Talk To The Hand

Recently after performing on a stage, attempting 'comedy', I asked a couple of male buddies in the class for some feedback. Feeback was thus:

"Can't tell you much dude, didn't hear a word you said as I was staring at your erect nipples the whole time."

Now whilst I didn't appreciate the objectification (well maybe a little bit), I did appreciate the frank discussion that followed. Ladies this just in, but apparently men (and by men I mean a whole sample of two of them in my pub) are concerned when nipples aren't in their erect state. Conversation was thus:

Boy 1: It really puts me off when ladies' nipples go flacid.
Boy 2: Yeah man. I worried I'm not doing my job when even the nipples lose interest.
Girl 1: Boys, boys boys. You needn't worry. Nipple erectness is not an adequate indicator of sexual pleasure. It could merely mean it's a warm room.
Universe: I am going to implode right now as you have just blown wide open everything I thought I knew about, well, me.


First of all, and not to sound too Seinfeldian, but what's the deal with men and nipples? Correct me if I'm wrong ladies, but unless you have weirdy ones, we don't really focus on that area of our bodies. There's no maintenance involved with them, you can't do much with them (milking and sustaining another human being's life aside) and here's the shocker of all shockers guys: they aren't in fact that sensitive. Yes it is true they can detect subtle changes in temperature (and for some women, seismic changes in the earth's mantle core) however, I'll say it again: nipples aren't that sensitive. Insult 'em. Call 'em names (insert nipple joke here). They don't care.

What's more, most women could care less about what you're doing with them. It's what's goin' on down south that counts. You are unlikely to ever hear the following converstation between women:

Girl 1: So how was last night with Mr. X?
Girl 2: Well he had a terribly small penis and the sex was disasterous but that's okay because his attention to my nipples was outstanding!
Girl 1: Lucky you!
Girl 2: Indeed.


A lot of women (myself included) also find to much nip action annoying, and sometimes rather unsettling. Looking down seeing a grown man suckling at your teat is waaaaaaay to maternal and baryard-like an image when you're gettin' it on. And no woman wants to feel like a heffer when she's gettin' it on.

I'm a little concerned with the prediliction men have for the nip these days. When once cunnilingus used to be the badge of pride amonst men, now it seems it's the poor cousin to her two ugly stepsisters. And I'm not talking high school grope action. I'm talking suckling of teat. Step away from the nips right now.

Do us a favour. Remember those two long limbs attached to your upper body? See those two funny looking paddles with what looks like five fingers attached? Those are your hands. Reacquaint yourselves with them, and gently, GENTLY place them on the woman's body. And detach your mouth from the nipps for a second. If you really feel the need to use it grab a beer. Cause we're outta here.

This Is How We Do It

What's all this business we keep getting about 'streamlining' and 'improving' communication? It suddenly struck me how boring my life would be if everything we said or did with each other wasn't laced with mixed messages or open to interpretation. Getting straight to the point? How boring is that?

How does this script sound to anyone:

Boy: Hi. I like you.
Girl: Well that's nice because I too like you.
Boy: Excellent. Would you like to come back to my flat for a glass of wine and a shag and then I shall never call you again?
Girl: I would indeed. I thought what we have going on here might play out that way. That saves me so much hassle. Thank you boy.


I like dance we play with words, texts, phone calls heck even sign language. It's called flirting. The problem is some of us (ME) make it look like an uglier dance than the rest of you. Texting, emailing, and if you're a big enough loser, MSNing, leaves so much room for misinterpretation. But me I manage to screw things up the good old fashioned face-to-face way.

For instance, whilst I was attempting to flirt with a French man the other day I suddenly realised just how truly bad I was. The guy wasn't sure what the word "clench" meant. Flirting problem number one (at least for me) happens right here: timing. Why, who, WHO would choose the word "clench" as a flirting opportunity?

Flirting problem number two (and quite and obvious one): saying or doing the wrong fucking thing. Now how would any normal person illustrate what to clench means? Well they'd probably clench their fist together non? Not me. I turn around, I wedge my dress into my butt cheeks and clench. But not as tightly as my jaw as I type and replay that in my head.

Flirting problem number three: follow-through. If by some act of God I execute a well timed, well said flirtatious act, I usually can't capitalise on it. I'll tell a 'hilarious' joke at the beginning of the night and then it's pretty much a dead calm afterwards.

Luckily ze French man appreciated my brazen approach and congratulated me on making the clench crystal clear. He also offered to help me yank out my dress from the depths of my ass which I thought brilliantly solved my follow-through problem.

I really hope I can more effectively communicate if he were to ask me say to explain the word canal. Somehow I think not.

Sealed With A Squelch

Would it be wrong of me to start asking all the ladies out there who are peeing on the toilet seats to please start leaving the seats up then for other seat pee-ers?

There is nothing worse than sitting down on the toilet blind and then suddenly notice you've sat in a pile of someone else's wee. Sitting in a stranger's wee is one thing, but if you're in the toilets at work and realising you've just in a potential co-worker's wee well it's just awkward. It seems to me either there is a fundamental flaw in toilet design or women are starting to act like men, marking their territory, wizzin' everywhere. The seat is there for a reason. If you're just going to eschew the seat and go freestyle, well my advice would be to go use the men's room. At least there won't be a lineup and you can wizz freely like you so desperately want to do.

Who are these women who hover and pee on the seat? Are they French and used to peeing down a hole and unaccustomed to the support? I can kind of understand why you are opting out of sitting down. It's a toilet for god's sakes. It's germy for sure. But I firmly believe that if as a gender we all park and ride then everyone is going to be much happier.

P is for Emotional Trauma due to Part-time Parenting

A girl learns from an early age that she best be looking out after her nether regions because any mishap in that area will mark her in the scarlett-letter, burn her to the stake, 'she's a damn whore!' kinda way for the rest of her life.

My experience happened earlier than most. I was six. And I managed to piss myself at school. And because I was even then fighting mixed messages from my mother who told me never to do anything half-assed, I created a deluge. I was wearing woolen tights, which meant that during a Canadian winter I was a virtual up-side-down urine pop.

It wasn't the pissing myself in front of my classmates nor was it smelling of wizz for an entire day that stayed with me. It was what the teachers made me wear that haunts me. My primary school had a special 'outfit' for accidents 'just like these'. Only noone oddly enough really ever pissed themselves. Except the poor kids. I dunno - you work it out.

No the accident outfit was a one-piece green jumper. And everyone knew it was THE PEE SUIT. It was actually pea-green, and in it I could smell the stench of a thousand lack lustred bladders that came before me.

I don't blame my parents for not coming to pick me up and save me from THE PEE SUIT. They did work a fifteen minute drive away after all. Fifteen minutes or twenty-seven years of trauma. Not much to work out there. And to any working mother I would say 'Don't worry. We only blame Dad for being so cheap.'

But still, do you know how embarrassing it was to get handed your clothes in a hermetically sealed plastic bag at the end of the day? It's like getting fired from the appropriate world.

I guess on some Oliver Twist level the whole experience hardened me. The nicknames I got weren't actually that inventive as pointing and shouting 'PEE SUIT!' was hilarious enough in and of itself. But the alphabet, like my relationship with my parents, will always be amiss by one little letter. L.