It's Mo Season

Hi, hi, hi all.
Happy Monday (If there is such a thing as a happy monday).
Here's yesterday's column, should you have the urge to settle down with a cup of tea or a coup of tea (if you're Libyan).
Enjoy. x

A MILLION MILES FROM NORMAL – By Paige Nick
IT’S MOUSTACHE SEASON/MOVEMBER ALREADY?

I don’t really get the moustache. In my mind the full bushy is only really appropriate in a handful of situations. On Tom Selleck, always. On a forty five year old sheep farmer deep in the Karoo, sometimes. On a detective in the Brixton Murder and Robbery Squad, usually. And on all men in November, annually.

You see, in two days’ time, the first of November marks the beginning of Moustache Season. Movember, for those of you who’ve never heard of it, is an annual month-long event, which was invented by a bunch of Ozzie dudes in a pub in Adelaide in 1999, and which has snowballed into a Mo-phenomenon that raises funds and awareness for various men’s health issues. Talk is it’s raised somewhere in the region of R1.3 million for the SA Cancer Association. Not half bad for a bunch of Mo-fo’s.

If you plan on getting your Mo on here are some of the basic rules of Movember:

Rule One: on Shadowe’en (31^st October) the entire moustache region (which comprises the upper lip and handlebar zones) must be completely clean shaven.

Rule Two: You have the entire month to grow, cultivate and groom your Mo.
Rule Three: There is to be no joining of the Mo to the sideburns, as this is considered a beard.
And Rule Four: There shall be no joining of the handlebars to the chin, as that is considered a goatee.

Other than that, the kind of Mo you choose to groom is entirely up to you, and there are a lot to choose from. The pencil thin, the handlebar, the trucker, the rock star, the scrubby (for those of you who struggle to grow anything of substance), the Groucho Marx, or the paedophile, to name just a few.

Sorry for you wives, girlfriends and boyfriends of men who partake in Movember. It’s no fun enduring the stares, the mo burn and witnessing the food storage that is unavoidable with any full moustache. But it’s all for a good cause, and it only lasts a month. Well let’s hope it only lasts a month.

Some time ago I came across this guy on the dating website that I frequent. We chatted, emailed, swapped photos and then met, as you do. It turns out that between taking the photos that he’d emailed me, and meeting me in the flesh, he’d somehow managed to grow a level ten, defcon 4 moustache. Think Magnum meets a broom.

I checked my diary, just in case I’d forgotten to take my pills for a couple of months and it was suddenly Movember, but it wasn’t, we were still in August. I wondered if maybe he was doing a practice run to strengthen his follicles, or perhaps he’d lost a bet or something. Nothing about his looks or his demographic made him an appropriate candidate for a moustache, and I wondered why none of his friends or family cared enough to tell him how ridiculous it looked.

Hey, perhaps he was being ironic and retro cool, and I just wasn’t funky enough to ‘get it’. A goatee I could understand, that’s the moustache’s cooler second cousin. And a beard hints at a myriad of other personality traits. But this moustache on him just didn’t make any sense.

Either way I couldn’t bring myself to kiss him, I just wouldn’t know where to aim. And we certainly wouldn’t make it very far in a relationship because I would never be able to talk about anything else.

For example we might be out at a restaurant on our eleventh date, and the conversation might go something like this:

TACHE: So, what’s looking good to you on the menu?
ME: What did you do to lose the bet? Really, you can tell me.

TACHE: Oh for f***’s sake, not this again!

See, it wouldn't work for either of us.

I guess we should be grateful that for most of the population moustaches are only compulsory for one month every year. Things could be worse, there could be a Hairtober, Movember and Tachecember. So bring on Movember, all thirty hairy days of it.

Love what you got

I never talk about advertising here, because I believe there's a time and a place for everything. But today we make an exception.

For my day job, in real life, I work for an ad agency as a copywriter. Some weeks ago Marie Claire Magazine approached Karin (my wonderful Art Director) and I, and asked us to do an ad for their Love Your Body Issue, to try sell women on their own bodies.

Now I've sold a lot of things in my time, everything from cars to sanitary towels, but I've never tried to sell a woman's body before (mine doesn't count).

