How to win the SeX-Factor

It doesn't matter how proficient we think we might be at bedroom gymnastics, no-one really wants to know the truth. We might occasionally ask "How was it for you?" but only because we know our sexual partner will soften the blow if we weren't quite up to scratch. So the idea of having a third party critiquing our talents is enough to kill wood quicker than a nasty dose of Dutch Elm.

That didn't seem to stop one overconfident couple approaching Simon Cowell in an LA restaurant with an indecent proposal of their own. Rather than whoring themselves out to the music mogul for a million dollars, they just wanted Mr. Nasty to sit in judgement as they demonstrated their best moves. And they were willing to pay him $150,000 for his input. Ever the gentleman, Cowell politely declined the offer, but happily related the story to a writer from the Wall Street Journal last week. It's clear that Simon doesn't get out of bed for that kind of paltry sum, so he's certainly not going to sit at the end of one for the same amount.

Catching an eyeful of Simon's furry chesticles mid-thrust, would ordinarily be enough to put even the most hardened porn star off their stroke. So I can only imagine that this outgoing twosome had done their homework, and knew how give it 110 per cent. Actually, if you've been watching the X-Factor, Britain's Got Talent or American Idol, you should already know how to get Cowell standing to attention at the end of your performance.

Make an entrance

Simon likes to enter with a burst of Carmina Burana. So if you really want to pop his shirt buttons, make sure that the moment of penetration comes with a melodramatic burst of O Fortuna. That's sure to get him Orff.

Bust a move

The best decision Simon ever made, was dumping Brian Friedman from the judging panel and appointing him as the X-Factor's creative director. Now, every performance is camper than Dale Winton in a nail bar - a multi-colour kaleidoscope of awkward choreography, laughable costumes and shoddily built sets. Cirque du Soleil, sponsored by Aldi. In order to catch Simon's eye, you'll need to be willing to move around and show him that you're the full package. And don't just settle for waving around your full package, feel free to accessorise with a few props.

Stand out from the crowd

Simon wants to see you making it your own, so repeated shouts of "who's your daddy?" will prove to him that you're fully in control. It's also important to think about what position you want to try out. Beware of anything too predictable - if you stick to the missionary or reverse cowgirl, he'll just yawn and tell you that he's seen it a million times before in hotels around the world.

But equally, don't go too far in the other direction. It's fine to demonstrate that you take your shenanigans seriously, but if you show off your enthusiasm for autopederasty (literally fucking yourself), he'll tell you you're being self-indulgent. And he'd have a point.

Be a team player

Simon enjoys nothing more than spontaneously creating bands from a bunch of underperforming individuals. So maybe start your session off with some half-hearted solo play, and when it looks as though you're losing his interest, bring in a third member and call yourselves a group.

Show some emotion

One of the worst things about porn is the dead-eyed stare on the faces of its stars. There's nothing erotic about watching someone getting stuffed every way to Sunday if it looks as if they're barely conscious. If you want to make it memorable you have to commit to the moment, and an emotional backstory is the easiest way to win Simon's favour. So don't be afraid to burst into tears as you're getting onto the vinegar strokes. Or you could take a tip from Katie Waissel and drop to your knees with a despairing "Oh sod it." Then, while you're down there...

Stretch it out

When it comes to over-extended running times, Simon is the king of filler. It should only take five minutes to deliver the bad news and announce who's going home, and yet the average Syco-produced results show stretches to about 90 minutes. If you're usually arguing over the wet patch less than quarter of an hour in, you really need to practice your breathing, or swot up on tantric techniques. Don't worry if there's only ten minutes of actual performance in a two-hour set - he's used to that.

Finish with a bang

Simon's a big fan of the explosive finish, having overseen more key changes than a chain of locksmiths. It's all about making those final thirty seconds count - when you feel your toes starting to curl, get into position to make sure that your partner gets drenched in a glittering shower. And don't worry if you're all out of silver ticker tape, I'm sure you'll come up with something appropriate.

Erogenous twilight zones

Reader beware - the links in this post will definitely be NSFW - by all means click on them, just not if your boss happens to be strolling nonchalantly past your desk. Some of the images will be difficult to explain away, especially in front of an industrial tribunal.

Pornography and popular culture have always had something of a quid-pro-quo relationship. In fact, you might even say it's all about give and take.

