This was initially written as a long email, and was prompted by a joke posted in an ng which ended with the not particularly elevated punchline:

"I've never been with a woman." he says, "but if it's anything like screwing a kangaroo... I'm gonna need all the room I can get!"

Aha. He must have been talking about an Aussie, n’est ce pas? (wry grin)

(Tis common knowledge that the third phrase most commonly used by Australian women (after `Got a headache` and `Its’ that time of the month` is `Take your bloody boots off!`)

But in fact I have no fully developed idea why it is that Australian men have the reputation which they do for being so ultra ocker and wombatish about sex. (The wombat, for the non cognoscenti, is a large furry Australian mammal that eats, roots and leaves…) Yes, well.

It has much to do probably with the early days of settlement. Stockmen stuck out there in the bush for years – no woman around for miles. Apparently they made do with what was available – the Australian vernacular might give you a hint as to what this was: a woman whom an Australian male doesn’t respect is commonly termed `a dog`… Yes,well.

(By the way, this does give rise to some irony, does it not, when you think of the huge fund of Kiwis and sheep jokes that proliferate around Australia?)

Your Aussie man? A wombat? But they’re such prudes! Still, they do have the wombat reputation. Take this one:

Quite as signally repulsive as P's little gem for the day. :)

Frenchman, Italian and Australian in a bar. Somehow they get talking about sex.

`Aaah,` says Pierre. `When I make lo-ove to my meestress,` (he says it very intimately you know - lingering over it - vivid pictures in his mind) `I take eet ve-rrry slo-owly. I 'ave a bottle of ze finest cognac.

`And she rises six eenches off the bed.` He smirks and looks at the others in challenge - beat that!

Italian is scathing. `That isa nothing! A kiss? Licking her breasts?`

His turn to smirk. `You Frenchmen have no imaginaiiiition.When I maika lova to my woman I av de besta bottle of Galliano. I taika my time.`

Rolls his eyes. `Breasts? Yes. And slo-owly. A gooda third of the bottle. Just on her breastsa you understanda.` Pierre understands. Nods. Australian bloke's looking bemused. `And then. Then I move ona down. Downa you understand.` Yes, Pierre certainly understands. Australian clearly has no idea what he's talking about. (vbg)

`Ah, and then when I getta to her sweeta little muff - then. Aaah...` His eyes are narrowed. Pierre's eyes are narrowed. Both of them licking their lips.

`Ah, there I linger. Re-eally linger. All of the rest of the bottle. And I tell you my friend she rises a foot offa da bed.`

One becomes rather embarrassed about discussing Bruce's response to all this. I suppose, in one sense, one might say it was elevated, but. Yes, well... Bruce? `Don't know what you're talking about mate. When I fuck the old missis, that's it. Still, I suppose, when I wipe me dick on the curtains she rises off the bed all right. She hits the bloody roof.`

Tis a classic. Every Australian has heard it. But whence does it spring? This imagery of the Aust wombat. It simply bears no relationship to reality. Most Australian men deep in their psyches have a mother complex. Mothers are very strong in Australia. They rule the roost all right: father comes home on Thursday night and hands over the pay packet. If she's a nice wife she'll give him back $7.00 pocket money for the week. (To cover morning and afternoon tea at work - the iced bun, you know.)

But she's a fairly unimaginative type, the average Aussie mum. She might be overweight, but you'll find there's nothing very flowing over about her imagination. Or her morals. Tight they are. Very tight. So the cumulative result is that, by the time her average Aussie son has hit the twenties, he's pretty uptight too.

Where was I? Yes, a few years ago I was hugely entertained by reading Graham Green's autobiography. Seems he wasn't a very pleasant little boy. He and his younger sister grew up in a house filled with elderly great aunts and an even more elderly great uncle. Decrepit he was. The autobiography opened with Greene discussing this poor old tyke. Seems they were all waiting for him to kark it, but he kept hanging on. Had double pneumonia. They thought he'd had it then. But no. He recovered. Then one day the young Graham and his sister took the old boy for a walk - pushing his bathchair. They were at the top of a very steep hill and it seems Graham thought it would be a great lark to let go. Kids watched this poor 94 year old uncle hurtling down the hill in the wheelchair. Still he didn't die. As if that wasn't enough, then apparently somehow he also fell out of a moving train. Got over that too. Would nothing make him die?

