A Blog About Richard and a Wet Cat

I know that anything not pornographic or sexually explicit is really just the tip of the internet iceberg, but still I’m surprised to have come across so many blogs featuring pictures of boobs, bums and scary-veined doodles. I like to think I’m not a prudish purse-lipped biddy (although I must admit I did blush - much to my embarrassment and his obvious glee - when a nice fireman recently tried to sell me a fundraising calendar featuring near-nude firies), but if I really want to see pictures of some guy’s last-turkey-in-the-shop-with-rigor mortis, or some girl’s disturbingly childlike hairless front bottom, or a pair of jubblies that are more mineral than animal, then I will google an appropriately lewdly-named site.

This has happened to me a few times now: I’ve been idly looking through Blogger’s list of recently updated blogs, clicking on titles that suggest an amusing anecdote is to be found within, or clicking through with the ‘Next Blog’ button, only to receive a brain-searing eyeful of pink bits which frankly gives me the willies (no pun intended). Now if people want to take pictures of parts of themselves that are normally covered up for a reason (ie: though functional they’re not the most aesthetically-pleasing parts of the anatomy) and post them on the internet for sad old trench-coated creeps (whom I for some reason imagine to look like John Howard) to fondle their virginal saveloys over, that’s fine. What I take exception to are the misleading misnomers. Clicking the title, ‘Fat Celebrities’, I thought to myself as the page loaded that I would indulge my guilty pleasures of gossip and schadenfreude at the same time, only to be assaulted with images of erect penises in tiny costumes and with little faces drawn on to look like Paris Hilton and Orlando Bloom. Okay, I just made that site up, but you get my point (I’m sure there’s probably something like that out there anyway).

With morbid fascination, I read through some of the posts accompanying these pictures, and found them not so much crudely erotic as laughable. Do the people that enjoy such things not realise they’re fabrications? That, at best, the real authors are probably chain-smoking, middle-aged grandmothers with dragon-lady fuchsia nails and spangled, shoulder-padded tee-shirts whose main income derives from the sex-lines they pretend arousal over as they do the family ironing? Or at worst, sad old trench-coated creeps who look like the Prime Minister and in fact could be him, using his homo-erotic feelings for Dubya as inspiration and an understandable aversion to Janette as motivation? Do those people really care? Probably not.

I’m not a prude, I’m not! I insist as you all scornfully stop reading, muttering something about me sounding like your mothers. I’ll prove it one day, I’ll tell you some of my sex and porn stories, you just wait and see! I’m just advocating fair warning in blogs and elsewhere, that’s all. I’ll never forget the time I tried to look up the RSPCA and the highest-ranked site was for connoisseurs of bestiality. I wanted a dog, and I got doggy-style.

I heave a defeated sigh to my now-empty virtual reading room as I concede that, given the medium, surprise porn is a bête noire one just has to live with.