On the one hand (the one that's free anyway) pornography has exerted considerable influence over the music industry, contributing to what John Whitehead refers to as the "pornification of American culture". On the flipside (don't be disgusting), the porn industry has plundered popular movies for a series of often quite inspired pastiches - the best being 'Rears in Windows' and 'Wetness For The Prosecution'.

However, the sex industry is now reaching out with its well lubed extremities, and taking hold of other, more surprising, pop culture properties.

With depressing inevitability, the talent show format has made its way into the world of pornography, although I doubt you'll be seeing any footage on T4 on Sunday afternoons. Created by porn supremo Dominic Ford, "So You Think You Can Fuck" takes its profane inspiration from the similarly named dance show on TV.

Featuring a collection of 12 would-be stars, the website showcases the talents of 12 men hoping to be voted "America's Favourite porn-star". They're even divided into 'tops' and 'bottoms' to facilitate the decision-making process. After almost a decade of tragic stories about contestants' tough upbringings, a profile that features the quote "I’ve been lactated on, but I won’t go into that…" seems fairly innocuous.

But it's not just reality TV shows that have generated an enthusiastic following, science fiction also has a solid gay fanbase. Even so, it's a little weird to see the work of horror and science fiction author H.P. Lovecraft brought to life in an erogenous sense.

The next time you're in an adult novelty store, browsing the 'batteries not included' aisle, perhaps you'll notice a curiously crafted artefact - one that looks as though it should be used to animate the aggressive nature of tooth decay bacteria. If you do, you'll have discovered the Mythos Art Dildo.

Based on Lovecraft's horrific writing, the demonic marital aid has been designed to represent his Cthulhu mythology. In a way, it's probably mildly appropriate - a creature from the shadowy netherworlds, repurposed as a dildo that's destined to be stuck where the sun most definitely doesn't shine.

When Lady Gaga sang "That boy is a monster..." I'm sure this isn't what she had in mind...

Caught in the act

Remember the interrogation scene in Basic Instinct? If you weren't momentarily distracted by a flash of Sharon Stone's raw talent, you may recall a moment when she shot down the suggestion that she might have been involved in the ice-pick murders.

Snapping through a cloud of (verboten) cigarette smoke, the knickerless suspect argued: "I'd have to be pretty stupid to write a book about killing and then kill somebody the way I described it in my book. I'd be announcing myself as the killer. I'm not stupid."

I'm reminded of Catherine Tramell's ingenious alibi, having seen the front cover of the new edition of Vermont Catholic magazine (obviously I never miss an issue). Someone obviously thought it was a good idea to show a priest cradling the head of a young man kneeling before him - it's called Ordination apparently.

If your eyebrows aren't already levitating over the top of your head like Penfold discovering his wife in bed with another mole, then consider recent events in Vermont. Only last week the diocese agreed to an $18 million settlement to be divided amongst 26 plaintiffs who had been abused as altar boys over the last 30 years.

Adding insult to internal injury is the fact that this particular issue of Vermont Catholic even features a letter from Bishop Salvatore Matano, aplogising for the scandal and attempting to lay the matter to rest. He's probably wishing he'd waited until the Summer issue to post that particular piece.

As the Catholic church continues to weather the storm of the ongoing child abuse scandal, this cover must come as a real blow to the powers that be. The editors might protest their innocence (much like the offending priests themselves), but it's all a bit much to swallow. Too easy?

From boys to men

Boybands are a dying breed. Sure, JLS have had considerable (some might say disproportionate) success with their neutered RnB stylings, but they're practically the Omega Men of pop. Where once the musical landscape was abundantly blessed with close harmonies, baggy jeans and random piercings, it's now more of a post-apocalyptic wasteland.

Take That might still be big news, but the term boyband hardly seems appropriate - their next tour bus may well be a Saga coach. Boyzone have also enjoyed a pretty successful resurgence of popularity, although given the amount of time they spend talking about Stephen Gately it's more of an extended wake than a comeback.

And then there's Westlife - the ones who never went away. They've been consistently churning out albums, year after year, for over a decade now and show no signs of stopping. Their songs might all be about passions of the heart, but the albums are clinical, cynical affairs, delivered with all the excitement of a trip to the chiropodist.

