Sleeping booty

I’m feeling a little sorry for the 19-year-old Polish girl who mistook a snake for her boyfriend. She was asleep on a couch when the serpent coiled around her thighs, making her think that said boyfriend was exploring her nether regions. It’s an easy mistake to make in a country such as Poland, where snakes are rather thin on the ground. Apparently, this one had escaped from a pet shop and was looking for a safe place to hide in. It succeeded only partially, I should imagine. 

The girl was naturally horrified to find herself in flagrante delicto with a reptile when she awoke. I hope she didn’t feel violated. The snake obviously had no idea what it was doing and must have been as shocked as she was when its comfortable resting place turned into a mass of squirming flesh. If anyone deserves blame it’s the boyfriend, who left the young woman alone and unprotected. What’s the point of having a 19-year-old girlfriend if you abandon her the minute she lies down on a couch? 

Interestingly enough, the practice of fondling women in their sleep seems to be a growing niche area of erotic entertainment. Heaven knows why porn viewers find it arousing. In the first place, the actresses are obviously only pretending to be asleep; in the second place, their supposed condition severely restricts the range of acts they can perform. Maybe it’s something men dream of doing to their wives, to satisfy their needs with the minimum of fuss and no post-coital cuddling. I wouldn’t be surprised if quite a few husbands got kneed in the groin after unsuccessfully attempting the manoeuvre. Watching the deed depicted in pornography might help them live out their escapist fantasy. 

You might be wondering how a busy gorilla like me keeps up with the latest themes of the adult entertainment industry. As luck would have it, a couple of on-line acquaintances send me video clips, with a particular focus on the kinky genres. Are these correspondents readers of this blog? I’m not going to say, but they do encourage me to ruminate on their offerings and promulgate my views. Many humans, it seems, want to have their hobbies validated by a gorilla. 

Anyway, a more legitimate method of stimulating a sleeping woman has been devised by an Englishman called Tony Maggs. The Little Rooster Alarm Clock is a non-penetrative device that rests inside the knickers and brings the wearer to a joyous awakening at a time of her choosing. 

“It starts very gently, then slowly increases in power until you wake up,” explained Maggs. “It’s so much nicer than a conventional alarm clock,” he added. “Why would a woman want to wake-up any other way?” 

Maggs is clearly delighted with his invention, but I’d like to hear the opinion of a user before it gets the Bananas endorsement. If any lady bloggers are planning to give it a try, I will link their review at the end of this post.

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Sealed with a kiss

An Italian fashion house has launched an advertising campaign promoting the idea that enemies should kiss and make-up. A huge picture of President Obama and Hugo Chavez pressing lips recently appeared on a billboard outside the Brazzaville YMCA. Everyone knows the photo is a fake, so it generated very little excitement, even among the residents of the YMCA. 

It’s just as well that Obama is secure enough in his sexuality not to blast the poster to kingdom come with a Cruise missile. He’s recently been proving his heterosexual credentials by canoodling with Julia Gillard, the raunchy redhead who rules the roost in Australia. After greeting Ms Gillard with a moist-looking peck on the cheek, he patted her receptive tush right into the White House. I hope Michelle was mature enough not to give him hell afterwards – there’s no such thing as cheating when you’re making political alliances. 

The only person complaining about the poster campaign is Pope Benedict, who was depicted smooching an Egyptian holy man. A Vatican spokesman denounced it as a violation of the Holy Father’s chastity, but I suspect what really upset Benny was the lack of passion in the kiss. No one ever got to be Pope without sticking his tongue down a few throats. The fashion house withdrew the Papal poster under threat of legal action, but there must be a few thousand stashed away in a warehouse. They'll become a collector’s item after Benny has his sex-change operation. 

The most puzzling poster is the one of Sarkozy kissing Frau Merkel. The couple were bosom allies the last time I checked, so why show them kissing? Could Sarko have bribed the fashion house to do it because he wanted to make his wife jealous? A new mother is often so infatuated with her baby that she neglects her husband’s needs. Maybe the poster will prompt Carla to accelerate her programme of coochie exercises so she can wrap her luscious thighs around Sarko the next time he ventures into the marital bed. If he keeps on fantasizing about getting into Frau Merkel's pants it might damage the French national interest. She doesn’t look like the sort of woman who’ll give it away for nothing. 

