Category Archives: Sex

Good Vibrations

In amongst all the festeringly uninteresting commercials on TV this Christmas, I couldn’t help noticing an outbreak of Trojan ads. These started with commercials for Fire & Ice condoms, which are supposedly so good that they make couples rush into the drugstore to buy some more…

To read more about naughty sex toys and the rest of this racy story  see my book

Cleveland Steamer

I could have happily gone my whole life without knowing about the sexual act known as the Cleveland Steamer, but when I heard the Bob and Tom song of the same name I admit I had to Google it, along with many of the other acts mentioned in the song (rusty trombone anyone?)…

… to continue reading this most excellent story see my book

 

Señor Floppy


Bad news for all you Hispanic men today – according to a study published in the Archives of Internal Medicine you’re two and a half times more likely to have difficulty getting it up than other men. That means one in eight of you have boner issues, compared with about one in twenty of the rest of us. And that’s just for men in the 20-50 age range – once you include the old guys you have a 40% probability of limp dick syndrome.

Now I can’t help thinking that it’s a little ironic that there should be such a massively disproportionate incidence of “downward facing dong” in the Hispanic community, given the reputation among Hispanic men for machismo. I guess all that Latin lover, open shirt, medallion-wearing, slicked back hair, tight leather pants stuff is just bollocks; the willy just can’t cash the check that the image is writing. Maybe this is why the Latin lover thing is so prevalent: as Shrek would put it, “Do you think he’s compensating for something?” It’s the same syndrome that results in it always being little fuckers who start fights in pubs, as they try to prove that they’re every bit as tough as everyone else. Meanwhile we know they’re just pissed off because they can’t reach the condom machine in the pub toilet.

Us pasty white blokes don’t waste time waxing our chests, whitening our smiles and gelling our hair. We don’t do the Samba or any of that crap. We don’t have to because we know our equipment works. Sure, Juan will gaze into your eyes as his open-necked shirt exposes his tanned chest, but can he get an erection? Apparently the answer, at least 12.5% of the time, is “no”. Just as you shouldn’t bring a knife to a gun fight, there’s no point showing up at the ballgame with a floppy bat.

What’s interesting is that there is no apparent reason for the observation in the study. The data was corrected for medical issues like diabetes, so the obvious question is “Why do Hispanic men have such difficulty getting it up compared to the rest of us?” We’re biologically the same, so what’s the key distinction that would explain the difference in hard-on activity?

Well, at the risk of being politically incorrect, has anyone considered the women? I mean, it’s well known that for all the mixed race relationships that exist, the statistical majority of relationships are within ethnic groups; most Hispanic men are dating or married to Hispanic women (or other Hispanic men, but let’s not go there) just as most white and black people tend to marry within the same ethnic group. It may be as much a matter of who you happen to be surrounded by as anything else, but it’s a fact nonetheless. Is it possible that there’s nothing different about Hispanic men, but that it might be harder to get wood with Hispanic women? The hypothesis fits the data.

Now, far be it from me to suggest that Hispanic women are unattractive. I happened to meet a woman in Mexico who could probably have given an erection to a dead man, never mind anyone else. But we’re talking about averages here – could it be that a higher incidence of hairy top lip, overgrown thatch or wide arse than exists in the general population is responsible for the “downturn” among Hispanic males? Well, I’m no medical man so it’s not for me to say, but somehow I don’t imagine that this will be the subject of the follow-up research paper in the Archives of Internal Medicine.

It turns out that you can research pretty much anything you want, but there are some questions which cannot be asked, just in case the answer isn’t what people want to hear. In the meantime, while us lucky guys fully expect to wake from slumber with the “wife’s best friend” at attention, spare a thought for Southern California, which must be the flaccid penis capital of the United States. Keep taking the little blue pills, guys.

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Half Way House


As every bloke knows, there are two kinds of lesbian in the world. There are the really attractive ones who look like women and who we all like to watch getting it on. (Don’t pretend that you don’t – I’ve never met any bloke ever who didn’t appreciate a little girl-on-girl. It’s as natural as liking motorbikes.) And then there are those other ones. You know, the ones that are all hairy, two hundred pounds, with crew cuts, Doc Marten boots and a desire to crush your penis underfoot. The subject is somewhat topical as the redheaded one from Sex and the City turned into a lesbian and pictures of her with her “partner” were in the news because the movie opened.

