The art of flirting

A professor from the University of Kansas has published a paper about flirting. He identifies five main methods, ranging from “traditional” (man makes first move and behaves with impeccable manners) to “physical” (woman brushes buttocks against man’s thigh, causing him to gnash teeth and grab her jahoobies). 

The learned professor appears not to be aware of the latest on-line techniques. According to my friend Ms Tiny Temper, who is vainly searching for her Prince Charming on dating sites, a good many men have sent her photos of their todger. Fed up with being a magnet for flashers, she has taken measures to dissuade stray cocks from entering her hen house. I believe that most women share her distaste for men who expose themselves. It’s the sort of thing that might give a lady the vapours. 

Every rule has an exception, however. A woman in a position of power is generally perfectly at ease in the company of naked men, confident that no male organ would dare raise its head in the presence of an alpha female. Consider the example of Angela Merkel, chancellor of Germany, who had no qualms about entering the changing room of the German football team after another blitzkrieg performance. Most of the towelling players cheerfully accepted her congratulations, although a few bashful types placed their hands over their nipples. 

Frau Merkel’s political opponents have accused her of flirting for political gain. They claim she was soliciting the votes of Germany’s sportsmen by pretending to be the kind of woman who would jump into a communal bath with them and sing bawdy songs. The obvious question for her accusers is this: How do you know she was pretending? There is nothing wrong with a female politician joining the nation’s finest in their celebrations. I believe Mrs Thatcher did something very similar after the Iranian embassy siege. 

As a gorilla who is instinctively chivalrous to the human female, I have often wrongly been accused of flirting. I recall an incident from my circus days, when we hired a “glamour model” called Tracey to help us with our promotions. The female acrobats were given the job of looking after her, and seemed less than impressed with her airs and poses. Things came to a head when Tracey strutted before me in a pair of shiny hot-pants. 

“Does my bum look big in this, GB?” she asked coyly. 

“Not big enough for a gorilla,” I replied wistfully, “but it does look agreeably firm. A manual examination would allow me to give a more definitive opinion.” 

She giggled delightedly before blowing me a kiss and sauntering off. The acrobats had witnessed this exchange with stony faces. 

“You great big hairy flirt!” snorted one of them when Tracey was out of earshot. 

“Flirt?” I replied in a quizzical tone of voice. “That’s a strange epithet for one who honestly appraises a woman’s hindquarters.” 

My relations with the acrobats were strained for a while, but I eventually managed to sweeten them up with a dollop of jungle honey. 

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