Marie Claire also gave a handful of other ad agencies the same brief, and all the ads are published in their November issue, which should be on shelves around about now.

The issue looks like this

 This is the ad Karin and I made:

Click to enlarge, so you can have a look-see

I picked up on some hoopla over the whole thing on Twitter yesterday. It turns out us chicks and our bodies are a touchy subject.

There's much debate about a magazine with a skinny, perfect model on the cover, preaching about how we should love our own not so skinny or slightly less perfect selves, on the inside.

I do get their point. Hey I'm a bit of a plus sized model myself, or rather, traditionally built, as I like to think of it, and I'd love it if magazines out there were a little more realistic and representative of the real world.

But, that being said, I think it's great that magazines are starting to get it, and are trying to make a shift, however small. But we have to be realistic, we are talking about fashion magazines, and reversing more than thirty years of ingrained female mindset here, so let's just take it a step at a time, shall we. Surely this is a great start in the right direction and Marie Claire deserves a little positive encouragement and reinforcement, instead of a public flogging?

The whole process certainly made me think twice about my body, and got me to do a bit of a Thanksgiving-type routine. In that while I don't believe I'll ever like my stomach or my arms very much, I'm thankful for my pretty feet and for my legs and I don't mind my butt so much, and I like my eyes.

So if that's what I got out of the whole thing, surely that's a pretty good start, don't you think?
Baby steps.

Non-photoshopped, unposed, un-made up Rome wasn't built in a day.

Also somewhere deep, deep in the recesses of my imagination, I like to think that maybe the absolutely stunningly beautiful, and incredibly successful cover girl, Candice Swanepoel, wishes she had my wordy brain, or something like that. Hey, it could happen.

If you want to see what all the other agencies did, pick up the November issue of Marie Claire SA, it's worth checking out if this kind of thing interests you. Also, I'd like to hear your take on the whole thing, ladies, gents, anyone?

Do you want to write?

I have quite a lot to thank Sarah Bullen for.

Back in 2008 when I finally got tired of unsuccessfully trying to figure out how to write a book on my own, I did one of her courses.

I did a week-long, half day course, and Sarah gave me the kick up the ass that I needed to just sit the fuck down and write my first book.

So if you think you might like to write a book of any kind, if you feel you have it in you, but you just don't know where or how to start, I highly recommend one of Sarah's courses at The Writing Room. Check out her website for more info. Do it. Gowan!

The one that got away

Here's Sunday's column. Hope you enjoy.

A MILLION MILES FROM NORMAL – By Paige Nick

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

I just read this story in the news about Joseba Sarrionandia. A writer who was recently awarded a top Spanish literary award for a series of essays he wrote. The award is a big one, sponsored by the government, and he’s set to win 15 500 quid. Which, for a writer, I can tell you, is a lot of squids.

But there’s just one little snag. Our mate Joseba, the Spanish writer, actually escaped from a Spanish prison back in 1985 where he was serving a twenty two year sentence for belonging to a militant separist group, which the government claimed was a terrorist organisation.

Joseba, then.

Legend has it that he hid inside the huge speakers belonging to a band that was performing at the prison at the time, and he was simply wheeled out after the concert, loaded into their band wagon and he hasn't been seen or heard from since. He may still be touring with the band for all we know.

Now the authorities are saying that if he wants to claim his prize he has to come forward and 'regularise his legal situation' before they’re willing to hand over the moolah. So somewhere one of those giant cardboard cheques made out to Joseba in the amount of £15,500 sits gathering dust. Jeez Joseba if this is your life story so far, I doubt you’ll ever run out of material to write about.

One has to wonder if this is an authentic award that he's won, or simply an elaborate ploy by the government (who cunningly sponsors the award) to bring a criminal to justice over twenty years after his escape?

Imagine the dilemma our friend the writer is having. Does he remain hidden behind that rock wearing a pair of those fake nose and moustache glasses disguise thingies for the rest of his life?

Or does he hand himself in, take the prize and the money and the glory and serve out the remainder of his sentence as a superstar, while he writes his memoirs, which will no doubt sell for millions?

