Seymore Butts :: Putting the Anal in Banal

About a month ago I received an interesting email, apropos of nothing, from a lady at Penguin – the publishers, not the wacky dildo people. She said she wanted to share a book with you, my discerning readers. She said she knew you’d love it. It was about sex. Everybody loves sex. So she sent it to me, hoping I’d devour it with alacrity and urge you all, with all of my heart, to rush out and buy it for Christmas. And I tried. Believe me, I spent hours trying to write a glowing review with a none-too subtle sardonic undertone, but it didn’t work. The fact is, this book is such a rancid, horrible mess that I couldn’t even pretend to like it. In actual fact, if I’m completely honest, I think Rock Her World by Seymore Butts is probably the worst book I’ve ever read - and remember, I’ve read both Jeffrey Archer and Dan Brown. So, with apologies to Jenny Chun of Penguin, who I’m sure was just doing her job and is actually unutterably lovely, I forbid you, my discerning readers, I forbid you to buy this odious mound of literary effluent. Really. The man makes Chris Moyles look like Vladimir Nabokov. (Don’t buy Chris Moyles either. VERBOTEN!) Now, it’s safe to say that certain groups of people have a poor reputation for intellectual prowess. Models, for example. Football players, for another. Toilet attendants, boxers, BNP voters, people who work in Argos. And, of course, porn stars. Now I don’t know if Seymore Butts is considered a cerebral giant in the world of porn, but let me tell you, when he isn’t ball-deep in stretched rectum, or else pointing a camera at someone who is, Seymore Butts is a moron. And I neither use this term lightly, nor mean it as an insult. What I mean is that, having studied Butts and the language he uses to convey his ideas, I have concluded that he has the mental age of someone aged between 8 and 12 years old, and therefore, according to the original medical classification, he is, unequivocally, a moron. And that is nothing to be ashamed of. At least he’s not an imbecile. But should Penguin really be paying him good money to write horrible, rancid books? I’m not so sure. ‘This isn’t your ordinary book,’ says Butts at the offset. Of course, he’s flattering himself. This is barely a book at all. It’s more like a soiled bib around the neck of a retarded sex pest.

For the rest of this remarkable review, Stan recommends you go here and purchase a copy of The Little Book of Shame. Not only does it contain the article you're currently reading, it also contains around 50 others, and all for the incredible price of whatever price it happens to be at the moment. You lucky thing you. 

Pease Pudding and Porn Crackers :: The Ugly Side of Senescence

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Enough to Put You Off Sex For Life

When I wrote about my first sexual experience a couple of months ago, I mentioned in passing that the second time I had sex was far more disturbing, but that I wasn't ready to tell it yet, 'at least until something else comes along to distance me from it'. That's what I said. Well, here's the news: something else has come along. Something astonishing and wonderful. And something that I absolutely cannot talk about.

So instead, it's probably time to talk about Sue.

I had seen Sue a fair bit in one of the pubs I used to frequent when I lived in another part of London. She was often there with a bunch of mates, being loud, drunken and shrill. I'd be out with one of a couple of old friends, bemoaning the sickening ills of the world. I'd noticed Sue but I didn't think she had noticed me. Her eyes had passed over me for sure, but I didn't think she'd taken me in. That often happens. If you see someone you find physically repellent, you either stop and stare, sometimes pointing and grimacing if you're particularly insensitive. Or else you just look through them; they're invisible to you.

I'd noticed Sue partially because she was so annoying and shrill, and partially because, despite myself, I was really attracted to her. She was probably a little bit too chavvy for most people's tastes, and dressed a little loose if you know what I mean, a little Jodie Marsh. Plus, facially she was slightly reminiscent of a Riddler. But still, somehow I found her very attractive. Which was why one night, when she rolled over to me, blind drunk at the end of a Friday evening and said, 'Do you wanna come back to my house for sex?', I said, 'Um... yeah, alright'.

Then she kissed me, there in the pub, and her friends cheered and a flash went off. I should have known something was up. But I didn't. I was blinded by what I foolishly imagined was just brilliant luck, and I assumed that Sue was from the 'he's so ugly, he's kind of fascinating' school, a school I'd hitherto believed to be entirely fictional.