Now, this advertising campaign is a clever gimmick, but its premise looks flawed to me. There is no evidence from human history that kissing is a reliable indicator of benign intentions. Delilah kissed Sampson; Judas kissed Jesus; J Edgar Hoover kissed Dillinger and a dozen other gangsters. It’s the oldest trick in the book to butter up your victim with a smooch before giving him the big shaft. As Shirley Bassey said, it’s the kiss of death from Mr Goldfinger. 

Instead of kissing, humans who want to make peace should do what we gorillas do: bring about a controlled collision between their rumps. It takes real courage to turn your back on a rival and stick out your behind, trusting that he will do the same rather than kicking your arse or attempting some other unspeakable act. If President Obama started booty-bumping all the hostile characters who show up in the UN building, the Age of Universal Love might finally dawn.

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The erect posture

A professor from Utah is saying that man began walking upright to gain an advantage in fighting for females. A bipedal posture, he claims, makes it easier to punch your rival’s lights out and carry off his woman. To prove his point, he organised a few boxing matches between tall men and hunchbacks to see who could hit harder. 

The professor has my admiration for propounding his theory with a straight face and getting people to fund his slapstick experiments. It’s just as well no one thought of the obvious point that women also walk upright. If the sole purpose of posture were mating, they would squat on all fours like vixens in heat while the men slugged it out for the right to mount them. 

In reality, no sensible woman wants two men to fight over her. Being human, she is bound to prefer the good-looking one, so what would happen if he lost? The victorious Mr Goatface would come trotting over to claim his prize, not in a mood to take no for an answer. Even if Pretty Boy won, imagine the wear-and-tear he would be carrying from the recent battle. A broken nose? Missing teeth? Damage to the reproductive equipment if the fighting got dirty? In the light of these grievous perils, a woman’s best option is to elope with her favoured suitor, leaving his rival to run around holding his dick. 

I’m not saying that a woman should reject violence in all situations. Suppose, for example, that she and her fancy man were ambushed by an evil-looking ruffian intent on pillage and rapine. If you believe Hollywood, she has nothing better to do than watch from the sidelines while her beau and the ruffian fight to the death. The feminist in me rejects this portrayal of women as helpless sissies. What a resourceful woman would do is find a blunt instrument and circle the adversaries cagily until an opportunity arose to wallop the brigand on the back of the skull. As any female gorilla will tell you, there’s nothing unfeminine about sneaking up on a marauder and laying him out cold. 

Now the crux of the matter, of which the professor seems oblivious, is that humans are not built for unarmed combat. If Mother Nature had intended man to be a pugilist, she would have given him longer arms and a smaller nose. The last thing you need in a fist fight is an easy target in the middle of your face. 

The real reason why humans walk upright is well-known to students of African zoology: the erect posture intimidates carnivores like lions, who stupidly believe that anyone taller than them must be strong enough to kick their arses. Hence, a couple of audacious humans can drive an entire lion pride off its kill by walking up to them boldly and telling them to fuck off when they snarl. 

I should hasten to add that such bare-faced chicanery would never work with primates. You need cleverer tricks than walking tall to steal a monkey’s banana. 

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Bieber paternity suit

The manager of the safari camp shows me a picture of the woman who is claiming that Justin Bieber is the father of her child. 

“Look at her!” he demands in wide-eyed incredulity. “Why would a woman like that have sex with a scrawny teenage boy? She must be 6 inches taller and 50 pounds heavier!” 

“You don’t understand the mentality of the infatuated fan,” I reply. “The excited groupie loses all sense of propriety in the presence of her idol. I experienced this first hand in my circus days.” 

“You don’t say!” jeers the manager sarcastically. “I hope you were gentle with them, because women aren’t built like female gorillas!” 

“As gentle as a lamb, manager,” I answer indulgently. “They left my embrace with not a hair out of place.” 

The manager squeaks effeminately and plays with his hair, but is unable to engage in further repartee. Freed from the distraction of his facetious banter, I study the Bieber story in greater depth. 

The woman at the centre of the case is a 20-year-old blonde called Mariah Yeater. She alleges that Master Bieber invited her backstage after a concert and offered her the honour of popping his cherry. He declined to use a condom (she says) because he didn’t want his first sexual experience to be like paddling in Wellington boots. After 30-seconds of breathless coupling, Bieber was a spent force, and disengaged shamefacedly from his concubine. Apparently, he had expected to pound away for 50 minutes like Dirk Diggler in Boogie Nights. Children often get unrealistic expectations from what they see in movies.

