So if you’ll forgive me a brief closing aperçu on the semantic paradoxicality of the temporo-sexual conudrum, qua cliché, as it is refracted through phallogocentric feminist discourse in the writings of…
Bugger. One of those little dancing girl pop-ups has appeared on my screen, totally uninvited, and looks all plump and bullbous in her cartoon bikini ‒ you’d never guess she was just a drawing (mmmm, Jessica Rabbit). But that’s not fair, that’s not me thinking about sex, that’s some pervy internett zip-file cache-thing bloggo person thinking about it. I will not, at the final hurdle, be distracted from… mmmm, she’s rather nice actually. She’s never going to take off those…she is, as well. I wonder what happens if you click on… wow. Shit, sorry. I’m going to have to go and, um, you know, er… how many seconds is that?