Sex on the Blog

I think about sex a lot.

As a homosexual, homophobic, red blooded mammal of the male variety, it comes naturally.

For example, if I converse with a man about, say, the weather, it's essential to put up a front, allowing them to see me either as a perfectly harmless straight bloke, or as gay as an Enid Blyton picnic, depending on what they find acceptable. (Generally, I choose the former; acting excessively camp makes me want to take myself outside and beat myself up as an example to others.) Woman, however, are less fussy about that kind of thing, and I can discuss the current meteorological situation with them without first having to check my belt buckle is facing the right way, or whatever daft system homosexuals are using to 'identify themselves' these days.

So it helps to be aware of sex. That way, I can avoid going up to the wrong one and mentioning Madonna.

As to the other kind of sex, I try not to think about it. It's said that men think about it all the time, but that's not true. We think about it at set times, once or maybe twice a day at the most. The rest of the time we're too busy deciding what channel to flip too during the ad breaks.

And I certainly don't write about it on this blog. This is probably to my downfall; sex sells, and he's a much better salesman than I am. Just having the word sex on this blog will increase my Google score tenfold, and if I include the words 'slut' and 'porn' (or 'Pr0n' or whatever the devil the kids call it these days) I'd have the top ranking site for months. But sex is taboo here. You see, my family read this blog and talking about sex in front my family would be like chatting about Chinese box kites to a Pro-Wrestler. It's just not the kind of thing that comes up in conversation.

In fact, the entirety of my sexual communication with my parents came, quite appropriately, during one of our traditional weekly bible studies, a tradition, which if my memory serves me, lasted for about 6 weeks. (Of course my memory has never served me once, not even so much as got me a beer from the fridge. But I digress...) We were reading one of those family friendly passages that mentions harlots and sodomy and other such wholesome things when, an ignorant child, I asked what a prostitute was.
My dad sighed.
"A prostitute,' he said, 'is someone who has sex for money.'
I nodded wisely. To my immature self, sex simply something enjoyable and extremely naughty, I couldn't think of a better job. It was fun, exciting and profitable. So naturally it was easy to see why God hated it.

My sister pushed a bit further.
'He doesn't know what sex is, does he?'

Now of course I knew what sex is. We had books in school which described the reproductive rituals of Daddy and Mummy robot in great detail. Sex, as far as I was aware, was a kind of horny metallic struggle.
Under pressure, and seeing a chance to embarrass my parents, I shook my head.
My dad turned peach. 'Surely you know what sex is?' I shook again causing him to increase several notches to Virgin red. My mum, realising that if this went much further my father would clash with the curtains, stepped in.
'Sex,' she said, 'is when mummy and daddy get together to make a baby,’
And with that, my dad turned back and carried on reading.

And that was that, the entirety of my sexual education. In a way now, I'm glad they didn’t teach me the ins and outs of reproductive sex. It would have been quite a waste of their time. And so I don't talk about sex on this blog. I wouldn't want to force my family into admitting I actually know about it....

But there's another reason sex is Taboo for the Freelance Cynic, one that I'll serve up for your lustful pleasure next week. It will take me at least that long to gain enough courage to talk about the filthy topic again anyway.

After all... I'm British.

Previous Posts

• Si-Kick - My Predictions for 2008
• Eeek-mail - Or how the internet almost got me fired
• Taking note - Or my Static Obsession

Si - kick

It is traditional, around this time of year, to do things that are bloody ridiculous. Amongst other things these include making new years resolutions, attempting to lose the Christmas pot belly, and getting the pine needles out of the carpet.
It is also tradition, around this time of the year, for psychics, in between scamming naive members of the public and choosing the wrong lottery numbers, to make their annual predictions.

And so, as yet another attempt to make myself famous, I got out my playing cards, shuffled them with the left, more psychic side of my body, and dealt out my predictions for 2008. However as all the cards predictions were along the lines of ‘the Queen of hearts will gain 10 Diamonds from a Black Knave,’ I put them away and just made up some predictions instead.

1. A crop circle will appear near a Barn in Baltimore in the shape of a letter M, or possibly a W. Maybe an E. This will lead many enthusiasts to set up camp nearby and release countless books postulating about the letter’s meaning
2. In the latter half of the year, much to everyone’s surprise, archaeologists will unearth evidence that suggests man once had 3 toes on each foot.
3. The war in Iraq will continue unabated.
4. We will find conclusive evidence that Alien life exists.
   This will later be proven false by scientists.
5. Throughout 2008 this blog will raise it’s popularity until it receives an average of 25 comments per post.
6. At least one reader of this blog will be E-mailed by a Nigerian millionaire.
7. Weather patterns will continue to be disturbed in 2008, causing the UK to suffer the wettest summer of recent years. There will however, still be a hosepipe ban.
8. The hosepipe ban will be ignored by all but the most loyal of UK Citizens.
9. Religion will continue to suffer in 2008. However the alternative medicine market will peak in the middle of the year, when it will be announced that Chi has been shown to exist.
   This will later be proven false by scientists.
10. A new Hobby Magazine will be released.
11. People will finally begin to get bored of Facebook and stop bugging me to add on applications.
12. The rapture will continue not to happen.
13. There will be no major terrorist attacks in the UK or the USA this year.
14. In August 2008 a cure will be discovered for cancer, and announced in big letters on the front pages of the Sun Newspaper.
    This will later be proven false by scientists.
15. In the Olympics the UK will win at least 2 gold medals, both in events nobody cares about.
    Saddam Hussain will continue to remain Dead.
16. Intelligent Design will be taken to court in the South West of America
17. The person elected as president in 2008 will have a penis, possibly kept in a desk drawer.
18. Old people will find it increasingly difficult to climb stairs.
19. A reader of this blog will comment on this post, saying how brilliant they thought it was.
    This will later be proven false by scientists.

