Phone sex

I’m back in the Congo, my hairless primate cousins. I feel like Sinbad the sailor after one of his seven voyages – the one where he locks horns with strange natives and marvels at wonders of immense kinkyness.

I spent a few days with my old friend Smacker Ramrod, the former circus vet, happily settled in Kent, the so-called Garden of England. He seems to be making a good living from all the resident horses and cows in need of his salubrious groping.

Scarcely had I walked through his door when he proudly showed me his latest toy, a mobile phone with a pair of red lips on it. He claims that if you kiss the lips, an identical smooch will be transmitted to the person you’re talking to, provided that this lucky individual is equipped with a similar phone.

“I’ve got a pair of them so I can kiss my wife when we’re apart,” he drooled.

“You great big soppy lettuce!” I exclaimed.

“I’ll kiss you as well if you get one,” he said facetiously.

“I assure you that the phone will be pressed firmly against my arse if you do,” I replied.

He guffawed and changed the subject. I actually have nothing against a man kissing his wife in public. It is more civilised than kissing a stranger and more hygienic than kissing the family pet. But delivering it via a telecommunication device is absurd. Only religious zealots and ninnies smooch inanimate objects.

Later, when visiting Canterbury Cathedral, I was recognised by a middle-aged man who had seen me perform in the circus many years ago. I allowed him to buy me a glass of lemonade. When he told me he worked for Vodafone, I mentioned the kissphone to him. Being from the north of England, he thought it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You can’t stop the march of progress, GB,” he said. “In a few years’ time there’ll be sex dolls which can be operated remotely using a joystick and fire button. I’ll get them to make one in my image so I can do the wife when I’m away from home.”

“Are you sure she’ll want a replica of yourself?” I asked. “She might prefer a doll that looks like Sean Bean or Jimmy Tarbuck.”

“Are you joking?” he inquired incredulously. “Why would I help her cheat on me with some overrated celebrity?”

I smacked my lips in puzzlement. Would she really be committing adultery if he were controlling the doll’s movements? And what if another man operated a doll that looked like him? These are philosophical questions worthy of a Socrates, a Freud or a Dolly Parton.

Yet conundrums of this kind will be academic until such technological marvels actually exist. In anticipation of that glorious day, some market research with potential customers would be in order. Vibrators may be popular with ladies of a certain disposition, but a sex toy operated by another human staring at a computer screen may take some getting used to. I would ask a random sample of 100,000 sexually active women the following question:

If you had a remote-controlled replica of your perfect fantasy lover, which of the following people would you prefer to operate the controls:

(1) Hugh Hefner

(2) Another woman

(3) Your gynaecologist

(4) A nasty perverted dwarf who loves to make women moan and writhe?

Obviously it would have to be answered anonymously so the women would make an honest choice rather than picking the one they were least ashamed of.

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Uncurbed enthusiasm

A heated argument breaks out at the safari guesthouse about the TV comedy show Curb Your Enthusiasm. It concerns an episode in which the petite black comedienne, Wanda Sykes, breaks off her engagement with a rap singer on discovering that he is “running around town eating pussy”. The ladies present are of the opinion that Wanda had acted appropriately, denouncing her fiancé as a slimy-tongued philanderer who ought to have his lips sown together. The male guests take a contrary position, arguing that Miss Sykes had overreacted. She should have realised, they say, that a rap singer is a breed of man for whom eating pussy is like eating popcorn – a snack of negligible significance. One of them goes so far as to suggest that Krayzee-Eyez Killa had proved his fidelity to Wanda by reserving his own private parts for her exclusive satisfaction.

You are doubtless now expecting to hear of my own contribution to this debate. “Gorilla Bananas surely intervened to smooth ruffled feathers and cool heated tempers,” I hear you say. “He devised a compromise formula that coaxed the bickering humans into renewing their cross-gender camaraderie.” Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. My lips, on this occasion, remained firmly sealed (if not actually sown together). Life is not an episode of The Waltons and there are times when the antagonists must settle their differences without my arbitration. I cannot always play the part of a hairy King Solomon.

What I was motivated to do was watch the episode in question on the HBO video-on-demand channel. One must always examine the evidence before making judgements about alleged sexual misconduct. In the opening scene of the show, Mr Killa recites the lyrics of a new composition:

If you say anything
You’ll beg me to die
Coz I’ll make you suck my dick
Then I’ll nut in your eye
I’ll stomp on your world
As if my name is Godzilla
I’m coming for you motherfucker
I’m your Krazee-Eyez Killa

In virtually his next breath, he informs Larry David that performing oral sex on women of diverse ethnicities is one of the great passions of his life:

“You’ve got all different flavours of pussy,” he explains. “The best pussy to eat is Asian pussy.”

The man clearly believes that oral sex is a panacea for life’s problems – a heinous punishment to inflict on an enemy in one context becomes a gourmet delicacy in another. Such are the nuances of ghetto culture. Yet natural justice demands that we consider the matter from the viewpoint of his fiancé. For a wife to have the taste of her private parts compared unfavourably with countless Asian women is undeniably a gross humiliation. Had I been betrothed to Mr Killa, I simply wouldn’t have stood for it:

“If the taste of my pussy isn’t good enough for you I’ll serve it to someone else!” I would have declared frostily.

On the other hand, it does seem rather harsh to dump a fellow for habits he presumably acquired during his bachelorhood. Shouldn’t a man contemplating matrimony be given a chance to mend his ways?

So on due reflection, I would have advised Wanda to take Krazee-Eyez back on condition that he gave up his promiscuous pussy-eating compulsion. A mere declaration on his part would not suffice. To prove his sincerity, he would be required to eat raw chillies for a month in order to cleanse his palate and permanently numb his taste buds. Purged of his ability to appreciate the subtle flavours of a woman’s cha-cha, he would surely be cured of his indecent obsession. Even the most hardened addict can learn to kick the habit.

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