Lo, how the mighty have fallen. Cosmopolitan, once billed as the go-to resource for women's fashion and sex advice has now taken up issues like gun control, the Winter Olympics and Selena Gomez's kidney. Never having set foot in their newsroom, I can't claim that I've been-there-done-that, but somehow I've always imagined it to be on the lines of the Playboy mansion. Sultry models flouncing around in various stages of undress, moans of pleasure filtering over the hum of the espresso machine, the wit and wisdom of Bhagwan Rajneesh emanating from concealed speakers… you get the picture? While this may seem over the top, it appears to be the only rational explanation for the sheer nuclear heat of their prose. Cosmo women like Colleen Rush - celebrated author of radioactive pieces such as "8 Ways to go Wild with your Mate" - must draw inspiration from their workplace. Unless her meltdown, shred-his-boxers-with-your-teeth-style is inspired by the staff canteen. That's probably it, I think. At lunchtime its smoked salmon and a glass of Chablis for Colleen while we hacks send Ramu out for bisibele bath.
Check out this purple passage from Ms. Rush which draws extensively on the sexual habits of the animal kingdom and perhaps you will be able to shed some light on the question, 'Upon what meat doth this our Colleen feed that she done write so dirty?' I ain't jiving you, bro. Poor old Khushwant Singh's lusty leopard photographs in the sepia-toned pages of the Illustrated Weekly look positively anaemic in comparison. "Cosmo investigated the steamier side of savage seduction to find out the bedroom tips that'll bring out the beast in you…and have him panting, purring and howling for more. Get him to earn your loving. The female octopus won't consider tangling up with a male until his normal, neutral-coloured skin gets all striped and bumpy", gushed our Colleen.
Men who delude themselves into believing they are getting a head-start by reading Cosmo should stick to the fashion advice or Selena's kidney. My good friend, Rum Mesh, an investment banker, came across Coleen's article in the dentist's waiting room at a particularly crucial time. His love life had been following the Sensex, if you catch my drift, so he invested in a leather strop in a manly attempt to get his skin all striped and bumpy. Post-the-Rush-treatment, he was in such acute agony that any touch - from the feathered, antiseptic, healing touch of his dermatologist to the amorous grasp of his missus provoked loud howls of anguish. As Ms Gurley Brown, the magazine's founder may have said, "Real men don't eat quiche or show their pain."
"Make love a 24-hour mindset, not a 30-minute activity. Bonobo apes grope, tease and touch each other every 5 minutes. Pinch your guy's butt or pretend to reach for something over him and absentmindedly balance yourself on his lap." Now I'm as broadminded as L.K. Advani, but this kind of advice is irresponsible journalism. Colleen, you need to chill, babe, or at the very least, your articles should be scanned by a doctor - preferably an orthopaedician. Poor Rum Mesh had barely got back from the dermatologist who asked him a whole load of embarrassing questions before prescribing Lacto Calamine, when his partner skipped the butt-pinching and went for the absent-minded balancing. Shiver me timbers, as Long John Silver may have said. While the pinch may have prompted some sort of evasive action, in his enfeebled er Octopussy condition, he was caught totally unawares. Without getting into detail, let's just say that the "accidentally-on-purpose" balancing act by his well-nourished missus caused severe and lasting damage to the family jewels.
"Wake the neighbours," advises Ms. Rush in a cavalier manner that makes one wonder whether she spells her surname with an "a". "The male humpback whale courts his mate by singing love songs so loud they can be heard miles away. Make some noise to declare your rhapsody - scream, moan, groan and make dirty innuendos even if you are nowhere near your man's Moby Dick." Can you imagine what this tigress would be like if they let her loose in Bollywood? Chaiyan Chaiyan would never be the same. Film City would dissolve - there'd just be this pure, savage moment of unbridled ecstasy and then kaboom. Dhak-dhak at 90 decibels, to the tune of the beached whale…the imagination boggles.
Poor Rum Mesh; in order to stay out of harm's way, he has had to change dentists thanks to the latter's careless choice of reading material in the waiting room.
