@Mol42

iVillage Member
Registered: 02-21-2003
@Mol42
4
Mon, 10-29-2012 - 11:02am

Hi Mol,

I'm looking for that passage about what sex is like for guys from (I think) Stephen Fry's The Hippopotamus. I know you quoted it in a post a while back. I haven't been able to find it online. Could you kindly tell me where I can find it? Thanks in advance!

F.

Avatar for holdingontoit
iVillage Member
Registered: 02-02-2004
In reply to: freelancemomma
Wed, 10-31-2012 - 10:54am

FLM, is this the passage you werer looking for?

“Rebecca was one of the few women I ever met who . . . well, it is a fact that women do not enjoy sex. It has become almost a matter of religion for them to deny this, but it remains a fact. Women put up with sex as the price they pay for having a man, for being part of what they like to call a ‘relationship’, but they can do without. They do not feel the hunger, the constant stabbing, stomach-dropping hunger that tortures us. The bugger of it is that whenever I say this I am accused of being a misogynist. For a man who has spent his entire life thinking and dreaming of women, skipping after them like a puppy trying to please his master, ordering his entire existence so that he might be brought into more contact with them and judging his life and worth solely according to his ability to attract them and make them desire him, it comes a little hard to be accused of a dislike of the sex. All I feel is profound worship, love and inferiority mixed in with a good deal of old-style self-loathing.

I know the arguments . . . Lord, who doesn’t? Desire, they tell me, is a form of possession. To lust after a woman is to reduce her to the level of creature or quarry. Even worship, according to a reasoning too damned tricksy for me to follow, is interpreted as a kind of scorn. All this is, I need hardly tell you, the supremest bollocks.

Some of my best friends, as you would expect of a quondam poet, are chutney-ferrets. So too, as you would also expect of a quondam theatre critic, are some of my bitterest enemies. You couldn’t ask for a better controlled experiment to help us settle this business of the genders than the world of the nance, now could you? Gays, taking such problems as the queer-bashers, the newspapers, the virus, the police and society as read, lead a pretty fabulous life. Lavatories, parks, heathland, beaches, supermarkets, cemeteries, pubs, clubs and bars vibrate to their music of simple erotic exchange. A man, bent, sees another man, bent. Their eyes lock and . . . bang, sex is done. They don’t have to know their partner’s name, they don’t have to talk to him, they don’t even, in the back rooms of dark metropolitan nightclubs, have to see his bloody face. It’s a male world, ordered in a precisely male way, according to the devices and desires of a strictly male sexuality. Do those big hairy dudes who pose in magazines with leather collars round their **** and rubber tubing up their **** think of themselves as oppressed? Do gay men tarting themselves up for a night in a club whine about the vile sexism which insists they must be made attractive in order to be inspected like cattle? Do they hell.

Sometimes, in my dreams, I imagine a world in which women enjoy sex: a world of heterosexual cruising areas in parks and promenades, heterosexual bars, heterosexual back rooms, heterosexual cinemas, heterosexual quarters of the town where women roam, searching for chance erotic encounters with men. Such an image is only conceivable in one’s fantasising bedroom, jerked into life by an angry fist and a few spastic grunts. If women needed sex as much as men did then – duck, Ted, duck, run for cover – then there wouldn’t be so many rapists around the place.

We live in the world as given, and no doubt anthropologists and zoologists can tell us that it is biologically necessary for one of the sexes always to be hungry and the other to be mostly bored. Men have compensations, after all, for the agony of their endlessly unfulfilled desires. By and large, we run the world, control the economies and swank about with laughable displays of self-importance. This isn’t a whinge. I merely want the simple truth understood and out in the open: men like sex and women don’t. It has to be recognised and faced.

Women’s constant rejection of such a self-evident fact doesn’t help at all. Whenever I point it out to my women friends they instantly deny it; they will claim to be regular masturbators; they will claim that the idea of a good anonymous lay is a real turn-on; they will claim that only the other day they saw a man whose bottom reminded them a little of Mel Gibson and that they got really quite juicy thinking about it. Only the other day? What about only the other minute? What about every damned sodding bloody minute of every bloody damned sodding day? Don’t they see that women should pop open the champagne and celebrate the fact that they are not slavering dogs like men, they should revel in the biological luck which allows them to be rational creatures who can think about the benefits a partnership with a man can provide, who can think about motherhood and work and friends .. . who can just plain think unlike us poor bastards who spend days that should be spent in work and higher thoughts having to realign the sore and swollen **** under the waistband of our underpants every time a set of breasts walks by? Of course women get the itch now and again, we wouldn’t be here as a race otherwise; of course they have genital equipment sensitive enough to ensure that sex can, when embarked upon, cause shiverings of pleasure, barks of delight and all the dirty rest of it. But they are not, lucky, lucky, lucky things, for ever hungry, for ever desperate, for ever longing for the base physical fact of getting their bloody rocks off. I mean, the fact is, it’s five in the afternoon as I write this, and I’ve already tossed myself off twice today. Once first thing, in the shower, and again just after lunch, before sitting down to this. Any honest tart will tell you, sympathetically, like a nurse, that men, poor dears, just have to spit their seed. Why women should wish to claim parity in the matter of this gross imperative beats me.

As it happens, because of my trade, I’ve met a great many famous men, men of good report. Do you know, without exception, those I’ve known well enough to be able to sit with round a whisky bottle in the small hours have all confided to me that the real motivation behind their drive to become famous actors, or politicians or writers or whatever, has been the hope, somewhere deep inside them, that money, celebrity and power would enable them to get laid more easily? Whisky can rot through the layers that mask this simple truth: ambition to do well, a desire to improve the world, a need to express oneself, a vocation to serve … all those worthy and nearly believable motives overlay the bare-arsed fact that when you get right down to it all you want to do is get right down to it.

When you see it coming, duck!

iVillage Member
Registered: 02-21-2003
In reply to: freelancemomma
Wed, 10-31-2012 - 7:08pm

Thanks a lot, Hold. Exactly what I was looking for!  Do you know what book it comes from?

F.

Avatar for holdingontoit
iVillage Member
Registered: 02-02-2004
In reply to: freelancemomma
Thu, 11-01-2012 - 9:54am

Yes, you were right, it is from The Hippopotamus.

Just shows that you shouldn't send a LL to find a quote about a HL's lament. Wink

When you see it coming, duck!

iVillage Member
Registered: 10-31-2005
In reply to: secondfiddlecj
Thu, 11-01-2012 - 8:24pm

Sheesh....pass the hemlock, please...

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