by AA Gill
Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,
You never answer the problems of people with unusual, or as I like to call them bespoke, sexual needs; what the ignorant call perverted. Why does some dull hetero who just wants to shag his nanny need advice? “Don’t do it, vanilla dick,” should suffice. Ninety per cent of the world is sexually bland, libidinous Lego. Nine per cent is gay. One per cent is imaginative. It’s me. We have needs that are not found in the convenience store of eroticism. We are not boil-in-the-bag or off-the-peg, although sometimes you may find us astride the peg. And we could use a bit of advice. Not least how to cope with the slow and painful realisation that we are different. That we will only find erotic fulfilment and a blessed relief from frustration if a fat lass eats marzipan and then shits on our chest. Or, finally find someone who will treat us like a baby. Or, in my personal case, a muscular woman in sensible shoes who will abuse me. For the rest of you, breaking up with your spotty, awkward, sexually repressed girlfriend is no more than an inconvenience. You could conceivably get off with most of the people on the next bus that comes along. I have to find a needle in a haystack. (As a masochist, I’m always searching haystacks for needles.) Most of us exotics lead lives of frustrated loneliness punctuated, if we’re lucky, with occasional humiliations we have to pay someone to fulfil. But generally, we are reduced to solitary acts of gratification. For a moment, try to imagine the complications of having even a simple wank if you are a committed masochist. It doesn’t bear thinking about, except thinking about misery is one of the few little pleasures I get. Can you offer any solace?
Bill, by email
Don’t beat yourself up, Bill.
Mr Gill,
You know, they talk about girls who can’t say no and how they’re slappers and the like. Well, I envy them. I was brought up very strictly by my mother after my father left us. We were very poor and life was very hard. She hated all men and drummed it into me that I was not to give them anything and not to do anything that might encourage them. Girls who attracted men “were no better than they should be”. Now I’m 20 and my mum’s in an old people’s home. I’m pretty. I’ve got a good figure. Athletic. I’ve got a nice job and my own flat. And plenty of friends. But I still can’t say yes. When it comes to second dates, or coming back to mine for coffee, or even another drink, I always say no, even if on the inside I’m screaming yes, yes, yes. I keep hearing my mother’s voice and what comes out is no, no, no. It’s ruining my life. Please, please, please can you help?
Caitlin, by email
No.
Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,
What the fuck is a fucking man bag? What is a man supposed to fucking put in his fucking man bag? Why does my previously normal fucking girlfriend want me to get a fucking man bag, and is she now showing me fucking bags for men that cost a fucking grand in change? What the fuck is that about? Around here, the things you keep in a man bag are your bollocks.
Neil, Basingstoke
Whoa. Calm down, Neil. Let’s start with the name. The problem with a man bag is that it’s called a man bag. “Man bag” is obviously unconscionable. You can’t go into a pub and say, “Sorry, has anyone seen my man bag?” or, “Nice man bag you’ve got there, mate. Is it Gucci?” OK. So what if you call it carry-on luggage? See, already your fists are unclenched, you’re breathing through your nose again – carry-on luggage is fine. You’re cool with carry-on. Maybe even urban rucksack, messenger bag. That’s rugged. So we’re over the “over my dead body” thing, but the question mark still hangs over the content: what do you put in a man bag? An iPad, possibly. If you look at what women carry in their handbags, it’s a revelation. And a warning. First, always ask before going through a lady’s handbag, even if they’re really close by and you bought the bag; handbags are intimate and deeply personal. There is a whole line of feminist inquiry that questions the symbolism of handbags, and we don’t need to go there. Suffice it to say, you wouldn’t shove your hands down a girl’s knickers without asking; the same goes for handbags. Women’s handbags are incredibly heavy. You rarely get to pick one up and, when you do, you wonder why anyone carries so much stuff around all day. And if you did tip one out onto a table, you’d see that 90 per cent of the contents is rubbish: odd bits of gunk and stubs of splat that are never going to be useful, bits of food, sweets, chocolate, books, enormous amounts of loose change. Have you noticed that almost all the change in the world goes to women? When