Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Panty business


How much should a woman charge for her dirty knickers? I’ve been pondering this question after reading a news story about a married lady with a thriving mail-order business. Mistress Dani, as she likes to be known, has a website where customers can pick and choose panties with a selection of different soilings. Yet she prides herself on offering much more than items from her laundry basket:

“Our clients want an authentic experience and it’s all about intimacy – so it’s important they feel like they’re getting attention,” she explains.

If you’re wondering how a transaction involving underwear can give a man the attention he needs, it’s all about the flow of information. He asks Mistress Dani what her knickers smell like – she tells him they exude the fragrant aroma of steamed mussels with a dash of lemon. He tells her what he has done with the knickers after receiving them, often with photographic evidence – she praises his ingenuity and pretends to be flattered (I suppose you’d call that aftercare service). By such means, the client feels he has acquired something more meaningful than panties.

All of which suggests she is making them pay through the nose for the service, which might be considered apt given the part played by their noses in enjoying the product. According to Mistress Dani, one of her clients was a married man who could no longer sleep with his infirm wife:

“He just wanted the smell of a woman,” she explained.

You have to admit that’s a valid necessity. If a man goes without the smell of a woman for too long his nostrils start twitching. However, the Mistress is extending her range of services to cater for clients with stranger desires. Apparently, many of her customers crave humiliation, which can be provided in ways that do not require face-to-face contact. For example, her clients can ask for their picture to be displayed in a rogues gallery of panty-sniffers which appears in her website. She will also play the part of schoolmistress, ordering men to write out lines for her inspection. Those who want the premier service can ask for a sample of her urine to abase themselves with. Again, there is no indication of what she charges for these services, but they don’t seem to require a lot of woman-hours. Even a modest fee could generate massive profits.

Of course, Mistress Dani doesn’t have to disclose her fees if she doesn’t want to. As long as her clients think they’re getting value for money, it’s nobody’s business. Nevertheless, once a businesswoman starts using the news media to advertise her wares, she should expect to have her trading practices scrutinised. The market for soiled panties and related services won’t work efficiently if no one publishes their prices. Let’s hope the problem is solved by more suppliers entering the industry to provide a healthy does of competition. My ape instincts tell me there are a lot of women out there who could give Mistress Dani a run for her money.

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Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Wide open marriage


Great is my admiration for the British police officer who did not attempt to conceal his marriage to a call girl. The husbands of prostitutes have been stigmatised for far too long – they must come out of the closet and demand the same recognition as other minority groups. PC Scott Frost was told by his superiors at the Metropolitan Police that his wife’s occupation was of no concern to them, provided that he wasn’t her pimp. Pimping is illegal in the United Kingdom.

As for Mrs Frost, I’m pleased to report that she’s equally unconcerned about being outed as the wife of a policeman. Busty Sarah Jane, as she likes to be known, is as keen as ever to provide her services to fee-paying customers. This is how she describes herself on her website:

“I love sex and I love meeting new people. I’m fun, friendly and my cheeky smile and natural curvy figure will put you at ease in no time.”

To back up her claims, she discloses a bust size of 36G. I have no way of verifying this measurement, but studying the picture below should give you a ballpark indication.

Being married to a sex worker must have its peculiar challenges. Do you ask her whether she had a good day at work? Do you help her to shop for the tools of her trade? Do you allow her to work from home or insist that she rents an office? There ought to be a support group called ‘Husbands of Hookers’ to work through such issues. Maybe every town needs a social worker who can respond to their special needs.

There are pluses as well as minuses, of course. As a self-employed trader, the tart can claim a lot of tax-deductions; she ought to be flexible about vacation dates; she can work overtime whenever the family budget needs balancing. Her lucky husband gets free-of-charge what everyone else has to pay for. Men who propose to prostitutes must have this perk at the forefront of their minds. I bet they are chuckling wickedly at the prospect when they put the ring on her finger.

Sadly, there are reactionary types whose trust in the police will be diminished if policemen choose to marry sex workers. Whores have an unfortunate association with crime, even though they are far more likely to be victims than perpetrators. Admittedly, a lot of them must be fiddling their taxes, but who wouldn’t do that in their situation? The solution, as ever, is more information and positive reporting about the lives of these industrious and good-natured women.

Now that Mrs Frost is in the public eye, perhaps she should do her bit for the sisterhood by going on a speaking tour. She may not be natural public speaker, but such skills can be acquired with practice. Anyone who can plant her jahoobies in the face of a strange man should have no fear of an audience. I, for one, would pay good money to attend one of her seminars.

