First Date Envy

A man who is where I was 15 years ago (entering singledom) gave me some insights around his dating experiences. Once I admit my career as a writer, stories like these start flowing. I’m all ears — big fucking sprouting-hair-where-they-should-not ears. I cut to the chase.

“How often do you get laid on your first date?”

“Shit, man, all the time.”


“Yep. I had five first dates last week and banged three of them.”

“Where do you find these women? I thought Sluts ‘R’ Us closed.”

“Man, you know. Usually Bumble. You ain’t gettin’ laid on first dates?”

“Um, no. Since I rarely make it to the second date, let alone third date, I’m usually left cuddling my wine glass.”

Granted, back in my forties, vagina access was more frequently granted. Could have been my fancy car and condo. Might have been my tighter skin and smaller nose and belly. Maybe I wasn’t as salty back then. Maybe I was more confident. Chicks dig confident. Fuck if I know.

Perhaps by picking this young buck’s brain, I could find my way out of the drought. I pressed him.

“So, where are you banging these first dates? Do you take them back to your place?”

“Sometimes. I usually try to go to theirs, in case they turn out psycho. Two of them last week I did in the truck.”

“You had sex in the truck. Where?”

“Well, not in the bed. It’s fucking cold, and I keep my work shit there.”

“I mean ‘where’ as in where your truck is when you have sex.”

“Oh. Usually right there in the parking lot outside the bar where we met.”

“You are my hero. Explain to me, if you will, how you get them from that first sip of Chard to straddling you in the passenger seat.”

“Well, the alcohol helps. I just make sure I make eye contact, listen, and tell her how pretty she is.”

“… and you play some Barry White.”


“Nevermind. Dating myself. Fuck. That should be my next book title, Dating Myself. Goddamn it.”

I admit this was a good looking fellow — trucker hat, a little scruff, and had all his teeth. It was a little like visiting the ghost of Phil’s fruitful dating days past. Even back then, though, the sex on the first date thing was rare for me. Basically, my thought was, if she was someone I connected with, I couldn’t have sex on the first date because that would mean she is loose, like me. There certainly could be all sorts of kissing and groping, but no penetration.

I continued.

“Do you respect these women who have sex with you on the first date, or is that it? Aren’t you worried they do it with every first date?”

“Nah. Practice makes perfect, right?”

“It also spreads chlamydia.”

“You’re too uptight, dude. Chicks expect you to try to have sex with them right away. If you don’t do that, they think you’re not into them. Then, you just wasted twenty bucks on dinner and drinks.”

“First, whatever happened to courtship? Second, where the fuck do you get dinner and drinks around here for twenty bucks?”

“I ain’t taking them to any high-class joint until I know they’re worth it. Dinner and drinks are courtship.”

“More like foreplay.”


This little convo has convinced me to adjust my approach. I shall be more aggressive, make my desires known, and humbly accept any first-date vaginas tossed my way. Don’t hold your breath.

Sexuality—All Flavors Are Delicious


We are gradually moving away from defining people by their sexual preferences. That’s wonderful, right? We really have no reason to care about another person’s preference. Yet, when I take personal inventory in the sense of, “How do I feel about …?,” I do find some interesting results.

For example, if the woman I’m dating tells me she’s into women, I’m not bothered; heck, I’m downright gleeful, as long as she’s also into me. I admire this woman. She has twice as many options as I do. Granted, if she has taken on a female lover because of a sexual inadequacy on my part, that’s disturbing. I’d want to fix that shit … yesterday. But, if she occasionally enjoys a female touch, I understand and concur whole-bonerly.

When I spin this arrangement, things become curious. I bet my woman would not be as comfortable if I confessed to liking the occasional sausage in my sexual diet. Why? Is it an internal thing? Is it because she’s worried about my sausage being dirty places? Fine. What if I’m a bottom-only boy? Would she approve? Perhaps. I suppose she could strap one on and deliver the goods. Still, she almost certainly won’t be tickled over the concept.

Aside from having twice the choice in partners, the other perceived benefit to bi-sexuality is the possibility of a threesome. Yes, I realize that is possible with straight people, but I’m not referring to what I call shish kabobbing. The more enjoyable threesome (never had one, piss me off) would have each of the three players involved with the other two. A friend insists they don’t work because somebody gets more attention, causing jealousy.

So, as legendary as it would be for Mr. Straight to be with two bisexual ladies, I’m predicting it would be a bit ew-y if it were a straight woman with two bi males. Look, I know I’m a naive rookie in this arena. Am I off base? I think not.

