Like all young boys in the act of purchasing contraceptive thingies for the first time, I was acutely embarrassed.
Mingling in the shop a while, I picked up a pack of Niknaks crisps, a chocolate bar and a litre of milk. Joining the back of the queue and then leaving it when an old lady got behind me.
Eventually, when the store was deserted again, I attempted to casually rush to the counter.
As the lady rang up my items I looked over her shoulder and asked for a pack of Peter Stuyvesant Filter, a box of matches… and a 3-pack of Rough Riders, please – which I immediately hid underneath the cheese-flavoured Niknaks when yet another elderly lady walked in and stood behind me.
It was New Year’s Eve, 1991, and I was fourteen.
Before you get any ideas, the condoms weren’t for me but an older friend who imagined he was getting lucky that night. To spare his own embarrassment I’d agreed to make the purchase for him.
A few years later, when the opportunity of getting jiggy with a lady was at least a possibility in my universe, I felt the same nervous guilt when sliding a pack of ‘Wet ‘n Wild’ across the counter – always attempting to hide it amongst some other unnecessary items in case God saw and ejected a bolt of lightning from his index finger through the top of my head.
Well, not really, as I’ve never believed in a stuffy, fundamentalist God. If anything, it was probably because I imagined the till jockey would take one look at awkward me and think, “Who’d have sex with you?”
Only later in life did I come to the realisation that if the cashier was a woman she should commend me for being safe and respecting the other party’s right not to suffer a surprise pregnancy; and if the shop assistant was a guy he should give me a thumbs up as if to say, “Right on, brother.”
My brother’s art teacher must have known this and had the right idea when every Friday he’d put a big jar of Family Planning condoms out so the boys could be safe over the weekend without the mortification of actually having to ask for them.
Another friend of mine’s dad always kept the house well stocked with what he called “dong-bags”; however, I’m not sure if they were for the use of his son or rather for the couple to make sure they didn’t have another naughty little shit.
I suppose some parents might think that keeping one’s children in a steady supply of rubber sheaths would amount to encouraging promiscuity, but I’m also pretty sure those same parents would be too conservative to have that much-dreaded ‘sex talk’ with said offspring.
Sex was taboo for so long, and now with AIDS and all that keeping oneself protected has needed to come out in the open. Maybe if society just agreed that it’s the one thing we all have in common it would make it easier to talk about it. And it would certainly make it easier for the poor, clammy-palmed teenager on the other side of the counter.
The only foreseeable problem would be a downturn in the sales of Niknaks.
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Apocalypse Party Hits
For a split second I imagine a post-Armageddon, nuclear-fallout-influenced, cyberpunk world.
In front of the kitchen pass, behind an untidy cable-orgy, stands a crusty poster boy for decades-long abuse of fake tan, chain smoking, staring at his laptop screen and then at the flatscreen on the wall, waiting for the song to end.
To his far right a woman drunkenly sways, shrieking like a mutated, diseased Whitney Houston, “And ay-ee-ay-ee-ay will always luv yoo-oo-oo-oo…”
The fake-tan-man’s dead eyes move across to her, ash drooping impotently from the butt between his lips, to stare unimpressed at her efforts.
After a particularly bad night I’d thought watching people act like tits at the weekly Wednesday karaoke sessions down Long Street Café would make me feel better. At first I’d thought the available table right up front was a boon.
One song into it and I was reminded of God’s sick sense of humour.
As I sip my drink I wonder if maybe a radiation ravaged planet might be an improvement, or at the very least the booming explosion could soothe the ears a bit.
With no service to speak of I shuffle over to the bar, praying that in my absence the table will be snatched up and I’ll have an excuse to leave.
But no, it awaits my return, and like a rubbernecker at an accident scene I sit back down in twisted anticipation for the next corpse to be pulled from the mangled wreck.
My eyes follow theirs to the flatscreen. And as they belt it out I sing along in my head the badly translated words to Robbie Williams’ Feel – “Just can’t understand… this rope I’ve been given…”
The background images on the screen could be the boring bits of early Nineties soft porn, until someone stands up to sing something from Bob Marley and a bunch of girls on the screen in firemen’s outfits get their baps out.
This distracts the wailing punter and he fucks up the words.
