Forced pleasure

A female charity executive who allowed her boss to hypnotise her is claiming that he fondled her bosom and repeatedly brought her to orgasm by means of hypnotic suggestion. Seeking redress for this gross abuse of trust, Ms Susan Patroski is suing her former employer for five million dollars. 

When I told the manager of the safari camp about this case he was astonished. “She wants five million dollars for having an orgasm!” he exclaimed. “How much would she want for a trip to the moon and back? Ten million?” 

“You are forgetting that he felt up her boobs before tricking her into climaxing,” I replied. “The ends do not justify the means, and the chest of a hypnotised woman is a forbidden zone in both law and common morality.” 

“Fine!” barked the manager. “Let her do to him what he did to her. I bet he wouldn’t mind if she fondled his chest and gave him an orgasm.” 

“That’s how Solomon and Sheba settled their lawsuit in 970 BC, isn’t it?” I remarked. “It’s a pity you’re not the man’s lawyer so you could dazzle the courtroom with your brilliant legal insights.” 

Detecting a hint of sarcasm in my remarks, the manager blew a small raspberry and went off to play with his remote-controlled Barbie doll. Much as I abhor his crass opinions, I find myself agreeing with him that this dispute does not belong in a courtroom. Can any sum of money, no matter how large, ever compensate a woman for being forced to have an orgasm? Even five million bucks would never wipe away the shame of being made to moan ecstatically while waves of toe-curling rapture wash over her quivering body. Once again, it seems that a rapacious law firm has persuaded a woman to pursue litigation that will bring her no satisfaction in the long run. 

The other problem, of course, is that Ms Patroski has now revealed to the world that she has no control over her climaxes. Although this is not the worst condition in the world, perhaps being the opposite of frigidity, it does make her a tempting target for fiends and perverts. Speaking as a former circus ape, I can assure you that the dwarves I knew would have been creaming their tights at the thought of getting into a confined space with Ms Patroski. Although small in stature, they preferred normal-sized women and had fingers that could poke holes in a watermelon. 

Had I been Ms Patroski’s confidant, I would have advised her to seek justice by other means. For example, she could have hired one of those detective agencies that secretly film adulterous liaisons, and instructed them to make a video of her boss masturbating. Threatening to make the footage public would have surely persuaded him to apologise and perform appropriate acts of penance. I should imagine he would have shaved his head and pierced his nipples to avoid having his exertions displayed on the internet. Checking thy body may amend thy soul, as we say in the jungle

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Seduction tricks

Someone has asked me to contribute to a fund for a Korean man who tried to hypnotise a woman into bed. After failing in his attempt he was arrested and heavily fined. I won’t donate a penny. If hypnotists are allowed to get away with that kind of chicanery, no virtuous maiden will be safe unless she wears ear plugs. Instead of looking for macho sympathisers to reimburse him, he should thank the judge for being so lenient. I would have imposed the ancient Roman penalty involving fish paste and a ram’s horn.

Although human seduction techniques are irrelevant to a gorilla, I like to keep an eye on current developments. Apparently there is a society which helps men to perfect such wiles. A favoured method is for the seducer to invite the object of his lust to offer her opinion on a quirky topic he is supposedly debating with his buddies. Once enticed into communication, she is beguiled with pre-planned banter designed to make her feel she is being courted by Oscar Wilde’s heterosexual twin. If all goes to plan, she will consent to sexual relations before her charmer exhausts his bag of tricks.

Such tactics would never work with female gorillas. Too much clever talk is viewed as pretentious in the jungle. “Ignore the words, observe the deeds” is the motto they follow when sizing up eligible silverbacks. I remember the case of a wily chimpanzee who tried to chat up a pubescent female gorilla. He told her all kinds of tall stories about edible snakes and suckable coconuts. She listened to him with an amused look on her face and then immobilised him with a headlock. He must have spent hours lying on the ground with her vice-like ankles wrapped around his neck. He couldn’t move his head for a week after she released him.