I just find the whole sex thing interesting. The best part is where the line is drawn, because it’s unique for each of us. The worst part is I think about this shit all day, and don’t get my goddamn laundry folded before it wrinkles.

One more rant.

How would you feel, ladies, if you came home to find your man having sex with the neighbor’s 18-year-old daughter and her friend? Shitty, right? Oh, he’s definitely getting the boot. Fine. What if he’s masturbating while spying on those two making a lick soufflé? A serious offense, no doubt, but possibly not terminal. What if you catch him in the shower backing into a suction cupped dildo while screwing a fleshlight? (Sort of a threesome.) That’s some prime kinkery right there, but I’m not sure you’d shut him down. Finally, what if you caught him judging a two-headed dildo tug of war? He’s not involved in the competition. He’s just watching carefully to see which side of the bed the center flag crosses. Oh, and he’s wearing zebra stripes and has one of those fancy ring whistles. I see you wrinkling your nose. Whatever.

Can we all agree to be less uptight about this? It’s just a little pleasure between friends—scratching an itch for a buddy, so to speak. Like after a hot shower, heavy bong hit, or Cadillac margarita, we’re all happier after an orgasm. How we get there is nobody’s business.

The Hornier Games

hornierI spent Thanksgiving morning nursing a horrible hangover (induced by Crown Royal) while I watched the second installment of The Hunger Games. I enjoyed the books, and appreciate the movies because they stay pretty close to the story in the books. Throw in some cool effects and talented actors, and what’s not to like? Some people told me they found the concept too dark and violent. The whole kids killing kids thing makes people uneasy. Go figure.

So, since I am a man with an active imagination that mostly centers around sex (still), I thought, Self, why not conceive of a similar plot with less blood and more nookie? Surely, I can put my heads to work. There needs to be one slight change to sneak this one past the MPAA: the competitors are all 18+, and they’ve all been drug-tested. No PEDs allowed.

OK, let’s stay close to the storyline of the original, having 24 competitors randomly chosen from 12, umm, universities–one man, one woman from each. We’ll place them in an area–a busy public one–a mall! Yes! The object is for the couples to copulate in as many different places as possible, without being caught in the act. (I’m borrowing parts of this from Opie & Anthony’s Sam Adams Sex Contest, which was so brilliant that it brought me to tears.)

Let’s set up ground rules.

  • Lubricants are permissible.
  • Contestants must shave their nay-nays first.
  • Nobody wants to see man-butt, so they’re wearing boxers under sweatpants, and we’re reserving spots on the back for sponsors. Hey, Geico? Call me.
  • There’s immediate disqualification for doing it in a public restroom, or within ten feet of a minor.
  • Each team will be assigned a cut-man. You never know.

Points are accumulated as such:

  • Hand on private for ten seconds: 1 point.
  • Mouth on private for ten seconds: 2 points.
  • Penetration: 3 points.
  • In da butt: 1 extra point, and a moist towelette.

Bonus points are awarded based on the location of the sexual activity.

  • In a car: 0 points, you low-ambition-having motherfucker.
  • While leaning against a bike rack: 1 point.
  • In a dressing room: 0.25 points.
  • In a booth at a restaurant while eating hot wings: 2 points.
  • While riding around on the security guard’s Segway: 5 points.
  • On the roof: 1 point.
  • In a theater: 0.25 points.
  • In the Bose store while testing headphones: 2 points.
  • At an outdoor table at Starbucks: 1 point.
  • While trying on, cross-dressing in Old Navy clothing, one size too small: 3 points.

Penalty points will be deducted for:

  • Spitting: -1 point.
  • Condom breakage or slippage: -2 points.
  • Sex in a church, chapel, or synagogue: immediate disqualification. (As little the shit is that I give, I just don’t have the money to cover legal expenses on this one. Sorry.)
  • If any child points and says, “Look, Mommy.”: -3 points.
  • Arrest: -1 point.
  • Visible, measurable male ejaculate on any carpeted surface: -5 points. (I have a black light, people. Don’t test me.)

All right. Let the games begin! The second installment shall be called The Hornier Games: Catching Cold (winter games of sorts–Russian women, perhaps), and the final installment, The Hornier Games: Cockinvajay.

Everything you ever wanted to know about men, but were afraid to ask.

When about mensugary sweetness straddles a bar stool next to me, I often break the ice with, “How’s your love life?” Note that I’m careful to do some reconnaissance before deploying that line, and having it answered by an angry husband. People rarely admit to having a shitty relationship. It’s a flaw–a sign of poor decision-making skills. But I know better, so I pry further. Eventually, I get the answer I expect.