His story has the makings of a great movie, starring say Matt Damon or Leo DeCaprio as a young Sarrionandia escaping from prison. And Robert De Niro as fifty three year old Joseba, today, torn and struggling with his decision.

Personally I think this has to be the smartest government ever. Other governments could learn a thing or two from them. This is what we should all be doing in an effort to capture every single person at large on our most wanted lists.

Finding Osama ben Laden would have been a cinch. Forget all those years and millions of dollars spent sniffing around musty caves in the Middle East. They should have just announced that Osama had won a Nobel Prize, or offered him a place on Dancing with the Stars. Nobody’s ever been known to turn that down. Then when he rocked up at the studio on day one of his rehearsals in his unitard, big beard and sweatband, they could have just nabbed him.

Take the FBI’s ten most wanted list. I bet we could lure in at least five of them before word of our plan got out in terrorist and murderer circles. 

Throw it out there that one of them has won the lottery, let it slip to another that his great aunt died and left him a substantial inheritance, and all the baddies are sure to come crawling out of the woodwork. And if that doesn’t work, they could just track down an ex-girlfriend and ask her. She’s bound to know what happened to the one that got away.

Living in Cape Town does not suck

Amazing sunday afternoon spent in friend's garden, chilling, hanging, relaxing, and some more chilling.

So, this week coming, while I'm writing, this is what will be keeping me company at my desk.
So much of the happiness.

Take tat Thursday

What a week!
In fact, what a month!
Am I right, am I right?
Craziness times ten.
Deadline madness piled on top of life madness. Woof.

On Tuesday I tried ranting my way through it, that didn't work.

Wednesday I tried laughing my way through it, that worked better.

Anyway so I was messing around whilst laughing my way through it, and I had this idea for a tattoo.

I'm thinking one on each wrist:

Bwahahahhahaaaa. Morbid as hell, but still funny.

Much debate in the office ensued as to whether one should cut across the wrist sideways or longways. Not sure if it's an urban legend but I heard longways as illustrated above is way more effective.

Phuza Thursday to everyone. May it rain whisky for you.

how kinky are you?

If you read Sunday's column, then you'll know what this is all about. If not you'll just think this is weird, which is fine by me too.
Thought I'd share the kinky test that I mentioned in the coloumn. For pure WTF value. If you want to do it for real, go here and take the test. Like I said in the column, I stopped taking the test at question ten, it just got a little ridiculous for me at that point. So I honestly can't tell you if it works.

Check out some of these ridiculous questions:

1. You hate kinky sex. Agree/Disagree/WTF?

2. It feels better when you can't see where your partners are  touching/licking/sucking/biting you? Agree/Disagree/WTF?

3. You despise being chained down. Agree/Disagree/WTF?

4. You like to use "props" in the bedroom. Agree/Disagree/WTF?

5. You prefer sex with the lights on. Agree/Disagree/WTF?

6. You like to feel pain. Agree/Disagree/WTF?

7. Handcuffs excite you. Agree/Disagree/WTF?

8. You love feeling helpless during sex. Agree/Disagree/WTF?

9. Kinky sex is the only kind of sex. Agree/Disagree/WTF?

10. The thought of drinking someones blood excites you. Agree/Disagree/WTF?

11. You find vampires sexy. Agree/Disagree/WTF?

12. You love biting, whips, handcuffs, and chains. Agree/Disagree/WTF?

13. You hate being bitten. Agree/Disagree/WTF?

14. You cut yourself. Agree/Disagree/WTF?

15. Blood is gross. Agree/Disagree/WTF?

16. You like to be master when it comes to sex. Agree/Disagree/WTF?

17. Teeth are a must. Agree/Disagree/WTF?

18. The less you can actually see, the better. Agree/Disagree/WTF?

So, how did you do? More disagrees, more agrees, or more What the fucks?
No wait, I really don't think I want to know.
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Ironing out the kinks

Here's yesterday's column. It's got a couple of kinks in it. Hope you enjoy.

