THIS FEBRUARY is proving a veritable orgy of romance. As the Valentine’s Day climax approaches, PM Stuart is maintaining a firm stand, Dr David Estwick is giving political scientists multiple orgasms while Mia and Chris still avoid the naked truth.
It’s a vulnerable time for young men with women on the hunt. A recent Mid Mornin’ Mix even brought on a female sexpert to advise girls on getting fellows to “commit”. Unfortunately I couldn’t stay to hear her.
I’m no sexpert. Wild Coot is the past master in this field and has a book to prove it. However, here are a few hints from an amateur male perspective.
First, getting a girl. Teeth don’t matter. My dentist lengthened one of mine last week. Promised ladies would go wild. Since then I’ve been grinning like an improved barracuda. Not a nibble. Apparently it’s not long teeth they crave. Okay, fellows, here’s how the romance scenario works. The females have something you want. Must have. Let’s call it “honey”. It’s not that easy, however. There’s something called “love” which you feel for a particular female. And you soon realise you must have her honey. Or die.
That’s the sad part. There’s plenty honey out there. You can even buy it commercially. But your ignorant heart fixes on that particular one. May the Lord help you.
That honey is the bait to get you to “commit”. She may like you too but she isn’t marrying for the sake of your fancy hot dog. She wants someone to put on an uncomfortable jacket and take her to functions. To dispose of dead rats. To face intruders. In return she will cook, wash and clean. But the honey supply will slowly but surely disappear as time goes by.
Your role model here is Emile Straker – the Fugitive. “Man, I like to have me fun, take a little taste and then to run, I nimble, nimble, nimble like Kimble; but every time I make me play some woman want me name the day, but I too nimble, I nimble, nimble like Kimble”.
This then is your modus operandi. Dodge marriage and enjoy the honey until at least your early nineties. If possible.
Actually it isn’t possible. Or very seldom is. Women are too smart, the honey too sweet, or they put “marrymuh” in your food.
So let’s say you get married. The challenge now is to keep things lively and interesting and avoid routine and boredom. Experts recommend “floor-play”. I agree. Especially at our house where centipedes visit every now and then. The ultimate romantic experience is to be in situ when your partner feels a centipede crawling on her nether regions. You will however need your old horse-riding skills here – toes out, knees and heels tucked in.
Two iPads also make for excitement during romance. You can bring up a picture of, say, Rihanna on yours while she may go for Stetson Babb or Doug Hoyte. And if in danger of things being over way too soon, bring up Hillary Clinton. She’ll cool your ardour.
Fairy tales always end “they got married and lived happily ever after”. Which really means, “they didn’t strangle each other”. That’s about as much as you can hope for.
But with love in the air and politics on the radio, I dreamed a dream this week: Mia was making no idle threat about getting Chris Sinckler removed. She used the Lady Godiva strategy. Lady G, as you recall, got husband Leofric to repeal a harsh measure by riding naked through the streets of Coventry.
Behold then Lord Nelson turns pale as Mia sheds her gown and heads down Broad Street. Thousands of Bees cheer lustily “Wullay!” The PM is about to cave in.
But what’s this? From the opposite direction comes a cheering Dems crowd chanting: “Wullaw!” Led by Chris Sinckler, also stark born naked. They meet in one fell swoop. She goes, “Oh, Chris!” He goes, “Oh, Mia!” The crowds go, “Awwhh!”
A happy ending! But no. From out by Woolworth comes a naked David Comissiong flanked by supporters. The third party is showing its mettle!
Alas, not for long. A mouse-seeking, bald-pooch alley cat spots a tasty morsel. And grabs, sending its owner streaking up Broad Street, literally running for the House.
Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator.
