Men and Supermen

Rugger players love orgies, because they remind them of the scrum.

“But Gilbert, I played front row last night …”

ROWING MEN

Row me oh, oh Row me oh.

HORSEY MEN

Goodness, she isn’t wearing a bridle.

Horses and sex seem to go together. If you’ve got something between your legs all day, you want to carry on in the same vein at night.

Horsey men have tough faces, vice-like thigh muscles (although that may be an illusion created by their jodhpurs), and figures of eight engraved on their bottoms from sitting on so many shooting sticks.

They will tighten your girths before they mount you and pin a red rosette on you afterwards. Never make love to them upside down or the luck will run out of them.

SHOOTING

Hearing about shooting is very tedious, with all those Harris Tweedledumbs who roll up at a girl’s flat with a bloody grouse in each hand and proceed to twelve-bore everything but the pants off her, telling her about their exploits on the Glorious Twelfth. Going shooting on the other hand is rather fun—like walking under armer’ escort —as long as you make sure the guns stop for a long boozey lunch in the middle of the day.

Between each drive you will hear rather ambiguous cries: “Where’s Rufus?”

“Picking up birds in the woods.” or

“Hey, that’s my cock you’ve got hold of.” The guns work off so much aggression being beastly to their dogs that they’re usually quite nice to women.

BRIDGE

Definitely addictive—people who are short on conversation or old before their time play bridge—and once hooked they would rather play than take a girl out. All bridge players sweat heavily.

FOOTBALL

I’ve never actually met a football player but ‘Match of the Day’ is an absolute godsend. It’s the only time you will have free to wash your hair, or pluck your eyebrows—your man will be absolutely glued to the box. Watch out for Action Replays, though.

Orgies

ORGIES

“Er yes, yes, Miss Weldon, the matter of your overdraft will be quite all right …”

TWO WAY MIRROR on the wall, who is the barest of us all?

Very few people will admit they’ve been to an orgy, and those who do say they only watched and it was very boring.

“No central heating, and not enough to drink,” said a male friend of mine. “And lots of bank managers in their underpants talking about cars. It was rather like having a bath with one’s Nanny. Not much fun and nowhere to look.”

This is a far cry from one’s fantasies of pulsating wall-to-wall couples, people in sheets drinking wine out of goat-skins, girls coming out of pies and crushing black grapes with very white teeth, and sophisticates with jaded parrots watching through two-way mirrors.

I’d be a dead loss at an orgy, for I’d be convinced everyone in the room was looking at my awful feet. In order to participate I’d have to drink myself silly, and as soon as I drink myself silly I feel sick and am a write-off sexually.

But I’m fascinated by the ethics of orgies. Do men come up to girls they want to couple with, tap them on the shoulder, and say shall we lie this one out? And to get everyone going, do they say: last man in works the gramophone? And do they have Ladies Excuse Mes? How awful too if no one asked you and you were a floor flower all evening.

If Superman goes to an orgy, of course, it’s like the first day of the sales, with all the women trying to get at him. Sexual Norm however, although he is excited about loving dangerously, is worried about his wallet and the size of his member, and is still in his Y-fronts. He tries to look like a film producer, hoping that the starlet in the corner might be the sort who wants to get to the top on her back.

Dental Floss, who is looking skittish in Woolworths pearls, exhorts him to strip.

“You’ve got nothing to hide,” she says.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” says Norm. He watches her rush up to a trio of car salesmen.

“You three can have a body like mine,” she cries.

Norm looks across at his wife Honor, who is still wearing her roll-on and talking about deepfreezes to another housewife. Norm decides he’s really much better doing it with Honor. He wishes he was completely hairy up to his waist like a satyr, then it wouldn’t show if he took his underpants off. It must have been easy for satyrs in the old days. He wishes he could go home.

Next day however he will regale his friends in the pub with a torrid account of the mountains of heaving flesh, adding: “I really didn’t know where to put myself.”

“Come again?”