According to Greene, however, they knew the end was come the day a couple of the old aunts took the old boy upstairs to get him ready for bed. Took off one of his socks and his big toe came away with it. At last.

The point of this grotty, I think hilarious, little tale? I'm getting there. I do be getting there.

Well, this made me laugh so much I thought the rest of the book couldn't possibly live up to it and, hating anti-whatsits, I put it down. Decided it was time to clean out the hall cupboard. I was in the early days of de-factoing then. Didn't know that my significant other was fixated on smutty magazines. Softish porn - Playboy, Penthouse. You know the sort of thing. Some harder… I hope you don’t know the sort of thing. (wry grin) Entranced with the former, I emptied this huge cardboard box and had a highly educative time flicking through the contents.

Twas the letters that really grabbed my attention. Extraordinary imaginations some of these people have! I digress. In the middle was a tiny little magazine - in fact with pretensions to being among the `journal` class - called Australian Women's Forum. Browsed through and, yes, yummy, there were letters to an editor. The editor being a bird who fancied herself as something of a `sexpert.`

Sad little letter in it. From a very nice sounding Australian man. Been married for thirteen years. Said he was very happily married really. Loved his wife. She was a nice wife. A good wife. Only problem was, she didn't approve of oral sex. And he didn't know why this was so, but his problem was that he'd become fixated about it. He simply yearned to have his wife lap him up. What could he do? He couldn't bear to think his marriage could end up in trouble because of something so dismally petty and self-centred, but the fact was that he was utterly obsessed, couldn't put it behind him. What did Bettina Arndt think? Was he selfish? Was he unreasonable? Was he, heaven forbid, disgusting? Was this an outrageous request? What should he do?

Still, sad fact remained. You couldn't force someone to do something that, to her, seemed offensive and disgusting. That would be disastrous. All sex should be voluntary and consenting.

But wait. All is not lost. If his wife couldn't bring herself to do it, there was another alternative. Did he know that, if he could just get his wife to suck his big toe, it would feel almost as good as the real thing.

Jena's eyes widened. His big toe? All I could see now was Graham Greene's uncle's big toe, coming off with his sock. Pity really - the conjunction. Perhaps if I'd read the book a month before. Or even maybe a fortnight? But I hadn't. The juxtaposition was too strong.

Suck a man's toe? Ugh! UUUUGGGH! My God. Could you imagine having the choice of the genuine article or a big cheesy, smelly toe? Good Lord. Was there a woman alive who would actually opt for his toe? Couldn't stop laughing about it on and off - and also occasionally feeling slightly green about the gills at the thought of getting stuck into a toe. I was haunted by images of the sock, you see. Every time I thought about it the only image I had was that of this very big toe ending up isolated in my mouth - the rest of whoever it was miles away. Long gone. (vbg)

But I made a huge mistake. Significant other came home. I thought the whole thing was hugely diverting. Told him. I must have had rocks in my head. I actually told him about it. I thought it was funny. At first I missed the little gleam in his eye. As the gleam grew, it gradually dawned on me. Eyes widened, and quickly I tried to recoup - you know. Retrieve the situation.

Where was I? Oh yes. Didn't work. Prattled away nineteen to the dozen all through dinner, trying to distract him. That gleam hadn't gone. I knew it was still there. And growing. Finally, over the port, exhausted from all the prattling, I knew it was time to call a spade a bloody shovel.

`Forget it,` said I. `Not in a million years. No way. I'm not into toes.` Especially if they were about to turn gangrenous! Let's face it.

How is one to know?

`Come on, Jena,` said he. He smiled ingratiatingly. Poured me another port. It wasn't going to work. Nothing was going to work. This one comes from British Bulldog stock - fighting them on the beaches and on the sands. If the Great Toe Brigade was going to last a thousand years, Jena was obdurate. Jena wasn't budging: no big toes.

So this part of the story ended as it always ended. With him delivering one of his profoundly erudite two hour dissertations - this time on biochemistry - you know the sort of thing. The qualitative differences between the secretions to be found on a big toe and those that lurked higher up. Jena all the while swigging more and more port and not taking a blind bit of notice. Stalemate.

But this one was worse than usual. It wasn't just the last thing he was talking about before we fell asleep. It was also the first thing he started going on about when we woke up. Now this sort of thing can be very threatening. Really it can. By the time I got to work I was depressed. You know - I'm a fairly empathetic sort of creature. I like the people around me to be happy. I'll usually go to considerable lengths - well, reasonable lengths - to attain that end.