Previous Posts

• Eek-mail - Or how the internet almost got me fired
• Taking Note - Or my stationery Fetish
• Claims, Stains and Octogenarians - or the worrying world of Insurance

ECNALUBMA

You know what really grinds my gears?
Vans that are so up themselves they feel their need to have their company name written backwards across their bonnet so you can read it your rear view mirror.

Of course this trend was started by ambulances. Now personally, I have to wonder how, when confronted by sirens that whine louder than Louis Walsh and more lights than a chain smoker, anyone would still have to look in their rear-view mirror to check they are, indeed, being followed by an Ambulance. And even then you think the hulking lump of white and yellow metal would be enough identification without the need for its name to be plastered all over it like a pair of Nike Trainers. For Doc's sake, ambulances are just one offence away from being a public disturbance, If you installed them with drum machines they'd be mobile hard house discos. I fail to see how having some fancy backward lettering makes them more noticeable. It's like putting a red nose on a porn star. That's simply not the bit that anyone notices.

But ambulances can save a life and for that we should cut them some slack. After all the life they're saving might owe you money and as such we'd all be a little worse off without them.

But I find it completely unbelievable that it would ever be useful to be aware that the van following you was full of orange Tango. If anything, that would just make me slow down and move into the middle of the road, just to make sure that the horrible beverage doesn't get delivered. You would think it would be enough that the vans are bright orange with bubbles, but no, they have to decorate them with their fancy stylish backwards writing as well, as if they believe they were designed by that famous Italian inventing artist, who wrote his diary backwards. You know who I mean, that Leonardo fellow who inspired the DaVinci code. Leonardo Dicaprio, that one

But the number of back to front words on the road is only going to increase. Because, if I looked in a mirror and saw a word that was readable in the normal left to right fashion, my concept of reality would be recalled faster than a children's toy from China. Believing up to be down, and left to be right, I would veer off the road into a ditch. And when they finally came to rescue me they would find me sitting upside down on the grass, rocking back and forth, mumbling random phrases out of Alice Through the Looking Glass. And obviously, I couldn't be the only person who would react in such a way...

And all that, of course, would result in a hell of a lot more ambulances...

Previous Grinds
Here, Here, Here, & Here.

New Erection

It's nice to see that on a street of brotels, sex shops and gay saunas there can be a company of repute. All I can say is, thank God for the apostraphe.

Previous Posts
Cap Comp, Caption Contest, Toad Work

Wedding Day Blues

There was a time when weddings were simple. All that was required was a broken condom and a shotgun. There was none of this fuss with wedding lists, or Evening Entertainment, or cake; just a night of unbridled passion followed by a life time of being bridled.

Our wedding was meant to be simple too. It was supposed to be about our feelings for each other, about promising to spend our lives together until we waste away together in a nursing home eyeing up the young carers.

Somehow, it got confused.

Because now it's about everyone else. It's become less of a fairy tale wedding and more like the Rocky horror Picture Show. Madness takes control.

Forget Love, our wedding is about seating arrangements and table decorations and dessert choices and photographers and accommodation and suits and best people and loans and family politics and scatterfetti and party poppers and invites and speeches and wine and transport and tiny chocolates...

And money, always about money.

At present, I'd be quite happy to forget about the wedding and skip to the honeymoon, just like I managed to forget being born. These things just aren’t major life events.

But over Christmas ,when I was lying in bed on my third consecutive night away from Dan, my thoughts were dancing round my mind like a raver in a army obstacle course. And I realised, slowly, that without Dan lying next to me, my bed was a void waiting to be filled. I missed him; I really missed him. It would be fair to say that was somewhat surprising. But I couldn't wait to be home again, hugging him, punching him and annoying him while he cooked dinner.

I am so enraptured by him, that if he asked, I would spend the rest of my life researching, designing and building a machine which could transcend the clouds, steal the stars from the sky, and grind them into a fine biological washing powder to make his laundry whiter than white.

He's worth the money. He's worth the stress. He's worth the rising feel of panic. Our wedding is, and always will be about us, the 2 of us, together for the rest of our lives, pinching each other when we get bored, fighting over the TV remote, and gazing 'thoughtfully' at the shirtless men on the beach until one of us loses our eyesight and has to 'eye up men' using Braille. I want my happily ever after, I want my pet dog, and my evening strolls, and my cold nights in bed spent stealing the duvet. And I want my Fiancée; I want my Dan, I want the one person who has managed to be more important to me than the Simpsons, whilst still managing to increase my latent homophobia on a daily basis.

I want my husband.

And if it costs me all the money in the world, a mental breakdown, and a wedding day styled after Nightmare on Elm Street, I'll do it. I'll do it for him.

Because promising to be together, forever (or until one of us gets really fat) will be the Happiest Day of My Life.

At least until the honeymoon...