Toilet seat: up or down?

A prominent point of contention in the battle between the sexes is the question of whether the toilet seat should be up or down after use. For my part, I've gone along with a norm that it should be down out of courtesy to the female, not because I think this is reasonable, logical or sensible, but because sour cunts are difficult and distracting to live with, especially if they outnumber you. You could say it was their sheer shrillness and ability to create a poisonous atmosphere that's tended to win that battle. As Hammad Siddiqi points out in his paper, THE SOCIAL NORM OF LEAVING THE TOILET SEAT DOWN: A GAME THEORETIC ANALYSIS, 'if a female finds the toilet seat in a wrong position then she will most probably yell at the male involved. This yelling inflicts a cost on the male.'

"If she cares that much about it, let her have her way," I would tell myself. "It's beneath me. I've got a life," etc.

But how reasonable is it to insist on a single default position for the toilet seat? Why not just leave it where it is and move it to where you want it, when you need it? As Siddiqi argues: 'In this paper, we show conclusively that the social norm of leaving the toilet seat down after use decreases welfare and by doing that we hope to convince the reader that social norms are not always welfare enhancing. Hence, there is a case for scientifically examining social norms and educating the masses about the fallacy of following social norms blindly.' 

I recommend this paper. It really is a good, unbiased read, also concluding as it does, that 'we can complain all we like, but this norm is not likely to go away.'

Even so, it would be fun to find a solution to the problem. I love women, but hate their yelling. As for arguments that men should sit down to piss, that's a norm that's not going away either. We piss standing up because we can. I've taught my sons to piss standing up, because they can, and because they don't have to listen to anyone tell them how to piss...as long as they clean the splashes up afterwards.

It strikes me that an ideal solution would be 'the sprung toilet seat': A spring-loaded or hydraulic contraption would slowly (but irrevocably) return the toilet seat to a default position. That default position would naturally be the upright position, not to favour the male, but out of the physical consideration that holding it down with one's weight incurs no cost (to borrow Hammad Siddiqi's turn of phrase), compared with trying to hold it up while pissing and holding one's cock in the other hand.

If toilet seats were made that way, it would possibly allay much of the petty discussion. Feminists, contending this design as yet another patriarchical conspiracy to discriminate against them and fuck their lives up, could be presented with a toolbox and challenged to disconnect the offending contraption.  

Knight in shining armour? Don't kid yourself...

For a substantial part of my life - and I'm not that young - I have been the sort of man that avoided what I regarded as unnecessary conflicts. I practised monogamy, not because I saw a value in in, but because society and - more to the point - the woman I was fucking at any one time evidently saw a value in it. 

This was the source of a constant dilemma. Monogamy is a norm, and as such, is an expected behaviour. Alternative principles - promiscuity, polyamoury, hedonism - are taboo. You may think and reason that monogamy is for the birds, but if you act according to your own principle, someone's going to feel hurt and betrayed. The dilemma arises because knowingly hurting another person - even if you think it's for the greater good in the end - seems to go against another, equally strong principle. As the emotionally stronger party, is the issue at hand really important enough to warrant hurting the other person, as long as you can choose not to? For me, this reasoning always led to stalemate: In one sense, following my own sexual principle would be the braver, nobler option. In another, it could be seen as self-indulgence, favouring a principle - and a certain gratification - over empathy for the person one was potentially hurting. 

This latter principle, I've since realised, is about self-sacrifice, and is as bogus, misguided and monotheistic as the monogamy principle it supports. Treating others gently, humouring their illusions is all well and good, but losing oneself in the process does no one any favours in the long run. It just perpetuates the same bullshit, generation after generation. It keeps people erroneously equating fidelity with monogamy and using that to justify value judgements against any behaviour that even vaguely threatens the monogamous ideal.

By humouring the woman and her norms, I could be regarded as strong in one sense: I was behaving like a good Christian or Jew, even though I am neither! But in terms of modern principles like self-assertion, individualism and free will, I wasn't being the least bit strong. My excuse is that I was raised to do the former, by virtue of growing up in a western society, whilst the latter needs to be actively learned or chosen. Taboos are indoctrinated: free thought is not. Our culture is saturated with the notion that love (whatever that is) is for two and forever, and that any deviation from this ideal is a negative tendency.       

