Monday, 1 November 2010
Stephen Fry gets his rocks off
Let me begin by saying a word to all the men I’ve slept with. Yes, you are disgusting, your physical demands disgust me, your bodies disgust me. I only agreed to have sex as part of my ongoing quest to find a meaningful relationship. Even in that few of you have even come close to scratch. So, I apologise for leading you on.
I’ve just one slight problem. I’m bisexual; I have been for years. Should I also apologise, I wonder, to the women I’ve been to bed with? Did I find them disgusting; did they find me disgusting? Oh, my, how confusing it all is. I know: there is a simple solution: I shall ask Stephen Fry, that guru of sex, of men, of women and of all things in between.
Some of you will have had the misfortune to have heard of this man, the Twitter supreme, who’s close on two million followers hang on every tweet, every mediocre pronouncement. He’s a sort of all round TV person: a sleb, a luvvie, a performer…and a homosexual. Yes, homosexual, that’s the one thing he’s sure about if nothing else, this Oscar Wilde for the age of mediocrity, the one thing he’s forever wittering about, a bon mot here, an aphorism there. He feels sorry for all you heterosexual guys out there; he says so in an interview in the November issue of Attitude. The problem is we girls simply don’t like sex; we merely use it as a currency in the pursuit of romantic love;
If women liked sex as much as men, there would be straight cruising areas. Women would go hang around in churchyards thinking ‘God, I’ve got to get my fucking rocks off’ or they’d go to Hampstead Heath and meet strangers to shag behind a bush. It doesn’t happen. Why? Because the only women you can have sex with like that wish to be paid for it.
Yes, what a delightful prospect, sex behind a bush in a graveyard. Or there is the other possibility, I suppose, the kind of thing that men like Fry used to prefer – sex in public lavatories, a little less salubrious, I suppose, but at least one is out of the open air. It’s called cottaging, I think, the tea room trade, where a couple perform a sex act in one cubicle while a single individual performs a natural act in another (sorry, not that there is anything in the least ‘unnatural’ about Fry and his brothers, but you will understand the difference here). So, yes, on they go, passion against a background symphony of smells and sounds that one finds in such places. Well, maybe the bush in the pale moonlight is better after all.
The subliminal message being delivered here by Friar Fuck has nothing to do with female sexual desire – about which he knows less than nothing - or indeed about male desire. No, it’s about Stephen Fry; it’s about his perception that male lust is animal-like and disgusting; it clearly disgusts him so, by inference, it must disgust other people, especially women. Oh, there is so much Doctor Freud could have made of this, so much he could have read into Fry’s sexual obsessions, his obvious self-loathing, and his inadequacies as a human being. Now in his fifties he’s seemingly in a relationship with one Steven Webb, a twenty-five year old actor. If anybody should be asked to give a view on sex and disgust then surely, surely it has to be him!
Meanwhile, all you poor straight guys, all you guys Fry feels sorry for, you might consider that there is an alternative to a warm bed and a hot female body. Stephen Fry awaits you on Hampstead Heath. Before you know it you will be getting your rocks off behind a bush in some churchyard, all under a crisp November moon. No need to worry about a relationship trap.