As it happens, the boys themselves are more than aware of their own shortcomings, admitting in an interview this week that "We've certainly made a lot of mistakes. We've recorded songs that we should never have recorded. We look back on some of them and think, 'Oh God, that was terrible'." They're not alone in their assessment.

Believing that they've "become men over the last few years", the guys are putting their foot down and making more decisions about what goes on their next album. Better lock up your daughters, 'cos it's getting hot in here.

Inspired by the filthy signage being waved by their rapidly aging fanbase, the 'Lifers hope that their next CD will be "one for the bedroom with lots of juicy and sensual tracks". As Nicky told the Daily Star, "the banners have become raunchier and most don’t leave anything to the imagination." That thudding, tumbling sound you can hear is Barry White spinning.

So far, it sounds about as sexy as a bed bath in a rest-home, but Mark Feehily claims "You can listen to it while you're conceiving." Well, if that doesn't make you horny you must be dead from the waist down.

As much as the boys might want to talk up their hot new angle, there's a danger in being too honest about who they were in the past. Their fans aren't stupid, and they know what they like.

Selling substandard products is one thing, but admitting it is something else entirely. Just ask Gerald Ratner.

Is that a stump in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?

Whichever way you plan on voting next month, you can at least take some solace in the fact that the three main parties seem to be running on sanity-based platforms.

Sadly, mental health doesn't seem to be quite so important for people pursuing political careers across the pond.

Last week, Liberty University in Lynchburg, Virginia, played host to The Awakening, a two day conference for ultra-right-wing activists. Unsurprisingly, it didn't seem to take them long to get around to their favourite topic - the gays.

On the agenda for the conference was the proposed ENDA bill, which aims to prohibit discrimination against employees on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity. Now, you don't exactly need a haemophiliac heart to recognise that eliminating discrimination is a positive step forward, but the Freedom Federation sees things differently.

In a session entitled 'The LGBT Agenda', Andrea Lafferty of the Traditional Values Coalition, managed to keep a straight face whilst proclaiming that ENDA would protect people with stump fetishes who want to molest injured war veterans.

No, seriously.

Describing a scenario that would give David Cronenberg and the Farrelly brothers nightmares, Lafferty argued "You can be aroused by stumps of amputees. And we brought that up during the hate crimes thing because what if you have an employee working at the VA and someone has just come back from Iraq and they have this orientation. You can't fire them. What about the family that's upset that they've been aroused by their family member? It's disgusting. And it's tragic for the victim. Um, men that want to rub their bodies up and down women. That's on the list, that might become a protected class."

All absolute bullshit, but then, you didn't really need me to point that out did you?

So how do they get away with the kind of foaming-at-the-mouth insanity that would have made them prime candidates for electro-shock therapy forty years ago? It's all part of twisting the truth (AKA lying through your teeth) to avoid sounding like the bigot that you are.

Andrea's group is desperate to maintain the illusion that outlawing discrimination would open a sexual hellmouth of biblical proportions - trapping innocent children in the classroom with drag queen teachers, and forcing employees "to work alongside individuals with bizarre sex fetishes." But since the facts don't actually back up any of their claims, they decided to make up their own.

By erroneously repurposing the term 'sexual orientation' to include the 30 sexual paraphilias identified by the American Psychiatric Association's Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, they are alleging that ENDA will normalise “all of these philias and fetishes and isms".

In fact, the APA only recognises three orientations - homo, hetero and bi. And they're the ones covered by the ENDA bill.

"Fecal matter. Their involvement with fecal matter." Oh Christ, she's still running through her entirely fictional list... "Or urine. Transvestism. The list goes on, I'm not naming all of them. Children. Animals. And so we really need to draw a line in the sand."

I'm not entirely au fais with the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, but I'm curious to know whether there's a name for the pathological obsession with aberrant sexual behaviour. If so, Lafferty may come to wish that she was protected by ENDA after all.

Oh Mickey, what a pity

There's always been something of a double standard when it comes to gender issues. Sexually aggressive women are all too easily dismissed as sluts, whereas men are proud to declare their propensity for promiscuity.

So give it up for Mickey Rourke, whose Lazarus-like comeback continues, with the announcement that his superstar virility saw him bed 14 different women in a single night.