The table behind me, a large group of fifteen or so, are choosing songs for each other. Soon enough the guys are up there, clammy hands fumbling the microphone, stuttering Britney Spears and Backstreet Boys into the giggling crowd.
An underage couple, possibly on a first date, sing the inevitable Grease Medley to each other. She’s clearly more into it than him, and she grins through shiny braces as he mumbles the Travolta bits.
All the while the crinkly, crispy controller smokes at least two packs of Texan Plain.
I don’t sing, but in the wake of all the care-free abandon and lack of self-consciousness surrounding me I think maybe I could.
Karaoke takes either balls or alcohol, and I imagine getting up there and making an arse out of oneself must be kind of liberating.
It seems most people only face their fears when it makes them look cool – bungi jumping or jumping in the ocean with sharks – but standing in front of a crowd knowing you sound like a couple of bulldogs porking and serenading no one in particular is about as extreme and scary as it comes.
Intentionally making a fool of yourself in public shows true courage.
Maybe when the world ends we’ll all just think, fuck it, and sing.
In front of the kitchen pass, behind an untidy cable-orgy, stands a crusty poster boy for decades-long abuse of fake tan, chain smoking, staring at his laptop screen and then at the flatscreen on the wall, waiting for the song to end.
To his far right a woman drunkenly sways, shrieking like a mutated, diseased Whitney Houston, “And ay-ee-ay-ee-ay will always luv yoo-oo-oo-oo…”
The fake-tan-man’s dead eyes move across to her, ash drooping impotently from the butt between his lips, to stare unimpressed at her efforts.
After a particularly bad night I’d thought watching people act like tits at the weekly Wednesday karaoke sessions down Long Street Café would make me feel better. At first I’d thought the available table right up front was a boon.
One song into it and I was reminded of God’s sick sense of humour.
As I sip my drink I wonder if maybe a radiation ravaged planet might be an improvement, or at the very least the booming explosion could soothe the ears a bit.
With no service to speak of I shuffle over to the bar, praying that in my absence the table will be snatched up and I’ll have an excuse to leave.
But no, it awaits my return, and like a rubbernecker at an accident scene I sit back down in twisted anticipation for the next corpse to be pulled from the mangled wreck.
My eyes follow theirs to the flatscreen. And as they belt it out I sing along in my head the badly translated words to Robbie Williams’ Feel – “Just can’t understand… this rope I’ve been given…”
The background images on the screen could be the boring bits of early Nineties soft porn, until someone stands up to sing something from Bob Marley and a bunch of girls on the screen in firemen’s outfits get their baps out.
This distracts the wailing punter and he fucks up the words.
The table behind me, a large group of fifteen or so, are choosing songs for each other. Soon enough the guys are up there, clammy hands fumbling the microphone, stuttering Britney Spears and Backstreet Boys into the giggling crowd.
An underage couple, possibly on a first date, sing the inevitable Grease Medley to each other. She’s clearly more into it than him, and she grins through shiny braces as he mumbles the Travolta bits.
All the while the crinkly, crispy controller smokes at least two packs of Texan Plain.
I don’t sing, but in the wake of all the care-free abandon and lack of self-consciousness surrounding me I think maybe I could.
Karaoke takes either balls or alcohol, and I imagine getting up there and making an arse out of oneself must be kind of liberating.
It seems most people only face their fears when it makes them look cool – bungi jumping or jumping in the ocean with sharks – but standing in front of a crowd knowing you sound like a couple of bulldogs porking and serenading no one in particular is about as extreme and scary as it comes.
Intentionally making a fool of yourself in public shows true courage.
Maybe when the world ends we’ll all just think, fuck it, and sing.
A Cock In The Arse Really Gets Me Down
They used to say, “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time!”
Nowadays it’s probably something like, “If you do the crime and the time starts you cryin’, then it’s fine.”
When Shabir Shaik gets off a fifteen year jail sentence due to depression you can’t help losing faith in our system of justice. It’s as if the authorities completely lack any form of bullshit radar.
Of course he’s gonna be a bit blue… fifteen years without a decent curry will do that!
When I was a kid, my mum told me that in prison all you got was stale bread and water – kind of like a long-haul flight on SAA cattle class except with more legroom – but she never mentioned the bumsex with a guy lacking his front teeth, which would have made me a lot less likely to step out of line.