She stopped kissing me. Her hands were still on my face, her cold eyes perusing me. Another flash. 'Let's go,' she said. As she led me out of the pub, one of her friends joined us and introduced herself. 'I'm Cathy,' she said. I told her my name and they both giggled. 'Stan!' cried Sue. 'That's brilliant,' she said. 'Absolutely perfect.'

'Perfect,' repeated Cathy.

Out on the street I asked where we were going. 'Not far,' said Sue. Cathy was coming too it seemed. My imagination began to kick in. Surely not. Sue grabbed me and snaked an arm through mine, linking me at the elbow. Cathy did the same with the other arm and we walked down a main road in the cold night. 'This is your lucky night,' said Cathy.

Surely not.

As we walked, Sue and Cathy chatted to each other about people I didn't know, shrieking and giggling like inebriated harpies. I really didn't like them at all. Which means I really shouldn't have gone with them. So maybe I kind of deserved what happened next. Maybe. I just wanted so badly to have sex. I'd only ever had sex with one woman before, with Avril. So I'd never had sex with an able-bodied woman. And it had been over two years. I was desperate.

That is my excuse.

We turned off the main road and onto a side street, stopping at a house with a black and red door. Cathy broke away from me and opened the front door. Sue followed her inside and took off her coat. I was very excited and very nervous. I felt a little sick.

I was led through to the living room and offered a drink. I accepted and both women clattered through to the kitchen, leaving me alone. When they returned, Sue was carrying two hefty glasses of some putrid spirit. I don't know what it was, but it was undiluted and tasted of petrol. I took a sip and winced. Sue knocked back half of her glass and made an unpleasant face. I never saw Cathy again.

'Tell you what, I think I might need the bottle, yeah?' said Sue, then she skipped out of the room again. When she returned, she had a bottle under her arm. 'Come on then,' she said, and I followed her upstairs.

Sue's bedroom was very much how I imagined the bedroom of a prostitute might be. A huge bed, with rather tacky tigerskin blankets, big fluffy pillows and a wrought iron bedstead with ropes and blindfolds and handcuffs hanging from it. The rest of the room was pretty unpleasant – an overflowing chest of drawers, an overflowing dressing table, dirty wallpaper slipping down damp walls. It was also a bit smelly. Sue lit scented candles in an effort - I presumed - to disguise the smell. Opposite the bed was a PC, switched on, that horrible Pythonesque screensaver filling the window with perpetually extending pipes. And there was a webcam sitting on top of the monitor. At the time I thought nothing of it.

Sue then put some soulless soul music on the computer. I believe it was R Kelly. Yet still I didn't flee.

'Do you wanna watch some porn?' she asked.

I shook my head. Not as if to say no, but rather as if trying to understand the question. Did I want to watch porn? Erm… no? I wanted to have sex. 'I think I'm alright for porn actually,' I said.

I was standing by the side of Sue's bed feeling rather awkward. Sue stood up from her computer and moved to the bottom of the bed. 'Come here,' she said. I did so. 'Sit down here,' she said. I sat at the bottom of the bed. Sue climbed onto the bed and positioned herself behind me. She wrapped her arms around me and began to kiss my face. I gasped. I almost couldn't believe it was happening. But it was.

OK, this is where it gets a little graphic. Not massively, but enough to tell the story. I'm sorry if you find it a little grubby. If it's any consolation, I find it a little grubby too.

So Sue was licking and lapping at my face, moaning, clawing at my chest and unbuttoning my shirt, pushing her tongue in my ear, biting my hair and gasping. All the while she was saying stuff like, 'Oh God, yeah, you're so fucking ugly, I love it. You big dirty ugly bastard.' And so on.

Now I'm quite sensitive about my appearance and I'm easily hurt. Having this woman say this to me – even though she was writhing all over me at the time – upset me, and I couldn't hide it. She saw that I was upset and laughed. 'No, don't be hurt,' she said. 'That's what I like about you. I like ugly men.'