A MILLION MILES FROM NORMAL – By Paige Nick

IRONING OUT THE KINKS

What do you consider kinky? And by kinky, me and the dictionary mean ‘full of kinks, closely twisted, unusual, or marked by unconventional sexual preferences or behaviour’ (or should that be badhaviour). Basically it refers to how wild you are in the sack, or on the kitchen floor, or even out in public for you slightly braver kinksters.

So where do you think you sit on the kinky scale? Say if one on the scale is on a bed in the missionary position with the lights off, and ten is you with twelve of your closest friends and a gimp mask on a waterslide at an orgy.   

I started taking a ‘How Kinky Are You?’ test that I found on the internet, but when I got to questions like ‘You find vampire’s sexy’, and ‘The thought of drinking someone’s blood excites you’, I realised I may not have the found the right test, so I exited the site immediately and deleted my browser history, just in case.

I suppose kinkyness is a tricky thing to define. After all, by the very nature of it, what’s extremely kinky for one can be considered perfectly normal to another. Also, once you’re used to something it’s not all that kinky anymore, at least not to you.

For example, certain after hours chandelier swinging activities, which for one kind of person might only be saved for a very special occasion, say after a litre of wine and some oysters, could for another kind of person be considered a quiet Monday night at home. You see, everyone’s different, that’s what’s so lovely about the world we live in.  

Pornography is another great example. For some it’s unthinkable, and makes them want to bathe in disinfectant and call the police (did somebody say handcuffs?) and for others it’s something akin to an art form, and a collectible one at that.

Some find the simple naked foot incredibly kinky. Personally I couldn’t think of anything less kinky, especially after a day spent in a takkie. But hey I guess that’s the point of a fetish, it’s like knitting or scrapbooking, it’s not for everyone

Wearing leather is another popular kink, so is whipped cream and chocolate body paint.  But like I said, it’s not for everyone. Especially if you’re on weight watchers, then chances are you don’t look so hot in head-to-toe, skin-tight leather, and you also don’t want to use up all your food points for the week in one night. You might also want to avoid the kinky food play if you have 600 count Egyptian cotton sheets. The juice from squashed strawberries is a bitch to wash out, so I’ve heard.

I guess the trick is making sure that you find yourself in a relationship where you and your partner are both in a similar area on the kinky scale. You don’t want to be a two, dating an eight or a nine. Because one of you is going to end up going to sleep disappointed, and the other is going to end up going to sleep with one eye open.

Easier said than done though. Over the years I’ve discovered that learning a new partner’s level of kink isn’t always so simple. ‘So, hey, I was wondering if one day in a couple of months you’re going to ask me to cover you in honey and feathers and spank you with a toilet brush?’ is hardly appropriate first date small talk.

It’s not easy for the kinkster either. They know that getting their timing right when revealing their kink is critical. Wait too long to disclose that you’re wearing panties when you should be wearing the pants and you could be accused of being dishonest. But you also don’t want to whip out your nipple clamps in the car on the way home from your second date. Unless of course your car battery goes flat on the M5 and you need a pair of jumper cables.

Truth is there’s a fine line between crazy and kinky, one that’s more often than not made out of latex.

Who's your guy?

Right so lots of questions coming through from the previous post/column, here are the details of 'my guys':

Awesome shoe/bag repair guy:
Premier Shoes.
This family-run establishment has been a Kloof Street institution for ages and has a loyal following among locals. Apart from resoling threadbare shoes, dying and dry-cleaning garbs, and breathing new life into loved-up handbags, they also boast a range of affordable luggage.           
Address

155 Kloof Street,
City Bowl

Area Cape Town
Telephone 21 424 4904

Incredible hair dude:
Andrew at Scar (or pretty much anyone at Scar)
22 Kloof St
(021) 4225900
(they have a branch in Claremont too)

Dentist Guy who is a Gal.
Dr Maria Theologides at the Camps Bay Dental Studio
Address. 49 Victoria Road, Camps Bay, Cape Town
Tel. +27 21-438 1710 Fax. +27 21-438 3555

And while we're about it, here's my awesome doctor guy:
Dr Waynik

021 439 5852
1 Green Point Mews, 99 Main Road, Green Point All of the above come highly recommended.

