Let's sex this up

With a few minutes to spare this week, my thoughts turned to sex. Strange word: sex. It can be a verb, as in having it; a noun in terms of the act; and again, a verb as in determining the gender and even an instruction (not in the 50 Shades of Grey context) of “sexing” something up.
Two articles in today’s NZ Herald, a publication I rarely find interesting, prompted my new-found, though brief, interest in sex.

One was an article listing New Zealand’s top five dating sites. Yes, I know dating doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with sex—but let’s not be pedantic, and you have my sympathies that it didn’t work out for you. However, I digress.

What interested me about this article was that the second most popular dating site is called Academic Singles, which promises to “put you in touch with intelligent people near you.” Well I guess that could work; anywhere except Hamilton.

But what would a date with an intelligent person be like?  What would happen? Would the main subject under discussion be philosophy, the classics, or poetry? Would the sexual component consist entirely of an academic critique on Masters & Johnson? Who knows? In any case, the questions themselves are—well—academic. Surely, intelligence is indefinable—even adjustable. In the context of this site, it is also a conceit. I applaud anyone for going on to the site to find someone intelligent—we are all lonely at times—but are they not making a rather large assumption that they, themselves, are intelligent? I am not sure I would like to go out with someone so arrogant. However, good luck.

The second NZ Herald article about sex was a Kinsey Institute study of the amount of sex we should be having according to our age. Well, of course we would want to go and read that, wouldn’t we? I was not surprised to learn from the Kinsey study that those aged 18 to 29 had “sex” on average 112 times a year. Between the ages of 30 and 39, it drops to 86 times annually.  And sexual activity droops (pun intended) for 40 to 49-year-olds to half the amount of sex of their 20-something counterparts, making love 69 times a year on average…and some of it, I guess, must be distinctly average.

However, what disappointed me was that there was no mention in the study of the quantity (or quality) of sex for those aged over 50. The Herald tells us that is because (the study) “appears to back up separate research which found that sexuality among older people is largely ignored.” Really? Which separate research was that, and who did they ask?

To be honest, and here I am being both honest and through Fryday anonymous, I find it easier to ignore the Herald than sex. I am also here interested in their use of the word “sexuality.” One definition of that word I read said it was the study of human sexuality, which should certainly appeal to Academic Singles. Another dictionary defined sexuality as “a person’s sexual orientation or preference.” In stating that we over 50s are ignoring that, is the Herald suggesting we don’t care? That we’ll have it off—so to speak—with anyone? Well, all I can say to “Granny Herald” is that we over 50s are (usually) more selective in our partners than you are in your use of terminology.

Poetry in Pantyhose

I may be delving into dark and dangerous territory here (you think?) but I believe I understand women. I have been one, once or twice. Yes—that is me over there. Now before I completely embarrass my sons and scare my wife, let me explain.
A few years ago I played the Fairy Godmother in a couple of children’s pantomimes. In doing so, I experienced the trials and tribulations of being a woman—some of them at least. I itched and scratched from bra rash (I was not, I think, properly fitted) and I holed pantyhose beyond count. I even exposed my derriere one notable night when my tutu dropped to the ground. Yes, sisters, I am one of you. I feel our pain.
However…
Whilst it can be said that we women don’t have to wear bras or pantyhose and such inflictions are affectation, we know that not to be true, don’t we darlings? Men do rather expect it of us. But, what about elective cosmetic surgery—facelifts et al? Is that really necessary, and, if not, is that a truly self-inflicted affectation? I think so. And, yes, I know men have cosmetic surgery too, but I am not going there—I am back to being a misogynist male. Okay?
I think some of the women around me today are among the most beautiful I have met—inside and out—and as far as I know none has had major cosmetic surgery—or need it. Yet, reading a story in the Herald today, I see that for some women such surgery is not only an affectation it is an addiction. I refer to the story on mother and daughter Georgina Clarke and Kayla Morris who have spent thousands of cosmetic surgery, with Kayla funding much of it as a stripper. You can read their story here. The story tells us that currently the pair spend £5,000 a year on tanning beds and have had lip injections, Botox, cheek fillers, semi-permanent make-up, tooth whitening and hair extensions. Despite having already spent more than £50,000, the pair plan to have a boob job apiece later this year, along with buttock implants, a nose job, further lip injections, and veneers.
Now, may I venture a suggestion here that perhaps successful surgery, whilst enhancing the face or body, is most successful if not immediately apparent that you had it. Such is not the case here. As you will see if you go to that story or google images of the couple, their body and face enhancements are so obvious they are bordering on the grotesque. Why would you do that to yourself?
But, then I am being judgemental.
Sorry.
I am such a bitch.
So, let me return to safer ground: writers, writing and words.
All writers dream of that magic (and not always attainable) moment when he or she comes up with so perfect a phrase that they are forevermore in debt to the Muse, yet saddened that never again will they have such a moment. If it happens at all, it happens once. And it must have happened to the Daily Mail (the original publisher) writer who, grabbing a gift from the gods, appended to the above list of upcoming surgery this:
“(and) a designer vagina for Georgina.”
Gold!

