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How Not To… Do the Horizontal Dance

Marty Mc.B



As I sat down to write this column a few hours after deadline I thought that maybe I could tackle a more serious topic this time – politics, economics, P and samurai swords, Kate Hawkesby’s hair (or is it a wig?), but then it came to me… sex. That’ll get my readership up – we’ll put a raunchy pic in, I’ll muse on boning for 1000 or so words, and I’ll be the most popular columnist in the whole wide Salient world … move over Bran Power – Marty Mc B’s in town and she’s getting real gratuitous.
Sex has always been a topic that I’ve been rather frank about in my day-to-day life. This became apparent during sex-ed in 4th form where they gave us little mini bits of paper to ask anonymous questions to the teacher in case we were embarrassed, but not me folks. I asked all sorts of questions up front and really handled that broom like the bad boy it was during the condom demonstration I volunteered to help with.
But alas, such an interest in fornication led to a natural disappointment when I partook in it for the first time. My 17 year old ‘boyfriend’ and I decided to consummate our love, and twenty seconds later I was a deflowered and rather disillusioned young lady. ‘Was that it?’ I remember thinking the instant it was over, is it that what inspires art, war, hatred and my Aunt Mavis to blush whenever Uncle Rod makes a lewd comment about her untoward flexibility for an older woman?
I read in Cosmo once that the female orgasm is so elusive because it is meant to encourage women to procreate with attentive lovers and therefore good and caring fathers. The direct connection is slightly creepy – but I get their drift. So I’ve decided to recount a few incidents that turned some of my female friends’ warm love wombs into Saharan abysses – the men involved will clearly be terrible fathers.
My friend Alice travelled around South America as soon as she finished her degree, and in Buenos Aires she ‘took’ an Argentinian lover named Jesus (pronounced hei-zeus, but many a teary laugh was had over the fact that she could have legitimately shouted out Jesus in the throes of passion). Anywho, Jesus was a bar manager, and one day Alice went to visit him at the bar – and then proceeded to give him a handy in the store room – which upon completion Jesus opened the door to the staff room, pants down, and asked if anyone had a Kleenex. Needless to say, Alice didn’t let him nail her cross after that incident.
My friend Julie had a similarly mortifying incident with a good ol’ Kiwi bloke named John. She and John had been seeing each other for about two weeks. He had nice forearms, nice eyes, reasonably interesting conversational skills, he ticked all her Mr. Right Now boxes, and so she decided to get it on with him. They went out for dinner, had a few wines, and then headed back to his place. No flatmates were home, his flat was passably clean, she had her $9.95 lacy knickers from the Farmer’s sale on, this was the beginning of the perfect Kiwi romance. That is until the act of love began and John repetitively shouted out at the top of his voice, in a somewhat girly squeal, “I love it when we pork it like this”. And then, to make matters worse, when the act finally came to an end, instead of doing the typical male slumped and involuntary cuddle, he high-fived her. (Ed- Shazzam!)
Another of my general faves comes from my favourite couple in the world, Jerry and Luce, the kind of couple you can hang around with, and they will never make you feel 3rd wheel-ish. Although, even by my rather loose standards, they can be a little too open about their sex lives (sorry, this is probably not the best forum to tell y’all that, but it had to be said). Well, in one of their many tales, they told me about the time they attempted to join the mile high club. Now, call me naïve, but I was always under the presumption that sex at a high altitude was generally executed in those teensyweensy bathrooms. But no, according to Jezza and the Lucinator, the best place to do it is right there in your seat, don’t worry, I still haven’t quite figured out the logistics in my head either.
The first time these two terrors attempted this they were in an aisle of three, next to an elderly Eastern European woman who fell asleep within the first hour of the 10 hour flight – snoring horrendously, which was actually quite a bonus for them, as such noise would drown out any untoward bodily noises. So after about four hours, they angled toward each other and attempted it – Luce with her leg akimbo over the armrest to get some traction, and blankets everywhere to cover any exposed ass. However, in one overzealous thrust from Jezza, Luce lost her traction and slipped backwards, her white ass falling over the arm rest and into the aisle. As you can imagine, the next six hours of flying time was fairly awkward – and Luce suspects her peanuts were spat in, but one bonus, the Eastern European bird, probably the person who would’ve been most justifiably traumatised, snored through the whole thing. So, all in all, an unpleasant initiation into the mile high club, but what a story for the grandkids.
Right, well my word count is almost up, and Robinson will be getting antsy, in his pleasant and quiet way, so best round up. My final Jerry Springer-esque thought? Sexing can be a great thing, but it can also be horrifically awkward. Tips on how to avoid the awkwardness you might ask? I’m not going to offer any, because in my humble opinion, the odd mortifying incident is good for you, because then when you find someone you hustle well with, you’ll be all the more satisfied. But what we can glean from this column is bring your own Kleenex along with you, silence is golden, and save any passion you have on flights for the destination… or try that tiny, freaky toilet and let me know how you go.