Life lesson no. 2933

I would like, if I may, to take you on a strange journey.

Those intrepid adventurers amongst you have already glimpsed this story’s beginning when they travelled with me last month to Brighton, Den Of Homosexual Sin And Lascivious Debauchery. At the time I forgot to mention the bit about the *NUDITY* so it’s time to correct that glaring oversight. Also, the bits about SEX and DOGGING… And DWARFS IN LATEX… with PARIS HILTON. Brilliant. That should get viewer numbers up.

I was in Brighton for the pirate-themed Hen Weekend of a very good friend, with a party that consisted of The Bride-To-Be, her Gay Best Man, and four penis-free individuals. I know, what are the chances. Only 28.6% of those present were men who liked men. In Brighton. I must be losing my allure.

After a day of drinking and dancing we stumbled out of [deleted in interest of author dignity] onto the 2am streets, moustaches as monobrows, eye-patches as crotch guards, and hooped earrings as inappropriate piercings. The Bride-To-Be took one look at her motley crew of mutineers and announced her desire to get naked in the ocean. Obviously I was appalled at the Health and Safety implications of swimming whilst inebriated, but decided the only responsible course of action was to take my kit off and splash around with the lasses. That way if there were an aquatic emergency I would be on hand to sweep the ladies into my arms, battle through the Death Surf to shore and breath new life into their mortal form. And hopefully a few Hotties might see me do it.

In the end only myself, The Bride-To-Be and Cameron Diaz’s Twin went in. My sexually charged strip-before-entry was somewhat marred by an inability to remove my red pirate’s sash, which had somehow managed to retie itself into an impossible knot between pre- and post-drinking timeframes. Still, it created a dashing flash of colour that framed both my rippling pirate’s torso and fine buccaneer thighs, so it came with me into the water…

….which was fucking cold, I might add. Stupid, British, fucking cold. My thin Aussie blood rushed from the extremities back to protect the vital organs, taking with it any loosely attached items of flesh. “Out! Get out!” cried the Primal Instincts. “Let the drunken wenches drown! Fuck them all and get warm!” Primal Instinct had a convincing case, and besides; no one likes to see a man in a sash squeal like a girl. I got out.

Back on dry land, I was faced with the difficult question of how one puts on trousers with a clammy piece of fabric snaking around one’s person. It turned out not to be possible at all, so I stood there for several minutes working away at the now-wet-and-full-of-sand knot until it came free. I had no fears for my contracted dignity however, as the beach was as dark as the inside of a subterranean cow.

Trousers now on, I sat down to watch the show as The Bride-To-Be emerged from the waves. Not exactly Aphrodite riding on an alabaster shell she rather crawled her way out, mewing for assistance from her Gay Best Man. It seemed she was incapable of hoisting her trousers up over her wet legs, so he grabbed her waistband from behind and proceeded to pull them up in a series of jerking movements. Unfortunately The Bride-To-Be’s balance was not what it should be, so she toppled forwards and placed two hands upon the sand to steady herself during this dressing process. It was all a bit arousing for your poor author.

Fast-forward now to last week and we find it is the occasion of the nuptials we were in Brighton to celebrate. It’s Friday night and I’ve just travelled by public transport to darkest Wiltshire, managing to haul my ass to the restaurant for The Bride-To-Be’s last dinner as a single woman. All her family and the pirates are there, and I find myself seated next to The Gay Best Man.

Gay Best Man: “Now HW, we need to talk about the length of your pubic hair.”

[pause]

HW: “I’m sorry?”

Pirates 1 and 2: “What’s this?”

Gay Best Man: “I was just saying to HW that he needed to seriously reconsider the length of his pubic hair.”

HW: [having unnerving flashbacks to Bridget Jones’ Diary] “What on earth is wrong with my public hair?”

Pirate 3 and Bride’s brother: “Yes, what IS wrong with it?”

Gay Best Man: “It’s faaaaar to long.”

HW: [indignantly] “I’m sorry, I’m very happy with the trimming standards of my pubes. And besides, how would you know anyway?”

Gay Best Man’s boyfriend: “Yes, how WOULD you know?”

Gay Best Man: “Why from Brighton of course. You may not have been able to see anything looking up the beach, but with the lights of Brighton behind us we could see eeeeeeverthing, couldn’t we ladies?”

Pirates 1-4: “Sure could.”

Pirate 3: “I rang my boyfriend immediately to tell him all about it. Like a bramble bush it was.”

Pirate 1: “More like a scouring pad I thought.”

Pirate 4: “Or a miniaturised sheep.”

HW: “Look. It was dark. I was very wet. There was some unavoidable shrinkage. I’ve seen lots of pubic hair in my time and there is nothing abnormal about mine.”

Grandma: “What’s everyone talking about?”

Mother-of-the-bride: “The length of HW’s public hair mum.”

Grandma: “Oooh, nothing worse than being a bit too long down there.”

Gay Best Man: “Gets caught in the teeth, doesn’t it?”

HW: “It is NOT too long.”

Gay Best Man’s boyfriend: “So how long IS it? If you were to pull a pube straight what length would it be? In millimetres.”

Pirate 2: “Or are we talking centimetres here?”

Pirate 4: “I’ll get the yardstick.”

HW: “Look. I’m not ashamed of my length. I’ll show you now if you…”

All: “Nooooo! Noooo! It’s OK, we believe you.”

Gay Best Man: “Freak.”

So readers, let this be a lesson to you all; keep it trim or keep it in. Or at the very least, if you find yourself dressed in your birthday suit avec sash, be sure to keep that sash slung low. You never know which perverts are looking.