Stop being so anal about it

So since of late, I’ve noticed that most of my sapien* acquaintances have taken it upon themselves to research about the physics of homo bed time.

‘We sleep, just like everyone else’ proved to be an inadequate answer.

After ignoring most of the licentious questions about the schematics of using the ‘backdoor to heaven’, I started wondering what all the inquisitiveness is about. Maybe it’s that their ultra-conservative girlfriends give them the finger every time they approach the subject. Anyways, without a prostrate gland I really don’t see what women get out of it, so stop trying.

So here are answers to the most frequent lewd inquiries thrown my way about the forbidden path:

Does it hurt?
I cry when someone pinches me. Do you really think I’ll be pointing my heels to the big blue sky if it did?

What does it feel like?
It feels like an half-hour orgasm without even touching your willy. The actual orgasm that follows is more akin to a stroke.

But does it hurt, though?
I thought we covered this.

But aren’t there ‘cleanliness’ problems down there?
No. unless you’re really stupid, you’d use the loo before letting someone go up electric avenue.

Really, no ‘residual‘ problems?
If you had any education, you’d know that your body took like 2.5 million years to evolve. Since then, it has become surprisingly good at keeping itself clean. Even uphill.


(*Sapien as in, not homo, i.e. straight)

Dog Days Are Over

Love the words here although the video is confusing.

Cricket and Doll Houses

When Christmas came around every year, father would ask us what we wanted from Santa. He wanted to ‘deliver the message’ apparently. Brother dearest, obviously privy to who really bought the presents, played along anyway. I would always ask father for a house. A small house, with small people and small furniture, small windows and small doors.

I was asking for a doll house but didn’t know the term back then.

Father would look at me with a quizzical expression, and come Christmas, I would find myself receiving Cricket Bats. Cricket Balls. Cricket Wickets and Cricket Bails.

Disappointment in the Christmas pillow-case. Every Christmas. Until one.

That year, though there was obviously no house, there were in fact, little bear-people, with little bear-people beds and colourful mini-furniture. I was thrilled. An old shoe box, a roll of celo tape, 6 platignum sticks and three hours later, my father regretted having got me the little bear people in the first place, as I proudly went about displaying, first to him, and then to whoever walked into our home, my very own doll house.

The day the doll house won over the cricket bat. That was a good Christmas.