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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Christmas lawsuits

I arrive in London for Christmas and decamp at Dr Whipsnade’s residence. During an afternoon stroll in Regents Park, I see a man in dark glasses and a grey fur coat, feeding the waterfowl what appear to be pickled onions. On nearing I recognise him as my old circus chum, Bernie Anus, and greet him affectionately:

“Bernie, you enormous bumhole!” I exclaim. “What the devil are you feeding those ducks?”

“Nothing you would you enjoy, you hairy-arsed hulk!” he replies amiably.

After this exchange of pleasantries, we repair to a nearby pub to renew our old camaraderie.

“Bartender!” I cry. “A tankard of your finest ale for my friend, Mr Anus! I will have a glass of pineapple juice, if you please.”

I ask Bernie how the clowning business is going.

“It’s mostly children’s birthday parties these days,” he says. “It pays OK when I’m not being sued.”

“Who on God’s Green Earth would want to sue you, Bernie?”

“Last summer I had a birthday gig in The Dorchester,” he explains. “When I walked into the lobby in my costume, a little dog jumped on my shoe and tried to nip my ankle. So I removed a can of spray-paint from my jacket and dyed its head green. It ran off whimpering.”

“That taught the little varmint!” I snigger. “What happened then?”

“Nothing at first. I went to the kiddies’ party and did my act to huge acclaim. But when I was leaving I got collared by a couple of policemen. It turned out that the dog belonged to some snooty old cow with a title. Lady Magnolia Handjob, wife of the Earl of Wank, or words to that effect. They took me in for questioning but released me without charge.”

“I should hope so! I couldn’t imagine a clearer case of self-defence.”

“Indeed. But soon afterwards I got a summons to appear in court to answer a civil suit. Lady Magnolia was seeking damages for the physical and emotional pain inflicted on her precious mutt, as well as the cost of cleaning its head.”

“Did you abscond? I would have given you sanctuary in the Congo if you’d asked.”

“Oh I turned up all right, and in my business suit too. His Worship took one look at me and said ‘You’re not giving evidence in my court wearing that ridiculous costume!’. So I looked him up and down and replied: ‘You’re a fine one to talk!’. He fined me for contempt and I had to pay Her Ladyship five thousand as well.”

“What can I say, Bernie? The law is a rectal probe for the rich and powerful to use on the hapless peons they oppress. May this Lady Magnolia and her vile pooch fall into a barrel of monkey piss.”

“Thank you, GB. I would have called you as a character witness if you’d been here.”

That evening, I reflect on another case in which a wealthy woman has bent the law to her will. Jennifer Lopez has persuaded a judge to issue an injunction preventing her former husband from releasing a tape of their marital frolics. It seems that he and Ms Lopez enacted a spanking scene when relations between them were still cordial.

Yet the ruling did not stop her ex-husband from publishing a transcript of the dialogue, mere gossip not yet being illegal. As luck would have it, a reliable source has provided me with a copy of this document. In normal circumstances, I would respect the intellectual property rights of Ms Lopez and keep it to myself. But Christmas is a time to share, as well as to redress the inherent biases of the legal system. A short excerpt is given below.

J-Lo: Oh, I’m such a naughty girl!

Ex: Thwack!

J-Lo: Don’t stop until I’ve learned my lesson!

Ex: Thwack!

J-Lo: Make my big ass red!

Ex: Thwack!

J-Lo: Smack me hard, Dr Badfinger!

Ex: Thwack.

I like the ‘Dr Badfinger’ line best. It shows imagination.


The Japing Ape wishes his readers a Merry Christmas and will return at the start of the New Year.

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