Women’s magazines fascinate and horrify me.
About 10 years ago my business partner, who I shall call Steve, came to me with a conundrum: he’d just started a relationship that he felt was promising, but at the same time a magazine article was about to be published which would embarrass him. Through a friend in PR, he’d been selected to appear in Marie Claire as one of Britain’s three top bachelors.
Believe me, I know the man, and if he’s a top bachelor then I’m the Duchess of Argyle. He’s a balding 50-something gnome with skin like a papier-mâché scrotum, permanently broke, and bears a queasy resemblance to a cartoon Keith Chegwin. Honestly, he’s one of my best mates, but if women are flocking to him the only explanations are witchcraft, or that he’s secretly the world’s greatest scientist, and has created a thermonuclear fanny magnet.
I even have a photo of Steve wearing exactly this outfit. And it’s not a good look, Steve, it really isn’t.
Steve’s conundrum was that his ego was being stroked sensationally by being described as a top bachelor, but he was no longer single, and couldn’t take advantage of the sudden publicity. What to do, what to do?
I told him exactly what to do: totally ignore women’s magazines! You could leave one open for a month at the bottom of a parrot cage and it would end up containing less shite than when you bought it.
I realise that’s half the fun. I’m not saying women are all hemi-demi-semi-wits with a brain 1/3 the size of a man’s and mostly full of a large, pointless, free-floating bone. I’m confident there are plenty of males who are quite spectacular dullards – in fact I know there are, because one of them lives in my house and keeps staring at me out of mirrors.
So women’s magazines aren’t stupid because women are stupid: they’re stupid because, like all of us, women like to feel better about themselves, and reading something that sucks the IQ out of your skull like a brain-hoover is jolly satisfying. Everybody needs something to rant about, otherwise blogs like this wouldn’t exist.
(I should say that this particular blog only exists because a lady of my acquaintance pointed me to this article, and inspired me. It’s not, I should point out, the first time she’s inspired me to consider masturbation…)
It’s an article in Cosmo called “Masturbation for Beginners”, and I feel bad for even linking to it – you might assume it’s a recommendation, but it’s more like a grim warning. It manages to make the humble wank sound like you’re a timid but desperate sex-offender, tentatively grooming your own body ahead of a tearful violation.
Apparently you have to do the following things:
- take a leisurely bath and light candles
- caress your own face and massage your scalp
- gradually work your hands down your body using featherlight touches
- tease your abdomen
- just as you’re about to get to the good bit, pull away until you’re ready to take things further
Let me put this in context. Before your great, great, great grandfather was born, before even his eldest relatives had been born, just as the Reformation was happening and the Enlightenment was bringing about the modern world, deep in a forest in eastern Europe a single nut fell to the floor and lay, waiting for the spring to come. It sought deep minerals from the rich soil, and crept out of the ground through the seasons that followed. For 250 years it swelled with the sun and rode out the winters. It thrust down into the soil and strained up to the sky, and it performed a miracle of quantum mechanics, transforming sunlight into energy, and energy into branches. It formed a verdant canopy, protecting men and beasts from nature’s fecund blessing. It fed birds and bees, and bloomed into a symphony of colour when the summer lay blissfully upon the land. As the icy fingers of winter crept into our sinews, it dropped leaves and nuts to the ground, furnishing woodland creatures with food and shelter. For a quarter of a millennium its abstract arboreal art had breached the drab horizon and thrown up one of nature’s greatest achievements – the glorious, random tangle of branch and leaf that is the mighty elm.
And then some cunt cut it down to print a Cosmo about having a wank.
I wouldn’t mind if it was quality writing, but it’s so bad it makes me want to destroy language. It makes me want to invent a time-machine, flip back to 1440, and shoot Johannes Gutenberg in his beardy little face.
Forget all that bullshit in Cosmo: here’s my advice:
- Look in the mirror. Are you Barbra Cartland? No? Then forget all that folderol and trumpery about bathing and candles and caressing.
- Don’t make an attempt to “tease yourself” unless you have a multiple personality syndrome, because guess what: you probably know what you’re going to do next. You can’t tease somebody who knows exactly what is about to happen.
- Your body isn’t going to rear up and gallop away like a startled horse. So don’t “seduce” it, just put your fingers on the bit that feels good, and keep rubbing until it feels even better.
- Clean up before it dries and goes crusty.
And next time you’re tempted to look at Cosmo, go outside and look at a tree instead. And if you get bored with the tree, look at somebody you think is fit, and go home for another wank.