“I just don’t understand men.”

“Ah, well, I’m here to help. What would you like to know?”

“Can a man ever be loyal?”

“Which man?”

“Any man.”

“Certainly. Your question, though, is better expressed as, ‘Can a man remain loyal as long as I’m interested in him.'”

“No. Most guys can’t resist other women, even when all is fine with their current relationships.”

“Sure, we can. It all depends on how sexually exhausted you keep us.”

“Sex, sex, sex. Is that really all men think about all day?”



“Sometimes we think about sports, beer, cars, and food, but mostly sex in any combination therewith. Come on, admit it. You think about sex, too … and shopping.”

“Sure, but not all the time.”

“We can’t help it. If I see partial boob, I want to see the rest. If I see the entire boob, I want to touch it. If I touch a boob, I want to kiss it, and the one next to it. And, so on.”


“Sad? Really? Think about it. If you were to pop a boob out of that lovely top, and my reaction was, ‘Nice gland. Barkeep, may I have a Greyhound,’ you’d be devastated.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Me neither.”

“What would you do?”

“A happy dance. I perfected it Christmas of sixty-six when I received my first Big Wheel.”

“What’s a Big Wheel?”

“That’s not important. Look, if a fit gentleman exposed a bit of his chiseled abdomen, you’d want to see more.”

“Yes, but not necessarily his penis … yet. And, if he did expose himself, I wouldn’t want to touch it … probably wouldn’t. I certainly wouldn’t want to kiss it. I mean, after we dated a while, maybe. But, not right away.”

“Ah, well you bring up an interesting topic. May I ask you a question about women?”

“I don’t think I got a straight answer from you about men, but go ahead.”

“How is a guy supposed to know what to do during a blow job?”


“I try to avoid controversial topics at the bar. No religion or politics from me. No, siree.”

“Fine. OK. How about, just sit back and enjoy it? What do you usually think about?”

“I’m glad you asked. First, I think, YAY! Then, I consider whether this blow job is intended as warmup–penis inflation, so to speak–or, am I supposed to ejaculate?”

“My god.”

“It’s a potentially hazardous situation, my dear. Not that my ejaculate is toxic. I mean, if she wants me to finish, but I don’t think she does, I’ll spend most of the time creating mental diversions. If she doesn’t want to finish, but I do, I’ll see the disappointment in her glazed face.”

“Lovely. So, next time, why don’t you ask?”

“Awkward, but I’ll try. See? Being a man is so difficult. If you’re on the receiving end of oral pleasure, you can come all you want. No need to distract yourself. You have it easy.”

“Aw, poor fella.”

Career Woman – Relationship not required.

SidedishI met a self-proclaimed career woman last night. She educated me on the fine art of juggling men without falling in love with any of them. I was fascinated. It was one of the rare times when sweet femininity was obscured by evil male traits.

“I’m concentrating on my career. That’s what’s important to me right now. I don’t have time for love.”

“So, you’re not dating?”

“I’m dating. Met two different guys last week, and I have an arrangement with a third.”

“Arrangement? He walks your dog while you’re away?”

“No, silly. Sex. No strings attached.”

“Wow, that sure beats pet-sitting.”

“I know! This way I don’t have a needy guy distracting me. I have a great opportunity at work, which doesn’t come around that often for someone my age. I need to nail it, then I can consider actually dating someone.”

“Ah. So, these guys just deliver orgasms and leave?”

“Sometimes. In fact, I gave one a heads-up that I was coming here tonight, so it isn’t awkward if we run into each other.”

“Why would it be awkward? Sounds to me like it would be convenient.”

“What if I’m here with another guy? I wouldn’t want him to feel weird.”

“Isn’t that the point of the arrangement: We’re not allowed to feel weird about anything non-sexual?”


“Ugh. He and you. I don’t feel weird about much other than stepping barefoot in cat puke.”

“Interesting. I mean, if one of us is out, and the other is on a date at the same place, it can be weird. I really wouldn’t give a shit, but he might.”

“So, he likes you.”


“What about the other two guys? Don’t they like you?”

“Well, I haven’t been able to hook up with the one yet. Our schedules are off kilter.”

“And, I bet that’s the guy you’re most anxious to hook up with.”


“All right. To summarize, you want to climb the corporate ladder, and enjoy a little penetration on the side, in the way that some would enjoy going to a movie–you want to be entertained for a few hours, and left to return home without a male barnacle.”