The only thing one can say for certain about this tale is that it’s either true or false. It’s a logical dichotomy that cannot be avoided. Bieber has vehemently denied everything, claiming that Miss Yeater is a hoaxer and an embezzler and not his type. His bodyguards have backed-up his story, pointing out that they are trained to prevent licentious hussies from invading Justin’s personal space and ravishing him for nefarious ends. The maligned woman has tearfully stuck to her story, portraying herself as the delicate rose who got pollinated by an aggressive little wasp. 

The dispute will soon be resolved by a paternity test. If Justin does turn out to be the father, it will clearly have implications for his career. I would advise him to re-style himself as ‘Bullet-pants Bieber’, the badass rap artist who knocked up the skank ho who tried to make him her bitch. And he shouldn’t fret about the speed with which he consummated the endeavour – 30 seconds is probably par for the course in the annals of backstage shagging events. 

If the baby doesn’t have the Bieber DNA, Miss Yeater must be punished for her false and treacherous tongue. If I were passing sentence, I would order each of her thighs to be inscribed with a tattoo, one of King Kong and the other of Godzilla. It would be a brave man indeed who dared to venture between those raging monsters. 

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No weddings and a family

 

Hugh Grant has finally become a father at the age of 51. God bless him. According to his spokesman, the baby is the product of a “fleeting affair” with Miss Tinglan Hong, a Chinese actress. Hugh is nevertheless delighted to have a daughter and intends to play a role in her upbringing. Not too active a role, one would hope. Chinese infants are taught to respect and obey their parents, which would obviously be a mad thing to do if your father were Hugh Grant. 

Some people are tut-tutting because the couple had unprotected sex when they barely knew each other. They forget that Hugh has STD check-ups as frequently as most porn stars. As for Miss Hong, she may well have been a virgin who was saving herself for Hugh. Ludicrous though it may seem, people in the Far East actually revere him as the epitome of an English gentleman. One hopes he deflowered Miss Hong with the delicacy she would have anticipated.

Whatever the intimate details, the financial settlement appears to be generous. Hugh has already bought Miss Hong a fine house in London, one mile away from his own place. This will allow him to stroll over when the baby needs to be cuddled or listen to goo-goo noises. He seems, for now, to be relishing the prospect of such duties: 

“As much as I adore myself, I’m quite keen to find someone to care about more,” he quipped. 

He has no plans to live with his daughter, of course. Hugh may love his child as much as any father, but that doesn’t give her the right to ruin his beauty sleep. 

The defining event in Hugh’s career occurred in 1995, when he paid a hooker to oblige him orally in the front seat of his BMW. The police caught him in the act and took a famous mug shot, which quickly went round the world. A lesser man would have sulked in the shadows until the story had blown over (so to speak), bitterly brooding on his humiliating fall from grace. What Hugh did was appear in chat shows so he could cheerfully admit to being an ass and grin at the jokes made at his expense. This artful piece of PR ensured he continued to get leading roles in romantic comedies, playing the foppish buffoon we have grown to know and love. 

I was delighted to hear that the prostitute who siphoned Hugh’s manly fluids has thrived and prospered. Stella Marie Thompson (alias Miss Divine Brown) made a small fortune from the media interest in her escapade, allowing her to move into a four-bedroom house and put her daughters through private school.

According to Stella, Hugh told her she was gorgeous and asked if he could kiss her before agreeing to settle for a sixty-dollar blow job. Didn't he know that there's no need to compliment a call girl before she gets down to business? Or is it possible that beneath the rakish veneer of insouciance lies a gallant and amorous soul? No, that can't be possible - it must have been a conditioned reflex induced by the stiffy in his pants.

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Deceptive behaviour

Tending bar at the safari guesthouse, I serve a drink to a young American man who resembles the actor Robert Downey Junior. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he confides that he is a compulsive womaniser. We gorillas are used to hearing such confessions from humans, who often confuse us with their shrinks. 

“I pretend to be gay,” he says. “Women love having gay boyfriends who’ll go shopping with them and tell them their ass looks great. The gayness puts them off their guard and they soon start hugging and kissing me. After that happens, I just pick the right moment to stick my nose between their hooters.” 

“What if they object to being caressed in that fashion?” I ask. 

“They never do,” he replies. “Women are vain and can’t resist the idea of turning a gay guy straight. It makes them feel special.” 

