Not Responsible

Courtesy of Britain’s ever-reliable Sun  newspaper, I see the following little activity has made the news:

A MILLIONAIRE businessman who attended Prince Harry’s wedding to Meghan Markle has been charged with sex offences.

Did he prowl the streets at night, grabbing women and violently raping them in alleyways?

The dad-of-four was allegedly inappropriately physical with employees — often young women working as PAs or receptionists.

Oh, that.  Well, let’s leave it to the courts to see if any of this eeevil “#MeToo” stuff actually happened, because I’m more interested in the fact that interest in this case was sparked by his attendance at Ginge and Whinge’s wedding.

Now as little time as I have for the Sussexes, I don’t think they can be held responsible for what their wedding “guests” get up to — and I emphasize the word because I have no doubt that neither the bride nor the groom actually invited Mr. Badfinger to the wedding;  rather, he was invited by their respective social secretaries / courtiers because he was a successful businessman.  In other words, the New Californians had nothing to do with his behavior afterwards.

I can sympathize with them, actually, because I know for a fact that after one of my weddings (shuddup), at least four (and maybe more) of my invited guests engaged in a little group sex at someone’s house after the reception.   And I personally invited all of them, but I certainly cannot be held responsible for their post-festivity fun ‘n games, can I?

I blame the “open bar” for all of it, myself.  I don’t know whether the accused (above) can use the same defense.

Technically Speaking


The Whore Of The Bronx may have a point, for once:

Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (D-NY) on Tuesday declared that “sex work is work”

We need to examine her statement a little.  Let’s postulate that “work” is something you do that you’d rather not do with strangers, for money.

Which sounds like every job I’ve ever had in my entire life.


Everyone including Your Humble Narrator needs a break from the daily grind, especially given recent political events, and we can’t just fill our days with guns, Righteous Shootings and similar stuff.  (Well, we can;  but Man shall not live by guns alone — I read that somewhere, so it must be true.)

Accordingly, today is all about SEX.  If you are at work, or at all prudish, you may want to skip the posts below because they will contain sex themes, raunchy stories and quite possibly nude women.  Actually, there will definitely be nude women. Read more

Misbegotten Youth

A few days back I posted a Righteous Shooting in which a 14-year-old boy was whacked while trying to hijack a car, and it got me thinking:  is 14 the new 21?  Certainly, the law sees it that way on occasion, when the State will try scum like the aforementioned as adults — but it has to be a seriously-violent crime for that to occur.

Of course, it never happens in the case of sex, because while a 14-year-old boy is deemed quite capable of wielding a gun, he is apparently still a weeny likkel child when it comes to his swinging dick — as evidenced in this sad tale:

A mother-of-three accused of having sex with a 14-year-old boy after luring him back to her house has told a court he ‘didn’t tell her he was in Year 9’ and it ‘didn’t occur’ to her that he might be under age.

In her defense, I bet that he didn’t look fourteen:  he probably had 5 o’clock shadow and wasn’t wearing little boys’ clothing either.  (Side note:  one of the problems in the teenage clothing fashion business is that ten-year-olds are encouraged to wear clothes designed for eighteen-year-olds, which doesn’t help.)

Anyway, our lecherous “older woman” (age 32) didn’t just lure this boy back to her place;  she lured two of the little bastards away, but only jumped one of them — showing remarkable restraint for a Woman Of Today.   And I’m sure these “boys” had no idea that Aunty MILFy, rather than giving them tea and biscuits, was really wanting to get stuck into some fresh young meat.  Young boys nowadays can be so naïve, right?  (Especially when hijacking a car or sticking up a 7-11, you bet.)

I’d love to see a picture of this hard-done-by teen boy — not in the kiddie’s sailor suit he’ll be wearing in court, but as he’s normally dressed to hang out with his buddies — but given the law, in which kiddies’ identities may not be revealed in matters of this nature, that’s not going to happen.

No such protection is afforded the accused, of course, and this Mom Of The Year looks pretty much as you might expect:

We older guys always bemoan stories like this, wishing that we had been subjected to such disgusting sexual encounters when we were of that age.  At age 14, I was still pretty immature and naïve when it came to matters of sex — but even I would have pegged this one for a total skank and fled in the opposite direction.

The fact that these two kids didn’t run away screaming should make them at least partially culpable in what followed.

Update:  Looks as though the little shits weren’t the Pore Innocent Lil Boyz they claimed to be, and so SuperMum goes free. But she’s still a skank.


Once upon a time, there was a Danish girl who came upon a great deal of celebrity in that she was a.) Danish, b.) rather pretty and c.) a TV presenter in Britishland.  Time (actually quite a lot of time) passed (details below), and she ended up telling her tale of woe thus:

‘I really squeeze in any bits of special loving I can!’ Ulrika Jonsson, 53, says she is enjoying sex in her 50s MORE than her 30s and describes herself as a ‘sexual creature’

The use of the term “squeeze in” is rather unfortunate, because Our Ulrika has given birth to four children (by four different men, but that’s a story for another time and in any event, she is Danish, after all).  Now, Men Of A Certain Age will know that her reproductive activity is likely to have had consequences whereby her pleasure tunnel most likely resembles New York’s Lincoln Tunnel (if you get my drift), hence the irony behind the “squeezing” part.

Also, the fair-skinned Jonsson has always been something of a sun worshipper, which is fine when you’re a Pretty Young Thing, but as the years pass…

Her outer covering is, to put it mildly, more akin to old leather than skin.  Not that this stops her from compulsive Instagramming, albeit with some truly heroic cosmetic / photographic enhancement:

And there’s more here, if you can stomach it:

I suppose that being famous (after a fashion) and being a woman more or less guarantees that Men Of A Certain Type will always be willing to entertain her, so to speak (cf. the ghastly Madonna for another example).   Had she been just an ordinary unwed mother of four kids by four different men, however, she’d probably be reduced to pulling drunk sailors during Fleet Week by saying, “Come to (or in ) Mommy.”

Speaking for myself, the expression “ten-foot pole” is very appropriate.  Your opinions may vary.


And then you have this prize pair of morons, who insist on giving us (via The Sun ) oretty much a thrust-by-thrust account of their sex life during one of the many lockdowns in the recent past, e.g.:

Day 3: We’ve been at it like rabbits
LISA says: It’s the first week into our second lockdown and tensions are already rising from being cooped up together, but we are both really eager to give this experiment a go.
We stocked up with lockdown supplies – and no, I don’t mean loo roll. We’re being playful with each other, and we’re focusing more on foreplay.
When we’ve disagreed, we’ve had sex. For these few days, we’ve been at it like rabbits. We’re often slinging our gear on to the floor and jumping straight into bed.
During the first lockdown, morning sex was unheard of, but now we’re squeezing that in too.
We really want to take our relationship to the next level, so we have asked each other about our fantasies too.

As if government-imposed home arrest (lockdowns) aren’t enough of a problem, they’ve also given us this kind of nonsense.

If I was cooped up with either of them, the greatest risk would be murder or else suicide.  The fact that they give us their real names is proof, as though any were needed, of their utter shamelessness.  (“Spike van der Merwe” — a South African surname, btw — is way too fucked-up to be fictitious.)

I think that in the interests of justice, every time a politician suggests a lockdown, he or she should be forced to spend the entire lockdown period with one of these two, depending on gender or orientation.  (Lesbianists with Spike, homos with Lisa.)

The lockdown would be measured in hours, not weeks.