I nibbled the most scrummy little morsel the other day. Mind you, and between ourselves, I am not convinced that he was, in the strictest sense, legal. I did ask -before you leap upon me and threaten me with the Ducking Stool – but you know how very taciturn youth can be, and, when I queried his provenance, this particular one – Gary, for those who really wish to know – muttered into his bum-fluff an indistinct number which ended in the syllable ‘teen‘!
The wonderful thing about young men is their utter and unashamed rampancy! Delectable! Irresistible! They go at it, my dears, like stoats rampaging through the hottest stoatesses – but, of course, it being just little old me, well, need I say more?!
However – and, obviously, this must remain confidential – there are a couple of teensy-weensy little obstacles to overcome when it comes to the sub-twenties. The first is their laughable, and completely mysterious, identification of myself with their mothers (and, in some speedily ejected little toads, their grandmothers) and a correspondingly lamentable need to confide in me as if I were some kind of Agony Aunt (which I quite clearly am not).
Gary, for example – having performed the Splayed Stallion, the Grandfather Clock and that one on Page 448 which most men over thirty claim to be impossible and highly injurious – settled down for a post-bonk fag (as he so indelicately put it) and, I kid you not, a thorough-going whinge about his mother’s overly zealous attempts to control him via a curfew (about which, frankly, I gave not a toss). I booted the little blighter out pretty damn sharpish when he started to complain about his Chemistry teacher!
Really! I ask you! Do I look like a counsellor?
But do feel free to hold that thought because it leads me very nicely into my second small problem with the inexperienced and dewily young. Their Inter-vaginal Ballistic Missiles (IVBMs), though splendidly wrought and firm to the nth degree, tend to go Boom in mere seconds…
And – let us be brutally frank here, ladies – that last can be a real turn-off: The tendency of the mechanism to go off half-cocked at the first sight of minge can, for any woman anticipating a sexual triathlon, be a bitter disappointment. Gnashing of teeth and rending of Basque are both to be expected at such a moment. As is defenestration of wilting swain from nearest available window!
Many a woman has come to me in absolute despair concerning this little matter, and my tried-and-tested suggestions have, I hope, provided relief in all but the most obdurate cases.
So here, fresh from the lips of Miss Fellatio herself, I give you BOOBY’S TIPS!
The first, and most obvious, ploy is the immediate adoption of the Corpse Pose: Cease all movement up to – and including if necessary – respiration until the missile has stabilized and is, once more, in Long Range Mode.
Secondly, go for Literary or Biblical attack: An ecclesiastically droning voice, allied with a few yards of The Old Testament or, far worse, a chapter of Dickens, tends to discourage most cases of Premature Rocket Launch.
However, there are always those few young blades for whom sterner measures are needed – and, for these, I find the adoption of the Motherly Tone of Voice effective, especially if it is allied with the well-trodden paths of Parental Complaint: Hours of allowed egress and re-entry, state of bedroom, homework completion, rankness of socks, facial pustules – all of the above can be used in order to keep the cork in the bottle until the female part of the equation is ready for an explosive bang and fizz.
Now I must shove off: Helga is pawing at the ground and snorting – and, let’s face it, a really good masseuse is worth two in the topiary.