Monday, 8 February 2010

Sick Of Self-Love (I'm Waiting For My Vulva)

I need to spice up my self-love life.

There. I’ve said it.

And when I say self-love, I don’t mean cutting myself some slack, thinking positive and giving myself a pat on the back whether or not I deserve it. I mean wanking. Unless of course, I’m being jolly clever and using one as a slightly sticky mirror for the other. Well, I’m not. I’m just talking about wanking.

I’ve fallen into a rut, you see. I just don’t put any effort into the act of making love with myself anymore. You know? I just don’t pleasure myself with the same outlandish vigour and rigour as once I did.

It’s an unpleasant truth but it’s come to pass that in this period of my life, my self-love lacks verve. I do it of course, and relentlessly, but the joy is gone. The sense of urgency is gone. The spontaneity that was at times jazz-like. That’s gone too. All that’s left is a tired, asthmatic glimmer of desire and a dulled sense of weary obligation. I go through the motions: a text-book moribund shuffle, like a dying man rooting through a pile of garbage. There’s no romance. There’s not even any real sense of pleasure. And as for foreplay? Forget about it.

A lot of this is connected to technology, of course, and the proliferation of fat-pipe porn. Erotic images were incredibly scarce when I was young. This meant you had to put a lot more work into your relationship with yourself. It also meant you had to take opportunities as and when they arose. Songs of Praise. Your friend’s mother’s bra and lipstick. Every inappropriate erection was a new, distinctly seedy adventure. These days there’s none of that, and recklessly I have allowed my imagination and impulsivity to become saturated, and desiccated, by porn. As a result, I’ve turned into a lousy self-lover.

And don’t think I haven’t noticed. If you want to know the truth, it’s tearing me apart. I’ve tried talking about it but I just won’t listen. I’ve come to resent myself. Literally. And when I remember how I used to be, back at the beginning when it was all fresh and new and I couldn’t keep my hands off myself….

So, in the absence of the ability to split up with myself, which is what I really want to do, frankly, I’ve decided to make a concerted effort to get myself back on the right track. I'm staging a kind of self-intervention, before any really irreparable damage is done.

My first move was to check out the clever articles you find in magazines and newspapers, the ones full of advice for couples who don’t really like one another anymore because of years of mind-numbing repetition. But they didn’t really work out. Spontaneous hugging met with a limp silence. Surprising myself with chocolates was a lovely touch but then watching me eat them all and calling me fat afterwards was just awful. That was an angry wank, that one. And not in a good way.

Then I thought of buying myself some knickers. It would be deceitful of me to claim that having the sexual smorgasbord of my nether regions coddled in the stretched silk of a woman’s undergarment is not something that gives me a terrific itch in the belly. For it is. Even the mere thought of it threatens to cajole some twitch of appreciation from Cupid’s torch. Having said that, the thought of actually purchasing a nice pair of knickers for posh-wank purposes – and they would have to be very nice – just feels a little sad. Sad as in pathetic. Lamentable. Borderline deplorable. That’s the problem with all of these masturbatory aids: they just seem so fucking desperate. Toe-curling in their desperation. And yet, still, in arid times, in a cold climate, when one’s very soul feels like it’s running to seed, if you’ll pardon the pine nut, it can be very, very tempting.

I mean, there are all kinds of self-sex accessories out there that, when you first hear about them, your mind just boggles and you think, no. You think, that’s just wretched. That’s pitiful. And then some time passes and maybe your circumstances change and maybe you think about it a little more and your mind stops boggling quite so much. I mean, is it really any less wretched and pitiful for a grown man to penetrate a synthetic vibrating vagina in a tin can than it is for a lady to krunk herself giddy on the shaft of a synthetic vibrating lovestick or rabbit-themed pleasuring device? Is it?

Well, it shouldn’t be.

And yet, somehow... I don’t know. Maybe it just isn’t for me.

This, for example:

This is ‘Sex in a Can’, from the same Captains of Cock that brought you the industry leader, the classic, Fleshlight.

I mean, good luck to you if you can grit your eyes and get into that, but I really don’t think I could. I should probably add, however, that I am willing to try, so if anyone’s got one they’ve finished with, do get in touch. For now though, even with the extreme nunliness of the vulva, it just doesn’t inspire me.

