Go Out and Get That Girl!

After my recent racier entries, I have received a substantial number of emails asking for my counsel on matters of the heart and bedroom. Never one to shun his patrons, I am happy to oblige my clueless followers with their hapless advances towards women who are, most likely, beyond the reach of their emasculated libidos.



Dear Nigel,
I totally fancy this girl at work. She's so hot, and I can't stop fantasising about her. I keep imagining all the naughty things I want to do to that hot ass. You should see the rack on this girl. I'm having problems getting her alone, and when we talk, my ability to flirt goes out the window. She has no idea how much I want her and can't stop thinking about her.

Here is what you need to do: stand up and leave the office. Walk around town and allow your eyeballs to absorb the many attractive women walking around. There's something for everybody's taste, even for a T&A sophisticate like you. You're not going to believe this, but a lot of them are available and would be a better match for you than your colleague. Go get them and throw off the beguiling shackles of your workmate. You have succumb to the lure of office familiarity. This has a greater sway over weak men, as it is a sublimation of the deep-seated longing for maternal familiarity. If my proposed remedy fails, you may have to sever the psychological umbilical chord before you sever the office one.


Dear Nigel,
I think I'm in love. I've met a girl through some friends. She's so cute and adorable. She's intelligent, well-spoken, and shares so many interests with me. She's not usually taken in by the things that other idiot girls are, yet she's seeing this complete dickhead. He's just a suit, who works in a bank. He's permanently in a shirt and tie, and he's such a burley jock. I don't see what she sees in him. He doesn't care for her as much as I do.

I see. So, you have laid claim to her in a resentful manner, and you're wondering why she doesn't want you? Have you considered defusing the resentful mine that would go off in a hypothetical relationship, if she acts like an 'idiot girl'? Remember, someone can only fall if you put them on a high pedestal. And what is her mistake? She is attracted to a guy who gives her space, is muscular, and well-dressed. The guy even has a steady job. What on Earth does she see in him? She should yield to your impotent feelings. She should understand the scars inflicted on your heart, when your mother refused to acknowledge your secret wishes to kill your father and usurp his place in her bed. She should allow you to usurp her current lover and weep on her lap.


Dear Nigel,
I'm having trouble scoring women. I've tried everything. When I'm out, I approach them and offer them drinks, but they're too stuck up to accept. And when I try to dance with them, they close ranks. They probably complain about the lack of guys in their life, but then reject them before they even get to know them.

Well, friend, your first mistake was using the word 'score'. By using such awfully trite words you've demarcated yourself as a conversational bore. I believe your generic lines hide your true feelings, as you're afraid to show what really stirs beneath the surface. This would ordinarily be a great tragedy, but I would venture to guess that what lies beneath the surface is as hideous as you believe it to be. You desire to plea with your mother to take you back into her arms and never let go. Unconditional love is what you want; the love you felt long ago, when you sat safely in the bosom of your mother's embrace. I advise you to forsake your usual weekend activities, face your demons, and cry hard tears for the duration of the year. Perhaps then, in 2014, you will emerge a true, warrior man who is prepared to claim a stake in this world.


Dear Nigel,
Girls are such bitches! They say they want a nice guy, but when one comes along, they are either uninterested or treat them like crap. What they really want is a bastard, because they can't be happy, and they just don't want to admit it. It's all such bullshit!

How do I explain this? Allow me to make use of a metaphor. Behold the lion in the Serengeti. Does the lion refer to the lionesses as 'bitches'? If he does, he no longer considers himself nice. When he hunts his prey or looks for a mate, nobody doubts what the outcome will be, such is his prowess. He certainly doesn't smother the other animals with agreeable comments and focussed, super-friendly conversation that feels like a straitjacket which prohibits speaking freely. He doesn't suck the fun out of the conversation in a manner comparable to talking to someone's conservative granny. He either makes the kill or lies collectedly, safe in the knowledge of dauntlessness will. He too emerged from the womb of his mother, but he never longs to return. He enjoys the freedom of the dusty plains, and would never cling to a lioness in an attempt to satisfy a desperate desire to reproduce the conditions of his life in the uterus.   