“You’re pretty fucking awesome.”

“I know.”

The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance.

signals(quote by Aristotle)

No matter how long you’ve been with your mate, there’s somewhat of a communication gap, and it most likely concerns sex. One of you is in the mood; one isn’t. One expects the other to initiate; the other worries that initiation will be shut down. One expects a certain level of kinkiness; one is exhausted and prefers the ordinary.

Being unmarried for quite some time now (almost ten years), I don’t have to worry about sending smoke signals to my roommate. My friends do entertain me with their solutions to the age-old disconnect. Let’s face it, most men will leap at any chance to ejaculate. Therefore, it’s usually the woman who needs to signal the man that she’s open for funny business.

“My wife gives me a clear signal. It works out well.”

“Let me guess. She says, ‘You can fuck me tonight, if you like.'”

“No, a bit more subtle.”

“She grabs your junk?”

“What if we’re out in public? More subtle.”

“She raises a mailbox flag on her side of the bed?”


“Flameless candles?”

“It’s quite simple: She wears her hair up when she wants to have sex.”

“Ah, brilliant! But, wait. What if her hair is down, and your balls are burstin’ for some good lovin’. No can do?”

“Well, it depends. In that case I usually ask.”

“I think she should incorporate earrings into the signals.”

“How so?”

“If she prefers you do some licky-licky before entry, she can wear lavender earrings. (The ‘L’ thing, not to be confused with ‘P’ as in purple, as in pee on me in the shower.) She can wear brown for …”

“Butt sex?”

“Easy, camper. I was going for blow job.”

“Ah. Still, I like where this is heading.”

“Nice choice of words, amigo. She can wear red if she wants you to toss her around a bit. R as in rough. Red earrings means bring hot wax, wooden spoons, and a spray bottle.”

“A spray bottle?”

“What? Don’t tell me you’ve never tried the spray bottle.”

“Only to keep the cats off the counters.”

“Fill the bottle with tequila and have yourself a vagarita.”


Naturally there are other signals that can be incorporated. Use your imagination, my sweet. Avoid the lazy ways, such as sending emoticons.

===> ( ! ) ?

This makes me wonder if we should all be giving signals in the singles bars. Obviously, we can’t use hair up or down as a signal. Misinterpretation could result in beer baths. Perhaps a certain type of glass or a charm at the base of a wine glass could connote whether the drinker happens to be tingly in the panties. Food choice often provides some insight. If he’s slurping down oysters, especially hands-free, chances are he’s up for heading south on a girl who’s game. If she’s got the stem of a beer bottle label-deep, she’s probably up for numbing her gag reflex with a flesh probe.

Then again, perhaps it’s best to begin the old-fashioned way with “Could I have this dance?”

We must travel in the direction of our fear.

directions(quote by John Berryman)

Why won’t men ask for directions? Because, to do so strips us of a sliver of manhood each time. We boldly go forth, and confidently proclaim “we’ll get there.” This draws ire and confusion from ladies and children.

“Mom, why are we driving around the block?”

“Because your father is too stubborn to ask for directions.”

“But, don’t we have nav? On-Star? Cell phones?”

“Your father prefers to use his finely tuned Scooby Sense.”

Never is this male flaw more alarming than in the bedrooms of America.

“Chad spent five minutes licking my belly button before he realized he was a bit northerly.”

“That’s nothing. John once fucked the sheets, thinking he was inside me the whole time. You should have seen his brush burns.”

Directions and guidance come in most handily in that moment between foreplay and insertion. (I’ve poked quite a few taints in my day; I am thereby qualified to discuss this matter, people.) Time is of the essence when Pokey Joe is attempting entry. Significant delay can kill the moment by loss of turgidity or lubrication, both necessary to arrive at intended destination.

  1. Man climbs on top, takes stab one. If successful, man is revered (in his own mind), repeating the phrase, “Look, no hands!” Skip following steps.
  2. Man thrusts. Penis pokes left upper thigh.
  3. Man thrusts. Penis pokes pelvic bone above intended target.
  4. Man thrusts. Penis nearly enters anus. Woman’s fist nearly meets man’s throat.
  5. Man thrusts. Penis overshoots the area and lands in the grassy pubis of woman with rapidly dwindling patience.
  6. Man thrusts. Penis pokes right upper thigh.
  7. Man’s arms falling asleep. Man kisses neck to catch a breather.
  8. Impatient, unimpressed, woman licks fingers, wipes healthy wad of spit on tip of man’s penis, places the tip in the vaginal entrance, hoping the klutz can find his way into a room when confronted by a wide-open door.
  9. Man thrusts. Bingo.
  10. Woman rolls eyes.

