As noted in a recent news article, P.Diddy recently told the London Icon (read: the world) that while on his trip to Paris, after visiting the Eiffel Tower and drinking champagne, he and his girlfriend Kim Porter,

…went up to my suite and had tantric sex for at least 30 hours, ordering up whipped cream and strawberries while we were at it.

Evidently, this is newsworthy and of significance to the masses. Because we care. So much.

I’m left wondering why is this information, fact or fiction, being splashed across my screen? Why did I read every word? Surely I’m not searching for some magical secret that Diddy possesses, for there are few things if any that I would want to do for 30 hours, outside of breathing, and that includes sex. I chafe at the very thought. Moreover, I cringe at the presses’ collaboration with his need to boast. It’s not news, it’s not relevant, it serves no purpose other than to help sustain one man’s ego. But Diddy is hardly alone in his need to exploit his prowess to global media.

The infamous tell-all of Wilt (I balled over 20,000 women) Chamberlain has become an institution in popular culture, as has Sting’s now old hat claim to have spent tens of hours in the throes of tantric mating rituals. And we the public suck it up, taking in the revelations of celebs and raising ever higher their cult of personality flags. There is no such thing as bad press, just unnecessary press. Although, when one’s business is directly related to being talked about, there is a worthwhile argument for airing one’s tales of carnal heroism. Sex sells.

However, what works for the luminaries does not work in the private sector. Men swapping tales of their sexual prowess is best left in high school lockers; it’s only barely acceptable behavior there because we’re all undergoing our first forays into the experience and it’s kind of for posterity that we report back on our reconnaissance missions. Flip side to that coin: this is the domain where certain girls’ slutty reputations are born.

Past the senior year, all the act of talking about one’s sex life results in is the individual becoming a barely-tolerated boor. A private exchange between two old friends is one thing, but anything beyond that is a serious mark of immaturity on the part of the braggart, and undeniably indicative of insecurity.

Having spent ten years as a bartender, I’ve been witness to countless displays of this social vulgarity and the resulting fallout. Regaling one’s own triumphs between the sheets is not classy, not cool, off-putting, and unpleasant for others.

Being talked about, on the other hand, having someone else regale your wondrous bedroom abilities, that’s a whole other matter.

Bottom line: If yours is a horn worth tooting, let someone else blow it for you.

Diddy claims he had sex for 30 hours [news.ninemsn.com.au]