Dear Nigel,
I'm having difficulty getting my girlfriend to get sexy in the shower. It's a fantasy of mine, but she's not interested. She says that it requires too much 'gymnastics' and we should just do it on the bed. What can I do to convince her?

So, you like a long, hot shower, do you? No wonder she doesn't want you. It's clear that you have a repressed desire to crawl back into the womb, and the safe, comforting heat of a long shower provides the next best thing. When you ask her to join you in the shower, she sees the you for the infant that you are. It is time for you to grow up and cut down on your water consumption via a shower timer or by shutting off the water while you soap up. Maybe then you won't need forty litres of water to get her wet.

One for the T&A sophisticates.

Best Laid Plans

After three weeks of severe lashings, which I got for my 2012 blog failure, I have decide to set more realistic goals for this year. In what should be a blistering twelve months, I intend to live life to the fullest. Here is the provisional list.
 

Not as comfortable as it looks I can tell you.

In 2013, I hope to...
 

    •    Buy lots of Sudocrem for the fresh scars all over my body.
 

    •    Think of a cool Church of Satan name for when I finally join them.
 

    •    Be nicer to my family. I will visit my parents more often, and Skype Ethel at least once a month (provided they don't disown me when I finally join the Church of Satan). Upon joining, I will have to forsake my blog, but will leave it in the hands of my sister, Gwendolyn.

   •    Starve my body into handing over the six-pack abs I so richly deserve. Already, I've embarked on a radical diet, that consists mostly of green vegetables, protein shakes, and black tea.
    

•  I'm going to spend time absorbing a gargantuan amount of classical literature and philosophy. Partially from books, mostly from Facebook cover pictures.
 

    •    Assimilate so many texts that I speak only in literary references (with a smug look on my face that somehow spells out 'Punch Me'). Detractors will say of the breadth of my literary knowledge that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy. I do not expect them to understand immediately, as no man is a prophet in his own country. Hopefully, they will come to see that I only quote others in order to better express myself.
 

    •    Do something that scares me every day. As my fear will surely wane after countless days of terrifying deeds, this will quickly escalate into acts of daredevil foolishness, and I may well earn the Darwin Award.
 

    •    Live each day as though it's my last. I'm not entirely sure where I'll get the money for all the heroin, decadent food, alcohol, and prostitutes, especially considering I will have to quit my job (who would go to work on their last day on Earth?). I may have to settle for living every second or third day as if it was my last.
 

    •    Have sex with a man. Probably on one of the days I don't live life like it's my last day on Earth, as I'm not that pushed about the whole idea. I really just want to do it to say I did it, so people will grow to a greater understanding of how interesting I am.
 

    •    Find out who sent me that picture of a baby with a letter telling me it was mine. Again, my days of investigation will have to be on the days I won't be living my life like it's my last, and it will have to be at a time when I'm not working, doing sit-ups, reading the classics, flirting with guys, or putting my life needlessly in mortal danger.
 

    •    Tell my loved ones that I love them. There's no need for an occasion; I'll just pick up the phone, call them, and let them know. Some may grow to believe I have developed a deep, suicidal depression with all the calls, my emaciated body, evenings spent indoors with books, and risks I take with my life, but that's the whole point; love is pasting yourself to another individual, regardless of the cost, in the hope of experiencing new forms of misery (or so I read on a Facebook cover photo, I think.)
 

    •    Post Instagram pictures of my food on Facebook. I think everyone will get something valuable from the countless faded pictures of raw broccoli, protein shakes, and celery.
 

    •    Write fifty blog articles (with some help!).

With any luck, I won't have to do this again.