[Please note that any man who attends this movie under any circumstances will be required to hand in their testicles and undergo gender reassignment, as they will officially become a woman.]

Now I never got the whole Sex and the City thing – a bunch of ageing, neurotic, spoiled, shoe-obsessed New York bints looking for Mr Right – and I have to say that in a “who would I shag” list, of the four I’d have the redhead and Sarah Jessica Camelface in a photofinish for last place. Nevertheless she did at least look like a woman; her partner, from the picture I saw, is considerably more masculine.

Why do lesbians do this? Invariably in any couple there’s one pretty one but she’s hooked up with a boot-faced, broad-shouldered, big-boned harridan who looks uncannily like she’s trying to be a man (maybe by smoking a pipe or having no breasts). This doesn’t make any sense to me. I can relate to lesbianism on one level – I mean, I like women too, so I understand the physical part – but if you really fancy women why hook up with something that’s obviously nearly a bloke. A man-substitute, if you like. What’s the big attraction then? It’s like the same thing, only without a penis, and that just means you have to invest in a plastic strap-on instead of taking advantage of what nature provided. In most lesbian couples there seems to be one “man” and one “woman”. It’s like “I don’t want a bloke but I really like plaid shirts, hairy legs and heavy shoes so I’m going to shoot for a half-way option”. If you’re happy to wake up next to some gigantic snoring hairy-chested lump, does it really make it better if they don’t have a built-in prick and balls?

This stuff can cause real problems. The Caliente Cab Restaurant in New York City just paid out $35,000 to settle a lawsuit from a lesbian who was eating there with her partner (after having marched in a gay pride event) and was refused entry to the women’s restroom by a bouncer who was convinced that she was a man. This “woman” was dressed like a man – what was the bouncer supposed to do? You let a bloke into the women’s restroom and all hell will be let loose, with claims for damages for emotional distress and harrassment. Seems to me that if you don’t want to be mistaken for a bloke you shouldn’t dress up as one. If a bloke shaves his legs and goes prancing down the street in an off the shoulder black dress and a pair of Manolo Blahniks he can hardly complain if someone things he’s a woman, can he?

Apparently the Transgender Legal Defence and Education Fund filed the lawsuit. Well thanks a lot, you fucking weird bastards. Now we’ll have blokes in the ladies room and men in dresses whipping it out at the urinal (assuming it hasn’t been cut off yet), all in the name of political correctness.

Oh well, I think I’ll stick with my version of lesbianism for now. Just to reassure myself that I’m on the right track (and purely for research purposes) I typed “lesbian” into Google Images. And yes, “safe search” was off. It seems that Google agrees – all lesbians are young, pretty and very photogenic. Positively athletic too, by the look of some of the contortions. There were no women in plaid shirts or smoking a pipe, and none of these women stands any chance of being refused entry to the ladies room. And what’s more, although they clearly are enthusiastic about shaving all sorts of things, none of them found it necessary to shave their heads. That’s more like it…

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Are You Sitting Comfortably?

  • What sort of man shoves a potato or a jar up his arse?
  • What sort of man has himself photographed having them removed?
  • What sort of person photographs a man having things removed from his arse?

If you’d like to know then you’ll have to read Mr Bison’s Journal a hilarious book packed full of toilet humor and lots of other delights that should not be discussed around the dinner table. Buy one for yourself, or your friends, it is the perfect gift for a man that has everything …oh and likes reading on the toilet.

 

Open Wide


I have this theory that you can tell a lot about a man by his reaction to an attractive woman crossing her legs in front of him in a short skirt, or bending over in a low-cut blouse. That is to say, if he tries to catch a glimpse of the “promised land” he’s a normal, healthy bloke, whereas if he doesn’t look he’s gay. Or possibly blind. I believe there may still exist a large number of women who seriously believe that polite men (perhaps including their own husband/boyfriend/father) wouldn’t look, whereas I personally maintain that this is complete bollocks. The only characteristic which distiguishes between us men in this regard is the degree of blatantness we are prepared to employ.