In fact, I can think of only two pertinent things less appealing than pushing my roaring jack into the fake plastic undermeat of a pair of canned quim nuts. One is filming the same act and putting it on YouPorn. (I just can’t bring myself to watch those things. It must be the saddest act of pornography in the whole world.) The other is splashing six thousand US dollars on a real doll.

Having said that, one day, when my boat comes in, I’d quite like to run away with this one.

There are of course men who reject outright the easy commercialisation of self-love. These men prefer to bore an unsexy orifice into a watermelon or pumpkin and root out their pleasure that way. Sometimes they layer bacon around the bore-hole.

Although I admire the spirit and inventiveness of these men, I can’t really imagine myself making love to a melon. Not at my age. I'd rather make love to a chicken, to be honest. A dead chicken, obviously – I’m not into kinky stuff. Just an everyday dead chicken from the supermarket. Maybe a bit of bacon around the bore-hole.

I can imagine that quite easily. You know, if I absolutely have to. I can imagine that the feel of the chicken skin, mottled from plucking and sliding back and forth across the cold white flesh of the legs might actually be quite erotic.

I don't intend to do it though. These are just thought experiments. I actually find it repulsive. Honest.

So instead of fucking a dead chicken, I’ve hit upon something else. Something definitely less vile. An idea. A business idea for a new product. Something to enliven the - let's face it - the chore of male masturbation.

I call it FISTMUFF.

Essentially it’s essence of fresh vagina, applied to the back of the hand. A bird in the hand, you might say. But no bush.

Simply apply FISTMUFF to one hand, take your old chap in the other and you’re away. With your eyes closed you sniff at the FISTMUFF, breathing in the erotic fragrance of the mouth that speaks no words, and you imagine that you’re anywhere but where you actually are, doing anything but what you’re actually doing.

Of course I’m joking. Where am I going to find a fresh vagina to tease and milk? Or indeed any vagina.

Unless… unless I reread Perfume with terrifying zeal, master maceration and enfleurage and then launch myself on a murderous yet delectably redolent rampage. Hmm... No. I don’t think so. Important though it is to spice up a dead date with Fisty Palmer, rampant carnage just wouldn’t seem right so close to Valentine’s Day.

Anyway, what kind of madman would deign to distil the bouquet of the bower of bliss? Surely not even a man with a smell camera would be so arrogant as to seriously attempt to simulate essence of vulva. It’d be like trying to recreate the roof of the Sistine Chapel in a bus shelter in Basildon.

It'll never happen.

Or will it?

I'm afraid all of that guff about me inventing FISTMUFF was a bit of a red herring. I was pulling the wool over your eyes, if you’ll pardon the poon. For the fact is, FISTMUFF exists. You may, of course, already be wholly cognisant of this fact; you may, in fact, be drenched in the stuff as we speak, pleasuring yourself to a dervish, spitting hot liquid on the keyboard, rolling on the floor, your tongue lolling from your mouth like a single sad mitten lost in the rain. FISTMUFF exists! Only it’s not called FISTMUFF. It’s called Vulva.

Vaginal scent. For men.

Watch the video and just marvel for a moment if you would, at the wonder of the world in which we live…

Mmmmmm, yes. Finally, a scent to keep the scourge of saddle-sniffing gusset-gannets off the streets and out of the gymnasia.

I’m figuring Vulva could be just the fillip I need to get me through this miserable mizzling month to the sappy spring that awaits. And more importantly, it can help bring me closer again. To myself. I'm convinced of it: essence of vagina will get me through this unpleasant patch.

So, my third consignment of Vulva is in the post. The first two, I should explain, went missing in transit. I swear.

I'm just hoping it gets here in time for Valentine’s Day. I don’t want to be alone again this year.

In the meantime, I'd appreciate a little feedback. I can't be the only one for whom wanking has become a depressing, devitalising experience. Can I? Singletons! Speak to me. What do you do to keep your self-sex life alive?

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Anonymous said...

You are as nutty as a box of Cracker Jacks! You've brought a tear to my eye and the man hovering over my phone is craning his neck to see what I'm laughing at. I think I'll show him the pic of the vulva in a can. That's just special.

x A Twitter Friend

Anonymous said...

I lost a vibrator up my bum the other day. True story. It came back out again, eventually. Somewhat less hygienic for the experience. I felt I owed it an apology.

And there's nowt wrong with having some ladies' undercrackers for posh wanks. It's hardly desperate. I have some of my mum's.

That bit's not true.


Mike Booth said...

