Our girl Biddy B- aka the magnificent photographer, filmmaker and wit James Bidgood – is back this week to tackle two problems, one of etiquette and the other of sexual appetites. Have a problem that needs a-solvin’? Send it in to firstname.lastname@example.org and we’ll get you an answer!
During a recent excursion to avoid the perils of hurricane Irene, I stumbled upon an instance of disastrous host/guest etiquette. This rainsoaked affair involved a small cluster of early-20s blond girls who invited my friend and I (both gay men) to seek shelter in their “food and booze stocked” abode. We entered baring gifts, as any gracious guest would, and proceeded to construct a veritable cornucopia of food upon their table. They asked us to tape their windows for them, as their short arms prohibited them from doing, what they intoned, was a man’s job. Back in the kitchen, they stared quietly out at us, as they nibbled hungrily on the food that we had supplied. They proceeded to prepare a lavish meal and then as I watched in silent horror sat at the table before us and slowly ate without once offering us either food or beverage. After their meal had been consumed, our main host related, “I have a bottle of wine that’s been open in the fridge for a few days, now. I’m not sure if it’s any good.” I naturally passed. I am from the south, as was our blond host and I was fundamentally flummoxed by such behavior. —–(edited) —–Do I need to keep better company? Is old fashioned etiquette dead? Or does it just go home to Paris for the spring? Well, I am not.
Faithfully yours, Bradford
Well, Dahling, it would be equally cheeky of me to impugn any person or persons level of intelligence. Lord knows I myself am by no meter’s measure the brightest bulb in the chandelier and you convey the impression of being a very well educated fellow, although perhaps a mite loquacious. However, Dahling, I can not help but wonder —can you spell c.u.n.t.?
And here is a second inquiry I received—-
I think I’m a sex addict. I don’t think I’m a whore, but I’ve been getting laid a lot lately. By a lot, I’m talking more than 7 times a week. I’ve had several affairs, fuck buds over the past year and I’m beginning to think I’m overdoing it. Do you think several fuck buddies is, umm, six too many? How much sex is too much sex?
Thanks, Mr. Overdoing It
Dear Mister Doing It Over Whatever,
Well, Dahling, sex to my mind is no different than participating in a team sport such as football, which you may be staggered to learn is currently referred to in some circles as “hand melon,” although I can tell you that the adoption of this designation has caused no small amount of controversy! I have never been overly impressed with athletics, what with all those dreadful sports injuries and what have you. Why only just this moment I recalled how a rather preoccupied and inelastic gay friend of mine broke her ankle when her Lorenzi missed the curb in a drag race recently. Poor dear, she will have no part of anyone or thing Italian again, not so much as a Guinea goofer’s cannoli, Dahling! So sad, really.
I find it difficult to grasp why so many macho men seem to exist only for scoring a lot, turning over, dribbling, wet, tight ends and shooting inside! Goodness gracious Dahling, I may have just described what motivates most every friend I have!
Interestingly enough four-letter men and sportsmen share much of the same vocabulary. Did I mention dish and elite camp? I know I omitted high hard ones, riding pine, penetrating, open receivers and I mustn’t overlook cut man, stuffed and right down the pipe! Have I wandered again?
Fisticuffs or fisting, laps around the track or laps around the track, all such pursuits of course call for precautionary measures. However slipping into a fitted glove of ecru latex or the pulling on of what is often mistaken by wee ones for a beige balloon seems hardly worth the mentioning contrasted with the safeguards one is required to don before participating in more competitive pastimes. Consider for instance those oppressive and inelegant shoulder paddings! Although I must admit, shoulder pads were delicious fun in the Forties. And then there are those sharp cleats on the spiked shoes they wear and helmets. Well, I can’t really fault the spiked shoes and I used to adore helmets! They were all the rage in my youth. In recent years we seem more drawn to the blind.
You spoke of, I believe the number was seven, seven times in seven days. That’s one a day, similar to the vitamin which would appear to indicate we are started on a positive footing! I am very good with numbers Dahling but my math sucks! I have nevertheless estimated having had sex (and mind you this is only the ball park figure) with one thousand and five hundred and seventy four men and boys and perhaps, one goat.
One rarely encounters a goat and a horny one at that especially while attending a “by invitation only “ orgy even when convened in a Jersey sissies basement rumpus room! I would have brought an empty tin can or two had I been notified. Although it might well have been a plushy before I was aware there was such a species! I do recall thinking that for a goat it had a very unusual figure, however not being all that conversant with the physical characteristics of the Capra aegagrus hircus, I accepted the creature, I would prefer to say at face value but I am afraid it was the other way round.
Oh, dear, I’ve unintentionally excluded squeeze the hole, slobber-knockers, flashing some leather, and served a facial! Somewhat suggestive wouldn’t you agree? Where was I?
Yes of course— fifteen hundred and seventy four, which may well seem excessive or boasting but I began at five or six, my age not the number of those first recruited, Dahling, and it was after all over a period of some seventy odd years, very odd indeed, through repressive times and all sort of liberations. Suddenly it seemed we were almost legal Dahling which I am not sure made or makes any significant difference. If you can —-you want to—- if you can’t —–you want to even more and so the numbers equal out somehow.
Perhaps I should point out that this total not only takes into account those with whom I was at least to some small degree, acquainted. A great percentage of this accumulation were nameless and a significant number faceless and pretty much everything else less! In the hedonistic and quite heavenly nineteen seventies “ the Mineshafts” and “the Toilets” and such were heavily attended and in the total darkness of those foggy backrooms, at least I think it was fog, we were like a sea of slurping Helen Kellers! Touch was our only clue. I shudder now at the very thought.
Speaking of touch, Dahling, what about nasty split, ball handler, swinging from the heels, banging the board or bored whichever the case may be?
Indeed as I grow more ancient I often find myself wondering why, I or anyone would want to place their face in such close proximity to those nether regions or to assume the graceless and most unbecoming poses one must achieve whilst copulating. It is possible to maintain more of ones dignity perched tentatively on the seat of a commode than flat on ones back panting like a ravenous canine, holding ones ankles above and behind ones ears. Whatever, Dahling, these reconsiderations have occurred to me in only recent years. I have however always been repulsed and can not breath at the very thought of a mans cigar or worse even Limburger Cheese.
I will close with this, waste no more time writing inquiries to the likes of me. If, whenever and as often as you find someone you are attracted to and they are equally taken with you, by all means accept and rejoice in one of the greatnesses most splendid gifts and count yourselves very blessed. The greatness Dahing will surely be pleased and even proud you so enjoyed your present.
I have to do this—toe poking, in the hole, the back door, goose and go!
Well I believe the above fills up my space —–therefore until next time thank you so very much for listening —-to Biddy B.