There’s no subsequent post-game discussion between the man and woman. (There’s plenty of discussion between the woman and her besties; however, the man strikes it from memory.) This is unfortunate. Relationships are all about communication.

One obvious solution would be to leave the lights on, and have the clod watch what he’s doing. So much for the mood. Another would be to hand the keys to the lady and place her in charge of insertion when ready. That could work, but after a taxing day at the office, sometimes a girl just wants to lie back and be penetrated. I suppose I could invent a vagina funnel to make taint-poking less likely. It would resemble the cone dogs wear to keep them from biting at wounds. Unsexy. My bad.

Perhaps the most logical solution is to begin each coupling with woman on top. She can reach down or around and guide things while he concentrates on squeezing boobs. Man on top is too much like Battleship. I wonder if Siri could be of assistance.

“A little more to the left, Romeo.”

In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.

towelette(quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson)

I just read on MSN about an Italian woman who just turned 101. Her daily diet includes two glasses of wine with lunch, a glass of Southern Comfort before dinner, and a can of Bud after dinner. This lovely specimen must have genetic ties to me, because I plan on living to 101, and gathering quite a few souvenir corks along the way. Fermentation makes life more interesting. Sure, I could replace that evening beverage with an iced tea, but then there’s the caffeine-at-night thing. Plus, I’d lose the most convenient excuse for the silly things I say and do. I can’t very well defend licking a stranger’s neck by offering a plea of “high on tea.”

Place an alcoholic beverage in front of me, and nothing is boring. When I begin to drift or feel a yawn approaching, I simply bring glass to lip and sip. No story is too long, too often repeated, or too far-fetched. Wine makes it fine.

Then there’s sex. As long as the sex doesn’t include a sober, no-fun person, it’s better on the rocks. Kindly ignore the beer burps, and enjoy the ride.

“Hey, you know (hic) what? I wanna do it doggie-style.”

“So, you want me to do it with one leg up, or would you like me to chew your ear like hide?”

“Stop, silly. I mean the position. Get behind me.”

“Fuck, I’m dizzy.”

“If you throw up on my back, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Right. Hey, wait a minute. I think I need a pillow.”


“We aren’t aligning properly. I think I’ve spent the last five minutes fucking your knee-pit.”


“It’s not entirely awful, actually.”

“Here, I’ll guide you.”

“Ah, there we go. Hold on. We’re off rhythm.”


“I mean, I’m thrusting while you’re going forward. Since this is doggie, maybe I should leash you. Grrrowl!”

“You’re not leashing me. Here, grab my hips.”

“Oh, then there’s that way–the more conventional, sober, unmemorable way.”

“All right. How can we make it better, mister?”


“Ouch! Fucker!”

“You like that, don’t you, you naughty little girl.”

“No, that hurt.”

“Did not.”


“Hey! One more time, and I’ll pull your balls so hard you’ll be able to see out of your scrotum.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Let’s try another position. Get on top of me.”

“I’m dizzy again, and I think my Willy is caught. I’m stuffing sheets into your holy area.”

“Great. Lift up. All better. I’ll put this pillow under my butt to help you out.”

“Good idea. Hey, that’s my pillow.”


“OK, let’s do this.”


“Yes, darling.”

“What did the caddy say to the horrible golfer?”

“I give up.”

“Wrong hole!”

“Ha ha ha, that’s funny … oh, shit. Sorry.”

“That’s OK, but now you have to wash it off before it goes where it belongs.”

“Can you clean it for me?”


“Ugh. Now I have to wait until the water gets warm. Say, do we have any moist towelettes? Oh my god. I just had an idea for a great invention. Bedside sex wipes!”

“While you’re up, Mr. Newton, think you can discover my wine glass?”

“Just remember it’s my idea. No stealzies.”

Once you choose hope, anything’s possible.

cream(quote by Christopher Reeve)

As I crest the mountain of life, I find my brothers loading up on all sorts of substances to keep them on the fun side of the hill. Little blue bills used to be the craze. Now, it’s testosterone cream. Not only are my programs interrupted by erection toting blue hairs, now my friends are extolling the benefits coming from a few dabs of wonder goo.

“Just go to your doctor and say you’re feeling sluggish, and you can’t get your dick hard.”

“But, I can get my dick hard. So can many others.”

“Even so, say what needs to be said so you can get what needs to be had.”

“Whereas most people find it unacceptable to lie to God, godless me thinks it’s even sillier to lie to a doctor.”