Living on Planet Dumb Arse

Are you following the NZ Herald’s daily updates on The Bachelor? I thought not. But have you thought to question why they are even there? It seems somewhat innocuous to have the smirks and scandals of a reality TV series as the daily staple of a once reputable new source. Is this yet another example of the dumbing down of New Zealand news coverage? Other dumbing downs would include coverage of Dancing with the Stars, The Green Party Annual Conference and anything to do with Teddy Sinclair —AKA Natalie Kills, and Mrs Moon. It is not that I am necessarily against dumbing down. In certain constituencies dumbing down can be an effective tool, look at Donald Trump—and what a tool he is. But in our major newspaper, and not even in the lifestyle section? I have a couple of friends who used to work in the Herald. They would be turning in their graves had they not had the good fortune to have not yet died or moved to Hamilton. I know what they are thinking on this issue; it can be summed up by one word: disappointed. In this morning’s Herald stories about the Bachelor are accompanied online by an article on why men fake an orgasm, why boredom is good for you (the Herald defending itself, perhaps?), and a piece about the worst lies you can tell at work. On the distaff there is a good investigative piece on why companies move profits off-shore and there is coverage of “prominent sexual violence advocate” (for or against, the Herald’s writer doesn’t declare), Louise Nicholas, opining that after recent judicial decisions, some New Zealand judges are living on Planet Dumb Arse. Well, I don’t know about judges, Louise, but apparently here in New Heraldland all the rest of us are.

Women have periods. Period.

It must be one of the silliest articles yet in a periodical renowned for silliness. This morning the NZ Herald published an article on how much periods cost women over the course of their lifetimes. That wasn’t the silly part. The silly part was listing what else that money could be spent on. And no amount of obfuscation such as the article’s “Just Kidding” last line can obscure the fact that the article is just plain stupid.
Am I taking it too seriously? Possibly. What do I know? I am a man.
But the same edition of the NZ Herald carried an article about a British lawyer (a male) who has been roundly criticised for his “objectification” of women by describing a female lawyer’s Linkdin photo as stunning, and his own daughter as “hot” after she posted a photo of herself working out in a gym. And by the way, whilst his phraseology by contemporary standards may be unacceptable, they are nevertheless accurate—in both cases.
But is that story any more objectifying women than one calculating the cost of their periods and the equating that cost to:
*Nearly 4000 jars of Marmite
*4251 packets of TimTams
*A Damascus Skull Dagger (whatever that is)?
Now, I know the article is not seriously suggesting that the money—$16,000, by the way—could be better spent on these items. But then to compound the silliness by stating that items such as tampons, pads, pain-killers and panty-liners are “so-called luxury items” just rubs it in. And who calls them that, by the way? I am sure women don’t. And I am damn sure you would be hard-pressed to find a man who does. The most you would get from a man would be why doesn’t the Herald even it up and ask what it costs for man to shave over his lifetime. The difference is that a man doesn’t have to shave. As I understand it, women don’t have such a choice—and I am not talking about the shaving.
No, women have periods. Period. They confront them. They contain them. They control them. But they should not be confronted with the cost of them—still less the implication  TimTams would be a more inviting alternative.

Living next to a Garrett

It’s not for me to speak ill of the (brain) dead, but if the reports of former Act MP David Garrett’s bizarre behaviour are true he certainly deserves public condemnation.
You’ll remember Garrett. It was he who was forced to resign from Parliament last year after revelations he stole a dead baby's identity to obtain a false passport and had an historic assault conviction.
Since then, this week he pleaded not guilty to a drink-driving charge; last month he was suspended from holding a lawyer's practising certificate for 12 months and ordered to pay court costs of $8430 after a Law Society disciplinary hearing. The hearing related to a false affidavit he swore while facing charges over the false passport.
He was previously censured by the Act Party over lewd comments, made homophobic comments on a television show panel, and has been accused of drinking heavily and using online dating sites to meet women while still married.
Now he is reported to have locked his wife and children out of their Kaukapakapa house and told his wife, a Tongan, to “go back to your tribe.”
Now you might be of the ilk that says this simply makes Garrett a man’s man. If you are I guess that’s not sunburn on your neck. For the rest of us he is, at best, a dork and it’s galling to me to have him living just up the road.
So, when it comes to David Garrett, I am feeling anything but neighbourly. If you want to read the full story, you’ll find the report on which this Fryday is based on the Stuff local news website.