Given that the company I work for also employs a healthy quota of battleaxes, women's magazines are in plentiful supply around the building. Personally, I like to read them because there's just not enough information on the weekly goings on of Jordan and Katona in the real world, plus they often include stories about psychic horses or grim tales of incestuous rape. All in the name of menopausal entertainment.
One particular feature of one of these publications is the Sex Advice page, where your shag-related queries are answered by Kiwi uber-fox Tracey Cox. Now, given that this isn't a top-shelf magazine, some of the material covered is a bit near the knuckle. They stop short of saying "frothing at the gash", but details of size, tightness and, yes, wetness have been discussed in a mature and professional manner.
Yesterday I was leafing through their latest epic offering and the following letter was included from a distressed harlot. Almost verbatim, it read:
"My boyfriend recently banged his penis on my thigh during sex and it really hurt him. He says it still hurts when he pees. Did he break his penis?"
Now, give yourself a few seconds to let this information sink in, then consider the following:
1) How do this couple have sex that involves him inadvertently hitting her thigh?
2) Why are they asking a clearly medical question to a sex therapist, not a qualified quack?
3) At what point did the bloke say "I tell you what love, it's still killing. Never mind nipping down to the docs though; grab a pen and paper and we'll write to that bird in your magazine and ask her what we should do."
Not for a minute am I suggesting they make these letters up, but who in their right mind would rely upon the advice of not only someone whose expertise lies elsewhere, but moreover write in to a magazine on the off-chance that their letter is published and they find out what to do? Being a chap myself, I can safely say that, embarrassment aside, if I was in this kind of pain I wouldn't be reaching for my notepad; I'd be off the doctors quicker than you can say "careful, that's my thigh".
What happens if she doesn't answer it? Do they just keep bothering the denizens of middle-aged entertainment? Do they write to Richard and Judy? Paul O'Grady? Loose Women? The mind boggles.
Anyway, I can't stop. I think I'm getting a brain tumour so I need to email Russell Grant. Laters.
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