Monday, 4 November 2013


Remember, remember the 5th of November, the gunpowder treason and plot. There's no good a reason for sex that's displeasing especially with men who are hot...

Guy Fawkes Day. South Africa's very own 4th of July without the independence and added extras of cotton candy and grilled wieners. A firecracker event to the few with a view but for others, a major inconvenience especially for dog owners who are forced to sedate their precious pooches with sausage flavoured rescue remedy or something stronger. While the concerto of elaborate firework displays are no doubt the main attraction of this uneventful celebration, I had to question the logic behind commemorating a man whose attempt to overthrow the government (or anything else for that matter) was anything but explosive.    

I can't think of anything worse than having a bang with no POW, especially when the rocket in his pocket is perfectly capable of making your cherry bomb. It's false advertising and downright laziness in its cruellest form; when a gorgeous potential hunk of a future is clearly into you and has all the right goods but nothing to back it up with. Just like those silly fireworks, we're easily distracted by the charm and grandeur of pretty colours and pyrotechnics, but at the end an amazing exhibit, when the smoke and sparkle have disappeared, what good are aesthetics if the final performance fails to reach a climax?

Some people argue that sex isn't that important, but let's face it, it sure as fuck is, especially when you really like someone who manages to fit every other criterion on your check list. It's actually vital when you think about it, particularly if you're one of those hopefuls who believe in the myth of monogamy. This one person will inevitably be responsible for a lifetime supply of orgasms and sexual pleasure. That's a huge amount of pressure and commitment for one man to handle especially in a world where men generally come first. For the lucky few fortunate enough to score the jackpot on their virgin voyage, it only takes one spark to ignite that rocket ship of fiery passion, but for the rest of us desperately seekings, it takes a couple of duds before we find the one that makes us detonate.

The premature smell of gunpowder and the sound of tiny pops in the distance had me flashing back to the summer of 2'05! Mr. November. Hot, Euro-centric and god-like, but who would expect anything less from an Italian Adonis such as this. His name was Mauritzio, a 36-year old former model turned fashion photographer with a zest for life and a rental villa on Clifton beach for the rest of the season.

We met through a mutual model friend who seemed to be his latest subject and muse. It turns out I was wrong. Mauritzio wasn't one to mix business with pleasure and refused to date models on principle alone. That and the fact that he found his subjects quite dull and uninspiring in comparison to the real beauty of a naturally flawed woman. If that really was the case, then I was his latest masterpiece, a Venus of insecurities and the Mona Lisa of complexities. It was hard not to fall for someone like Mauritzio. He had a certain worldliness about him, a passion that pulled you in and a profound appreciation for simplicity. He was charming, funny, clearly financially stable and possibly the most beautiful man I had ever dated. He was perfect...

Well, almost perfect. While I may have been in the possession of the Ferrari, I still hadn't taken it for a test drive. I was too caught up in the romance and pink haze. Of course, I was nowhere near as jaded back then as I am today and was absolutely certain that my Italian stallion would deliver on the amore front.

POP! That was sound of the bubble that burst when Mauritzio exposed the tom thumb he'd been smuggling in his pants. It was an anti-climax of note, and while it wasn't the smallest I'd seen, it certainly could have sufficed had he only known how to use it properly. How on earth could a man so hot (and I'm talking Fahren-fucking-heit!) be so cold in bed, or in this case sand? And what a waste of a perfect setting? The blankets on the beach, the windless summer air, the bubbly, the Guy Fawkes firework display. Sadly the only explosions happening were the ones in the sky, and even though I went back for seconds and thirds in an attempt to have an orgasm, the magic simply wasn't there.   

While sex is definitely not the be-all end-all of a romantic relationship, it certainly couldn't hurt to have a volatile sexual chemistry with your partner or potential from the get go. Some demonstrations are ultimately deceiving and leave us deflated with disappointment which is all the more reason to keep searching for that perfect sparkler. Of course, the ideal encounter would be dynamite every time, but sometimes even the tiniest bit of smoke has the potential of causing a raging fire.  

When it comes to fireworks, how many pops does it take before we find the perfect bang?

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