My Family Heirloom

Amid a dusty pile of parchments on my old, oak shelves, I found a piece of paper that is among my dearest possessions. It was given to me by my late grandfather, Walter Fairflower, on the day of my birth. My parents were not as impressed as I have become with the present, as they felt that Granddad was taking advantage of the situation to promote another one of his 'whacky projects' in a setting where his family would have to accept it. Upon my entry to this world, the eccentric old man dedicated a zodiac of his own creation to me. The Fairflorian Calendar encapsulates the great feelings of bacchanalian power and victory in this world. Those feelings possessed only by those who grab life by the throat and throttle it until it gives them what they want. This parchment has most certainly helped shape my character, making me the warrior poet that I am. And so, I present to you my family heirloom. Fairflorian was my ancestors' surname for centuries, but changed under unclear circumstances in the early twentieth century. The calendar begins on the 8 April — my birthday — and runs in a twenty year cycle. We are currently in the year of the 'shooting down a helicopter with a hand gun' for those of you with lazy or incompetent minds.  

The Fairflorian Calendar

1983 - Year of the lion in the Serengeti
1984 - Year of the cowboy on the lonesome trial
1985 - Year of the soldier surviving in the jungle
1986 - Year of the warrior on the bloody battlefield
1987 - Year of the Viking pillaging the village
1988 - Year of the Geisha who is actually a deadly assassin
1989 - Year of the stealthy infiltration of the fortress
1990 - Year of the one-in-a-million shot
1991 - Year of the wild man on the moor
1992 - Year of the shooting down a helicopter with a handgun
1993 - Year of the jumping out an exploding building
1994 - Year of the poker-faced seduction
1995 - Year of the ordinary Joe just tryin' to get by in this world
1996 - Year of the sexy Native American warrior princess
1997 - Year of the sensei who uses an unconventional teaching method
1998 - Year of the drop-kicking your enemy off a cliff
1999 - Year of the powerful Amazon warrior
2000 - Year of the lightening-quick gun-slinger
2001 - Year of the all-in Royal Flush
2002 - Year of the pirates on the high seas

Sexy Native American warrior princess

So Last Year...

The following extracts come from the love scene in my upcoming novel, The Untarnished Beauty of the Unbridled Soul. My prospective publisher, who is a libidinous member of the Church of Satan, has suggested I insert a lengthy sex scene, as the libido is "the ultimate driving force of the world." Here are some samples of the racy, sixteen-paged scene. Rapshaldeo has revealed himself to the 'girl of his dreams', Miranda. She is so overawed by his radiant beauty that she falls immediately in love with him. Making love becomes imperative.

P.176
Waltzing in a shuffle of heavy breathing and chapping lips, the new-born lovers stumble through the fine oak doors of Rapshaldeo's bedroom. Halting momentarily, Rapshaldeo pulls her curved figure close, as their tongues playfully become acquainted. He courses his hand through her soft auburn hair, before forcefully tugging it back. He purveys the elegant contours of her neck, delineated by her taut, translucent skin. Planting kisses beneath her jawline, he seeks out sensitive spots with finesse. His masterful hands find the zip on the back of her tightly fitted dress, and he begins to unwrap her. Drawing the dress down her smooth shoulders, she purrs, basking in the fulfilment of her desire to be naked in front of him. Her dress slinks to the floor. Rapshaldeo pauses for a moment to admire her body — her pert, voluptuous breasts, wanting to escape her brassiere; her sleek stomach; the frilled panties packed tightly between her legs; her firm, smooth thighs that part all the way up; her calves, raised into sculpted form by her stilettoed heels. He pulls her near again, sampling her back with his hands. Miranda runs her hands through his fine locks of hair and strokes his neck, which she then proceeds to sample with her soft pink lips. She draws in his masculine smell and urgent sensations pulsate through her body. Pushing him back, she steps effortlessly out of her dress. The polyester material sits as stylishly on the ground as it did on her curved figure. The bright blue colour of the material attracted the eye of Rapshaldeo, though that was only one of the reasons she bought it. She was particularly impressed by the blocked 20s style when she saw it in a window display. The structured fabric and contrasting black at the lines of the dress work well with the blocked piping and panel detail. The sheer-mesh panel at the top of the dress enabled Miranda to show the breast above her bustline, without revealing too much. The high-low hem displayed her much vaunted legs, while allowing her the look of a full skirt. The smart yet glamourous style of the dress could be worn on a great variety of occasions, and the durable, polyester material means it can be machine washed. It suited Miranda perfectly, as it satisfied her busy lifestyle and her wish to maintain some glamour in her life. The fabric was a little uncomfortable at first, but it soon yielded to her body form. It was difficult for her, as it is for many women, to find a perfectly fitting dress, without getting one tailor made, so the initial discomfort seemed trivial to her.