“You never feel sluggish? You are never saddened by a semi?”

“Sure, it has happened. In fact, the latter may cause the former by keeping me up most of the night trying to redirect my blood to blind appendages.”

“Then, tell the doc you have a perpetual dangler, and fill the prescription that will make you a new man.”

“How so?”

“You’ll retain more muscle, improve endurance, need fewer naps, and carry around a lead pipe in your pants.”

“Let me guess: The minor side effects include anal bleeding, vomiting, blindness, and frightened fellow bar patrons.”

“Such an insignificant percentage.”

Mom always told me to make a list, because it helps with the decision process. Here’s a list of things I expect to achieve after slathering on the man jelly:

  • Less forehead.
  • Proper tenting of morning sheets.
  • Orgasm number two (puff of dust doesn’t count) within sixty minutes of orgasm number one, which was an epic semen geyser.
  • Hit a baseball out of the infield.
  • A place to keep my new pet parrot.

Reactions I expect to hear:

  • “Ouch.”
  • “If you haven’t yet, would you mind coming soon before you knock my uterus loose?”
  • “Where have you been hiding that thing?”
  • “Where did you get that snake? Roto Cooter?”
  • “Mommy, look at the giraffe.”

I’m worried the increase in testosterone will make me do some crazy things, like wear a tool belt and drink Budweiser. I doubt I’d be able to concentrate while writing. My emails, status updates, and tweets would be overrun by sexual overtones and swear words–I mean, more so than usual. My interactions with members of the service industry would become precarious. Heck, a simple bank deposit could turn into an adventure.

“Hello, Mr. Torcivia. What can I do for you today?”

“I’d like to make a fucking deposit. Sorry. I like fucking. Sorry. Wow, look at my cock. Wait. No. Don’t. Just take my word for it. Tits. I want to see tits. You don’t have tits. Fuck. Sorry, dude. So, anyway, can I put this huge fucking cock–check, into one of your sluts–ugh, slots? Jesus. Yes, I ejaculated–I mean, endorsed it. Thank you. Where are all the single ladies? Ah, not here. Shit. Yes, I want a fucking receipt. Give it to me, baby. Sorry again. I’m a not-so-hot, yet stiff-as-hell mess. You see, I took this cream. I so want to cream all over a huge set of knockers right now. OK, I’m leaving. Please, don’t press that clit–ugh, button. Bye.”

Guess I should stick with cannoli cream.

If you can’t get rid of the skeleton in your closet, you’d best teach it to dance.

puppet(quote by George Bernard Shaw)

The same applies to your spouse. You don’t really want to get rid of him, do you? He’s a decent fellow. Sure, he has some flaws. Who doesn’t? Luckily, you’ve learned how he operates. Being a man, as well as former spouse, I must admit to dancing on the end of strings occasionally. Although my strings are long gone, I watch lovely puppeteers make their men move. Last night one worded it masterfully, as she devised a plan to join the next girls’ night out.

“I’ll fuck my way there.”


“Plus, I’m a bit horny anyway.”

“And, I’m a bit intrigued.”

“Oh, come on. We do the same with pets and children, don’t we? Dangle the reward to get what we want.”

“Woof. Or, do you prefer paw language? One stomp means yes; two means my foot itches.”

“I’ll just do another shot of tequila, then go home and fuck his brains out. Then, while he fades into post-coital bliss, I’ll seek permission to hang out with the ladies tomorrow night.”

“Sounds like you may have used this strategy more than once.”

“Numerous times. You’d be surprised what a blowjob gets me.”

“Would I?”

“He’s putty in my hands, he’s well aware of it, and he has no complaints.”

“Have you considered the possibility that he may be perfectly fine with you going out, even without his glazed wiener?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you could go home tonight and simply express your desire to join the ladies tomorrow. He probably doesn’t mind, but he might furrow his brow, knowing resistance will lower your panties.”

“That’s manipulative.”

“Hello, Miss Pot. Meet Mr. Kettle.”

“It’s easier to just screw him into submission. That way I get something out of it too.”

“Ah, marital bliss. I miss it. Here I sit–the stiff wooden fellow in the corner of her toy closet. Nobody wants to make me dance.”

“Aw. Don’t pout. I’m sure some puppet master will come along and yank you.”


Sexual currency is quite precious, but frequently devalued when presented to the woman. Sad.

“Honey, how about I give you a good beefin’, then you let me join my bros for UFC fight night this weekend?”

