Old Goats

Ripped from Teh Hedlynes:

A man in his 90s with an excessive sex drive was among eight patients aged over 70 treated by the NHS for their addiction to sex.
Over the last seven years 170 people have been referred to the NHS with sex addiction.  Eight of these patients were aged over 70.

Leaving aside for the moment whether a taxpayer-funded medical service should be treating stuff like this (Cliff Notes:  NO), I have to wonder what the hell is going on in the world.

I want to know what constitutes an “excessive sex drive” in the first place.  I remember a woman talking about her late father, who “had sex all the time, every day, with everything:  women, men, animals, raw meat, whatever happened to be there at the moment.”  He also raped his wife, both daughters and several members of his extended family.  This being back in the 1940s when people didn’t talk about this kind of thing because of shame, he was never even charged with a crime, let alone imprisoned.

I would suggest that this constitutes a sex addiction — and today, of course, he probably wouldn’t face much of a sentence either because, you see, sex addiction is a disease and he is a sufferer[eyecross]

I’m curious to see how the “sex addiction” of our 90-year-old goat compares.  I doubt it measures up.

And frankly, with the exception of extreme cases such as the one I described above, I’m calling bullshit on the whole concept.  In a nation with a population the size of the U.K., 170 such cases over seven years doesn’t even register as a rounding error.  More people are probably prone to whistling uncontrollably whenever they see a brick, but you won’t see them sprinting over to the nearest hospital for treatment.

Anyway, as long as these “addicts” are not endangering the wellbeing of others — pestering their wives, ignoring their their families in favor of prostitutes and wanking twenty times a day don’t count — my suggestion is to leave them alone.

If, however, they start committing actual crimes by going all rapey and molesting children, for instance, then castrate them and lock them up forever.

More Lockdown Problems

What was that about familiarity breeding contempt?

Three Brits having affairs during the lockdown have revealed their stories as they look for ways to spice up being in isolation.
Speaking to FEMAIL, the trio – all of whose names have been changed – revealed how they have taken to FaceTime sex and affairs from their city pad as they struggle to deal with the restrictions.

This comes as the UK’s leading affairs site Illicit Encounters reported a 15 per cent rise in activity in the last month.
More than half of male members (54 per cent) said they had initiated new affairs in the last four weeks, with the main reason for this rise being ‘boredom’ sparked by being stuck at home in the lockdown.
Meanwhile almost half of female members (46 per cent) had made contact with a new male partner in the last four weeks, revealing that the crisis had exposed the weakness of their main relationship and made them realise they needed ‘fresh stimulus’.

So far, the only extramarital business adversely affected by the “stay at home” policy seems to be prostitution, and that’s not going to last long either.  When it comes to strange nookie, people will always find a way.

This, however, will undoubtedly be true:

‘There is going to be an explosion of affairs when the lockdown ends – a long, glorious summer of sex. The Roaring Twenties are really going to take off.’

Not Surprising

Seems as though Our Hero Capt. Tom Moore still has some of the old juices flowing:

He has raised millions with his 100 laps around his garden.
Yet the nation’s sweetheart Captain Tom Moore took things from the great outdoors to his living room to enjoy a video chat with Amanda Holden and Jamie Theakston on Heart Radio on Friday morning.
Proving himself to be quite the charmer, the war veteran, 99, admitted he found the BGT host, 49, to be ‘a charming creature’ who he ‘likes looking at’.

And why not?  Our Amanda is quite a vision:

Just goes to show:  even though the flesh may be weak, the urge never goes away.

Love And Sex In The Time Of Self-Isolation

There have been all sorts of crappy articles written about how people are coping (or not) with their enforced separation from society — e.g. “OMG am I ever going to get laid again?” — all of which have apparently been written by Twinks, Snowflakes and similarly socially-inept twerps.

But Oglaf has the best (and funniest) take, I think.  (As with all his stuff, it’s NSFW — oh, what the hell am I thinking?  You’re ALL working from home, aren’t you?  Go ahead and click on the link.)

Incentive And Compromise

How would you like to own a house like this one, set in 1,100 acres of the gorgeous Wiltshire countryside:

According to its Wikipedia entry:

The grounds of the house are noted for their re-established wildlife, including fallow deer.  The grounds are also noted as one of the top game bird shooting venues in the country:  The Field  magazine voted it one of the UK’s ten top venues for pheasant shooting.

Sounds all very pleasant, doesn’t it?  As it happens, Ashcombe House belongs to movie director Guy Ritchie (of Lock Stock and Snatch fame), who came into ownership of the place as part of his divorce settlement from Madonna.

Which leads me to this question — posed to me originally by The Fiend Englishman — and, I think, it’s really a difficult one:

Would you sleep with Madonna for a couple-three years (as Ritchie did) if you knew that at the end of it all, you’d come to possess this fantastic estate?

Just so we’re clear on the topic, though:  we’re not talking about this Madonna:

…nor even this Madonna:

No, we’re talking about this Madonna:

Now before everyone runs screaming from the room, I should point out (as did The Englishman) that along the way, you would probably have learned more than a few revolting naughty bedroom tricks which may (repeat may ) have made the eventual ownership of Ashcombe House a little less unpleasant;  and indeed, Ritchie seems to have escaped more-or-less unscathed from his years-long encounter with Madge, along with possession of both his venereal health and his genitalia (which I admit thinking would have been a long shot in both cases).

So, Gentle Readers:  a magnificent estate with lots of prime birdshooting, in exchange for a few years of plunging into Madame Grotesque’s well-trodden pudenda?  Or is no real estate worth that sacrifice?

Your thoughts, in Comments.