P.184
Now free from the bondage of his tight jeans, his onyx elastic boxers are the only thing restraining his erection. Miranda's eyes peer downwards desirously at his excitement, invoking feelings of sexual longing in both of them. He pulls her in once more, and makes his way down, sampling her breasts, her sides, and her sleek, tight stomach. On his knees, in awe of her divine form, he slowly unveils her feminine centre. The elastic snaps a little, before her lace underwear glides down her leg in a staccato fashion. His eyes are set alight by the aesthetic of a perfectly formed yoni, compact and perfectly framed by shaped pubic hair. He is primordially aroused by the scent of her moistened centre, and he cannot but taste it. Miranda releases a near-silent scream, and she rocks a little on her heels. She pulls at his hair, falling deeper and deeper into uncontrollable pleasure, before barely gaining control once more. She indicates with her shivering touch that she wants him to arise from his worship, and without word or gesture, tells him to sit down on the bed. She sits astride him on the fine silk sheets, rocking against Rapshaldeo's upright body. Clad only in her heels now, she allows his mouth carnal knowledge of her delectable body. He devours her breasts with his lips, teeth, and tongue. She tosses her head back involuntarily, releasing an achy moan from deep within. She gauges his chest with her fingertips and pushes him onto his back. She admires the chiseled contours of his torso. Her moist fingertips stroke over his hard pecs, circling the areolas of his nipples. Her hands glide downwards and find his perfectly formed abdominals. Rapshaldeo's perfectly formed six-pack, buoys up and down, his breath heavy in the awe of being under her. Six small mountains make up the magnificent range of his stomach, framed by tight obliques which carve contours leading into his pubis. The top two protrude just beneath his chest. They are, paradoxically, both asymmetrical and aesthetically perfect. Oblong in shape, they point diagonally upwards. The middle two are similarly shaped and are slightly more askew. The bottom two are shaped like lamb chops and fade at the bottom, as they approach the threshold of his pants. The recent visit to the waxing salon has left them completely smooth. Rapshaldeo's careful moisturising for days after the waxing ensured the skin stayed unblemished. His careful application of sunscreen over his sculpted stomach ensured it would tan to a feint bronze, when grilled under the Mediterranean sun of his last holiday. He built them over the years, dedicating much time to their maintenance. Usually doing his stomach exercises first in his workout, he starts with one of many full abdominal exercises, before progressing on to isolation movements for the upper abs, the lower ones, and then the obliques. He never employs too much weight  or too many reps while doing the obliques, as he fears making his waist wider.  he finishes the exercises with an isometric exercise, known as 'the plank', where rests on arms and toes keeping his body straight. 

P.192
His erection thunders into her once more. Her knees collapse with devastating eruption of her second orgasm. Shuddering, she falls forward, Rapshaldeo staying with her. He lies on top of her, and holds her wrists down, mercilessly grinding on top of her. His mouth at her ear, he asks her how much she can take, and she tells him not to stop. He obliges until she soaks the silken sheets for the third time. He rolls off her perspiring body, and they sigh in unison. Both electric with the moist afterglow of their powerful interlocking, they soon gravitate towards each other again. They stroke each other's moistened skin, and their lips chap playfully. Rapshaldeo pulls Miranda into his strong embrace. Their bodies glide against each other and get entangled. Miranda asserts her authority and pushes Rapshaldeo onto his back. She quickly rolls over and lunges on top of him, assuming the position to finish him off. But she sits awkwardly on his super-erect penis, and it snaps. Within a minute it is three times the normal length and girth, due to internal bleeding. He screams for a solid two minutes. By the time the ambulance arrives, his face is stinging from the buckets of tears he has cried. After five hours in the accident and emergency department, Miranda arrives home. Her feet are aching, as she has had her high-heels on the whole time.