Uncle Dysfunctional
Page 8
I did have a girlfriend who was a bunny girl and she would come to bed in her ears, which I rather liked. I heard of a girl who could only have sex with men wearing rubber gloves (them, not her). And I know a man who took a first date to bed and discovered that she was wearing a strap-on penis – and then discovered that she wasn’t.
Dear Unc Dysfunc,
A girl I’ve been sort of mucking about with said she couldn’t love anyone who didn’t love The Bell Jar. Apparently, this Bell Jar isn’t anything to do with kitchen equipment. It’s a book by some other bitch. So, I said I couldn’t love anyone who didn’t love Grand Theft Auto V and then we had a row and now she’s going with some nonce who wears a scarf indoors. What’s all that about? I’ve mentioned this to some mates and they’ve noticed the same thing. Not The Bell Jar, but other stuff. One girl said she couldn’t love anyone that didn’t love Anna Karenina. So, my mate said he’d never touched her but if she was fit and wanted a threesome he was up for it. And then there’s this gang of girls down the pedestrian precinct who are always mocking me and my mates, shouting, “You never read no Jane Austen, mong boy!” This has just happened in the last year or so. What’s going on? I need a list of books that I can say I’ve read, that will get me loved. Just give me a heads up. You get me, bruv?
Piers, by email
It’s hell out there, Piers. It’s a fucking library. It’s this thing that happens to girls. They come over all fictional. It gets really bad in their late teens. They’re generally over it by the time they’re 30 but I doubt you want to wait that long. There’s no point in trying to cheat on books. You’ll just get caught out. And if there’s one thing worse than being an illiterate philistine it’s being an insecure illiterate philistine. And don’t google “philistine”, it looks needy. Leave literature to the birds. No threesome ever conceived is worth having to plough through Little Women for. (That’s a novel, not dwarf sex.)
What I suggest is that you up the cultural stakes. Get poetry. Then you say, “Oh, you must know Keats’ ‘Ode on Melancholy’? Come back to mine and I’ll read it to your twat.” Nothing beats poetry. It’s the death star of culture. It’s the bollocks. And most of all, it’s short and rhymes. And if you don’t understand it, that’s OK because you’re supposed to just feel it, like Deep Heat. And you’d be surprised by how much you already know. Songs are all poetry, and they don’t make any sense. I tell you, once a girl’s got a dose of novels she’s a pushover for iambic pentameter. They’ve got no literary immune system. Sonnets are like aural Viagra, so don’t go quoting to people you don’t want to get with. “ Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue / Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine / His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might. . .” Fuck knows what that means but it’s the best hook-up line in the world.
AA,
My girlfriend says she’d like me to be more assertive in bed. So, I said, tell me what you want and I’ll do my best. She just rolled her eyes and muttered, “Typical.”
Norman, Cheltenham
Norman, we’ve had a number of letters along this line: “My partner says she wants to feel she’s being rogered, not directing an interior decorator”; “I’ve done my best to be a caring sympathetic and sensitive lover but my wife has just told me she’s bored to tears with my bedroom good manners and relentless consideration. She’d like me to be a bit more selfish and demanding. Do you think she needs to see a counsellor? Yours, Giles.” All of you: sex isn’t fair. It’s never going to be fair. It’s not an equal opportunity. It’s not even explicable. Sometimes, though, it seems that God or Darwin – whichever came first – hardwired the wrong sort of instructions into the wrong bodies. Men would be much happier if girls behaved like men and women would prefer it if men were as imaginative as women. There is a problem. It’s boredom. Women get bored with sex far quicker than men. In fact, no man has ever become bored with sex. We like familiarity, we perform better when there’s no anxiety, no unforeseen distractions. Women on the other hand, well on both hands actually, think that familiarity is overfamiliar, that comfort is overrated. They need excitement and surprises and suspense. Sex is like shoes. Men like their shoes to be comfortable. Women like their shoes to be new. You see the problem here. When she said she wanted you to be more dominant, what she meant is: do something out of character, don’t ask my permission, stop pussyfooting, stop saying please and thank you. Now, a sex expert would say – by the way, no one is a sex expert, anyone who tells you they’re a sex expert is compensating for being a lousy shag, can you imagine hopping on board a self-defined sex expert? – anyway, what they would say is: role play. It’s what they say about everything. It’s the easiest way to make over your sex life: pretend it’s someone else’s sex life. You be the burglar, I’ll be the quadriplegic in the wheelchair with the head wand and the number of the safe. You be Helen of Troy, I’ll be the wooden horse. You be Jar Jar Binks, I’ll be Margaret Thatcher. The possibilities are endless: a sort of hideous, karaoke, trick-or-treat sex life.