Then she stood on the bed, lifted her skirt and pushed herself into my face. With one hand she pulled aside her knickers and with the other she grabbed my head and pushed it against her. 'See how much I like it,' she said. 'Lick me,' she said. 'Put your fingers in me.' I did as I was told.

After some more of that, Sue undressed me. All the while she was gasping and moaning, licking her lips at me and going on about wanting me to have rigorous intercourse with her. She didn't use those words however.

It was a bit much, to be honest. I didn't quite believe it. It was like bad porn. But it was bad porn I was involved in and although she was a little over the top, she was real; she wasn't pixellated. Rather, she was warm and wet; she was all smells, tastes and noises, all over me.

When she pulled off my trousers and reached into my underpants, she got a little bit of a shock. 'Oh. My. God,' she said. Her mouth fell open and she looked at me. 'You never said you had a massive cock,' she said. I shrugged. It's not the sort of thing you just drop into a conversation. Not that we'd ever had a conversation.

Sue's mouth was only the second mouth that had ever conferred oral pleasure upon my penis, and as she slobbered on it, she looked up at me and moaned. She was very spitty was Sue. She spat into her hand and rubbed it all over my penis and balls. She spat onto the head and rubbed it in with her tongue. She looked into my eyes, dribbled down her chin and said, 'I really want your fucking big cock in me.' And then I came. Boof! Just like that. Quite unexpectedly. And rather a lot.

'Sorry about that,' I said, but Sue didn't seem to mind at all. If anything, she was overjoyed. Pushing me back onto the bed, she climbed on top of me, rubbing my sperm into my stomach and chest. 'Move up the bed,' she said. I moved. 'Give me your hands,' she said. I gave.

Then she attached one of the handcuffs and slipped the other round the back of the bars of the bedstead. 'Give me your other hand,' she said. I hesitated. Then I gave her my hand. She cuffed me to the bed. Then she pulled a couple of lengths of sex-rope (as I believe it's called) from behind the bed and tied my feet, one to each corner of the bottom of the bed, tight.

Then she got off me and took off the rest of her clothes. Then she opened a drawer in a bedside table and pulled out some kind of kitchen implement. A long headed spatula. I recognised it as an IKEA spatula. She used it to slap my stomach. 'Ow,' I said. She slapped me again, harder. 'OW!' I said. It stung. As the stinging sensation subsided, it was replaced by a slightly cold shiver as a wave of panic coursed through me. I suddenly realised I was in an incredibly vulnerable and potentially dangerous situation.

Sue then produced an mp3 player and pushed the headphones into my ears. She turned on the music. It was the Teaches of Peaches CD. What on earth was going on? I said, 'What are you doing?' but I couldn't hear my own voice over the music. Then Sue lifted my head and popped a blindfold over my eyes. Then she wrapped something that I later discovered to be a bandage around and around my head, holding the blindfold and the earphones in place. My arms above my head began to ache. I wanted to be released.

I was scared.

But then she began to tease me, biting me, licking me, spitting on me, sucking, and occasionally slapping me with the spatula, and I became aroused. The fact of being deaf and blind seemed to both dull and sharpen the sensations simultaneously. Sometimes Sue would get off the bed and I had no idea where she was or what was coming next. Sometimes minutes would pass and nothing happened. Slowly my penis would lose its rigidity and my scrotum would tense and shrivel in the cold calm of the moment. Not knowing what was going to happen next was both terrifying and exciting. It was charged. I felt on the verge of panic. Then suddenly there'd be ice on my testicles, hot candle wax on the shaft of my cock or some kind of greased-up butt plug being shoved violently in and out of my anus.

And scared though I was, I can't deny that it was very, very exhilarating. I'd never known anything like it.

Then she'd climb on me, lower her nether regions onto my face and her face onto my nether regions. Then she'd slide down my body and impale herself on me. Then she'd ride me roughly, violently, causing just as much pain as pleasure. I'd never been so much at someone's mercy before, and I can't deny that I liked it.

I realised just as soon as it started happening that I was having unsafe sex. I said something, but I didn't hear what I said and Sue made no attempt to answer me. As far as I know. I do know for sure however that she didn't stop to put a condom on me. If I'm completely honest, I think the threat of AIDS probably turned me on a bit too.