My signficant other was miserable. My significant other was not only miserable he'd also joined the ranks of the sexually frustrated. God! It didn't bear thinking about. Very threatening it was. A sexually frustrated significant other? I could just see it: spending the rest of my life continually looking over my shoulder – sussing out the competition. Birds with Dietrich legs swinging their pathway to heaven. Birds with silicone boobs up around their throats. Available birds with silicone... you get the message I'm sure.

No. No way. A sexually frustrated significant other - a loose canon just looking for a target - wasn't on.

But what to do about it? I wasn't sucking his big toe. No way Jose. I was never going to suck anyone's big toe. Revolting. I was so knotted up about it by the time I got to work that Barbara, the office secretary, picked it up instantly. `What's wrong?`

Barbara: 50; married five times. Filthy language. Her vernacular could turn the air blue. My image of Barbara was someone who'd really been round the block and was as broad minded as they come. So I spilled it all out to Barbara. She'd understand. She'd know instantly why I didn't want to spend the rest of my life sucking big toes of all things.

Finished the story. `Well, really Barbara. Wouldn't any woman feel the same? Let's face it, if you had the choice of sucking a man's big toe or his old fellow, there really isn't any choice is there? Who'd want a mouthful of toe for God's sake. Yuck.`

Only then did it dawn on me what sort of expression was fixed on her face. She was looking at me as though I'd just crawled out of the nearest sewer and would I please slink back down there - stat.

Gathered herself to her full height. Bosom inflated. Outrage personnified. `I wouldn't do either. This is the filthiest ,most disgusting-` the perversion of it all was too much for her. She stalked off as far as the outer door, bottom bristling.

Unfortunately, the professor was coming out of his office just as she trailed off.

`What's going on?`

Steam coming out of her nostrils. `I'm not going to work in this sort of environment. It's disgusting!` Stormed off for a moment but was almost instantly back. `Either she goes or I do!`

The `she` in question was in shock. This woman, this mouth with the most - five times around the block - was actually blowing her stack in outrage because of what I'd said?

Asked to explain herself, she wouldn't other than to say it was `filthy.` At which point she really did leave. Leaving me to explain to the good Professor. Who blushed. He did. He blushed. (Told you they were prudes.) Muttered something and retreated to his office.

What I hadn't realised was that one of the Readers (in US terms an Associate Professor) was in the adjoining room and had heard all of this. Came out five minutes later and hovered. I smiled politely, `Yes, Rick?`

He handed me a copy of the Sydney Morning Herald. This, you should understand, is not a little tabloid. It's supposed to be a reputable, respectable newspaper for those who like to consider themselves informed. Rick, also looking decidedly self-conscious, pointed to a small gossip column written by a typical Sydney journalist who fancied himself as something of a social satirist.

`The Australian Man and the Bush Ethic` it was entitled. I read on. Cunnilingus. This, we are told, is like tending sheep: tis dark and lonely work. But someone's got to do it...`

I blinked - looked again. In the SMH? Written by an Australian man? Published in the SMH for the whole of the State’s world to read? I thought of the blushing Prof, the outraged Barbara and decided the whole thing was simply beyond me.

Moral of this long, rambling tale? I have no idea. Australian men? Can't work them out myself. Perhaps if they ever manage it, I might too.

BTW - I was assured by an Australian (female) friend that all is not completely lost. Those who yearn, and seemingly to no avail, for `where the pleasant fountains lie`can turn to America. (But of course. vbg)

Quote:

So utterly decadent. I can't believe the things you can buy these days.

(BTW, if anyone's interested, the address for purchase is in the Mar/Apr

I have the impression that most of you understand the knack of the longevity partnering stakes in a way that I never did. But if any of you out there are not part of this wonderful and mysterious paradigm and perhaps, sparked off by Valda A.'s article in the last Newsletter, are secretly speculating on the intriguing possibilities of her admonitions in relation to vibrators (the importance of realism - if you've never had an orgasm go out and buy one). Perhaps even thinking now is the hour...

1) Are you, for example, one of those unfortunates who belong in the addictive personality group? Take Maria, my bubbly, Mexican friend. She's quite mad - bordering on manic depressive I think. But a honey. I love her. Now look, Maria is housebound! AND she hasn't left the country since she bought hers. Because all though as a rule she seems to me to be quite impervious to the normal codes of social conduct, she isn't quite as thick-skinned about atmosphere as the rest of us sometimes think her. She has a thing about the customs check - you know - when you have to go through that screen and all the contents of your bags are displayed in all their glory.