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Wednesday, March 08, 2017

Lost in Translation


I have tremendous sympathy for the Chinaman who was mistakenly sent to a refugee camp in Germany. The poor man had his wallet stolen after arriving in Stuttgart as a tourist. Speaking neither German nor English, he tried to report his crime to the police, who promptly sent him to a refugee centre in Dusseldorf. There, he was photographed, fingerprinted and possibly deloused, before receiving a meal of soup and noodles. A German Red Cross worker was the first to notice something was amiss:

“He acted so different to the other refugees,” recalled Christoph Schlutermann. “He kept trying to tell people his story, but no one could understand him. He kept asking to get his passport back, which is the opposite of what most refugees do.”

Perplexed by his behaviour, Herr Schlutermann consulted a local Chinese restaurant, which advised him to install a Mandarin translation app on his mobile phone. This enabled him to communicate with the tourist, who told him he had come to Europe for a hiking holiday. The man was finally sent on his way after spending 12 days in the bureaucratic German asylum system. He chose not to make an official complaint, merely commenting that Europe was not what he imagined it to be. His patience and good manners are an example to us all.

The language barrier can be a headache for anyone in the tourism industry. Just recently, I was accosted by a tall blond woman, who had strayed a mile or two from the safari camp.

“Svo storog lorlin!” she squealed excitedly in an obscure Nordic tongue. Although I had no idea what she was talking about, her facial expression and body language suggested an interest in social intercourse. So I beckoned her to follow me to a plum tree and plucked a juicy fruit for her.

“Fakka feer ferrin,” she said. “Ech moon merra fin Dian Fossey.”

On hearing the words “Dian Fossey” alarm bells sounded in my head. There is a particular breed of woman that imagines she can travel to Africa and persuade the gorillas to revere her as their Sugar Mummy. So I took her by the hand and marched purposefully to the safari camp.

“So that’s where you’ve been, Gunnella!” exclaimed the manager. “Been showing her the secrets of the undergrowth, eh Bananas?” he added, winking at me.

“You must keep your guests on a tighter rein,” I replied. “She’s an amiable young woman, but wholly unequipped for solo expeditions in a foreign habitat.”

This incident shows what a risky business tourism can be. If Gunnella had encountered a pack of marauding baboons, instead of a civilised ape, there’s no telling what would have happened. The manager of the safari camp would have been winking out of the other side of his face. Let’s hope Gene Roddenberry was right in predicting a future where everyone, including the Klingons and Romulans, is fluent in English. The same language, spoken in a variety of interesting and amusing accents, is enough cultural diversity for one galaxy.

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Wednesday, March 01, 2017

Hitting the sweet note


Can the right musical note, played in the right way, give a woman an orgasm? It’s not a question I’ve spent much time pondering of late. Indeed, I never knew it was a question that anyone pondered until recently, when an American tourist told me it was an urban legend among the hard-rocking fraternity. I later found a website which purports to look at the scientific evidence for this phenomenon.

Long-standing readers of this blog will know that no one has greater respect for human science than Gorilla Bananas. Einstein, Freud and Dr Ruth are gurus and idols to me. If scientists put their heads together they will solve the mysteries of the Universe. If rock musicians put their heads together they will give each other lice.

As every physics student knows, sound is a compression wave that propagates through matter. If the wavelength of a note is perfectly synchronised to the dimensions of a lady’s coochie, it is entirely feasible that a resonance effect may occur, causing the coochie to vibrate like a Hamilton Beach blender on full-speed setting. I was sorely disappointed to find that such theories and conjectures were not discussed in the above-mentioned website. The only “evidence” cited was an unverified statement from someone who claimed his girlfriend starting gasping when he played a note on his Blaster Beam:

“I had the odd experience of watching her eyes glaze over as she half fell into a chair breathing hard. ‘I like that sound,’ she managed to get out in a whisper.”

I suspect this fellow wouldn’t know the difference between a woman having an orgasm and a woman suffering from indigestion. Another comment on the website injected some much needed common sense into the debate:

“Try using your penis, dude!”

The glaring omission in all this chatter was a statement from a woman saying she had climaxed in this way. For why would those who have enjoyed such an experience want to keep it a secret? There are certainly more embarrassing ways for a woman to have an orgasm. I’ve read confessions from ladies who were jerking up and down on a horse or having their big toe sucked. Listening to a musical note would be a quick, clean kill by comparison. All the women’s magazines would constantly be discussing it, giving precise and detailed instructions to their readers.

The sad conclusion we must draw is that there are men who fantasize about getting women off without putting in the hard work. Maybe they lack the patience or technique. Or maybe they find the whole idea of stimulating a lady’s cha-cha unappetising. Human culture must accept some of the blame for this. We live in a world where phallic symbols are all over the place, while pussy symbols are practically taboo. This must change. If you don’t teach boys how to venerate the vulva, they’re not going to give it the attention it deserves when they come face-to-face with a real one.

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