I don’t know about you, but I find being myself with no clothes on quite difficult, so having to be Genghis Khan or a Dambuster would be too hideously, shrivellingly humiliating. There is another option: rope and gaffer tape. Bondage and sadomasochism are quite complicated (don’t try them when not at home). There’s an awful lot of knots to remember. Quite a bit of engineering to take into account. And you’ve got to constantly be aware that it’s still sex, not hostage negotiation or cookery. You need to be very confident for sadism. You’ve got to keep the atmosphere electric. One wrong move, one slipknot, one Velcro cuff on the pubic hair and it can all descend into Norman Wisdom chaos. But there is a third way. If I was going to write a sex manual, it would be only one page with one word. And that word would be: blindfold. Dangerous and erotic without ever needing to put on a funny hat or an accent, a blindfold does it all for you. Immediately, it makes you dominant, adds suspense, excitement and a heightened sensitivity. A blindfold is the most versatile and effective sex aid and, best of all, it makes you disappear. There’s hours and hours of gibbering, panting fun to be had with a scarf and a clothes peg.
Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,
I have been successfully masturbating for at least six months (not continuously – that would be excessive, painful and interfere with my schoolwork). I understand that the ability to have sex and potentially father children comes with responsibilities, although I’m not planning on doing the latter imminently, while ardently hoping for some of the former. The weight of inferred adult manliness weighs heavily on my shoulders. I worry about how to be a man because I’ve got a load of penis in my hand but, in my head, I’m fantasising about Violet from The Incredibles (she’s been my ideal girl since forever). I’m an only child and I don’t have a dad. Well, obviously, I must have a dad, but he’s never bothered to introduce himself. I have a fantastic mum who’s been a brilliant parent. We’re not sad or lonely, or terribly under-privileged, but there isn’t a male in my life I can talk to about this sort of thing. My granddad is a gent’s outfitter and votes Ukip. His idea of being manly is polishing your shoes and knowing how to tie a Windsor knot. I have a lot of friends at school, but obviously I can’t talk about this sort of thing to them. And teachers are all kidult low-achievers, who’ve been made emotionally dysfunctional by hanging around children too much. I really could do with a grown-up answer and, I suspect, so could a lot of your readers, who possibly aren’t eloquent or evolved enough to ask the question straight out. Please, don’t waste time telling me I’m precocious – I know, I’ve known for years. That’s how precocious I am.
Jamie, by email
Jamie, thank you for the update on your onanism. I know you just want to share with absolutely everyone at the beginning, and you’re right. But then I suspect you’re always right. This is an interesting and important question. Indeed, in many ways, it is the question that everyone writes in asking about. And I’ll answer it as straightforwardly as I can. You will grow up
to be a man, whatever you do, whether you think about it or not. It is what you are and most of the things that make you a man are out of your control, like erections, urges and smells, and the need to laugh at things in groups that you wouldn’t find remotely funny if you were on your own. But what you mean is: how do you become a good man? How do you mould and manipulate that small portion of masculinity that isn’t genes, hormones, natural selection and hardwiring? The part that makes you unique is the bit people will like or fear, fall in love with, or try to avoid. Maybe it’s best not to ask another man, a failed or compromised manly man. Maybe the best person would be a woman. She might tell you what was attractive and most endearing from her point of view.