Unlike my mum, the booze pushers last year released that ad totally focused on the unromantic interludes you can expect in a South African jail. Like speed-dating with the Numbers gang, the commercial told you that with more than two beers in your system you ran the risk of a brutal bumfucking from a grizzly gangster.
The irony is that the very same arse-rapers are probably prone to calling you a moffie and beating the crap out of you on any other day.
But the high-flyers don’t have to bunk with the plebs and degenerates, the politically connected surely get their own room with a telly and tea every hour.
And now that Shabir is walking free, drinking and playing golf, with a parole officer who more than likely wears shades at night and sends a seeing-eye dog under the table for a fat envelope of cash every month, you’d think he would have cheered up a mite.
But still the man punches reporters who dare to take his photo, and doesn’t seem appreciate his butt-cheeks’ escape from the clutches of a tattoo’d tsotsi.
This English Dewani fellow, whom South Africans seem more upset with over the bad press our tourism industry received than the death of his beautiful young wife, has been pulling the same “ooh, I’m depressed” shite. I’d like to meet the guy who’s the prime suspect in a murder case cracking a bottle of bubbly and popping an Abba disc in the karaoke machine.
I’d bet the reason these guys are so bummed is because they’re imagining the literal bumming they’re likely to get in Pollsmoor.
And if that’s enough to get you off, then I don’t understand why we have such a problem with overcrowding in our prisons.
Nowadays it’s probably something like, “If you do the crime and the time starts you cryin’, then it’s fine.”
When Shabir Shaik gets off a fifteen year jail sentence due to depression you can’t help losing faith in our system of justice. It’s as if the authorities completely lack any form of bullshit radar.
Of course he’s gonna be a bit blue… fifteen years without a decent curry will do that!
When I was a kid, my mum told me that in prison all you got was stale bread and water – kind of like a long-haul flight on SAA cattle class except with more legroom – but she never mentioned the bumsex with a guy lacking his front teeth, which would have made me a lot less likely to step out of line.
Unlike my mum, the booze pushers last year released that ad totally focused on the unromantic interludes you can expect in a South African jail. Like speed-dating with the Numbers gang, the commercial told you that with more than two beers in your system you ran the risk of a brutal bumfucking from a grizzly gangster.
The irony is that the very same arse-rapers are probably prone to calling you a moffie and beating the crap out of you on any other day.
But the high-flyers don’t have to bunk with the plebs and degenerates, the politically connected surely get their own room with a telly and tea every hour.
And now that Shabir is walking free, drinking and playing golf, with a parole officer who more than likely wears shades at night and sends a seeing-eye dog under the table for a fat envelope of cash every month, you’d think he would have cheered up a mite.
But still the man punches reporters who dare to take his photo, and doesn’t seem appreciate his butt-cheeks’ escape from the clutches of a tattoo’d tsotsi.
This English Dewani fellow, whom South Africans seem more upset with over the bad press our tourism industry received than the death of his beautiful young wife, has been pulling the same “ooh, I’m depressed” shite. I’d like to meet the guy who’s the prime suspect in a murder case cracking a bottle of bubbly and popping an Abba disc in the karaoke machine.
I’d bet the reason these guys are so bummed is because they’re imagining the literal bumming they’re likely to get in Pollsmoor.
And if that’s enough to get you off, then I don’t understand why we have such a problem with overcrowding in our prisons.
Gimp Balls 'n Girl Scouts
A friend of mine has a fetish for feet. He loves summer not because girls wear short skirts, but because their toes are on display in sandals and slops.
He once told me I had nice feet, which I’ll admit made me a bit uncomfortable. Not that I’m homophobic or he’s homosexual, but I kind of felt like my nob was hanging out.
Personally, I’m a boots man. A nice pair of knee-highs or uggs on a woman and I’m there.
And I’m pretty sure I’m not alone. Think of every porno you’ve watched – the girls always shag with their shoes on.
This is either because they don’t want to get their dirty feet on the bed linen, or that men like shoes as much as Posh Beckham does.
I think most people have some fetish that they never talk about. We, as a society, seem to think that any indication of a preference to the missionary position is perverted. Sex is probably the oldest anathema of the civilised world.