Despite the fact that his ill-advised foray into boxing and a hunger for reinvention have resulted in him resembling a partially defrosted meatloaf, Mickey knows how to attract the ladies, and has a voracious appetite for the 'nasty' that would put Caligula to shame.

Just let those numbers sink in for a minute. 14 women - one night. Chances are, they were lined up outside his hotel room, like supermarket customers proudly brandishing their deli-service tickets.

I'm prepared to bet that it wasn't quite the night to remember for most of them. In the words of Evelyn Waugh, the last few to be serviced by the Kwik-Fit of sexing would be lucky to end up with a 'handful of dust'.

There was a time when Mickey Rourke was a thing of beauty, with a dark, brooding sensuality that practically leapt off the screen. But a self-destructive streak that made Robert Downey Jr look like Chris Martin got the better of him and he spent the best part of a decade making direct-to-video movies, hitting his lowest point in a TV movie about Shergar.

Thankfully, directors like Robert Rodriguez and Darren Aronovsky saw past the bloated face and stretched features that made Mickey look like a bad Sky News reconstruction of himself. Now he's riding high on a different kind of reinvention, having bagged a plum role as the lead villain in Iron Man 2.

Although Mickey may have the constitution of an ox, and the genitals of the Duracell Bunny, even his appeal has its limits. It turns out that glamour model and, erm, I'm not sure what else to describe her as, Abi Titmuss, found that the word "no" was in her vocabulary, when she rejected the lumpen-faced lothario's advances.

Still, let's just be glad that there's currently no Mrs Rourke. Because, as Mickey himself recently admitted, even "WAGs get an easy time - they should try living with Hollywood hellraisers." Cheryl and Toni, let that be a lesson to you.

Better ban it, just in case

Another day, another TV show for middle-England to get its laundry-day knickers in a twist about.

This time, it's a historical drama called Spartacus: Blood and Sand that's ruffling tunics with its (seemingly accurate) depiction of the debauched Roman lifestyle.

Curiously, the Daily Mail is attempting to remain impartial for a change. Rather than taking the default 'Ban This Sick Filth' route, the easily outraged tabloid is opting for a '(They want to)Ban This Sick Filth' approach instead. Which is obviously vastly different.

Perhaps tiring of its own reactionary reputation, the Mail has opted to focus on the actions of MediaWatch UK - the curtain twitching killjoys who are working themselves into a frenzy of non-violence over this latest affront to viewers' decency.

Of course, despite all this disgust, the Mail can't resist making constant reference to the 'sex, nudity and orgies' that feature in this popular new drama. It even manages to liberally illustrate its article with a bunch of titillating screen grabs (although some of the titillates have been covered with little black bars) to make sure no-one is left in any doubt of just how depraved Spartacus is.

It's a 'best of both worlds' approach that might best be described as 'having your cock and eating it' - "Let me just have one last look to make sure I'm as appalled as I think I am. And, if I wanted to maintain my sense of indignant moral superiority, is there a website where I might find higher resolution screen grabs of this reprehensible revoltingness? Or film clips?"

This conflicting combination of fascination and disgust is ultimately what undermines the argument of self-appointed moral guardians like MediaWatch. The group's director Vivienne Pattison makes the bold claim that "There are numerous studies linking exposure to violence on TV with violent behaviour at large and if there is the slightest possibility that explicit sex and violence on screen can cause this harm, is it worth the risk in the interests of entertainment?"

But given that her organisation must have sat through more than its fair share of filth, shouldn't they all have devolved into porn loving, violently inclined beasts by now? Wouldn't the BBFC viewing panel be a be a bunch of gun-toting sexual predators? Of course not, because MediaWatch puts its faith in the kind of science that makes intelligent design look believable.

The alternative explanation is that they they don't actually watch the films and TV shows they're in a rush to condemn. They're quite happy advocating the censorship of content they know nothing about.

This abdication of responsibility lies at the heart of most censorship debates. The mentality is "we don't need to see it to know it's bad. But we know enough to want to prevent you from making your own choices."

Perhaps they just think we're all too stupid to know what's good for us. And maybe they have a point - Pattinson herself points out that "Ofcom research shows that fewer than a third of parents use the password-protected services available to screen what their children can access."

So, the logic goes, everyone else should pay for their mistakes. Well that sounds perfectly fair to me.

Let's talk about sex. Babies.

