Rude boy  

rm_Studenten83 35M
2 posts
4/5/2006 3:55 pm

Last Read:
4/6/2006 11:50 am

Rude boy

Fancy a spot of docking, coprophilia or formicophilia? Studenten gets ready to revise his knowledge of the birds and the bees… and ants.

I’ve only once been to a lap-dancing club, back in about 2001. And it might not have been a lap-dancing club: it might have been a pole-dancing club. In fact, there were poles and laps. The girls started off on the poles and ended up in the laps. Most of them were Ukrainians, the girls, and the club was in southern Hungary, not far from the Serbian border.
I couldn’t see the point of it. The women slithered up and down the poles and all around the laps with the Slavic equivalent of come-hither expressions. But you were not allowed by the management to come, hither or otherwise. You could go behind an agreeably shabby curtain in the corner for a “special” dance- but according to the glassy-eyed Hungarian men I vox-popped emerging from behind the arras, this was a bit of a con. The girls just danced in front of you, sans pole and indeed lap. And then pocketed an extra handful forints for the benefit. In other words, in this club, you paid hard cash to be rendered rigid with either mortification or desire, depending upon your sensibilites ‒ and were deprived of adequate avenues for release in either case. Call me crass, but I just don’t see the attraction.

I mention this place because I’ve been feeling a bit guilty on your behalf. This column is supposed to be about behaving badly and so, really, I should put myself out a little bit more, in the interest of you fellow bloggers. But I’ve never paid for sex with a woman, for example ‒ metaphysically, and later, financially by being stupid enough to write my name on my former girlfriend’s cell contract. I’ve always been too arrogant, frankly, and have sometimes expected them to pay me. Oddly enough they are rarely minded to do so. I haven’t been to any of those weird and expensive swingers’ clubs either, where you wander in, grab a glass of champagne, strip down your Y-fronts or beyond and get temporarily buggered by some old bastard. I should be doing that stuff; I should be having endless Tantric sex with Sting’s missus, or Sting; I should be exploring the labyrinths of bestiality, coprophilia and formicophilia (sexual arousal from ants, I kid you not). And then there’s the brave new world of bee stings. In Brenda Love’s Encyclopedia Of Unusual Sex Practices, there is a very detailed description of the lubricious effects of being stung on the cock by an enraged bee, together with an anecdote about how the practice was discovered many, many years ago. Apparently a man was lying in bed with a female who “threw a bee on to his genitalia for a joke. He discovered that the resultant sting on his penis enhanced both the duration and intensity of his orgasm.” I’m sorry Brenda, but let’s stop there for a moment ‒ she threw a bee on his cock for a joke? What a hoot the old cow must have been. Bin her, mate, and keep the bee, if you must.

Nor have I ever partaken of the undoubted delights afforded through the action of “docking”. This is where two men touch penises and one of them ‒ and please excuse me for a moment ‒ pulls his foreskin over the other man’s member. Why precisely they do that I am not sure. Nor do I have a clue as to what happens once the docking has been successfully effected. Do they just sit there, uncomfortably attached, watching Mastermind? Whatever, there’s a handy line drawing of the procedure in Brenda’s copious book, if you’re interested.
So, I’m a charlatan, a virgin when it comes to ants, bees, docking and so on. I’ve never even met anyone who did stuff with bees or any insects. I’ve never even watched a pornographic movie ‒ well, not all the way through.
Sure, I’ve know people who behaved oddly during sex ‒ a nachspiel friend of mine was often moved, upon the point of orgasm, to reach beneath the bed and bring out an old-fashioned teddy bear which he would swing round and round, whooping and hollering, which was terribly disconcerting for the girl and indeed me. This particular chap, AndrĂ©, had great chutzpah: his preferred pick-up joint was the waiting room for the sexually transmitted unit at a major hospital here in Norway. Attempting to pull a girl there takes balls of steel, I reckon. And, indeed, a course of antibiotics.

Maybe I should be more in touch with my wilder side. I am now 23 years old and I have become aware that there is a whole world of deviant behaviour which hitherto I had not even contemplated. It is time to live a little. I want to do stuff which the Koran and the Old Testament and the Torah insists will leave me burning for eternity in the deepest pit of hell. It’s time to meet those Ukrainian girls who do stuff with horses on the internet; it’s time for me to sexually embrace that wonderful multiplicity of life from under the topsoil. It is time to nail my colours, or indeed my penis, to the mast. And I shall tell you all about it, if you can bear it.

But, in the meantime and in lieu of any real bad behaviour, let me leave you with a thoroughly politically incorrect joke about one of those practices I haven’t yet explored: bestiality.
A man comes home one night and walks into his bedroom with a live sheep under his arm. His wife is sitting up in bed, reading. The man says: “This is the pig I fuck when you’ve got a headache.”
The woman puts her book down, looks across at her husband and says: “Darling, I think you’ll find that it is a sheep.” And the man says: “Yes. And I think you’ll find that I was talking to the sheep.”

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