Slags Anonymous

Whenever I go out for for dinner, or drinks, I normally have little idea what topics might be up for discussion. The weather, the price of Sainsbury's potato salad and work or study are usually the hottest contenders.

Whenever I go out with the Slags I always know which sphere of life our conversations are likely to spin in. And predictability, consistancy, I have come to realise, can be a wonderful thing.

Sex, sex and more sex. It's the formation of the group, the unwinding of us as individuals. Desdemona put it raher well:

'The reason I can talk so openly here is because I don't do it anywhere else. Here, I can get it all out of my system, cock vagina, balls, lube.' (again, the last bit is mine). And this is not to say Desdemona has difficulty speaking about..you know...to other people. But merely that we have reached a certain level of comfort where nothing contains the power to shock (well, almost. Desdemona knows precisely what it is that I'm refering to).

I must confess, I feel exactly the same. I am fully aware that our conversations would make even the most sexually liberated of people blush. They really are that open. We talk about sex the way other people talk about the mad peak-hour rush in the underground. The difference is, we could talk and talk forever, and there would always be a different hole left to fill. And then another, and another.

For purposes of clarity I will now describe the term slag for those of you who haven't quite understood. Desdemona and I are pure slags. Our mind is consumed by sex. We crave experience and are striving to achieve a different state of happiness altogether through our minds and bodies.

When people describe others as slags, It's spoken as a result of pure and evil jealousy.
'She slept with him, she's such a slag. She's had more boyfriends than I've had hot dinners' or something along these lines.
What that person really wants to say is this
'She has such a great sex life, i'm utterly fed up of going home to the same person or having to use my fingers while she has somebody do it for her'. I wish they would just say it. Making yourself feel better by making other people look bad is child's play. And children are never slags in the best sense of the word. You have to be in top form to be a slag.

So those of you who think I'm somehow degrading myself by using this term, think again. I don't mean this in a glib way. I mean, we are overtly sexual beings, we are proud and we are sexy. We are slags.

Right, now that that's clear, we can move onwards.

Ophelia on the other hand isn't quite a slag. She is an unslag, the rare breed that ticks inside and doesnt ever need to have the monthly public orgasm the way myself and Desdemona do. It doesn't mean she is less sexual, in fact, it could mean the exact opposite. Only Ophelia can say 'But I think I can get ANY man to marry me' with a straight face and get away with it. But, as the milk of her sexuality curdles over inside her mind, you'd never quite know it had. For Desdemona and myself, the wet patches surrounding us would be visible for days.

The way I deal with certain issues is to put them out there. And even if nobody can assist you in finding an explanation, you can atleast laugh at them, or cry, or cum. The same applies to sex.
Certain people are innately satisified and never need to say a word.

Oh yes, and as we delved into a delicious paella, I was asserted to the fact that only men have a prostate gland. I had no idea. Not an incling. Now that's pure virginity for you, tighter than a knot.

It's made me wonder, it's almost as though men were designed to take it up their bottom.