She keeps getting letters from her poor mama in Mexico City asking plaintively if she's ever going to come home and see them. Five years! But Maria's not enamoured of the po-faced goons who stand there watching the screen.

I told her to stuff them, but she screamed, `Oh Jena, I couldn't bear it!` There she is, in my kitchen, waving her arms around in the air (Latin temperament, our Maria).

`What if they told me to open my case and they held it up for all the bloody world to see and asked me what the f...... thing was?` I smiled gently and suggested she could just tell them that that was exactly what it was.

`OOoooh. I'd die!`

Dying's a bit extreme isn't it? (So what's new? Everything about Maria's extreme!)

We're all still racking our brains to figure out a way she could get round this. Any ideas anyone? Because only one thing's certain. She won't go anywhere without it.

Any of you got any nice, empathetic handyman husbands who'd be prepared to make her some sort of fake attachment she could stick on the end to make it look like a hairdryer?

But according to Ali that had nothing on the deep heat. If only she'd read the instructions. She was sort of crawling around like a crab for the best part of a week afterwards. It hurt just looking at her!

Now I'm feeling bad. If you're all wincing, your thighs clenching in sympathy, she's ok now. It was a while ago. And you don't want to worry too much about Ali. She's always been accident prone. She's the one who, in the old days when we were sharing a house and she'd first met her first husband, she came down one morning not being able to talk properly.

When we asked what was wrong, her cheeks flamed.

After she'd gone, Mike told us he thought she'd sprained a ligament in her tongue... Yes, well. We were about to ask - but, looking like the cat that had got at the cream - he told us, with a beautifully lucky look, not to.

3) But I digress. Vibrators. Take me. Now, if my experience isn't enough to deter you, then friend you are a natural. Go out and buy one.

I decided some years ago that lerv was no longer for me. In the sheets between hard covers, certainly. But in the bed? Forget it. I'm not a man hater. I love them. I like them too. I just somehow don't have that knack of sorting out the good ones from the screwballs. It sadly took me far too long to accept this, but finally I worked out that, for me, men are just like weekends in Paris, Nuits St George 52 and slinky little numbers from Carla Zampatti. All very nice, yes. But they cost too bloody much.

So, men were out and I discovered that life on an emotional Hay Plain was very, very good. But I did also decide in the end that all my friends couldn't be wrong. And they assured me that, no, I didn't need to sneak looks over my shoulder before slinking into one of those sleazy little sex shops in Fyshwick. I could sail gaily into any major department store, go into the electrical department and ask for a massager. Just like that. Easy as that.

Right. Only problem was I was a bit self-conscious about it all - made me nervous - and I forgot about the massager and asked the woman behind the counter if she had any vibrators. Sort of subliminal, Freudian slip. Look, I can't remember the last time I blushed. I'm too old for it. But I did then. Painfully. Excruciatingly. Because of all the women in the world I could have hit on I'd chosen the Acting President of the CWA. A sort of plump Iron Lady with brown rollered curls instead of blue, and a tight mouth.   Very tight. Getting tighter all the time.

`*NO* Modom.`

The look said it all. Modom felt sick, shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, swallowed, tried to smile.

`We do have MASSagers.`

I stopped feeling embarrassed, decided I hated her, positively loathed the horrible cow and had a marvellous hour after that making her get out every brand, undo the boxes, show me all the attachments. Breville I'd recommend. Every time. It has one sweet, innocuous looking, coy little attachment called `special`. Breville was the last one she pulled out.

SPE-Ecial... My toes curled just thinking about it. I beamed at the Iron Lady and pounced on the attachment, said very coolly, `Oh I think this is the one I want.` Gave her a hopefully lucky look. I was actually aiming for salacious... `I really couldn't say, MODom.`

Cow.

Well, if that little encounter was the only cost incurred, apart from the initial purchase price, I suppose Vee was cheap at the price. But I have to say I didn't enjoy it. She made me feel like a distinctly naughty, very repulsive, little girl. C la v...

But at that stage I lived in a quaint (I used the word deliberately) little weatherboard cottage in O'Connor. Run down. Everything conking out. But quaint. I loved it. I never noticed the wiring. Then one day the microwave blew up. Terrifying it was. Flames everywhere. About half an hour later, I noticed a sort of dull, burning smell from the dryer. Oh dear. Perhaps there was something wrong with the quaint wiring?