What is it about forbidden flesh that’s so appealing? I mean, you could be sitting on the beach surrounded by women in bikinis and hardly even notice their near-nakedness, but as soon as that well-upholstered barmaid bends over to get a packet of salt’n’vinegar crisps you just have to check out her cleavage. (At least I assume this is the case – it’s always possible that it’s just me, and hundreds of people reading this are currently shaking their heads and wondering what the fuck I’m on about.) Maybe it’s that very forbiddenness (is that even a word?), the knowledge that you’re gazing on things that should be hidden. It’s the unexpected pleasure, the bonus encounter that reminds you that there’s more to life than work, family and wholesome pastimes. Of course this only applies if the encounter is indeed a chance one; if you wander around with a mirror on your shoe looking for it then you’re just a sad wanker.

We live in a world where hardcore pornography is but a click away and you can gaze on anything from tasteful nude pictures to a movie of a Chinese woman sucking off a large dog, and everything in between. In spite of this I challenge you not to glance sideways next time the opportunity presents itself at the health club/mall/parent teacher conference. The trick is obviously to do it without drawing attention to yourself; this means both from the object of your observation and from the girlfriend/wife who will inevitably be standing right next to you as you involuntarily gaze up some blonde goddess’s skirt. It’s a constant battle, but one made almost impossible to win by the fact that women instinctively know when you’re doing something you shouldn’t. It’s like they can sense it, and I don’t mean because your conversation trails off, your head turns and you mutter “Fuck me, look at those!”

You may think you’re stealing an imperceptible glance at some nearby and near-exposed mammaries but to your other half you might as well hang out a sign that says “System paused while checking out some nice breasts. Normal service will be resumed shortly.”

Sometimes a cursory glance isn’t enough though. I remember a toga party I attended years ago where the hostess carried on a conversation while sitting with one leg draped over the chair arm, her growler practically hanging out of her underwear. You couldn’t not look. It was like the room shrank away and there was just me and this giant minge. It was the minge that was talking to me – I swear I could see the lips move – and I was transfixed. I could hardly believe that this girl, with whom I had worked for some months, had something so hairy between her legs. She should really have had it on a leash.

Maybe a better man than me wouldn’t have noticed, but I’m willing to bet there are, at least in this respect, few better men than me. I hereby plead “not guilty” to charges of checking out forbidden sights, on the grounds of diminished responsibility. Seriously, your honor, I had to convince myself that it was in fact just a hairy clunge and that she wan’t wearing a Russian hat down there. I guess my only hope for acquittal is an all-male jury…

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Burning Rubber


I sometimes wonder if I was born twenty years too early – there are so many ways in which life has been made easier and more fun through the application of improved technology. This occurred to me when I was looking at my car today – the thing is nine years old and apart from needing a wash it still pretty much looks like it did when I bought it. The first car I ever bought was ten years old and it was a rusted-out piece of shit, not so much a car as a collection of automotive projects bolted to a chassis and painted orange. Admittedly when things went wrong with it I could fix them myself – nowadays if one of the “you’re fucked” lights on my dashboard came on it’d be in the same category of “things I could do myself” as intestinal surgery, dentistry and tattoos.

Other things also got better. I haven’t been watching developments in the condom industry very closely over the years but back in the day things were relatively simple. The machine in the pub toilet would give you a choice of Featherlite or Fiesta (basically plain or colored); it wasn’t worth spending a lot of time deciding because invariably your coin would get jammed and you wouldn’t get either. Even if you went to the chemist (drugstore – this was back in the UK) you didn’t exactly have to wade through a hundred options. In fact the only ones I can remember were regular, colored, extra thin and “ribbed, for her pleasure”, which roughly translated into “ribbed, so you won’t feel a fucking thing”. I know there were flavored ones, glow-in-the-dark and stuff like that, but they were typically novelty shit, not the sort of thing you’d trust to prevent unscheduled offspring. Who needs a glow-in-the-dark penis anyway? Unless your partner is going to attempt to run-up, do a double handspring from the bedpost and land on your erection with the light off I can’t see the point. “Look, I know it’s dark in here but if you haven’t worked out by now that my prick is down here, right above the sack with the balls in, I think we have bigger problems.”

I just checked out the product line at Durex (for the Brits out there) and Trojan (for the Americans) and things certainly moved on a bit. I’d give the edge to Durex, but that might just be nostalgia. Years ago I used to go shopping with a girlfriend and the first section of the supermarket was the healthcare products aisle. I’d throw a family pack (that doesn’t seem right, does it?) of Durex Elite into the bottom of the shopping cart and she’d immediately try and cover it up with fruit and vegetables, in case people noticed that we were HAVING SEX. Durex don’t spell things out too graphically though. Their “Extra Safe” product, with thicker walls and extra lubricant, should really just be called Durex Arse Grade. And what’s with “Performa”? A benzocaine additive for climax control seems like maybe a bit too much technology. How about you just imagine a fat bloke sitting naked on a glass-topped table instead?