I suspect women would say you should be sensitive but capable, strong but also flexible, and that you should be able to change a tyre and have an argument without shouting. You should be dependable but spontaneous, clean and dirty. The ideal man for a woman, in short, might be a handyman butler with benefits. On the other hand, the male exemplar of manliness is Shane, the hero of a 1953 cowboy film you haven’t seen, a sort of Arthurian knight – tough, honourable, caring and just. And that’s fine for everyone else, but it’s the most uncomfortable and miserable person to actually be in real life. It’s lonely, tortured and hard, and is not any use going round a supermarket. Trying to learn to be a good man is like learning to play tennis against a wall. You are only a good man – a competent, capable, interesting and lovable man – when you’re doing it for, or with, other people. So, being a good man is not an exam or a qualification, it changes, and it incorporates being a good friend, a good father, a good employee, a good boss, a good neighbour and a good citizen. The end of a rather long answer is: there is no short answer. But I can tell you a few things: learn to apologise, say sorry often and with absolute conviction, and without caveat; for women, there is no such thing as good-natured teasing, it is all mockery and is an irreversible passion-killer; humour isn’t as important as people say it is, being made to laugh is nice because it’s inclusive, cosy and unthreatening but what you laugh at isn’t really that important. Learning Jimmy Carr riffs off by heart is not the way to anyone’s heart, unless you’re Jimmy Carr. And remember, the two most attractive things in a man are a sense of danger and being able to make a girl feel really safe. The definition of a good man is perhaps a chap who can do both those things simultaneously, so good luck.
Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,
I really want to try anal. How shall I bring it up with my new girlfriend?
Miles, Brighton
Simple, dude. Just ask her to strap on a dildo and whack it up your bum.
Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,
What age is too old to wear a leather jacket? I’ve always really fancied a sort of American flying jacket thing – a bit Top Gun, you know – but I’ve never been able to afford one before. And now I can, my wife says I’m too old. This seems terribly unfair and, actually, I mind more than I should as it would have been the fulfilment of a childhood dream and now, whatever I do, she’s spoilt it for me. I’m not going to tell you my age, I just want your final judgement and I will abide by that.
Ralph, Birmingham
OK, Ralph. The rule is, you can’t wear things with a practical application after the age you would realistically be expected to perform the job they’re designed for. So flying jackets are pretty much off your radar after 30. Sheepskin, of course – the uniform of second division football managers – you can wear right up into your sixties but not if you’re 20. Donkey jackets only if you’re fit enough to carry a hod, and no one should be a navvy after 25. Pea coats: if you’re too old to join the Marines, don’t think about it. Cowboy boots you can’t wear unless you actually are a cowboy or in a Status Quo tribute band, or over 60; there’s something about a retiring gent in cowboy boots that looks sort of presidential.
So much of life is not about whether you’re good or bad, or right or wrong, or can afford or not afford – it’s just about timing. Wearing next season’s look this season is as ridiculous as wearing last season’s this season. There are five great ages of man – five moments when you need to reevaluate everything, clear out the cupboard and the wardrobe, and most importantly, your head. They are 13, 20, 30, 40 and 60. All men need to know this.
13
Thirteen is perhaps the biggest one – it’s the end of childhood and the beginning of being a teenager. You get balls and can’t sing “O for the wings of a dove” any more. Things you are already too old for at 13 include birthday parties with clowns, Nerf guns, a 10-second start, the light on, Valentine’s cards from your nan, having your mum wash any of your body parts. But you can start swearing as part of normal sentence structure (and not just stand-alone expletives), and wearing T-shirts that have pictures or slogans that refer to contemporary music. You can do weird adolescent shit with your hair, you can offer your seat on the bus to an older person, and you can kill things – rabbits, fish, nits. And, of course, there are the three big ones: you can wank, drink and smoke.