Ridiculous! It’s the one thing we all have in common – from teenagers to old codgers, rugby jocks to make-up-wearing trannys, even priests like a bit of choirboy coitus every now and again.
Sex should be something that (if you’ll excuse the bludgeoning pun) brings us together.
One of the most unmentionable – and I’d wager common – fetishes involves the Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform.
It’s what made Britney Spears so popular, but I don’t think it’s the underage chicky-boo inside that’s the harbinger of heavy-breathing – it’s the actual item of clothing itself.
My theory is that most men didn’t get that much action in their teen years due to shyness, insecurity, or just pimples and gangly legs. No matter how many women they can pull in later years that memory of the hottest girl in school spurning their advances sticks like chewed up bubblegum in the corner of their hippocampus.
It’s not sex with underage girls they want; it’s any woman in a school uniform and pigtails.
My advice to females of all consenting ages – if you can’t think of anything to get him for his birthday, head for the back-2-school section of your local Pep store.
The irony is that sex shop owners are as guilty as the pseudo-pious when it comes to this mentality of “let’s do it and say we didn’t”.
Because they think we think fornication is filthy, the manager of Adult World thinks he can get away with not employing a cleaning lady.
It’d be the very definition of a dirty job, but either that or have a strict ‘clean up after yourself’ policy in the viewing booths. Use a hanky after hanky-panky.
But every one of us is guilty by feeling shame when we imagine getting a spanking or licking off a cream bikini. By bending to the wills of society’s sanctimonious we are maybe not making it worse, but we are certainly not making it any less taboo.
So get over yourself. You’re not that sick and twisted. Tell your partner all the kinky things you want to do to them.
My bet is they want to do something twice as weird to you.
Words: Nathan Casey
Photo: Ross Hillier
He once told me I had nice feet, which I’ll admit made me a bit uncomfortable. Not that I’m homophobic or he’s homosexual, but I kind of felt like my nob was hanging out.
Personally, I’m a boots man. A nice pair of knee-highs or uggs on a woman and I’m there.
And I’m pretty sure I’m not alone. Think of every porno you’ve watched – the girls always shag with their shoes on.
This is either because they don’t want to get their dirty feet on the bed linen, or that men like shoes as much as Posh Beckham does.
I think most people have some fetish that they never talk about. We, as a society, seem to think that any indication of a preference to the missionary position is perverted. Sex is probably the oldest anathema of the civilised world.
Ridiculous! It’s the one thing we all have in common – from teenagers to old codgers, rugby jocks to make-up-wearing trannys, even priests like a bit of choirboy coitus every now and again.
Sex should be something that (if you’ll excuse the bludgeoning pun) brings us together.
One of the most unmentionable – and I’d wager common – fetishes involves the Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform.
It’s what made Britney Spears so popular, but I don’t think it’s the underage chicky-boo inside that’s the harbinger of heavy-breathing – it’s the actual item of clothing itself.
My theory is that most men didn’t get that much action in their teen years due to shyness, insecurity, or just pimples and gangly legs. No matter how many women they can pull in later years that memory of the hottest girl in school spurning their advances sticks like chewed up bubblegum in the corner of their hippocampus.
It’s not sex with underage girls they want; it’s any woman in a school uniform and pigtails.
My advice to females of all consenting ages – if you can’t think of anything to get him for his birthday, head for the back-2-school section of your local Pep store.
The irony is that sex shop owners are as guilty as the pseudo-pious when it comes to this mentality of “let’s do it and say we didn’t”.
Because they think we think fornication is filthy, the manager of Adult World thinks he can get away with not employing a cleaning lady.
It’d be the very definition of a dirty job, but either that or have a strict ‘clean up after yourself’ policy in the viewing booths. Use a hanky after hanky-panky.
But every one of us is guilty by feeling shame when we imagine getting a spanking or licking off a cream bikini. By bending to the wills of society’s sanctimonious we are maybe not making it worse, but we are certainly not making it any less taboo.
So get over yourself. You’re not that sick and twisted. Tell your partner all the kinky things you want to do to them.
My bet is they want to do something twice as weird to you.
Words: Nathan Casey
Photo: Ross Hillier
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