was the last time you had a five pence piece? Exactly. In a Christmas pudding. All the rest of it is in women’s handbags. They also carry a phenomenal amount of shit that pertains to hair: brushes, sprays, clips, grips, bands, ribbons. When you look through a woman’s handbag, you realise that the bag itself is demanding to be filled. “Feed me,” it says, “feed me.” As handbags get ever more absurdly large, so they need to carry more stuff to validate the expense of this huge trunk with chains, buckles and padlocks on. Men on the other hand have spent a generation trying to get rid of stuff – we dumped the briefcase two decades ago. Carrying shit is a sign that you’re a drone, a runner. It’s the work experience who carries things. Most of us are down to keys, a phone and a card. That’s it. Get a man bag and it’ll start whispering to you – “feed me, feed me” – and the next thing, you’ll be thinking about getting a Filofax. I’ve made a random list of things that men used to carry in their pockets and now don’t: handkerchiefs, matches, cigarettes, a pipe, pipe tobacco, pipe cleaners, wallet, a cheque book, a penknife, an address book, a diary, an A–Z, a spectacle case (glasses used to be made of glass), a fountain pen. Men were walking man bags. Suits hung like elephants’ arses. No, as you were, Neil – resist the man bag. Carry-on luggage if you’re flying, a tote bag if you’re on the beach, messenger bag if you’re on a bike, rucksack if you’re hiking. For everyday, all you need is a phone, a card and a smile. Incidentally, an old gent’s put-down used to be, “He looks like the sort of chap who carries keys.” You see, a gentleman of worth always had someone to open all his doors for him.
Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,
Apparently, 55 per cent of married Frenchmen have affairs. That is an incredible figure. Really, more than half are cheating on their wives. How can they call themselves a civilised and moral country? How could you possibly trust a Frenchman about anything? You know, I thought I was pretty broad-minded but I’m disgusted. What do you have to say about that?
Nigel, Herne Bay
What I find most shocking about that is that 45 per cent of Frenchmen are lying – to everyone, not just their wives.
Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,
I was driving to work. It was the rush hour. I was late. I left my husband eating muesli and listening to the breakfast show on Good Morning Bristol, in his dressing gown. I was on the one-way bit in the town centre, where there’s a tricky filter by the bus station when the car died – just stopped. Didn’t even cough. Just stopped. Nothing. Right in the middle of the road. In the rush hour. Everyone was honking and shouting, so I got out and ran home. I just ran home. As I opened the door and went into the kitchen, there was my husband, dressed in a girl’s school uniform with a clip-on ponytail, giving oral sex to a very fat Chinese man. Actually, a Malaysian of Chinese descent, I found out later. He was very upset – my husband, not the Malaysian – he said he’d never done this before and it was an aberration, and perhaps he was depressed, or there was something in the muesli, and he’d get help. I must say, I found that difficult to believe. You don’t just stumble upon a schoolgirl’s uniform and think, “I wonder if it fits.” And then, “Oh my, it does fit. And now I have an overwhelming desire to fellate an obese Oriental.” Apparently, it was the first time he’d done it in the kitchen. Normally he uses the garage or the spare bedroom, but the Chinaman-slash-Malaysian was peckish, and wanted some toast and Nutella whilst having his willy licked. And that’s when I lost it. “We haven’t got any Nutella,” I exclaimed. “It’s on my list.” At this point, my husband said he was going to kill himself and locked himself in
the cupboard under the stairs. The Chinese-slash-Malaysian man said I owed him 50 quid, and if it wasn’t Nutella, then what was on his toast. Please, can you help?
Stella, via email
Stella, there are a number of reasons a car could just stop like that. First thing: did you check there was petrol in the tank? You might have just run out. You didn’t mention if it’s an automatic or a manual. I’m assuming it’s automatic, in which case it’s probably an electrical fault, possibly a blown fuse. The fuse box is most likely in the glove compartment. Did you try to take the key out and then put it in again? Sometimes it just needs to restart. If none of these worked, you’re best to call one of the roadside assistance services. If you don’t know if you’re already a member, you can check with your insurer. Often, membership comes with your policy. By the way, what was on the toast?
Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,
I’m in my first year at uni, studying medicine. I want to specialise in neurosurgery. My dad was a miner, now he’s on disability. And my mum is a cleaner and a local councillor. I’m their only child and we’re a very close family. I love them both immensely, and would never do anything to hurt them. Obviously, there was no spare cash to send me to college and I really didn’t want to be lumbered with a huge debt, so I’ve got a part-time job that works out quite nicely. The thing is, how can I tell them I’m a stripper? Well, more of a lap-dancer, actually. They were so proud when I got into university. Every time my dad tried to tell one of his mates, he’d start crying. The work’s not bad. The customers are ghastly, of course, but the other girls are lovely. Most of them are studying something; we’ve got three physicists, a couple of PPEs and a philosopher with the best tits you’ve ever seen.
Julie, Manchester
My first thought, Julie, is: don’t. Why would you tell them? Why is it so important that they know? There are lots and lots of things you didn’t tell them because it would upset them. You didn’t come down to breakfast and say, “Wow, I just lost my anal virginity. I don’t know what all the fuss was about.” Or, “I got a lift last night from Ted, who was so out of it on vodka and acid, I had to steer.” I suppose there is a chance that they might find out by accident – one of your dad’s mates might come in, or one of the punters might murder you. But as a doctor, of course, you’re going to have to learn to lie to people all the time. You’re going to sit in consulting rooms and look sincerely into their terrified trusting eyes, and say that everything is going to be fine, and of course they’ll be well enough to go to their granddaughter’s wedding. Or that the little lad will be back on his bike in no time, when you know that they’re going to be spares and smoke in a couple of months. Get used to it. You will learn that telling them the truth is not the same as giving them all the facts. The truth for your parents is that they brought up a clever, conscientious girl who’s going to be a doctor. The fact that dozens of convenience-store owners and scaffolders are staring up her gaping clam’s pocket while making obscene slurping noises, doesn’t change a thing. Not much. Not really.
Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,
Do you think that using a prostitute should be made illegal?
Alex, Stoke Newington
This is just another of our deeply weird civic relationships with other people’s bits. It would then be legal to sell sex but not buy it. Do you think we might do that with drugs? Or guns? Why is selling sex different from selling your love and nurturing instincts by being a nanny? The worst thing about prostitution is the lack of respect and opprobrium, and the pity and the assumptions that are piled onto prostitutes. If you’re now shouting, “What about trafficking? What about the violence? And what about pimping?” Well, they are already illegal. Whatever the trade, it’s a crime – trafficking brussels sprout pickers is illegal. And hurting anyone is plainly illegal. Pimps aren’t exempt from complying with health and safety, and employment law. The root cause of all the dangers and miseries of prostitution is that society despises prostitutes and the men who use them. So I wouldn’t make any of it illegal. What I would do is insist that anyone who used a prostitute had to work as a prostitute once a year, just to see what it was like. There should be an annual “Take Your Punter to Work” day. Men who’ve bought sex will have to sell sex: a hand job, perhaps, an assisted shower, perhaps pissing on a stressed farmer, turning up to a footballers’ spit roast. The answer to all of society’s prurience, embarrassment and censoriousness is not less sex, it’s more sex. Not publicly managed and approved sex, but freedom from collective judgement about who you do it with, how often you have it and who you have it with. Also, how you charge for it: whether you take cash upfront or wait till after the wedding; whether you exchange it for housekeeping, protection and mutual vanity, or for a standing order. Anyone who thinks that all sex that isn’t philanthropic or altruistic should be criminalised has no sense of biology or economics. There is also something to be said about making everyone file audited sexual accounts each year, which we could all then go and look up at Companies House.
Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,
I found a copy of Esquire in my son’s room, 10 minutes after I found him in bed with a friend’s daughter. And 10 minutes after that I read your “advice column”. Inverted commas are surely not big enough to attach to these words. Such a pity the keyboard doesn’t have a key for clothes pegs or rubber gloves. “Ho ho,” you may think. “Typical mum, didn’t knock first.” No, I didn’t knock. This is my own house and I don’t knock on doors in my own house. And anyway, this was 2.30 in the afternoon and I assumed that he’d be out. And, at the risk of titillating your jaded and morally dull palate, I’m going to tell you what I found: not teenagers covertly exploring the joyful possibilities of their budding bodies, but a girl on all fours, having her back door kicked in. Oh yes, I know all the lingo, Mr Gill. I wasn’t born yesterday and I’m no prude. There was a chemical smell in the room, which I remembered was amyl nitrate. What shocked me – and I’m still shocked – was the obvious casual sophistication of their sex: it looked like they were acting out pornography, and it has depressed me to tears. How can we have allowed our children’s innocence and their sense of excitement and discovery at the unfolding pleasure and agony of a sex life that will have to sustain them throughout their lives to be poisoned by the vile body of sewage of online porn? It’s not that it’s immoral (though, of course, it is) or exploitative and misogynistic (which it also is), it’s that it’s so pathetically fifth-rate as sex, so dull and mechanical, so banal and boring. Oh, I don’t expect you to understand or agree, but just in the hope that there’s a twinge of unsullied responsibility under all that cynicism – especially as an old man with children – I’d like to hear whatever it is that you have to say. Incidentally, my son is 16 and the friend’s daughter is 18.
Phillipa, via email
Obviously, Phillipa, you and probably most of the readers will expect me to issue an answer with a “woo woo – respect for your boy” and print a lot of fist-pumping emoticons. Are there fist-pumping emoticons? But I’m not going to. What looked like a porn mime to you was a fraught and heart-pounding construction of performance anxiety, pimple anxiety, smelly-breath anxiety, inexperience anxiety, spiced with hope, lust, excitement. And then, just as he was hanging out the back of some older, more sophisticated, cooler bird, his mother walks in. For God’s sake: let’s start with what’s really damaging here. Let’s separate reality from virtual and fantasy. You not giving your son any privacy is what’s really wrong here, and you know you’re in the wrong because you started off with a lot of self-justifying bluster about not knocking on doors in your own house, as if ownership relegates everyone else’s right to privacy. And you would certainly have knocked if it had been your elderly aunt with her new Algerian boyfriend in there. So, the first thing is, you owe your boy a big and abject apology, and a promise that you’ll never, ever walk in on him unannounced again. Just pray that you haven’t made him impotent or a premature ejaculator for life, and that you don’t need to start
saving for 15 years of Freudian analysis. Now, the second, less important bit of your letter: porn on the internet. And I do have some sympathy with you. I can’t watch it any more. I’m old and I suffer from empathy. I can’t look at people copulating and not think, “Oh Lord, she must be about the same age as my daughter. And she must be someone else’s daughter. And one day, she’ll be a mother. And he’ll go for a promotion in his bank. And this image will come up in the search his employers do on his past.” So, let’s start by agreeing that the people most at risk from pornography are those who are in it, who make it, and I say that as someone who has made a porn movie themselves, using my real name. (Still available somewhere out there on the net, Hot House Tales. It’s got Ron Jeremy in it. Fill your boots – he can.) You and I both worry about every 13-year-old having seen everything that is humanly possible, and a lot of things that really aren’t. And that’s because we grew up without computers and our grandparents thought much the same about television ruining us. We worry about this because we worry about sex. Sex was always secret and private, and, let’s face it, dirty and shameful. When we look at porn on the net, we can only see it in terms of our learned attitudes to sex. I don’t know anyone of my generation who can’t tell the difference between real life and television. And anyone old enough to have consensual sex will be astonished at how unlike porn real sex actually is. I don’t believe teenagers are that different from us, or our grandparents, or our great-grandparents. I just know that every generation thinks that the next generation is going to purgatory by way of anal sex, which, incidentally, isn’t innately rude or dirty or evil or humiliating, it’s the preferred position for at least 10 per cent of the male population, including Oscar Wilde, Alan Turing and Leonardo da Vinci. If this generation grows up a little less ignorant and fearful than we were, then that’s all to the good. And if internet porn helps, then that’s a positive. Probably not an excuse but a mitigation. In the end, sex is complicated and brilliant, with layers of emotional baggage, none of which porn has. What’s surprising is not how graphically specific pornography is, or has become, but how very unlike the experience of sex it remains.