The Trojan site is much more fancy but there are a few things I wondered about. For a start, there’s this thing called the Twisted Pleasure condom which looks like it would completely kill any sensation in your nob-head. In fact it reminds me of one of those ice creams we used to get as kids from the van that drove around – you know, the ones that were coiled down on the cone from a dispenser. Perhaps that’s the idea – you want your partner to think “That looks just like an ice cream – maybe I’ll lick it.”

The other one that caught my attention was the Magnum XL. It’s even bigger than the Magnum – for all of those guys that are way too big for a standard size. The Trojan people aren’t stupid though – they know blokes will buy the bigger size even if they don’t need it, so they “taper” the base (i.e. make it narrower) in order that it won’t just slip right off your “average size” dick. I can see why this would be a big seller in the drugstore, where blokes can ask for it by name, or conspicuously present it to the check-out girl, but will people really buy this online, where there isn’t anyone to notice?

Both brands now have “warming” condoms that are supposed to bring extra sensation. I suppose it’s like Bengay or Deep Heat on your dick, but presumably not quite so strong. Here’s where I part company with technology and remind myself that on the other side of the condom is something that was already designed to provide all the pleasurable sensations necessary. In fact the only thing I used to require of a condom was for it to feel as much as possible like it wasn’t there at all. No color, no flavor, no glowing in the dark, no need to prolong the pleasure or provide ribs, dots and twists.

There was one brand I tried which was fantastic. The sensitivity was great and I thought I’d found a product I could really love, right up until the point where I pulled out and found the ripped rubber all rolled up, concertina-style, around the base of my shaft. Which just goes to show that the best condom of all is the one you don’t have to use. (Of course this doesn’t apply if you’re planning to shag a transsexual street prostitute, with track-marks on her arms, up the arse tonight.) At least technology has given us the Trojan Mint Tingle – designed so she can blow you without swallowing and you can kiss her afterwards and get the taste of minty freshness. Everyone wins! (She being your girlfriend/wife, etc, not the street prostitute – I hope I didn’t have to spell that out.)

By the way, don’t get me started on the female condom – that thing’s like a fucking bin liner. I’ve seen flat-pack furniture that’s easier to assemble. Unless you’re planning to fantasize that your partner is a plastic love doll I’d give it a miss if I were you…

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Eeeeww!

It’s now a week since Bison Daughter was treated to “The Video” at school. In my ignorance I assumed this would be the point where the school lifted the veil on the mysterious and disturbing subject which is sex; after all, I was also ten years old when my school did it back in the UK. (Of course it wasn’t a video – it was a slide show, I think. Even audio at school was jurassic reel to reel back then. I’m just lucky they weren’t still scratching stick-diagrams of penises on the walls of the cave.) However it seems that in the delicate world of the US school system this is only the initial foray into the topic. The girls were separated from the boys and told about “hygiene”, in other words periods, sanitary protection and deodorants.

It seems that sexual education here is done on the installment basis, with each of the next two years bringing another episode so that eventually kids will get the picture. Of course by the time the punchline is revealed about half of them will probably be sexually active and several of the ones bussed in from the city will actually be parents. We didn’t wait for the school on account of Bison Daughter peppering us with questions at an early age and us being too busy to make shit up. It was easier to tell the truth (by this I mean it was easier for Mrs.Bison to tell the truth; I wasn’t touching the subject, obviously) so Bison Daughter already knows about sex. We had to swear her to secrecy in case she spilled the beans to one of her friends, causing them to run home, screaming, and their parents to regard us as the antichrists.