Nothing else went wrong. Decided it was just one of those fluke things. Wasn't beyond the realms of possibility. I really am such a slob of a housewife and I hadn't bothered to mop up the overflow stew juices before I shoved in the peas. (Dinner was running late.) No wonder the microwave blew up! Course it wasn't the wiring.

That night I did look rather warily at my beloved Vee. Shrugged. ` Don't be ridiculous, Jena. You're being neurotic`. I wasn't being neurotic and you'd have thought that by the grand old age of 43 I'd have learned to follow my instincts, wouldn't you?

I tell you, every time I read a category romance and they start getting into the clinches and using the old `electrical` analogies, I wince. I really can't take it. You know, when the current's on, his arms tighten around her and, his eyes glittering down and- pow! Electricity flows through her veins. Look, forget it. Electricity does NOT flow. What it does do doesn't bear thinking about - I can't bear to recount it - but I CAN assure you that FLOW isn't in it and there's nothing erotic about it at all! Oh God I hate it. Can't stand it. Why can't these authors come up with some new analogies? Tell you what, if Anna George ever gets published, I'm sure you'll soon notice how there's never any electricity going on in my love scenes. Never!

All I can bear to say about that particular scene as it happened to me is that there was a horrible bang that frightened whatever senses I had left silly. Light flashing everywhere - blue streaks, yes. And a dirty great hole in my bottom sheet - AND a deeply singed mattress and NOT the sweet scent of her arousal but the truly terrible - no. Enough. Vibrator? Electric?

Pick one up, switch it on, and my friends if you're not taking your life in your hands, do stop to spare a moment's thought for the probability that you can't say the same for the `sweet essence of your desire`.

Yes I survived. Sort of. Although I have to admit I've never been quite the same since. It did something irreparably awful to my psyche. And I truly thought I would never recover from the humiliation of the scene in the doctor's surgery the next day. (I couldn't bear to go to casualty at the time. Apart from anything else I was in clinical shock.)

I'm like Bukowski now. I wear a very large black hat pulled down low over my right eye. And I've taken up tap dancing.

This arose from an email I sent to Bonkety and other friends. As follows:

OK - herewith - some real romance - in case any of you are interested in such a thing... (wry grin). Er, this probably some one consider x-rated too. Those of frail sensibilities should skip this next part…vbg

14 "The T. Rex stopped to stare at the female, its tawny pecs rippling in the dappled light."

13 "Her eyes were a beautiful bright blue. Her lips full and sensual. And her legs strong and firm, all four of them."

12 "Nick Adams held the corset in his hand. It was a good corset. It would rip when he ripped it. Nick liked that."

11 "Her habit clung to her body like leather to a bible."

10 "Her voice quivered like a plate of Jell-O on a fault line, and her body was soon to follow."

9 "Flinging her abusive husband's genitalia out the car window, Lorena felt a long overdue sense of freedom."

8 "Long auburn hair flowing out behind her, dress billowing in the breeze, Cassandra had given in to gravity's pull and hit the pavement like a bag of fresh phlegm."

7 "I couldn't take my eyes off of his rippling physique, his dark leonine mane, his sensual lips, and his skim, no foam, double cappuccino, half-caf, half-decaf eyes."

6 "The very sight of him made me forget Paris & long for New Jersey."

5 "With great trepidation, Richard Jewell walked the six flights of stairs to the apartment he shared with his mother."

4 "Her bosom was heaving uncontrollably; she doubted she'd make it to the toilet on time." 3 (BTW – Jena’s ALL TIME favourite this) "I blushed as the Captain strode toward me in his manly way, took me in his arms and whispered, 'Make it so, Number One! Engage!'"

2 "The man probe dug in deep while NASA engineers gawked in lecherous pleasure."

and the Number 1 Bad Romance Novel Opening Line...

1 "Marv strutted into the Ritz with a twinkle in his eye and a gleam in his incisors."

This list copyright 1997 by Chris White and Ziff Davis, Inc. ]
The Top Five List top5@walrus.com http://www.topfive.com ]

This, not surprisingly, sparked the luverly Bonkety off on a story thread.

At this point, Jena is desolate at having to report that she’s lost his reply to this… and her reply to that!