Sex by Colin Cotterill

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There, that’s increased this week’s internet hits a thousand fold. Simple little word with great selling power. Just the faintest scent of it has customers queued up outside the fence wagging their tails in hope that they’ll have a glimpse of the hind end of a dirty idea. The worldwide addiction to a concept. Would ‘Sex and the City’ be the hit it is if it had been called “Middleaged Women Complaining about Stuff’? I don’t think so. Would we have tolerated the Sex Pistols if they’d been named Johnny and the Melodeers? Nope.  Sex, without any question, sells. Click it on Google. You automatically get five-hundred and twenty-five million hits. That’s three-hundred and ninety million more than ‘chocolate’ and five-hundred and twenty-four point six million more than ‘having a cold shower’. (Those of you at the back shouting, “Get a life, Cotterill” can sit back down and keep quiet. There’s a point. Wait… what was it again?

Oh, right. The point is that I’m thinking of putting the word SEX in the title of my next book. I have neither a story nor the rest of the title in mind just yet but I know that we’ll do really well if there’s a hint of the naughties hidden within its pages. Perhaps something like, “Sex Au Plaines des Jarres” or “Sex Below the Golden Triangle”. Either will elevate me onto some bestseller list somewhere because the world is obsessed with sex. Really. You’re all sex mad, either mad for it or mad against it. If John Terry had merely blasted a bloke in a pub with a sawn off shotgun the Football Association would have shaken its head and said, “Huh, that Terry, what a character, eh?” But he did something much worse. He had sex with the ex-girlfriend of his ex-teammate whilst married to someone else. I have to point out that the young woman in question was a very voluptuous lingerie model-type who had been known to frolic from paddock to paddock. England is up in arms. The FA (so named for obvious reasons) has decided that John boy may no longer captain his country in this year’s World Cup finals in South Africa. Do you know why that is? It’s because every man on the committee would loved to have spent just half an hour with the curvaceous beauty discussing off-side tactics and dead ball situations. They’re men. It’s the only thing on their minds. They all felt aggrieved that John boy had been found out because they were living their sex lives vicariously through him.

Tiger’s doing time in a sex addiction clinic. All his major sponsors have deserted him. Some members of parliament in Thailand have suggested he be stripped of his honorary citizenship. Why? Because he had sex with not one blond beauty, but a whole bevy of them, sometimes in tag teams, a dream fantasy that those Thai politicians have woken up sweating from in the middle of the night since their earliest youths.

Old Bill got himself a blowjob in the Oval Office. The male Republicans nudged each other and said, “Good on you, Bill” then attempted to impeach the poor bugger. You see the irony here? You can bomb the bejumpers out of Arabs and inflict no end of hardship on third world countries, but don’t you even think about engaging in the sexual act. The world’s so hung up about sex it’s failed to see it as the minor buzz that it is. It’s all in the packaging. Most of the people in the world secretly think they’re the only one on the planet who doesn’t have one endless orgasm after another. They believe those porn stars are actually enjoying twenty minutes of mechanical pumping and grinding and going “Oh yeah”. They’re actors. It’s horizontal jogging. The actual pleasure is over in seconds. You can all relax. It’s a minor stimulant right up there with a good bowel evacuation after a heavy meal or a hot bath on a cold day. In fact, the thought of it is far more intoxicating than the thing itself. Nobody’s realized that it’s the kissing and the cuddling and the feeling of being close to another person that’s the real intoxicant yet we’ve come to dismiss that as foreplay. We’re so busy unwrapping the gift that we throw away the gold leaf paper it’s shrouded in. The world remains cramped in the pain of its obsession, whether it be the obsessive dream of having it or the obsessive compulsion for condemning others for having it.

So, by putting the word SEX in my title I hope to plug in (tee hee) to the universal quest for that unfindable seam of pleasure. If people out there are dumb enough to flip out over a three-letter word, I’m certainly going to take advantage of them.

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