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September 7, 2009 | by  | in Opinion |
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DIRTY SEX COLUMN PART 1

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Last weekend I decided to make my bathtub into a sailboat and hoon it around in my neighbour’s pool so I could teach them about sex. They already have two children, so I figured they obviously needed to learn a bit about it before they go having any more.

I fixed my tractor wheels and a spare jet engine I had lying around onto my bath, waxed it, nuded myself up and got in, taking with me some light reading in the form of The Oxford English Book of English Books. This would make for some topical, yet racy, in-flight literacy while I jumped the hugely tall fence my neighbour was really stressed and uptight about building a few months back. Unfortunately, I miscalculated the perambulations of the measurements with my protractor and gyrotheodolite, and it turned out that my bath was about three times bigger than their pool. It’s one of those cheap inflatable kiddie paddling pools, and when I jumped my tub off the ramp leaning on the fence, it squashed and burst big holes in their pool, clearly a design fault on behalf of the manufacturer. If you can’t have a nice bath in the pool, what’s the point of having a pool at all? I love taking a good carefree bath in my bath in the pool.

Anyway, I only managed to read halfway through the first copyright symbol of my book; I think next time I will hire a professional flight crew to take care of the lift-off and landing so I can get some good reading in before I get my sex ed on.

I was saddened and disheartened that I wouldn’t be bathing that week, but I consoled myself by asking my neighbour if I could get gyrating on some of his dishes that were really really dirty, and afterwards we could watch a few of the educational sex videos I had out at the time: Womb Raider, In Diana Jones, Spanking Twelve Monkeys, The Director’s Butt and the fantasy-themed Kingdom Cum.

When I got out of the police (People Of Lesser Intelligence Controlling Everyone) cells, I immediately wrote to every publisher in New Zealand to sell the book rights of my harrowing police-fuelled sex scandal. Surely someone would be interested. Eventually I managed to get this Jason dude at uni to let me sell him my ‘dear diary’ entries for Red Bulls and pizza, in a regular weekly installment. I could eat again! But I’m not stopping at Smearylint! Peter Jackson hasn’t got back to me about making the movie (Sex Force Alcatraz) yet, but he’s probably just worried that I’m extra busy with all the sexing.

I decided to write a sex column because that’s all you lot are interested in, really, isn’t it? Of course. It is time for sex. All your sex are belong to us. So all the girls, form a line starting at the Salient office—

No, I’m only joking. Come over to my house. My flatmates are home though, so we might have to go to my neighbour’s.

Actually this column came (not a joke—don’t be rude) about because I have decided that I can simply no longer face talking to my willy anymore. I mean… some of the places that thing has been… yuk. I just don’t think I can look it in the eye anymore. At least not for a while. And it’s hard—I mean difficult—because lately, it refuses to hang its head in shame. Proud and defiant, it haunts me like a genetically modified gherkin (I mean it looks beautiful but I don’t trust where it’s been) and it’s always one step ahead, like a Dalek’s ray gun it juts out in front of me sniffing and squibbling around in dark musty corners, looking for things to eat. It gets me into all sorts of embarrassing situations too. Yuk. Like a ninja it appears out of nowhere, outsmarts me, sometimes it even wees on my hands or my shoes! And last week it did wees while I was in bed! So should I buy a new willy? I suppose I could get one of those plastic ones with all the bumps on it, but they look kind of wierd—

(Pssssst: Hey! Actually the real willy is the one everybody sees… that tall, wacky lanky fella with the fuckin’ four-eyes… keep away from him! He is the willy! Don’t let him corner you at a party or he’ll start ranting, or try to plug his band (www.myspace.com/spacecadaver), or he’ll try to say something really deep and profound but it will be laaaaaaaaammmme. The real me is down here, safe, away in the undies of the tall specky fella. His undies are warm, because he only has one pair he made out of glad wrap and insulation tape, that he never changes. I’m nice and cosy in here, while my host goes out to uni every day; well, a couple of days a week. If you see him and you’re talking, make sure you come down here and hang out with me, I’m way more fun than he is.)

—and that’s how a tree could fly. But sex with me is good. And I should know, I’ve had it. Nah, that’s just a joke, I don’t, I don’t, you know, do… that… Ah, anyway, let me tell you a bit about my sexy work here—In my time writing for Salio magazine, I have written penetrating, insightful journalism regarding life, news, and politics, I have trepidatiously ventured into the darkest depths of the VUWASS and witnessed their out of control spending, I have fought valiantly against Joel’s penis in Mordor and thrown it into the burning lava of Mt Doom, I have burnt reporting officer Rarah Sobson’s house to the ground for insurance money, and I have read the Kama Sutra and learned it’s wicked kinky moves. Well, I looked at the pictures till I felt funny. Then I felt myself—nah that’s a joke, ignore that.

The first cool sex move I learned was a political sex move called The Abraham Lincoln, involving me taping my pubes to my face. Another good one is The Breakup; when you tell your partner you have AIDS. Ken and Barbie Style is when neither of you are allowed to bend at the elbows or knees, or have actual genitals. There is also a move called The Nickelback; in this move all you ever do is just suck. I also have this friend, who reckons that if you watch a porno movie backwards, all the willies look like vacuum cleaners.

I also meditated on finding the love of my life. Apparently, it’s all about persistence! Nag them and nag them until they say yes! If you are like me, you get heaps of rejections for asking the wrong people. I’m a bit sick of all the stupid excuses women make up to say no to me, like “I’m married” or “this is my boyfriend right here in bed with me now get out of our room” or “You know I’m a man, right?” or “Not even if you had a mint condition Generation 1 1984 Optimus Prime with Combat Deck and Roller designed by Hiroyuki Obara and Shoji Kawamori that hadn’t even been taken out of the box once from the original production line”. These excuses are really just copouts I think. No doubt you have heard some of them used before, like when you probably said them at me, and I ran off wailing and gnashing my teeth, off to my neighbour’s hallway for a game of lawn bowls and some go-karting burnouts, then a wee skateboard in the shower.

Guy ‘the sexy sexer’ Armstrong

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