People are weird.

At some stage Sue was licking and sucking on my left nipple and I began to feel something wet and warm on my penis. Sue moved down my body, kissing her way down to my nethers. Then before she got there I felt my penis slipping into a mouth and being sucked and bitten. I cried out. Then another mouth took over. Then I was passed back and forth from mouth to mouth.

Was this Cathy? Someone else?

Not knowing what was going on was disconcerting as hell, but hot. So hot in fact, that with two tongues wriggling over the end of my penis, I came again.

Than I had some of my own sperm spat into my mouth.

People are really weird.

It didn't stop there however. Slowly, once again, I was teased back to life, more or less - I'd lost a lot of feeling by this stage and was finding it difficult to tell - but things continued for another half hour or so. Then, quite suddenly, the music was stopped in the middle of a song. Then my head was unbandaged and the blindfold and earphones removed. Sue stood beside the bed, looking at me, not smiling. At the foot of the bed was a tall thin man with white spiky hair and a video camera pointed at me.

I looked at him, shook my head, looked up at Sue.

'What's going on?' I asked.

'You're gonna be fucking famous, mate,' said the guy with the camera in a thick Scouse accent.

Sue leant over me and unlocked the handcuffs. I sat up, soothed my aching arms and tried to massage some feeling back into them.

'What are you talking about?'

'You've just made your first porn film,' said the guy. 'You're a fucking porn star, mate. A fat fucking ugly fucking porn star.'

Sue untied my feet.

'What?' I said. 'You… you can't do that.'

'Done it, mate,' said the guy. 'It's done and dusted and there's not a fucking thing you can do about it.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' I said. At which point the guy put down the camera and pulled a Leatherman knife out of a back pocket. He took out the blade, came round the side of the bed and stuck it under my chin. He did all this very quickly. 'What did you say?' he said. 'What did you fucking say?' He was all chains, piercings and tattoos by the way. He was - at a guess - something of a psychopath.

'OK,' I managed. 'Take it easy.'

'Just get him the fuck out of here, Tom,' said Sue, and with that she picked up some clothes and left the room.

'You wanna watch your fucking mouth, son,' said Tom. 'How much money have you got?'

When I didn't answer, he headbutted and slapped me.

Eventually I was allowed to get dressed and leave the house. Tom went through my pockets and found out where I lived. 'Mention this to anyone,' he said, 'and somebody will come round to your house, and they'll kill ya.' Then he took £20 from my pocket and pushed me out the front door.

I walked quickly until I was out of sight of the front door, then I stood still, took out my phone and called the police. I explained exactly what had happened, adding that I'd been robbed and threatened with a knife.

The police arrived within ten minutes. I was still there. I met them at the front door. Tom tried to make a run for it through the back garden, but was caught and arrested. Sue was arrested too. I spent most of the next day making statements and looking for somewhere new to live. I stayed with friends for four days, then moved to a different part of London. Three months later I had an AIDS test. I was fine.

I found out from the police that Tom and Sue's house was full of porn they'd shot. They produced ultra-low quality DVDs and flogged them in pubs and over the internet. They had a site. They were DIY pornographers. As far as I could piece together they were trying to put together a series of films featuring ugly men. Beauty and the Beast stuff. They'd made one previously. It was for sale online. It was called Ugly Fuckers. Part One. I was to be Part Two.

I felt like a donkey in a real bestiality film. Except of course I'd consented.

I still fear that some day, somehow, that film is going to turn up on the internet somewhere. Every now and then, I search 'ugly' on YouPorn expecting to see myself tied to a bed, bandaged, buggered and loving it. Whenever it's not there, I feel enormous relief. And a tiny, tiny part of me feels disappointed.

People are absolutely fucking mental.

I've only told two other people this story before. I'm not overly proud of it. In fact, I'm more proud of having a kitten lick my glans than I am of this.

Oh, one good thing to come out of it was a visit from a Victim Support lady, which I wasn't expecting and then completely forgot about. Then, about 15 months later, I received a cheque for over £800. That made it almost entirely worthwhile. Almost.