Now I’m not saying that human females should adopt a similar approach. What works in the jungle might cause an unpleasant ruckus in a singles bar. But if a man sounds too clever, he ought to be reminded that his words are merely noises from a vibrating Adam’s Apple. The shrewd girl-about-town will listen to him with a twinkle in her eye and say “How you talk!” when he’s finished. If he looks annoyed, it means she’s seen through him.

It seems to me that the authentic ladies’ man learns his craft by hanging out with women and finding out what they really want from a lover. The fellow who only approaches a woman when he wants sex will never be a Casanova in my view. The same principle applies when the genders are reversed, of course. A lady gorilla who expects the alpha male to jump all over her when she’s in season might be gravely disappointed if the big guy feels he’s being used like a sperm bank.

“Where were you last week when I wanted a fruit smoothie and my back needed scratching?” I asked one of my horny females the other day.

She had no good answer to my question.

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Ancient memories

A tourist tells me about his past life as a medieval knight called Sir Roger de Pomfrey. He claims he fought both Moors and Turks before returning to England to have a passionate affair with the future queen. I smile indulgently at the fellow’s prattle. Humouring people with crackpot delusions is a pastime I have always enjoyed.

“Your lady’s heart must have been torn in two when the king proposed to her,” I suggest.

“Too right!” he affirms. “She came to me with tears in her eyes and said: ‘Oh Roger, I shall imagine thy burning eyes and feel thy bulging flesh, even as the king doth porketh me senseless on the royal four poster!’”

“Well that’s political marriages for you,” I remark. “I bet Hillary was thinking of Walter Mondale when Bill swept her off her feet. May I ask how you had the good fortune to recover these golden memories?”

“It all came out under hypnosis,” he explains. “I met a chap who does past life regression for a very reasonable fee.”

“Ah, but of course!” I say. “How else would one dig up the mind’s buried treasure?”

Apparently quite a few humans can remember a past life. Why is it, I wonder, that those who lived in medieval England were always members of the nobility rather than Eric the Serf or Fanny the Fishwife? As 90% of the population of that era were peasants, one assumes the lower orders were doomed to be reborn as hedgehogs or snails. I myself have no recollection of my past lives, perhaps because no one has succeeded in hypnotising me. We gorillas are not susceptible to mental jiggery pokery – our jungle instincts make us too sceptical of the spoken word.

I witnessed the peculiar power of hypnotic suggestion in the circus. It all began when one of our female acrobats approached the cage of a rather magnificent snake, which was asleep at the time. Much to my surprise, I saw her write a little message and slip it beside the slumbering serpent.

I decided to retrieve the note to find out what the dickens she had written. Technically a violation of her privacy, I know, but justifiable in this unusual situation. I mean it wasn’t as if the snake was going to read it himself. So I gently fished it out of the cage with a long stick and was shocked to discover it was a love note. I don’t want to go into details, but the entreaty “O squeeze me in your coils, you enormous python!” gives you a flavour of the contents.

I happened to know that this woman was receiving hypnotherapy from my friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, so I immediately went to see him to find out what he was up to.

“It’s nothing much really,” he said. “I just tell her good things about snakes when she’s under – that they’re beautiful, intelligent, sensitive and so forth. She wants me to cure her phobia.”

“Smacker, you bumbling quackhead!” I exclaimed. “You’ve made her fall in love with the giant python! She’ll jump down the ruddy thing’s throat if you don’t deprogram her!”

So he contacted the woman to arrange a quick remedial session, and reduced her serpentine appreciation to a platonic level by saying things like “Snakes make terrible boyfriends and are very selfish in bed” (which may be true for all I know). It seemed to have the desired effect anyway.

This anecdote illustrates the nonsense that hypnosis can plant in the human brain. In spite of being a firm believer in reincarnation (like most gorillas), I don’t for one minute believe that anyone can remember a past life. The beauty of being reborn is that the slate is wiped clean, so you don’t have to reflect on all the embarrassing things that happened to you last time. That would distract you from all the sordid events in your current life, which will once again be forgotten when you die. It’s part of the cycle of existence.

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