Let's talk about sex (or The Beast with Two Backs is a Monkey on MIne)

Sex. Sexy, sexy sex. It’s everywhere and, according to some, everything. We are told it's one of the three basic human drives (the others being finding food and shelter, although I think popping bubble wrap should be in there) and we live in a world where we are bombarded with sexual imagery and content almost unrelentingly. Men are supposed to think about sex every seven seconds – the way things are, I’m not entirely sure we have a choice in the matter.

I am no prude and I certainly would not claim that sexual thoughts never enter my head, but I desperately hope I am not alone in wishing that advertising and the media would just take their foot off the sensual gas a little. I’m single, you see, and being single for me pretty much means being celibate. Despite several attempts, I just never really came to terms with the one night stand. Being naked with someone I’ve met only hours previously is an ordeal of awkwardness and paranoia for me, and I fail to understand how other men can be so cavalier about it. I’d love to be cavalier about sex. The very term evokes a wonderful mental image of me, naked, swinging on a chandelier with a rose betwixt my teeth, ready to swash some lucky maiden’s buckle.

The fact is that, being a sensitive creature, it takes a bit of trust to unleash my adventurous side (which is definitely there, mark my words, oh and how) and so the periods between relationships tend to be barren. I don’t, though, think this is necessarily a failing in my character or by extension my life, and as such I object to the media painting me out to be some hopeless loser. I’ll do that on my own terms, thank you very much.

I was watching a film in the wee small hours last night when it struck me what disdain the programmers at ITV hold late night viewers in. There was an ad break at about one in the morning and every advert – every advert – was along the lines of this;

“All alone? Then pick up the phone! Talk to horny girls now, they’re just longing to speak with you. Chat, flirt, maybe more…call 0891 23 23 23 now, or text IAMASADBASTARDPLEASEFLEECEME to 90098…”

I took genuine and quite unexpected offence at this barrage of demographic pigeonholing. How dare the planners at ITV assume that simply because I stay up and watch the late movie, I am clearly some kind of social cripple who is so profoundly sad and lonely that my only hope of taking any human comfort in life is to be charged £1.50 a minute to speak to a moonlighting dinnerlady from Grimsby?

Then my righteous bubble was burst somewhat when I remembered that the film I had stayed up to watch was “Street Fighter” starring Jean Claude Van Damme. That really is a loser’s film. I could defend it by saying that Kylie Minogue looks especially hot in it with her long pigtails, but that would probably constitute a massive own goal.

At least I’m a passive victim of this branding, though. Others willingly allow themselves to be tagged in such a way. I despair at men’s magazines like “Nuts” and “Zoo”; they’re like the tabloids to FHM’s broadsheet, and any analogy where FHM is the intellectual’s choice is tenuous at best. These weekly men’s glossies focus primarily on the unholy trinity of semi-naked women, football and photos of horrific injuries.

I question the reasoning of any man who buys these magazines. The whole thing reeks of cowardly conceit to me - if you want to see naked women, have the courage of your convictions and buy some porn. If you wish to read about football, buy a dedicated soccer monthly, of which there are many. If you wish to see photos of horrific injuries, seek professional help.

I can’t even begin to describe the pointlessness of the storm in a teacup I saw fanfared on the front of one of these magazines last week. “AT LAST”, it declared as if announcing a cure for cancer, “SEE LUCY PINDER’S NIPPLES!”

For those not in the know, I should explain that Lucy Pinder is a glamour model who has carved, some might argue, a rather shrewd niche for herself by refusing to expose her nipples. She has been the darling of the assorted lad’s mags for some time now, but all published pictures seem to involve her artistically cupping her ample cleavage in such a way as to obscure the action end of her breasts from view. The teasing hussy.

Finally, though, to the relief of red blooded males everywhere, her iron will has dissolved (either that or she’s decided that the tiresome gimmick has run out of steam) and she will gift the image of those vaunted, hallowed, fiery buds to the eyes of the nation.

I had a look, obviously (strictly for the purposes of research, you understand) and was astounded to see…some nipples. Yep, that’s it. Nothing more, nothing less. Probably the most anticlimactic thing I have ever borne witness to, and I watched Live 8.

I mean, after all that build up, I was at least expecting something approaching a talking point; that they were bright green, or had little pincers on the end, or that they span around in a hypnotic swirl. Or maybe that she didn’t have nipples at all, but rather an extra set of eyes. That would have been cool. But it was another totally over-hyped letdown, the hollow and empty dressed up as the earth-shatteringly substantial, like the Emperor’s New Clothes (or maybe the Empress’ New Lack of Clothes).

All I’m saying is that maybe it’s time that we punched a hole through all this sex-obsessed bullshit, cast aside our base instincts and took the time to acknowledge and embrace the nobler, more poetic, more aspirational side of ourselves. Maybe it’s time enlightenment emancipated us all from our carnally fixated excesses.

Or maybe I just really need to get laid.

Either way, I’m likely to be frustrated in the short term.

Peace. X