So, after that experience, I swore to myself that even if it took another two years, I wanted the next woman I got naked with to actually like me, even just a little bit.

In the end it did take another two years.

But she did like me.

So that's good.

To Blog Or Not To Blog

It’s difficult to know sometimes, what to say, in life. Some things, no matter how difficult, should definitely be aired; others, not. But often it’s not that clear which way to go. Myself, I’ve always been of the ‘when in doubt, blurt it out’ school. Hence yesterday’s post. But as commenter Dan said last night, ‘…I'm not convinced that your blog was the most appropriate way of saying this. You may have decided to put your life out there on the net, but maybe [Keith] hasn't….’ Yes. I agree. I really do. But I also disagree, kind of, and for three important reasons:

a) I didn’t break any confidences. It would have been different if Patricia didn’t know that her boyfriend had cheated on her and there was a chance of her finding out through this blog. But there was no chance of that, because she already knew.

b) All of the people mentioned in this blog are disguised. So Keith isn’t really called Keith, Ange isn’t really called Ange, and Patricia, who isn’t really called Patricia, doesn’t really play the cello. She’s actually called Pam and she plays the viola. I jest, but I must concede, it’s not the most sophisticated of encryption techniques. I’m not Graham Greene after all. But on a tiny little blog that only one of my friends reads, I’m certain it’s enough.

Or it least it was. Till yesterday. Now – I’m not entirely sure why, but I guess it’s for slightly misguided reasons of damage limitation - he’s told Patricia about the blog.



I’m guessing he’s probably mentioned it to Ange too. (I don’t think I’m doing him any massive disservice to presume that breaking a small confidence is beneath him.)

c) …I’ve forgotten what the third thing was. Damn. I think that may have been the clincher too.

But still, I agree that really the point is that people have the right not to have their private lives discussed on a public forum. But for Christ’s sake, this isn’t Perez Hilton or Matt Drudge. I only have - at most - a dozen regular readers.

Sorry. I keep trying to justify myself, and I shouldn’t. The fact is, even if he is a smiling damned villain, even if he is a treacherous, conniving, back-stabbing, adulterous dog, Keith is my friend – my best friend – and he wasn’t best pleased with my virtual washing of his dirty, stinking, love-rat laundry.



So I’m sorry. Genuinely.

And from now on, there shall be no more discussing my friends’ private lives. Which is a shame because there is news. But no…. From now on it’s just me and my sordid forays into weight loss and sexual satisfaction.

Speaking of which, two things:

a) This morning I lay on my back and attempted to lift my legs up in the air – just keeping them straight and raising them, like we used to do at school in the gym. And I could manage five seconds, at most. I felt ashamed. Really ashamed. I have to do more to get rid of this sickening blancmange I have the temerity to call a stomach. I think it might be time to invest in an ab roller. Or even better, a 6 second abs system. Complete with DVD. I love DVDs! Wave goodbye to the aberration of your abs in just six seconds! Six seconds! I can’t get over that. What kind of moron would I have to be to miss this opportunity?

Yeah, well. I love the way it has ‘As seen on TV’ splashed over the packet too, like that’s supposed to give some kind of guarantee of quality. Hey, it's been on TV! It must be good!

More swimming I think, is called for.

b) I feel terribly, terribly libidinous. I think it’s a combination of losing a little weight and starting to feel healthier in general, not filling my body with bad chemicals, nascent spring filling up my nostrils when I go for a run, and - not forgetting - my recent discovery of YouPorn. JesusGod. If this had existed when I was 15, I would NEVER HAVE LEFT THE HOUSE!

Ever.

Oh, and I’m playing tennis again later with Pip. You remember Pip, fitness freak, good-for-nothing and potential dog-murderer. Shit, am I even allowed to say that anymore? Or have I betrayed another confidence?

Jesus.

A guy can’t say nothin’ round here.



Supercool war posters from here.


Afterthought: Do you blog? Course you do. So what's your take on the whole 'tell it like it is' thing? Do you tell it like it is? Or is it just not worth the bother? Do tell.