Belgian sex strike

I don’t normally pay much attention to human politicians, but occasionally one of them says something that makes me scratch my chin with my toenails. The latest to accomplish this feat was Senator Marleen Temmerman, a Belgian parliamentarian who has urged the wives of her male colleagues to deny them conjugal privileges until they approve a new government.

The first thing about her suggestion that surprised me was its implication that Belgian politicians sleep with their wives, rather than inflicting their sweaty flesh on call girls or rent boys. Yet another thing for Belgium to be proud of, along with Tin Tin, Poirot and Van Dammed. 

Having said all that, I don’t see the logic of her proposal. Why would an assembly of sexually frustrated men be any more likely to patch up their differences in the national interest? If you tried it with male chimpanzees, they would run around screeching their heads off before buggering each other senseless. 

One has to suspect that Ms Temmerman has an ulterior motive. It would be quite natural for a woman in a predominantly male institution to have yearnings and fantasies about some of her colleagues. If the men she fancied weren’t getting any back home, they might overlook the fact that she is no spring chicken and invite her to a clucking party with the rooster. How this would affect the political impasse is not entirely clear, but it’s possible that men who’ve enjoyed the same woman might adopt a common position. 

The problem with the idea of wives punishing their husbands by refusing them sex is the unspoken assumption that men always want it more than women. For teenagers and newlyweds this may well be true, but I question whether it applies to Mr and Mrs Fuddlebutt who’ve been married for 20 years. Middle-aged men fall into two categories – those who dream of food and those who dream of sex. The gluttons outnumber the lechers by at least two-to-one, and even the lechers would rather pester college girls than ravish the missus on the kitchen table. 

Last year, the bridal suite of the safari guesthouse was occupied by the Mellonbergs, an American socialite couple much feted in the high society of Rhode Island. A few days into their stay, Mrs Mellonberg approached me for a confidential chat: 

“All he does at night is lie on his back and snore like that hippo we saw in the swamp!” she exclaimed. “Could you put something in his coffee, GB? This is supposed to be our second honeymoon!” 

“Doping a man without his knowledge would violate our sacred code of jungle hospitality,” I replied. “I suggest you adopt the tactic of the female gorilla and take the initiative. A bit of groping might goad the old bull into action.” 

When the couple came down for breakfast next morning, I knew at once that Mrs Mellonberg had acted on my advice. There was a prodigious hickey on her husband’s face and triumphant smile on her one. The manager later said that she looked like a woman who had recently straddled a man and fucked his brains out. 

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