Agony Aunt: The Pursuit Of Sexual Satisfaction.
L&L deal with some students whose sexual needs are causing problems. Amusing problems. Amusing problems L&L then solve with an equally amusing answer.
Dear L & L,
I love porn. I fucking love porn and I am not ashamed to say it. I love everything from BIG black cocks to girl-on-girl to men doing mid-shag wees on vaginas to some slutty ex-heroin addict shoving her do-it-at-home manicured fingers up her gaping fanny. Come a heavy deadline, a good mid-work wank is the only thing that will get me through the night. I’ve even scheduled masturbation minutes into my exam term revision timetable. With a bit of self-love, I’m well on track to that elusive 2.1. Only problem is, I’ve been massively rumbled by college: the IT officer wants to have words with me. PRETTY BAD. I don’t quite know how I’m going to explain the “inappropriate material” that’s been absolutely spanking my bandwidth. To make matters worse, I am a member of an all-girls college. I know that feminism says men and women are equal, but I’m not entirely convinced that the world is ready for a porno-hungry lash hound like me. Help me L & L, I just don’t know what to say?
Naked and loose of New Hall
L and L always find that the answer to most problems with college authorities is suicide. Don’t actually commit it: face it, you’ve done nothing to compare to Sylvia Plath or Kurt Cobain. People will be sad for a while, yes, but on the whole you were fair-to-middling as a person and everyone was pissed off about the massive cleaning bill because of your cack-handed death (which is likely, what with the state of your wank hands). Just threaten it instead. Picture the scene: you’re late with your dissertation because you’ve been spending the year assessing the correlation between VKs and whapping your baps out rather than that of your experiment results. You know that and what’s worse is that your DoS knows that, because you played ‘smell my hand’ with her during that period where Pimms was on offer in November and you confused a mid-morning supervision with May Week. Solution? “It’s been such a difficult year and the alcohol has been the only thing that’s made my life feel real again. It’s just got worse and worse with all this pressure and yesterday I found myself sat there, a sharp screwdriver against my temple with one hand and a copy of the Beano in the other, just screaming ‘WHAT’S IT ALL ABOUT?” Dissertation extension, free one-to-one counselling and NHS concessions. How else do you think English students get away with being work-shy fuckwits? Now let’s apply this to your problem. Say you’re addicted. Say that if you haven’t got a Scottish dwarf shitting on a bored-looking divorcee badonkadonking down the broadband at least 3 times a day you all-too-often reach for the parcetemol. “A triple breasted mermaid being cock-slapped by an accountant is the only thing that stops the pain”. Easy.
L and L
Dear L & L,
I should really let you know, I am a MASSIVE bloody lad. I love the shag, and mate, I am FUCKING good at it too: girls have literally wept in admiration of my pleasure giving performances. I’ve got it all – BIG hair and BIG cock, and mate, my reputation has surpassed me, I get what I want. A night out isn’t complete without a battered big-titted, big-haired hottie in tow. Only problem is, things got a bit too easy, a bit too predictable, and now all I want is my poon on the pavement. There is nothing like a bit of al fresco fucking to give you that little extra kick. It first started down dark ally-ways on the way home from Life, it soon progressed onto well-lit side streets, now I don’t care where I am, who sees, as long as its under the stars. I’ve even started to take a girl home, whack it in two blocks away from Cindies, doing my thing, whacking her in a taxi before returning to the club to find another poor moron to do it again. Problem is, the rozzers are on to me. They’ve hooked up the city CCTV to track me and whenever I slap her thighs down on the cobbles and ride her like a bicycle, they slap on the flashing lights and flush me out before I’ve had a chance to make a deposit in the Bank of Lad. It’d be humiliating if I wasn’t hung like a horse with a massive cock. I’m just not getting satisfied any more. I get half-way and the pigs are on to me: my immense schlong needs sating, guys! Adventure wanking doesn’t cut it and if anyone catches you at it, that’s bad banter.
Big Game Gash-Hunter of Girton
Mate. MATE. Odds-on, you’re no gash-guzzler. There’s more self-affirmation in that e-mail you wrote us than when Mariah Carey wakes up on a morning to see Michealangelo’s Sistine Chapel on her ceiling with both God and Adam’s face replaced by hers, walks down her mansion staircase to the sound of 1000 Mexicans she’s paid to jack off to her when she walks past and then sits at her breakfast table where a 6-year-old Belarussian girl thanks her for appearing in her borsht-gruel and inspiring her out of poverty. And just like Mariah Carey, you’re probably as sexy as a special offer on sellotape. Shit sellotape that doesn’t even stick to glue. Shit sellotape that attracts all the seagulls in the world to line up, one by one to shit on you. Anyone who talks like you has some delusion-issues to deal with. So let’s deal with them. First, get realistic. Start talking about the actual life you live rather than some banter-mad fantasy you’ve heard from the big Rugby lads you spy on in the bar. There’ll be something good about it. Maybe you’re good at Foucauldian Discourse Analysis or you beat Stephen “Hawko” Hawking in a maths race. That gets some girls’ pulses racing. And a lot of them weren’t tarred and feathered by the munter brush (although a minority certainly bathed in the fugly fountain and drank from the cup of error). To find them? All you have to do is go to the dark corners of the UL and whistle. Now, penis issues. After talking about how big it is and how much you stick it here and there, L and L bet it’s a bit lacking in girth and action. Nevermind all that. Size isn’t what matters (accept when it comes to balls), it’s what you do with it that counts. So, have a think about how you can work it. Get down to Jazzercise, take in what’s going on and apply those moves to your member. Think about dress-up. If it’s not looking pretty, put a bow on it. Think about a little sailor suit: nautical is all over Summer 2010, it would be wise for it to be over your schlong. And finally, if – and this is a big if (and that depends on you being as massive a lad as you say you are) – what you have said is true; the police deserve to catch you. No lady in the world deserves piles from cold cobbles, brickwork down her bra, grass-stains from your furrowing and tarmac in her teeth just because your balls don’t work unless they’re freezing cold and wet.
L and L