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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