Take my advice, don't take advice

Here's Sunday's column, which I'd like to dedicate to @applez03 on Twitter, whose heart was broken this weekend. Hope you're feeling just even just an inch better Applez.

A MILLION MILES FROM NORMAL – By Paige Nick.
TAKE MY ADVICE, DON’T TAKE ADVICE

People like to offer advice. Get a stain, they’ll tell you how to get it out. Prang your car and they’ll tell you about ‘their guy’ that you absolutely have to go to if you want the best deal at the best price.

We feel strongly about our guys, so we punt them at every opportunity. I for one have an exceptional shoe guy. There isn’t a shoe, bag or zip he can’t fix. I’ve also got a phenomenal hair guy, Andrew. And don’t get me started on my Dentist guy, who is actually a girl. She’ll fix your teeth better, whiter, brighter, and make them teethier than any other dentist on the planet.

So I’m all for recommendations. I’m also partial to the odd how-to. Like how to remove banana from the ceiling, or how to stop bats from nesting in your eves, or how to get red wine stains out of anything. Those kinds of everyday, handy to use around the house tips.

But there’s some advice that I really think we need to retire. It’s time. I’m mainly talking about relationship advice here. You see, I’m no stranger to the dump. In fact I’ve been dumped more times than I care to count. (Please, don’t feel too sorry for me, I give as good as I get.) I think it’s time we got some new advice for people going through any form of devastating breakup. The old pearls just don’t work for me anymore.
                                                                          
‘Time heals all wounds’ is a classic. But let’s be realistic here, when your heart was just broken yesterday, you can barely figure out how you’re going to make it to tomorrow, let alone six months from now, when you may or may not feel ever so slightly better about the whole disaster.  

You’re too good for him’ is another crowd pleaser. Yes I’m so good he had to go and have sex with flat-chested Lisa that he met on the Internet. I must be really, really good. See, advice is supposed to help, this doesn’t.

'Every pot has its lid.’ is another one that’s got to go. We’ve put men on the moon, we’ve invented cell phones that are smarter than human beings, we should be able to come up with something better than a cookware analogy in the face of total devastation. 

I’m thinking it’s time we came up with some more modern words of wisdom for recently heartbroken men and women who feel like they’ve just had the rug pulled out from under them. Some advice that’s a little less dusty and a little more practical and realistic.  I’m aiming for the kind of advice that will actually make the terminally heartbroken feel a little better about their situation. For example, what about ‘Why slash tires with a knife, when a corkscrew is so much more effective.’

See, practical, heartfelt and soothing.

Or what about ‘Nothing heals a broken heart quite like a bottle of scotch and a one-night-stand.’ Now that’s some advice you can use.

I’m still crafting it, but another one I’m leaning towards could go something like: ‘The more expensive his or her item of clothing, the better it cleans your toilet.’ What do you think? Cathartic right? And just so much more comforting and less annoying than ‘There are plenty more fish in the sea.’

I couldn't think of a decent title for this post

I'll post my column tomorrow, promise. Right now, here's a slightly different kind of piece which appeared in the Lifestyle Section yesterday. Here it is unedited and illustrated. Hope you enjoy.

I COULDN’T THINK OF A DECENT TITLE FOR THIS ARTICLE – By Paige Nick

I imagine it’s hard naming a baby. Call him Neville and he may not be the Springbok quarterback, or name him Baksteen and he may never own a library card. Names also move in and out of fashion constantly, hence the sixteen young Brooklyn’s you'll find in one classroom right now.

I've named two in my life and both were very traumatic experiences. Granted mine weren't human children, but they were my books, so my babies nonetheless. Believe me I had no idea that titling my books was going to be almost as hard as writing the blimming things.

So I was relieved to discover at The Open Book Festival in Cape Town a couple of weeks ago, that it's not just me. First at Cynthia Jele’s talk and directly after that during James Clelland’s session, and later at the launch of Mike Nicol’s book, Monkey Business. It was nice to hear that some of my favourite local authors have struggled with the naming process too.