“How about you fix the garage door, paint Josh’s room, hire a new gardener, and then I’ll consider it?”

“I’ll throw in a ten-minute foot rub.”

“You’re picking up dinner from PF Chang’s, and folding the laundry. Oh, and don’t forget to pick Josh up from soccer at six.”

“Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

“Yes, Mr. Stewart, you have.”

“I think we should go shopping tonight. How about a few laps around the outlets? I hear BCBG is having a sale.”

“Now we’re talking. Tell you what–we can turn this into an exercise of efficiency. You pick up dinner and Josh while I go shopping. We’ll eat, I’ll model my new blouse, and allow you to make love to me. If you ring my bell, you’ll be free to go.”

“Deal. Wait. How much does that new blouse cost?”

“Three blowjobs, plus tax.”


I am not discouraged, because every wrong attempt discarded is another step forward.

steps(quote by Thomas Edison)

Have you heard of “The 12 Steps to Intimacy,” which came from Intimate Behavior: A Zoologist’s Classic Study of Human Intimacy by Desmond Morris? This definitive guide from sight to wet spots was published in 1971, and it begs for an update. Think how things have changed since Rod Stewart sang about some sleepy tranny named Maggie. Social media at that time (whisper down the school bus) had it that Rod recorded the song, amazingly, with a belly full of man juice. Myth, I say. Anyway, here’s the original list:

Step 1 – Eye to Body
Step 2 – Eye to Eye
Step 3 – Voice to Voice
Step 4 – Hand to Hand
Step 5 – Arm to Shoulder
Step 6 – Arm to Waist
Step 7 – Hand to Head
Step 8 – Face to Face
Step 9 – Hand to Body
Step 10 – Mouth to Body
Step 11 – Body to Body
Step 12 – Full Body Intimacy


Where’s the alcohol? Where’s the lube? Where’s the consultation with friends? Plus, there needs to be two lists–one for ladies and one for men. Allow me to do ladies first (tee hee):

  1. Eye to hair, hands, and height.
  2. Eye to package.
  3. Drink to hand, mouth, and brain.
  4. Hand to own breast meat alignment and enhancement.
  5. Arm to love handles.
  6. Arm to outside of hip, causing forearm to buttocks, and detection of how often man gets off sofa.
  7. Hand to head, searching for velcro.
  8. Face to face, nose to nose, cheek to cheek, lips to lips, tongue to tongue, spit to spit followed by text to friends about his kissing abilities.
  9. Hand to package, detecting size, curvature, and whether it merits further investigation or yet another text to friends about Mr. Cocktail Weenie.
  10. Mouth to package, briefly, to determine if this is a one-way fellow.
  11. Body to body including package to taint, package too close to butt hole, package rubbing on leg, and occasionally semen to thigh and an early goodbye.
  12. Fluids to fluids, fluids to belly, fluids to sheets, or numb package to latex to insufficient clit bumpage to clumsy removal, knottage, and flushage.
  13. Bonus step: Directions to door.

Now, that’s more like it. Naturally, the mangle (man angle) to the steps is slightly askew.

  1. Eye to boobies and butt followed by elbow to buddy’s ribs.
  2. Eye to left ring finger, which, if occupied, causes shoulders to shrug.
  3. Money to bartender, drink to mating option.
  4. Lies to mating option regarding current relationship and financial status as well as intentions.
  5. Arm to leg just above knee, which may result in Nine West Pumps to package, hands to belly, and voice to higher octave.
  6. Hand to hiney while other hand guards package (see step 5).
  7. Hand to head, searching for clip-on horse hair.
  8. Too much tongue to teeth. It happens.
  9. Hand to breast with the intention of finger to nipple, which is often replaced with finger to bra fold.
  10. Finger to honey pot, finger to upper lip, scent to nose, and the rest depends.
  11. Body to body, begging to ears, more lies to ears, bending package to rings outside bulls-eye, condom to fingers, condom wrapper to teeth, condom on backwards, hard cock to semi-hard cock.
  12. Tab A to Slot B, thoughts to grandma’s neck meat, fear of pregnancy and disease to black hole, thanks and praise to tequila, genetic goo to, well, it depends on if she’s a trooper.
  13. Bonus step: man to bathroom, warm water to washrag, washrag (and apologies) to woman’s belly or hair, clothing search in darkness, woman to curb, man to blissful slumber, or
  14. Bonus step: woman to bathroom, sperm to toilet water, woman to bed, woman’s back to soggy man-crotch, man’s nose to hair (which tickles), morning package stuck to skin or sheets, coffee to mug, mug to woman, phone call to boss, and repeat steps 6-12, minus the kissing.