Let's drop the misguided gallantry. Treat her like an equal. Don't kid yourself you're a knight in shining armour when you're really a sap in a straightjacket. If it makes her a bitch to live with - and the chances are, it will - then leave for the sake of your sanity, if nothing else.   

'Sex addiction' is like 'original sin' on crack

I was tickled to death to read this article by Caspar Walsh in The Guardian this morning. The man calls himself a 'recovering addict of sex addiction' and claims 'evidence of an epidemic' in the form of sex-related diseases, societal problems, marriage breakdowns and family dysfunction. Sex addiction is apparently a disease that no one's taking seriously. We prefer a 'stiff upper lip approach' according to Walsh, and to 'keep calm and carry on' in the face of a problem, which - and get this breaking news sensation -  only gives us a lust for more.

Shocking. It certainly explains how I got so fucked up. I don't quite see where the stiff upper lip comes into it though, I must admit. Nor the keeping calm and carrying on. I'd say the upper lip was distinctly sweaty, and as for calmness....is that another word for 'exhaustion'?

Don't get me wrong. I really want to believe in Walsh's scary daemon, but am not yet convinced that it's anything but a bunch of bogus crap. As bogus crap goes, it is quite amusing though, so I must declare myself grateful to dingbats like Walsh for filling my world with things like this to chuckle out loud about, even in public.

I haven't seen the film Shame, directed by Steve McQueen, which puts this 'extraordinarily important issue' (McQueen 2012) 'on the media map' (Dingbat 2012), but will see it at the first opportunity, as it sounds quite sexy and perhaps promises the prospect of some juicy scenes to jerk off to. Hey, it might even convince me that sex addiction's a real disease.

But don't hold your breath. Walsh's so called evidence isn't worth shit. Marriage breakdown and 'family dysfunction', for example, strike me as evidence that monogamy is a straightjacket we're finally finding our way out of. They're only evidence of something negative if you buy into the old time God-fearing crap about sex being a sin and only blessed in marriage. Conjuring up the idea of sex as an addiction, a disease, a dysfunction, seems to be taking that silly Christian dogma a step further. It's like the concept of 'original sin' on crack cocaine. I wouldn't be surprised if this Walsh wasn't one of those door-to-door salvation salespeople.

As for the pornography argument, I would think that the very fact (I take Dingbat's word for it, that it is a fact) that '$89 per second is spent on porn' was evidence that it's harmless: It's enormously popular and widespread, and we're still here. 'I have yet to meet anyone who puts across a convincing argument for the safe and harmless use of porn,' moans Walsh. Try your own statistic, Dingbat. Of course, in a rational society, the burden of proof is on the other party: If you don't like porn and want it removed, you have to prove it's harmful. Just believing it's harmful, however doggedly or passionately, isn't enough. We don't have to buy into your evangelical agenda, whether it's Christian, feminist or both.

As for Steve McQueen, I guess a lot of water's flown under the bridge since he was jumping barbed wire on a motorcycle. "People saying that there is no such thing as sex addiction is like saying the world is flat," rants McQueen. I would rather think that the idea of sex as sinful and dangerous stems from a time when people really did think the world was flat.

I can't help but wonder whether sex addiction - real or spurious - can't be cured surgically. Sex hating manginas don't absolutely have to suffer inside their evil, sinful, nasty male bodies. Snip! Go on! Mummy would probably be proud of you.

It's hard to be a feminist dyke. Get the Kleenex.

Yesterday, I saw the film 'The Hours' by director Stephen Daldry. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The intention is presumably the latter, as all three female protagonists seem to be doing that all the way through the film: crying and pissing and moaning. And about what? The message seems to be that life sucks, no matter what. It doesn't matter if shit happens or not, whether it's events or non-events shaping these women's existences: it's all fucked up. Boo hoo. I feel sorry for their men. If I'd been Nicole Kidman's husband in it, I'd have just let the frumpy bitch sod off to London, throw herself under a train or whatever. While Julianne Moore's character suffers in silence, which is probably a blessing for everyone, Meryl Streep's is more the atmosphere Hoover type, sucking all the air out of any room she enters, until people just have to escape by putting on a spacesuit, or leaving by the nearest exit, even if it's a fifth storey window.