A while back I made a cartoon expressing pretty much the same sentiment (though not in as much detail):

Scroll through to 1:24 if you can't stand to watch the whole thing.

La Bête said...

ATF - Show. Him. The vulva.

NK, I have some of your mum's. Gosh. I never thought I'd tell you that.

MB, excellent! I really enjoyed that.

Larry Teabag said...

Link not work-safe. But this should give you something to work towards.

La Bête said...

Good God. What will they think of next?

Ani Smith said...

This is just an elaborate attempt to get us girls to send you our dirty panties, isn't it? You pervert!

[looking for your mailing address]

Anonymous said...

Ha, I also had a fleeting desire to send you some pants. Unfortunately, the ones that spring to mind are my favourite pants (both pretty and comfy) and you're not having them.

My best advice (and my sex life with other people is BARREN - no shagging since May 2006) is to ban yourself from wanking for a couple of weeks so that it becomes something to look forward to rather than a chore. It's worth a try if that vile tube thing fails.


Anonymous said...

Also, I'm not sure whether the picture of the fake fanny, the chicken or that vile man's face made me wince more. I think the chicken. I did a lot of wincing reading that post.


Carnalis said...

call a friend .. share the experience. At least you will be encouraged to make a little effort for their sake.

La Bête said...

Ladies, please, hang on to your panties. (If I had a quid for every time I’d said that, eh? Eh? I’d have 50p.)

A wank-ban is out of the question. My proper job starts in seven days though. That will cut out most of the daytime wanking. We’ll see how it goes from there.

Carnalis! I’m sure I don’t know what kind of friends you think I have. NotKeith, are you listening to this?

Anonymous said...

Larry, I feel traumatised. I could happily have gone my entire life without seeing that. I didn't even know that was humanly possible. And it was pulsating, too! Like the underside of a jelly fish. I haven't stopped clenching my butt cheeks since.

oohhh... oohh... nooooooo

Anonymous said...

Actually, the call a friend idea isn't a bad one. My hot lodger and I used to have wanking races through the wall. Occasionally. Usually after a lot of gin.

Anonymous said...

I can't begin to express the range of reactions I've had to this post and the subsequent comments.

But I'll try.

#1) Vulva? Argh. I want to punch that man's face. Smarmy.

#2) Sex in a Can? I want to say 'each to his own', but ummm... no.

#3) Someone once paid me $100 for my panties. What?? The money went to charity! Apparently he kept them in a plastic baggie in his desk drawer, and brought them out to sniff and wank into.

#4) Larry! I shall have nightmares.

Good luck with the self-love renewal.

clumpf said...

I still think you should marry Ben.

isabelle said...

Hey, have a read of Suttree, it might change your mind about watermelons.

Otherwise, your best option is the knickers-from-readers slant. There's bound to be loads of girls out there willing to send a pair.

Misskreant said...

After some cost-intensive research by a pan-European group of scientists I have discovered that good wanking is all in the mind. I'm at an extremely low masturbatory ebb myself at the moment. I put this down to a combination of February, moving house, a dose of thrush that won't go away and having a boyfriend with whom I can theoretically have sex with whenever I like. I'd kind of like to change it but, right now, if I'm honest I can't be bothered. Enough about me - I have been enjoying your blog immensely and am delighted to be able to offer you something in return: The Pharmacist And Her Daughter by Esparbec. It's the best porn I've ever read. If I wrote porn, this is the porn that I would write. If you don't get at least a few good fantasies and one good wank out of it I will personally come round and finish you off.

Anonymous said...

This post is hysterically funny, and the picture of that frankly terrifying 'minge in a can' thing had me spitting coffee over my keyboard :-)

It looks like it's a rather childish practical joke to play on unsuspecting people - offer them a Pringle, hold out the can and watch their face intently as they open it... :-)

Sky said...

This is one of your better recent posts. It made me laugh, and then I read the other comments and laughed some more. That is the creepiest video of the guy smelling the bike seat. Who does that?
You should get some ladies panties. In fact, you should do a poll and see how many of your lady readers would actually send you their panties.

Anonymous said...

I am an early 30s man (single); I guess I have had similar fillings you've had in the blog; I remember I wanked once with the fat part of big beef I had bought from supermarket; dirty thought, but sometimes you feel so desperate that u do that kind of things..

Anonymous said...

and the feeling you've mentioned about paternal feeling on your semen, I had the identical feeling when I used a condom to wank in..