The above Frank Zappa ditty continues with:

‘M-M-M . . . its real angora
Would y’all like some more-a?
Right here on the floor-a?
An’ how ’bout you, Fauna?
Y’wanna?’

Yes, these are part of the wonderful song lyrics about a lady called: Dinah-Moe Humm.

It seems she (Dinah) was making a $40 bet that a bloke couldn’t make her ‘come’.

Gulp! What a waste of dosh. Now then, had I employed the same ’sprat to catch a mackerel’ in the Antipodes, I would be bankrupt and bereft of the merest whisper of a resounding climax.

The reason being, that Aussie males’ (with VERY few exceptions) rule of thumb where Sex with Sheilas is concerned, was, (and probably still is), the primitive metronomic pulverising of the cervix with their brutish tool of oppression.

And for some weird reason, I cannot reach Nirvana that way.

Call me old fashioned, but, along with about 85% of sexually active ladies, my ‘little man in a boat’ and all regions due south and beyond, requires due care and abundant attention. Primarily with my partner’s tongue. I selflessly ventured on an oral odyssey as, ahem, ‘research’ for my book Body Worship. I Googled the words ‘hot tongue’ looking for the ultimate Male Escort.

All I got was a sadistic practice employed by mothers to teach their foul mouthed kids a lesson. It seems the nation’s ills in the swearing department could be solved by putting TABASCO on every delinquent’s tongue. (That’s what it said folks)

And don’t even begin to bother with the quest for my G spot, (you know fellas, where you seem as if you are hell bent on returning to the womb), because it (or mine) does not exist.

Therein (no pun, honest!) lies the rub.

Even if ‘Mr Lubber -man’ DOES give a smidgeon of due care and attention in that area, it is often so perfunctory, that you wonder why they bothered at all.

Even though my oral skills have been widely documented (oh yes), my favourite being: ‘Yes she CAN deep throat and lick yer gonads at the same time’, I would have to be some kind of wonderful to bring the gent ‘to completion’ within 36 seconds— for THAT dear readers (unless you have now gone to throw up in the toilet due to the subject matter) is the amount of time that these ‘panting by numbers’ punters ‘give head’.

I have held the theory that there is no such thing as frigid women, merely inept lovers.

I was thirty three, yes, I will say that again—thirty three years old before a man (I never tried batting for the other side) gave me an orgasm. He was Japanese!! Once these little yellow perils start something, their Samurai pride kicks in, and they will not give up until you finish. The relief of not having to convulse with ecstasy after my requisite thirty odd seconds was such a relief, that I was actually relaxed enough to pigging well ENJOY it.

Wa-hey!! There was no stopping me after that. Any likely lad that wanted to ‘dine at the y’ was welcomed with open arms and legs.

I was once asked to write an article for Nuts Magazine about this very same subject, and to guide me with regard to what kind of stuff they were looking for they gave the example that: ‘You know that if your lover deploys the ‘Alphabet technique’ by the time he gets to the letter ‘F’ you will think: ‘this is going to be so fan-f*ucking-tastic or ‘I may as well start faking now ‘cos this is never going to work.’ If that is the criteria, I can tell by half way through the letter ‘A’.

If only would -be ‘muff divers’ would pay attention to their partners, rather than the rolling of the eyes in an exasperated ‘Look lady, I KNOW what I’m doing’ it would save the frantic whimpers of: ‘Left a bit, right a bit, up a bit,  STAY THERE AND DO NOT MOVE UNTIL YOU ARE FINISHED.’

‘Tipping the velvet’ (a quaint Victorian expression) is the subject of much debate. A male friend was with a group of his peers (film makers, video producers, photographers) and the question was posed: ‘If you had the choice, which activity would you choose-a) receiving a knob job OR b) going down on a woman. It was (surprisingly) a resounding b), it would appear that it truly (in this instance) is, better to give than to receive.

The ‘punting bible’ Punternet is debating this very serious subject in a pudenda licking poll (seriously). The participants, who presumably are counting off the days of Easter before they can resume their ‘paying for sex’ activities, have voted that it is overwhelmingly their favourite activity, but I am MOST displeased by the discrimination displayed by 6.54% who claim that they would not ‘do it with a ‘working girl”. **Letitcia speed dials a Human rights Lawyer** Bloomin’ cheek! What is the point of being a prostitute if you cannot avail oneself to certain ancillary benefits?

Not everyone shares my love affair with ‘growling at the badger’ (Aussie colloquialism). Mention the very subject to most Gay men and they parody projectile puking. I don’t find this response rude, in fact I just mention my life long love of ‘licky licky ya ya’ all the more.

I bumped into my Gay friends Gordon and Dave only yesterday, and mentioned in passing the subject matter for this coming month’s Rag.

