I’ve just finished reading the appalling 'Great Sex Weekend' which appears to have been written for persons who need instructions to breathe. What a woeful waste of a great afternoon! The only way this book could be remotely useful is if you’d spent your entire life in Amish country. Even your average Joe could learn this stuff from M-rated movies with naughty bits. As suggested by the title this book is a step-by-step instructional guide to having amazing nookie all weekend. Apparently the authors are well known experts who have trialled their theories with an army of ‘road testers’ whose feedback is littered throughout the book in an attempt to strengthen the validity of their recommendations. The book begins by tackling all of the minutiae involved in organizing a weekend away. *yawns* I found myself getting a soft-on. The authors recommend that if you have children and are unable to secure family or babysitters to look after them you should ‘approach a couple that you think might be in a similar situation’ (that is if anyone seriously goes around telling people that don’t have enough sex) ‘Show them the book, tell them a bit about your plans for an intimate weekend and see if they are interested in swapping child-care favours. They can borrow the book after your weekend and maybe even some of the items that you bought to enhance your own getaway.’ Well no thanks. I dare say that nobody is going to want to borrow a half-used bottle of canola oil and a sweaty old shower curtain. ‘Here Janet…have my twelve inch strap on to try with Gary…’ FFS!
Then the fun really begins. ‘Just as your car needs tuning periodically, every relationship needs to be recharged now and then. Your relationship needs tune-ups that not only keep it going but keep it humming. Think of our play-by-play guide as a handy manual to use again and again to maintain a higher level of sexual desire and satisfaction. But don't feel restricted by our advice.’ And therein lays the problem with earnest instructional genres. The author invariably operates under the assumption that people are mindless drones that will follow their advice to the letter and consequently feel compelled to include constant reminders that the reader can ‘pick and choose'. What a tedious waste of page real estate. So for all this ‘freedom of interpretation’ I’ve been granted the authors are still hell bent on spelling out a rigid timetable for this so called ‘tune-up your sex life weekend’. Friday night: leisurely walk, dinner interlude, reminiscing and industrial scrubbing of genitals followed by orgasms but no intercourse. Saturday morning: snuggle before breakfast in bed, more industrial scrubbing of the genitals followed by intercourse in no less than six different positions. Saturday night: swap fantasies during hors d’oeuvres, role play a prostitute pulling tricks over drinks, avoid films with too many gynecological close-ups and root like rabbits in your daughter’s cheer leading uniform. Sunday morning: whisper sweet nothings over breakfast, shower separately, strap on that twelve inch dildo and go for gold in the verbal sex Olympics. I want to (adverb) (verb) your (adjective) (noun). I want you to (adverb) (verb) my (adjective) (noun). Sunday afternoon: scrutinize every detail from the weekend and offer each other a critique.
HER: You just thrashed around for five minutes and fell asleep.
HIM: That’s because you laid there like a log you fat blimp.
Sounds like university to me.
Anyway, it isn’t difficult to believe this book was written by two women. And two very cautious girls at that. By incorporating contrived ‘testimonials’ from third party reports they conveniently avoid having to write anything from firsthand experience which seems a shame. The clichés roll thick and fast.
‘‘I told him that I frequently fantasized that we’re making love outdoors. When we got back from dinner we had sex on a blanket on the bathroom floor with the heat lamp and pretended that we were outside in the hot sun”
“We gave each other full body massages and did food play. He dripped honey down my body saying ‘not that you need to be any sweeter’"
Oh PUHLEEEEASE! It gets worse.
“I overcame my resistance to oral sex when my lover sent me a steamy note that read: ‘Deep pools of viscous you – I long to go there.’"
Is it not enough that we must endure having our privates referred to as small hairy mammals without bringing glue into the equation? Any man that said that to me while on the job would find himself set upon in a combination of a rolling rugby ruck and a SWAT team manoeuvre until I had him in a grip that would neuter a bison…oops...sorry boys.
“My husband and I watched Jerry Maguire and it got me really aroused. When we were spent he told me I was his Sex Goddess!”
“My wife and I danced to Melissa Etheridge. Soon the action moved to the couch. It was really hot.”
I’m sorry but anyone that recommends watching Jerry Maguire or any other Tom Cruise movie as fodder for getting aroused deserves to be damned in hell with ‘show me the money!’ as their ring tone and poked in the both eyes with Lucifer’s trident. And while we're at it: anyone that recommends listening to Melissa Etheridge deserves a similar fate…only in a more hurty place. Last time I listened, Melissa’s catalogue was wholly based on personal suffering and consuming human flesh. Her lyrics feature drowning in desire, shocking and electrifying someone, tasting sweat, quenching her thirst, feeling the steel of red-hot truth and enduring nights of lust and fire while asking to be stripped and cut by the hand of death until she bleeds in Hell. Not to mention slaps and stings and foul night air. Combine those sentiments with an Ovation guitar (which incidentally, sounds to me like dung beetles being bitch-slapped inside a Tupperware bowl) and her music is taken to a whole new carnivorous level. Yep. That's the kinda gear that makes me frisky.
In the chapter on purchasing sex aids via mail order one man happily reports that his mother-in-law discovered the catalogue and pinched it from the coffee table for her own purposes. Bollocks! I would suggest anyone that needed to read this book to obtain advice about sex would not be inclined to casually swap sex tips with their mother-in-law.
Then there is the predictable chapter on recording the proceedings with the aid of electronics. “If you’re concerned that the videotape or photo may fall into the wrong hands and cause you embarrassment, plan to destroy them at the end of your weekend.” Now assuming this book as been written for married couples and not those partaking in casual rooting (Lermontov I’m looking at you!) do you honestly think your husband is going to want to share this with his mates? Here boys…check out my old lady’s wobbly arse!
Now if I have one serious criticism of this book is that it works on the presumption that women never initiate sex and that one day on the weekend should be declared the Sadie Hawkins Day. This line of thinking has become so ubiquitous that I fear it may just be the root of all the problems between the sexes. It has been my experience in long term relationships that men and women equally make the overtures in the initial stages but after the shine rubs off the relationship, it stagnates as each person waits for the other to make the first move. You can understand why. I love it when a man just ‘has to have me’ and is so confident that rejection isn’t even a concern. I’m certain men feel the same way about women seducing them. So what are we all waiting for uh? I reckon we should all just be really honest and confess that the bloom is off the rose…and that we love the intimacy but want an open relationships and be free to love lots of people. Now how good would that be? I guess some of you might think I'm a dirty filthy hippy. Well tough.
Interestingly enough the best advice I’ve ever read about sex was written by a man. I’ll never forget the day I read that chapter for the first time. I wept. THIS was the kind of sex I was missing out on. I’ve yet to find a partner willing to read it nor find a way of expressing it. You know how reticent the male species can be about accepting advice; especially from a woman. Now apart from being a traffic-cop in bed, how else can you get your man to lift his game? I've tried the encouraging approach. I’d appreciate the advice.