“What a sly fellow you are!” I exclaim. “Don’t try it in the Congo, though. Pretty boys who pretend to be gay over here end up in the tent of a tribal chief.” 

I later reflect on the women deceived by this wily seducer. What went through their minds when the man-friend who said he was gay started nuzzling their jahoobies? Clearly, emotion and wishful-thinking must have clouded their judgement. The lesson for nubile women everywhere is clear: the man who talks gay but pets straight is not to be trusted. He is probably a devious bounder with dishonourable intentions. 

Having said all that, it is noteworthy that there are men in America who can feign gayness without feeling shame. This is a social advance to be applauded. Obviously, they must drop the act when they’re in a redneck bar or riding with the Hell’s Angels, but that’s just a matter of common sense. You don’t go for a swim in a pool full of sharks. 

Not so long ago, it was gay men who pretended to be straight. Some, like the cowboys in Brokeback Mountain, even married women to camouflage their true nature. Apparently, women who perform this function are called “beards”. I learnt of this terminology when Chris Martin (the pop musician) referred to Gwyneth Paltrow (his wife) as a great beard. He was obviously joking, but it was still an ugly slur. No A-list actress should be given an epithet which befits the bush sprouting from Brian Blessed’s chin. 

Do beards still exist in the modern world? Some people have jumped to the conclusion that George Clooney’s latest girlfriend is a beard, merely because she used to be a professional wrestler. That doesn’t follow at all. Being attracted to a female who can put you in a headlock has nothing to do with being gay, as any male gorilla will tell you. 

I do have a suspicion that Britney Spears is an unwitting beard, though. Her current boyfriend is a narcissistic fellow called Jason Trawick, who co-starred with Britney in her latest pop video. Their simulated sex scenes were so unconvincing that Britney had to grope a couple of pillows to portray her ecstasy. A man who allows pillows to steal his love-scene obviously isn’t performing with his first choice. 

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Artistic exposure

A fad seems to be emerging in the art world for daubing paint on the skin of naked women. The artists who are doing it (most of them men) say a woman’s body makes a far more interesting canvas than paper or board. Maybe so, but it’s rather less easy to frame a woman and hang her up on your wall. The most an enthusiastic collector could hope for is a good long inspection followed by some snaps for the photo album. 

The latest exponent of this technique is a fellow called Andy Golub, who spent last summer painting volunteers on the streets of New York City. After being charged with “public lewdness”, he was allowed to continue with his work on condition that his models kept their G-strings on until nightfall. A fair compromise, I would say. For all its brash in-your-faceness, the Big Apple isn’t ready for beavers in broad daylight. Even I sometimes get a peculiar taste in my mouth after seeing them in humid conditions. 

As with all art forms, there are radical pioneers pushing at the boundaries. A performance artist called Marni Kotak recently gave birth in a New York art gallery, claiming her delivery was “the highest form of art”. The critics were suitably impressed: 

“I feel the entire audience accomplished this together with Marni using their commonly created positive energy,” declared Katherine Hybenova, editor of the Bushwick Daily. 

I wonder what they did to make her feel their positive energy. I would have sung a gentle yet uplifting tune, like She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain. On second thoughts, I would have hummed it – a woman in labour shouldn’t be distracted with fatuous lyrics. 

Araceli Cruz of the Village Voice arrived shortly after the birth to find Marni “calmly eating a banana”. You have to admire the devotion of an artist who continues to perform for her public after the exhibition is over. When I left the ring in my circus career, I scratched my armpits and buggered off quickly. Any bananas were eaten in the privacy of my trailer.

I have to admit I’m in two minds about Marni’s nativity performance. A human infant squeezing out of its mother’s birth canal is certainly an amazing spectacle that rivals the special effects in Alien or similar movies. But shouldn’t the baby have a say on whether it’s displayed covered in yucky goo, bawling its head off with a horrible tube sticking out of its navel? I wouldn’t want to be gawked at by New York avant-gardistes in such an undignified condition.

A photograph of Marni in the final days of her gestation is displayed below for my curious readers. Rarely have I seen such a prime specimen of luscious womanhood. I printed out a copy for my females, who immediately pestered me to invite her to the Congo in their eagerness to massage her thighs and buttocks. There was nothing remotely sexual about their request. We gorillas are broad-minded apes who appreciate firm flesh from whatever quarter, particular the hindquarters.

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