Cynthia Jele’s first book was originally called Chasing Pavements, after the title of an Adele song. Jele says; ‘I chose it because I felt that despite everything the characters had, they were still in search of something they couldn’t define or explain.’ But rights issues meant they had to bin that title, and she struggled to come up with a good replacement. Then her publisher suggested Happiness is a Four Letter Word. Jele admits that she wasn’t sure about it at first, she worried people wouldn’t ‘get it’, but it grew on her. And the book went on to win the Commonwealth Writer's Prize for Best First Book. So Happiness is a Commonwealth Prize and a Four Letter Word, in this case.

Had James Clelland’s publisher not gotten involved, his EU Literary Award winning debut would have been called Trying not to Fall, (which comes directly from the J.M. Coetzee quote in his prologue) instead of Deeper than Colour, which is piece of dialogue in the book.

Personally I like both titles, but Clelland reckons; ‘Trying not to Fall would have been too slavish to JM Coetzee.’ For him titles always come at the end of the writing process, after a lot of re-reading and thinking.

Sarah Lotz is another author I chatted to about naming and shaming. Lotz says; ‘My first novel had more titles than a corrupt member of the royal family.’ The book is a fab read about two girls living rough on the streets of Paris. Some of her early titles included Paris on a Shoestring which was canned because it would have confused readers and book sellers, and probably would have found its way into the travel section. (Although Sarah jokes that wouldn’t have been the worst thing to happen, and it might have actually sold more copies there.) It was also briefly called The St Eustache Soup Kitchen, which I think has a nice ring to it. They eventually settled on Pompidou Posse. Which Lotz says can far too easily be misheard or mistyped as Pompidou Pussy (which is rather apt), or Poseidon Posse, which Lotz says; ‘makes it sound like a western, set on a doomed cruise liner, a genre which has oddly never taken off’.

After this Sarah’s posse of books seem to have been a piece of piss title, by the sounds of things.

I also asked Sifiso Mzobe, recent winner of the Sunday Times Literary Award. He says his book was originally called Pillars of Sands. Until his publisher suggested Young Blood instead, a term used for teens in the townships. I must say, I’m struggling to picture the cover of Pillars of Sands. It feels more like a soap opera, than a tough, gritty, township thriller.

Mike Nicol’s latest was also a tricky little monkey. It's a book about the murder of Anni Dewani. Nicol says he’d been going round and round until his partner Jill said, ‘why don’t you just call it Monkey Business’. Mike says, ‘Once she'd said it I could see it was the obvious and only title. When something is that obvious afterwards you know it’s right.’

Nicol says he’s been lucky, he’s never had a publisher change a single title (and he has many). Unlike international author, Tess Gerritsen, who when she was here earlier this year, told Nicol her publishers had changed every single one of her titles.

Maybe it’s just easier for someone not as attached to the book to find its title. My second novel This Way Up, which was launched in May, was always going to be called Bacardi for Breakfast. But the Bacardi makers said no way, and I couldn’t bribe them with booze, which is my usual trick. So I removed every trace of Bacardi from the manuscript and hit a brick wall. After I lost my perfect title I couldn’t come up with anything even half decent. My editor at Penguin, James, eventually cracked it two days past deadline. When I look back at my list of potential titles I see I dodged a bullet. What kind of idiot calls their book, ‘Get a Life’?

Perhaps sometimes the job of naming is best left to a publishing aunt or Godfather. Although maybe that’s not the best idea for naming real babies, unless we’re all happy for there to be a lot of Somerset Maugham’s, Ambrose Bierce’s and Moby Dick’s in our next generation of classrooms.

Here's to the crazy ones...

Saw this piece on Steve Jobs in today's Sunday Times. 

Don't you think that Ashton Kutcher looks remarkably like genius Mr Jobs as a young man? 

I feel a movie coming on.

Yes, you can!

Hey, Look, I made it into the September issue of Cosmopolitan.

IMPORTANT NOTE: Sadly that is not me on the cover! Not even close.

I'm here on the inside of the magazine:

They did this spread on how to do challenging things - by people who know how.

And by some miracle of modern nature I was asked to be one of the people who know how.

My little section was on how to get a book published.