I got chided with: ‘You are alienating 30% of your target audience’. In the spirit of: ‘One can only please some of the people some of the time’ I enquired as to what precisely it was I should write about so the Boyz did not feel left out. They thought about it for a nano – second and came up with ‘Feltching’.

You have been warned (How about it Ed?)

Letitcia: author of Body Worship

www.brightonbodyworship.com/book

Sex/Domestic Slaves

That I Have Known

Letiticia (Image by Manel Ortega)

Everyone knows the bit in the excellent movie ‘Personal Services’ where a triumvirate of elderly gardeners ask the character played by Julie Walters (Cynthia Payne of luncheon voucher fame) how much the fee would be to tend to her ‘vegetable patch’ (crikey missus !!). She responds somewhat confused and perturbed, by virtue of the fact that she thought they would be doing it for nothing—out of the goodness of their heart so to speak. She need not have worried, for they felt such honour to serve, that they wanted to pay HER for the privilege.

Nice work if you can get it, especially if you cannot get the staff.

Unfortunately, life does not always imitate art, at least, not in MY experience.

Let us take the: would- be domestic slave who rings (’the premiere erotic service provider’) with the offer to ‘do all the jobs you don’t like to do’. This is so utter bollocks it is like Mr Hitler suggesting he pop over to Poland for a ‘chat and a nice cup of tea’. Once the Trojan horse with his mop and cleaning equipment is parked up nice and cosy in the town square, the REAL agenda begins.

They do not want to, ’serve Madame’ at all, they just want to be a bleedin’ nuisance all day long, they do not want to pay the going rate for Madame’s time, and they do not deliver the ‘domestic slave’ goods.

 the whole point in HAVING a slave, sexual or otherwise was to a have what you want when YOU want it

A case in point was an erstwhile ’slave’ from Portsmouth (or was it Southampton?) who demanded to be allowed to serve me, and ‘anybody else you know’.

‘OK pal’ I thought, and he duly arrived with his own chamois leather, set of dusters and bucket. ‘You can start by cleaning those windows’ I barked. He was useless, (as in peering dolefully inside at yours truly) and to make matters (and my windows) worse, within 2 hours of him having departed—- it chuffing well rained.

The very next day, I rang said ’slave’ to mention the precipitation, and explained that my windows needed a right going over (again).

It appeared that this was none too convenient for ‘his nibbs’…so I said: ‘Well, in that case, send me £20 so that I can fire you!!’

I thought the whole point in HAVING a slave, sexual or otherwise was to a have what you want when YOU want it. The would be slaves seem to turn this quaint notion on its head.

The sight of a 12 inch ’strap on’ is a great leveller  

Many moons ago, when, amongst other things, I joined a dating agency as research, (honest guv) for my book Body Worship,

one bright spark decided that he would like to be my ‘beck and call’ boy…..as in, any time I wanted a right seeing to, he demanded to be just the lad to do it. The problems arose when I actually decided to take him up on his fine offer. He was never available. Terms and conditions are ALWAYS written in minuscule print, and for these ‘likely lads’ it should read: ‘Give me one month’s notice so that I can explain my absence to the wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/lager lout mates/’et al.

It is not as if I have demanded to treat blokes this way, their request has always been taken at face value, especially, if they were paying for this ‘Jill of all trades and Mistress of very few!!

Take the guy who demanded to be ‘used as a door mat’. I literally walked over him with my stilettos, beat him, gave him a liberal pasting with a very stiff brush, rolled him up and shoved him in the cupboard. He was not best pleased. Nor was the gentleman who, being ‘bi-curious’ wanted to know what it felt like to ‘get f*cked’.

The sight of a 12 inch ’strap on’ is a great leveller and the role play was abandoned before it had begun.

‘But I thought that was what you WANTED’ I cried in exasperation. His reply was that it was: ‘A bit too real’

I finally gave up on the ‘Let me pay you money so you can use and abuse me’ shtick, when the guy who made it to page 189/190 in my Body Worship book (oh, come ON, I have to plug it a much as I can!) gave such a perfunctory performance of cleaning my windows at 10.30 in the evening, that for his sins, I decided he should ‘clean the bird-shit off of the patio’ of my (then) neighbours Ken and Harry.

 They have ever since christened him: ‘the Oxo gravy man’…because of his physical appearance (bald head and moustache).

Oh yes, we are not talking ‘Butlers in the Buff’ here, we are talking ‘Mr Bean meets a warthog 

That is why I do not understand the reticence on their part, for a task which they have assiduously applied for!!

I’m tellin’ ya, YOU CANNOT GET THE STAFF.

Letitcia

Author of: Body Worship (True stories of a Sex Goddess)

www.brightonbodyworship.com/book

Photo by Manel Ortega see more on Flickr