With a heavy heart the government admitted last week that more needed to be done to stem the tide of teenage pregnancies. Without wanting to bore you with statistics, the upshot is that the numbers are falling, just not fast enough.

Back in 1998 Tony Blair's cabinet had confidently pledged to halve teenage pregnancies by 2010. Sadly, our yo-yo knickered youth had other plans, and they involved Primark maternity pants and second-hand prams.

Unsurprisingly, self-appointed moral guardians are rushing to their word processors to stick the cyber boot in, and in the process giving single parents, council estates and acne a good kicking too.

At the front of the queue, brandishing a temperance spoon and a stiff upper-lip, is Jan Moir - the crinkle-faced gay-hater. You see, when she's not busy exhuming corpses and conducting her own autopsy to determine the real cause of death, Jan likes to impose her moral viewpoint with today's youth.

Writing with grim predictability, Jan rounds up all the usual suspects - loose women, benefit cheats, poor people - and tells them all how bleak and unfulfilling their lives are. But rather than trying to think about the complexity and nuance of the issues at hand, Jan just wants to take a pop at New Labour.

She's disappointed that the number of teen pregnancies has only dropped from 46,000 to 40,000 since 1998. Although it's curious that she doesn't bother to address why the statistics were so high at the beginning of this government's time in power. Perhaps it's because that would have meant analysing the Conservatives' sex education fails.

Jan's far more concerned with what she calls "the Government's morally lax teenage pregnancy strategy" which has made "deterrent... a dirty word". Right-wing commentators are always quick to decry "the invasion of school classrooms by supposedly educational smut" - because they believe, foolishly, that if you keep schtum the problem will go away.

It's all nonsense of course, but we're talking about political agendas here, not the health and well-being of young people.

But there's still an outstanding conundrum here that needs reconciling. Given the amount of sex education that the government has introduced in the last decade or so, why aren't pregnancy rates dropping more aggressively?

As the debate currently stands, there are two schools of thought - button your lip or talk dirty 24/7. But neither of these options address the cultural issues which are really responsible for Britain having the highest teen pregnancy rates in Europe.

As long as sex is associated with 'dirty words' and 'smut' the problem will never go away. Tell teenagers they shouldn't be doing something and they'll have done it three times before you've even finished articulating the thought.

Just take a look at the Netherlands, which has a much healthier attitude towards reproduction - an adult toy in every Happy Meal and topless scene in every news report. They also manage to enjoy the lowest teenage pregnancy rate in the West, as well as the lowest rates of sexually transmitted diseases among young people.

According to Jan, our problems can all be traced back to the fact that no-one is saying to young girls "Look, young lady, just don't have sex. It is not appropriate. At your age, it will have awful repercussions and it may wreck your life."

But that's precisely why the Dutch have managed to accomplish something that countless successive British governments have failed at. Because their sex education programme focuses on the repercussions, rather than attempting to define 'appropriate' behaviour.

Who's sorry now?

It's interesting that, on the eve of p0pvulture's first birthday, a story has dominated the front pages of every major newspaper - one that throws up important questions about the very nature of celebrity, and the relationship we have with those who spend their lives in the unforgiving glow of its spotlight.

Tiger Woods gave an extraordinary press conference yesterday, in which he talked about values, integrity and entitlement. The purpose of this internationally broadcast mea culpa was to demonstrate the depth of Tiger's regret for his self-destructive behaviour.

It's easy to scoff at someone who claims to be in rehab for sex-addiction. In a culture that thrives on victimhood, it seems like a clever way of claiming 'diminished responsibility' for simply being unable to keep it in one's pants.

But Tiger's act of atonement seemed much more sincere and carefully crafted than the majority of half-hearted, mealy-mouthed apologies that usually pop up whenever a sportsman is found to be playing in the 'away' kit. Then again, perhaps the scale of Tiger's misadventures warranted a more considered response.

When the story first broke about Tiger's Herculean libido, everyone was aghast that someone so driven and focused could have imploded on such a massive scale. This was like the Hadron Large Collider of celebrity sex scandals.

As more and more cocktail waitresses and porn stars came out of the woodwork to claim their 15 minutes of limelight, the story took on its own snowball-like momentum. Albeit one that managed to smash its way through an Alpine lap-dancing bar on its irrevocable descent.

Our delirious press couldn't believe its luck. Here, at last, was a story that allowed them to indulge both their iconoclastic tendencies, and their propensity for misogynistic character assassination. In their eyes, no-one could escape this story unscathed. Tiger was portrayed as an arrogant, deceitful letch, his wife Elin Nordegren a golf-club wielding spouse batterer, and all the other women as homewrecking alley cats.

Since then, Tiger's been keeping a low profile, attempting to repair the damage done to his reputation, his marriage and his Escalade. Clearly needing some time to himself to get his life in order, Tiger found his corporate sponsors more than willing to facilitate his solitude.

So it was interesting to see him standing in front of all those cameras yesterday, apologising to the world. Despite the fact that his contrition was palpable and genuine, it was clearly insufficient for some. A column in the Boston Herald ran with the headline "Hey, Tiger Woods: Apology not accepted" - as though it's up to the rank and file to confer forgiveness for the transgressions of our public figures.

Did Tiger Woods owe the world an apology? Has he let us all down by having about as much self-control as a morbidly obese diner attacking the all-you-can-eat buffet?

There are certainly people to whom he needs to apologise, not least the sponsors he misled and the family he betrayed. But as for the rest of us, is our emotional state really tied up in the morality of our sporting legends, or any other celebrity for that matter?

Perhaps we owe him an apology. After all, our insatiable hunger for gory details and tawdry exposes can't have helped matters. But more importantly, we have all helped to create a cult of celebrity that convinces those who achieve it that they answer to different standards than the rest of us.

As Tiger said yesterday: "I knew my actions were wrong. But I convinced myself that normal rules didn't apply... I thought I could get away with whatever I wanted to. I felt that I had worked hard my entire life and deserved to enjoy all the temptations around me. I felt I was entitled. Thanks to money and fame, I didn't have far -- didn't have to go far to find them."

Writing in The Independent today, James Lawton commented that Tiger's apology made it clear that he "had done wrong and wanted to do better". Here's hoping we can say the same.

Another pain in the neck

Oh dear, the Daily Mail is on the warpath again, and this time it's brandishing a sharpened stake and a vial of holy water. Always last to the party, the Mail has finally stumbled upon Alan Ball's innovative vampire soap True Blood, after the rest of the country has already watched the show, read the book, bought the DVD and even tried the tie-in juice drink.

In a hilariously old-fashioned article, columnist Olivia Lichtenstein laments this "shocking tale of depravity, explicit sexuality and vile language" which represents "Channel 4's latest attempt to seduce us". She's particularly distressed by the graphic sex scenes which she believes "border on the deviant", without ever spelling out what that means.

But this is the Daily Mail after all, spiritual home of the awkward euphamism. Lichtenstein even describes "a young woman pleasuring a young man" - leaving her readers none-the-wiser. Does this mean she's baking him a Victoria sponge or washing his car?

Having regaled her readers with the premise of the show, Lichtenstein switches her focus to the responsibility of the broadcasters. Apparently, airing the programme after the watershed isn't enough, since "tens of thousands of children under 16 are still watching TV".

According to her slightly skewed logic, a bunch of studies in the US (none of which she references) have shown that teens who see sex on TV are more likely to have sex themselves. However, she doesn't bother to make the point that sexually active kids who have been exposed to sex beforehand, might be better educated on the necessary precautions than those entering into sexual maturity in an educational vaccuum.

We may have a watershed in the UK, but that's not enough for the would-be book burners at the Mail, since content is readily accessible on the internet. And as Lichtenstein points out, parents can't always find the time to monitor their children's media consumption. It's not their fault of course, it's the "breakdown of the traditional family" that makes it so hard to supervise children.

But she has a plan: "I think it's high time we...should all think about how to protect the minds of the young before they become so desensitised that they regard as the norm behaviour which is, essentially, abnormal."

Ultimately, I can't help but feel a little sorry for Lichtenstein. After all, she was clearly born into the wrong era and even makes Mary Whitehouse sound like a party slut. She claims that she's open-minded, and yet she longs for the kind of sexual sobriety that only the Hays Code could love: "I am far from being a prude, but I find myself longing for the days when, in a movie, if a couple were kissing or lying on a bed, they had to keep one foot on the ground." Now that's abnormal.