Click to enlarge

Some of my other fellow know-it-alls in the spread were Tiffany Prior, owner of Ice Models in Durbs, on how to walk in heels like a model.

Some advice I am desperately in need of.

click to enlarge

And the ever fabulous Malcolm Kluk on how to look chic always. But I'm afraid I think I need more than six steps to achieve this one, it seems way harder. I can at most manage one day a week in high heels and a dress, and then i revert to jeans and converse.

and yes, you guessed it, click to enlarge

And the last one was how to conquer fear, by Verna van Schaik, a Deep-diving-scuba-world-record breath holder.

Clicky click

So now, see, there's nothing we can't do.

Next week I'm going to go deep sea diving, while wearing high heels and a fabulous frock, and when I reach the bottom of the ocean I'm going to write a manuscript, which I shall get published.

Well, at least I'm going to try.

Problem solved

Stop the manhunt.

You may have found him.

Sorry, you've probably already seen this, it was floating all over the internet yesterday. I don't normally post this kind of thing, but this was too crazy to ignore.

What would you do for sex?

Morning, it's monday, back to work, yeeehaaa. Here's yesterday's column. Hope you like.

A MILLION MILES FROM NORMAL – By Paige Nick
WHAT WOULD YOU DO FOR SEX?

What lengths would you be willing to go to to get laid? You hear of guys who learn a new language, guys who get into fist fights and even guys who’ve gotten haircuts, all in the pursuit of sexy times. We’ve been known to go to incredible extremes just for a little bit of nookie.

A guy I know, who’s a bit of a couch potato, once pretended he was a regular jogger because the girl he was trying to woo was very into it. Their first date was a two kay sprint. It wasn’t pretty. Hell, I once flew to Durban for a date, so it’s not just the guys out there doing crazy things to get potentially crazy lucky.

I think it’s a good thing. It means that romance isn’t dead, just that it’s slightly altered from what it was in previous generations.

Another guy friend of mine was at a house party once, where he found himself chatting up a really pretty girl. He was in classic ‘Chat Up Stance’. The victim, or rather the object of his charms was standing coyly, leaning with her back up against a wall, and he was standing in front of her, leaning in, arm extended, hand pressed up against the wall, beside her.

He’d noted proudly to himself that he’d already made her laugh seven point three times. He’d complimented her six times, and had pretended to listen attentively to five of her stories. According to his calculations he was around eighty two percent of the way through his charm offensive, when something unexpected happened.

After making her laugh for the ninth consecutive time, my friend suavely and nonchalantly reached for his bottle of beer, and took a casual swig. Only realising then that he’d somehow picked up the wrong bottle, and had poured warm beer and a cigarette stompie directly into his mouth.

He had a split second to make a critical decision. He could a) spit the offending butt out into his hand in front of her. Or, he could b) man the eff up, swallow the butt with the mouthful of warm beer, keep his poker face on, carry on as if nothing had happened, and hope for the best.

Yes, that was a trick question. He never really had a choice. Surreptitiously swallowing the butt was the only option ever available to him. No chick in her right mind is ever going to kiss, let alone shag a guy who has an ashtray for a mouth, and whose party trick is to spit up cigarette butts. Sex with a hot chick is worth swallowing the odd cigarette butt for, any day of the week.

It seems that at some point or other, whether you’re a boy made of frogs and snails and puppy dogs tails, or a girl made of sugar and spice and all things nice, we’ve all gone to some kind of extreme in the name of sex, love, or companionship (call it what you will). Hey you may not have swallowed a butt, but if you’ve ever google-stalked someone, or poured hot wax onto a genital area and then ripped the hairs out one by one, then you too are guilty as charged.

Does sex make us do crazy things? Maybe, probably, definitely, usually.

Blogger Meetup, or as i like to think of it, Bleetup.

I found this:

on this lovely blog, Darling Claire, over here:

Here's hoping work doesn't swallow me whole this week and I can go.

Hey bloggers, when you get back from the meetup, you may want to look into Article Writing Services. They  produce quality content for your blog or website for you, for free. So you do wine and tapas, and they do the article writing.