Feel-good story

I’ve been searching the internet for uplifting news stories to cheer up the manager of the safari camp. He’s been feeling despondent after a Chinese fortune-teller told him he would lose his sense of smell. It’s not the worst thing for a human to lose, but the manager is very attached to his olfactory pleasures. Many are the times when I’ve caught him sniffing an empty shampoo bottle, or an item removed from the laundry basket. Chinese fortune-tellers are not infallible, of course, but their poker-faced predictions can puncture the nonchalance of the most hardened sceptic. That’s why I never consult them. 

The best one I’ve found so far is a human-interest tale about a 24-year-old Cornish woman who has found her dream job. Miss Nat Garvey tests sex-toys for a living, ensuring they meet the maker’s specifications and don’t overheat on full power. 

"Rather than being surrounded by office supplies and computers all day, I have piles of kinky toys to play with," she explained. 

As far as feel-good stories go, few could be more satisfying than this one. It gladdens my primate soul to know that Miss Garvey thoroughly enjoys her work. I’m sure she finds it fulfilling as well. 

Perhaps the most encouraging aspect of this story is that Miss Garvey is not ashamed of her occupation and makes no attempt to hide it from her friends. That would never have happened in Freud’s day, when vibrators were a tool used by doctors to calm hysterical women. Thankfully, we now live in a more enlightened age when women don’t have to be batshit insane to enjoy the simple pleasures of life (with moderate mechanical assistance). Orgasmic independence was surely the greatest achievement of the feminist movement. 

My one concern for Miss Garvey is how people react when she spills the beans. The pubs of her native Cornwall are doubtless frequented by assorted yahoos who would think a girl in her line of work must be a slut or nymphomaniac. Perhaps she needs a male guardian with the fencing skills of Zorro, who would challenge any man who slighted her honour to a duel. A boorish yokel would think twice about making an inappropriate remark in her presence if he knew it might result in the letter ‘W’ being carved on the seat of his pants by a few lightning swishes of a sabre. 

Call me an old-fashioned ape, but in my view women will always need protection from ruffians and liberty-takers. Look at the Swedish sports coach who told the boys under his charge to spank her arse, “her” being an imaginary girl used as a metaphor for the opposing team’s defence. He is obviously a vulgar oaf who has never been educated in the social graces and needs to be kept in check with a riding crop. A gentleman knows that a woman’s arse is not to be spanked unless she begs him to spank it. And only then if she has committed deeds of appropriate naughtiness. 

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Chinese dress code

 

The Chinese government is cracking down on “vulgarity” in public places. The nation’s biggest on-line gaming fair has been told that the models who appear in the event should not display advertising logos in “sensitive positions”. That sounds like the deliberately vague catch-all prohibition of a Communist regime scared of counter-revolutionary nipple slogans. Some might think Chinese girls were insufficiently endowed to carry seditious material on their bosoms, but apparently much can be said with a couple of well-chosen characters. During the Cultural Revolution, the red guards checked whether suspects had shaved insults to Mao on their pubic hair. 

A more specific restriction on the models’ attire is that no more than two-thirds of their backs should be uncovered. One has to respect the mathematical precision of the ruling. A professor on safari told me that at least six measurements would be required to work out the bare-back ratio. I suppose an eager little fellow with an inch tape will be taking the girls’ dimensions from behind and feeding the data into his programmable calculator. It’s the sort of job any self-respecting geek would pay for the privilege of doing. 

I’ve only ever encountered one man who was besotted with the female back. He was a quarter Chinese but one-half Welsh, so we can’t draw any conclusions from that. The circus I worked for had hired him as a human cannonball, which meant that his own back was subject to considerable compression. Maybe that’s why he yearned to rub his face against the unspoiled vertebrae of a well-postured woman. 

He evaded capture for some time by preying on female spectators, who assumed their molester was another member of the audience. His luck ran out when I caught him sneaking behind a lady in an open-backed frock and licking her between the shoulder blades. He was wearing clown’s make-up as a disguise, but I saw through the subterfuge immediately. 

“Cheong-Jones!” I exclaimed, as he strove to escape my long-armed grip. “There’s no point struggling, my hand is like a vice on your collar! Never again will your lizard-like tongue moisten the innocent flesh of a ticket-paying customer!” 

After realising there was no hope of escape, he tried to mollify his bemused victim, who had turned round to face us. He began with flattery, telling her what an irresistible back she had, which had tasted even better than it looked. He then made the fatal error of offering to cleanse the defiled flesh with a damp sponge, which made the woman shudder and flinch. 

Cheong-Jones was later given his marching orders with a decent severance package. Before he left, I asked him why he was drawn to women’s backs. 

“They remind me of the marble columns in my uncle’s mansion,” he explained. “I used to rub against them when I was a boy. Nothing has ever come close.” 

The ingenuity of humans in finding sexual surrogates has never failed to impress me. I suppose you can’t beat marble if you like it smooth and hard. A bit too cool for my liking, I should fancy. 

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