Then it dawned on me: they're all dykes. The road to fulfillment is the love of another woman. Fair enough: I can see that. And what with the world being so square for the first two - frumpy Kidman in the 1920s and Julianne Moore in the 1950s - they're understandably down in the mouth, having to do the done thing, marry men (yuk), have their children, bake cakes and so forth. As for Meryl Streep in the more permissive 21st century, living with her female lover, well you'd think she'd be happier, but if anything she seems the most miserable of the lot, although it's a close run thing. She's certainly the most vocal with it. What really kills it is the sterile exclusion of any semblance of humour. You could forgive them their interminable misery if only they cracked a joke occasionally.

Don't get me wrong. I really wanted to understand and enjoy this film, respect its premise, but in the end must conclude that it's a crock of feminist bollocks. 'We're all sad. We're all suffering.' Suffer, suffer, suffer... The burden doesn't seem to be hardships, losses, let downs, abuse or anything else remotely legitimate. No. The burden is simply the fact of being a woman. They're victims of biology.

Thank you, Stephen Daldry. You helped me get into the heads of these silly, narcissistic cunts. Next time I meet one, I'll run even faster, wasting even less time than I do now. On second thoughts, perhaps it's a masculist film, after all, the female leads all being so immensely unlikeable. He could have just made it a bit funnier.

Voyeurism and other animals

Let me introduce myself. On second thoughts, who cares?

Right now, I'm doing one of the things I enjoy most: Looking up the skirt of some hapless female TV-presenter in the middle of a leg-crossing routine. Here's a good one of Meredith Vieira, showing us what she's made of about 14 seconds into the clip. Here we get a spectacular glimpse of white panties in a warm, dark tunnel. She's no spring chicken, but the view on video is nothing short of stunning, and who's looking at her face, anyway? It lasts maybe half a second: Blink and you’d have missed it. But to the astute Meredith fan (or even someone who doesn't know or give a fuck whose crotch they're looking at), it’s a moment of what can only be described as delicious torture. This could perhaps illustrate the apparent popularity of the knee-high camera angle amongst TV producers, hoping for a scoop of the kind that inspires sad fucks to make looping, slow motion versions of scenes like these and post them on YouTube for other sad fucks to gaze at and wank to. This is, as you've no doubt gathered, one of my areas of expertise.

Here's another tantalising tease. What she's wearing underneath is anybody's guess. It could be running shorts, if that's not a trick of the light, a fault in my spectacles, or a tear in my eye.

I puzzle over this delicious phenomenon. On the one hand, could she really be this ditsy spinster librarian with a Mensa IQ, totally oblivious of her own sex appeal? This teasing, tantalising display of knickers and thighs could be entirely inadvertent, the – for us voyeurs - happy product of scatterbrained distraction. On the other hand, could this all be a front, concealing a vixen who knows exactly what she’s doing every waking moment, enjoying her underground celebrity amongst the video voyeurs of the net? Is the knee-high camera her own idea? The jury’s still out on this one.

After all this excitement, I have to fuck someone and it might as well be Cindy. I've still got her key, even though it's been a while since I last used it. Barging in is more my style. And two in the morning is, I suppose, barging in, key or not. She's not much for it at first, but I'm not really asking, either. Taking is more my style. And barging in (excuse the pun) at two in the morning and waking her up in this rude way could certainly be called 'taking', although there's a giving aspect here too, I feel. The upshot of it - after lame questions about what I think I'm doing and what time I call this - is a splendid time, had by all.

If the truth be known - and I'm all for letting it be known - I’m no great shakes when it comes to the basic horizontal jogging. Once I even caught a woman looking at her watch over my shoulder whilst I was fucking her, until I tied her arms to the bedposts, curing her boredom and finally getting her hot. You see, I’m not very well endowed, lacking both length and girth, not to mention the motor skills, control and general giving of a shit required to become a true virtuoso. I’m tired and bored by the end of the first movement. But what the dick can’t do, the mouth makes up for, in more ways than one. If it’s not the whispering of deconstructionist fantasies in her ear whilst we do it, then it’s the eating of her, the sucking of her pink frills and strutting clitoris into my mouth. I don’t kid myself: The fact of her wanting me again and again, I put down to the frustration I cause her by stopping at the optimum point, giving her a taste of satisfaction without ever really slaking her thirst. She doesn’t get to take anything for granted. I tease her. I make her beg. I make her earn it. Then I withhold it. Sometimes by design, but more often than not by default. Wearied and bored by the effort, turned off by her panting, almost canine eagerness, her abandonment of any semblance of coolness, I just have to stop. And she can’t suck cock for shit. So I leave her. I can’t tell you how elating this is.