20
Twenty is a tough age because it slips past in the middle of so much else – university, gap year, leaving home, getting jobs. The big birthdays are still perceived to be 18 and 21, but 20 is where you need to have a programme, to have a pogrom, make a bonfire of your previous life. So, 20 is the age where you finally, irrevocably put childish things behind you. “I forgot” is no longer an excuse, neither is “I overslept”, or “If you rinse them out, you can use them again.” Neither is wearing the same T-shirt or underpants for a week, or odd socks. At 20, you need to have a pair of leather shoes with laces, and a suit. At 20, you can’t be sick in the street, or in someone else’s Wellington boots. Twenty is too old to dump a girl simply because you want to go to a festival in Serbia. It’s too old to shoplift or do wheelies on a pushbike. It’s too old to run down the street with a pretend assault rifle, and it’s too old to sing Whitney Houston songs at the back of a bus at midnight. But it’s not old enough to marry, be a father or give up on learning stuff. Or to decide you’re not good at anything. Twenty is the age when you start moving the intellectual furniture into the cerebral emotional house you’ve been building since you were two. At 20, you should be able to cook proper food, not just fried, stoned, dude-munchies. Oh, and no more tattoos. But also remember you’re never too old to fold a paper aeroplane and fly it while making the noise of the Spitfire’s mighty Merlin engine soaring over the South Downs on a perfect June day.
30
Thirty is the man-up year. You stop smoking and doing coke. Now, you really are too old to wear a T-shirt anywhere but in the gym, and you should be there for health, not beauty. You can’t do hoodies any more, or trainers. No, really – no trainers. You should be able to tie a bow tie, have shirts that need cufflinks, and you can’t play kick-about football with the other balding, paunchy blokes on Wednesday evening. You all look pathetic. Thirty is the age when you have to admit that you will never play any professional sport, you will never be needed for a national team, and you can’t wear shorts in the city, or Speedos on the beach. From now on, your life is intellectual rather than physical, so you need to polish up your lounge act. At 30, you should have made at least one speech in public without using notes or nicking a joke off the internet. At 30, you shouldn’t eat and sleep in the same room. You should be in a relationship that shares more than bodily fluids. At 30, when people ask, you should be able to say what you are rather than what you hope to be. At 30, you should already know what your favourite novel is – and it shouldn’t be Harry Potter. And neither should that be your favourite film. You should own all the formal clothes you will ever need, and at 30 you should have taken your parents out to dinner.
40
Everyone knows that 40 is crunch time. Forty is the age you dread. Over 40, there is a dreadful, grey, terminal prognosis. It seems to be the pivot on the seesaw of life. Before 40, everything is acquisition; after 40, it’s all conservation. Actually, 40 is the age where you
need to have a moratorium on making big decisions; don’t buy anything that costs more than £1,000, and don’t get rid of anything worth more than £1,000. The best way to avoid a midlife crisis is to not buy one. Don’t grow your hair or a beard; don’t drive a car with a detachable roof. And no one at 40, except a policeman, should be seen on a motorbike, particularly a Harley-Davidson. Riding a Harley-Davidson should be a punishment, like community service or being put in the stocks. Forty is when experience should count for more than enthusiasm. By 40, you should have travelled to at least four continents. You should have made a success of a career, not just a job. Forty is when you check yourself for all the signs of being a kidult. So, no more jeans. Ever.
60
Sixty is harvest festival – this is where you pick up the fruit of your life. This is the age where you start smoking again, and doing recreational drugs. When you’re 60, you can sing anything you damn well like at the back of a bus. And the best thing about dressing up at 60 is that you can start wearing other people’s national costume: djellabas, kurtas, Austrian boiled wool, Sami hats. Sixty is the first age where it’s not just acceptable but admirable to have a girlfriend half your age. Sixty is when you can offer opinions whether people want them or not. At 60, you can play with soldiers and Lego again, have naps in the afternoon and run down the high street with an imitation assault rifle. You can wear Speedos again because, frankly, who cares? At 60, you should be witty rather than funny, and you will know the importance of detail. The only thing you can’t wear at 60 is a look of censorious disappointment.