So there was no “aha!” moment for our child. In fact I’m thinking of writing a note to excuse her from future sessions on account of her knowing it already. “Please let us know when the class is ready to move onto learning about masturbation, girl-on-girl, dildos and oral, because we didn’t cover that.” Somehow I can’t see that happening…

I still don’t understand why the school doesn’t just get it over with in one session. I mean, what the hell sense do periods make unless you know the whole story? What a pisser that would be to learn – “I have to shove what up my clunge every month? What’s that all about?” And Mrs.Bison even had to sign a form allowing our child to hear about periods. It’s like “Carrie” out here. Is it the inherent discomfort that suburban American schools feel about s-e-x that prevents them disclosing the full picture? Are they worried that parents will rebel at the thought of their innocent children being inducted early into sexuality? Better hurry up; a third of 9th graders report having had sex. (Of course the statistics are not uniform across all neighborhoods; there are schools where the dumbasses repeating the tenth grade (again) are at risk that their own kids will soon join them in the same class.)

Hopefully this won’t apply to my offspring. One aspect of the sexual education process that is often under-emphasised at school but which can be given much more attention at home: “If I ever catch some boy so much as looking at you the wrong way I’m going to cut his fucking balls off, just remember that.” Yes, it’s important that this delicate topic is handled in a sensitive and caring way…

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Sing For Fellatio

It’s nearly the end of my trip to Shanghai so a few of us went out last night for a karaoke session. This involves booking a room in one of the karaoke establishments – we selected a new one, known as the Forbidden City (it even has a scale model of this famous tourist attraction) which announces itself as your taxi pulls up with about a million colored lights affixed to its exterior. You walk in and as you pass through the door a row of about ten girls on each side of the door bows and in unison chants some greeting. Or at least I assume it was a greeting; since it was in Chinese they could have been saying “your western dick is very small” for all I know. Once in your private room you are presented with a succession of Chinese girls who you can pick as your evening’s companion – they will sit with you, drink with you, talk to you and, in many cases apparently, for a sum of $200, come back to your hotel and fuck you all night. For those of us who neither speak Chinese nor intend to fuck the karaoke girl the selection criteria are somewhat limited. You might think that it would be a good idea to try and get one who speaks some English but in my experience that’s a mistake – then you’re stuck with someone who will spend all night trying to practice their limited language skills on you. It’s very worthy but if you wanted to spend the evening as a language coach you’d probably be hanging out at a school, or some other establishment where less alcohol is consumed.

Last night we hooked up with Gary, an old friend who lives in Shanghai. He has a certain weakness for “healthier” Chinese girls (i.e. chunky ones) and these were little in evidence in the first three line-ups that were paraded in front of us, so the “mama-san” then invited him (and, by extension, me) to come down to the “holding pen” where there had to be about two hundred girls waiting to be dispatched to karaoke rooms. Gary soon selected one, and then a second (he can speak some Mandarin, so it’s not a complete waste of his time), both of them well-upholstered. (He confirmed later that this was the result of them frequenting “Pizza Hut” and “McDonalds”.) When more of our party showed up, and more girls were brought in for them to choose from, Gary selected a third one, with big tits. This one, however, spoke quite a bit of English, which she used to try and encourage me to take a girl to my hotel room. “She stay all night – you have sex”.

The girl I chose had a very dull evening, I’m sure. Other than chopping up watermelon for me, filling my scotch and applauding politely after I crucified yet another rendition of some song or other, there wasn’t really anything for her to do. One of the most common roles of the girls is to engage clients in drinking games, usually Lying Dice. This is played with whiskey forfeits and can result in rapidly accelerated inebriation; I’m well past the point in life where I am willing to risk yawning into the toilet bowl at 3am as a result of this kind of exuberance so I passed. One of the other girls played with Ken and lost repeatedly; she ended up puking in a trash can. On this basis simple boredom doesn’t seem like a bad option – I almost feel saintly.

Anyway, it seems that all karaoke isn’t created equal. Gary was telling us about the Korean version he experienced a few years ago where he was in a group of five. At the end of the evening the lights went down and the Korean guys all got a blowjob from their girls. Gary didn’t, and not just because he’s an all-round good guy – it seems that they only blow Korean blokes. (What’s the deal with that? It almost makes you want to complain on principle.) Apparently the only thing more uncomfortable than getting a blowjob while sitting next to another guy getting one, is not getting a blowjob while sitting there. Especially when the girl finishes, spits his jizz into a cup and places it on the table. I’m willing to bet that this isn’t one of the topics they cover in those business school lessons on “Asian culture”. Sure, you’ll learn to present your business card with both hands, and to sit according to rank, but I don’t recall anyone ever mentioning being expected to sit politely while a business partner gets his dick sucked next to you. If it’s all the same with you I think I’ll stick to the watermelon…

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison