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Sometimes I've been to a party where no one spoke to me for a whole evening. The men, frightened by their wives or sweeties... the ladies would gang up in a corner and discuss my dangerous character.

Marriage is for women the commonest mode of livelihood, and the total amount of undesired sex endured by women is probably greater in marriage than in prostitution.

I was with this girl the other night and from the way she was responding to my skillful caresses, you would have sworn that she was conscious from the top of her head to the tag on her toes.

A woman's dress should be like a barbed-wire fence: serving its purpose without obstructing the view.

The thing is, most of the time when you're coming pretty close to doing it with a girl - a girl that isn't a prostitute or anything, I mean - she keeps telling you to stop. The trouble with me is, I stop. Most guys don't. I can't help it. You never know whether they really want you to stop, or whether they're just scared as hell, or whether they're just telling you to stop so that if you do go through with it, the blame'll be on you, not them. Anyway, I keep stopping.

My weaknesses have always been food and men - in that order.

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But big people's illnesses are always made to sound big. The simple shutting and opening of the royal arse-hole was made to sound as if the world was coming to an end.

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A Turk for toughness, for hands that never tire; An Indian for her rounded bosom bursting with milk; A Persian for her tight crotch and her coquetry; An Uzbeg to thrash as a lesson for the three.

My mind is no dirtier than most men's. I am honest and I say it. Fantasising is a common phenomenon and there's no censorship here.

No, love is an ephemeral and illusive concept, it doesn't last; lust lasts.