He who demands little gets it.

(quote by Ellen Glasgow)

There are reasons why we have currency instead of promises, the primary one being that people can easily deny making promises, but when you hold evidence, you can rest assured. If someone borrows a hamburger, glass of wine, or wrench from me without handing me a promissory note, that shit is gone–for good. Lesson learned: Demand a receipt, or get little.

Same applies to relationships. I may or may not have heard of or been party to making promises for advance blowjobs, which went unfulfilled. Men will promise almost anything for five minutes of road head. Then, after a good throat coating, the poor women is stuck desperately seeking a breath mint, with little hope of her man reciprocating as she drives his drunk ass home. Now, if she were to obtain one lick-gasm buck from her man before unzipping, he would not be able to deny ever making such promises while falling asleep face-down.

There needs to be love currency, and it should be issued in the state of California so there are no expiration dates. As with other currency, there needs to be exchange rates. Allow me.

  • 1 road head to completion = 1 twenty-minute lapping while she reads Glamour = 1 Coach purse
  • 1 dinner with her two best friends and their husbands = 1 just lie there and let her do all the work = 1 nice bottle of 12-year-old Scotch
  • 1 woman wearing uncomfortable lingerie = 1 man never wearing those tighty-whities and yellowing T-shirt again
  • 1 ten-minute (each) foot massage = 1 toe-curling two-fisted beej with gentle bag fondling
  • 1 evening at the mall = 1 morning quickie without kisses or speaking
  • 1 cleaning of the garage = 1 sex session during the evening news
  • 1 exchange of cars so he can have hers fixed = 1 condom-free kitchen counter boffapalooza
  • 1 couple’s massage = 1 pair of tickets to a pro baseball game, and he can choose whom to take
  • 1 half-marathon = 1 balls deep banging, reverse cowgirl-style, while she rubs Ben-Gay into his sore knees
  • 1 evening with the in-laws = 1 entire evening of topless boobies bouncing back and forth delivering ice cold beer to him as he enjoys the game

The precious metals of sorts, upon which the love currency depends would be, for him:

  • Aluminum – Nipple Exposure
  • Silver – Sex
  • Gold – Blowjob
  • Platinum – Butt Sex

For her:

  • Aluminum – La Crema
  • Silver – Coach
  • Gold – Tiffany
  • Platinum – A quiet bath with fine scents and high water pressure.

This is the way it must be, people. Verbal promises (sometimes referred to as oral promises), have no legal binding, even when witnessed or recorded. If your man promises to eat an entire banana cream pie off your cooter, you need to get that shit in writing, otherwise he might deny it all and hand you a zucchini. If he expects you to fellate him in order for him to suffer through another week of The Bachelor, call your local notary and make it official, otherwise he’ll be done and halfway to the pub before Chris Harrison delivers the first date envelope. In case of a dispute or termination of the relationship, you may be able to cash in that currency with another merchant. Some accept Traveler’s Sex Cheques. Look for that shiny decal in the window.

You are what you think about all day long.

fist(quote by Dr. Robert Schuller)

Ah ha! You are “sex” right now, aren’t you? Naughty, and I like it.

I had no idea who this doctor was, so I Googled his clever butt and, lo and behold, he’s an evangelist. The masses respond: “Of course, he is.” He does the Hour of Power show, clogging televisions and minds across our great nation, especially the southeast quadrant. I doubt this octogenarian lectures people on this topic the way I would. His angle is to make people feel like misbehaving weaklings so he can exploit them. My angle is to tickle brain clits.

Speaking of clits, most of us think about sex often during the day, because we’re horny little fuckers. So what? It’s good for humanity. I think about sex continually (not continuously–there’s a difference) throughout the day. After brewing my double espresso this morning, I had coffee and marketing on the mind. I made a few posts, then pinned a few ditties on Pinterest–all sans boner. Then, I stumbled across a Pinterest board called Lesbian. Can I get an amen from men? Since 7am isn’t too early for stiffness, I decided to take a gander. Side note: Doing so did not make me a lesbian.

Most of the pictures, while quite explicit, are done tastefully. Yet, one set left me scratching my larger head. Please allow me to pontificate.

People, hands do not belong in anuses. In fact, may I suggest that most hands won’t fit in most anuses, hence Nature’s hint they don’t fucking belong there. Furthermore, I suspect some Photoshoppage at work in these photographs, and wonder if the graphic artist’s time would not be better spent making cool Facebook profile backgrounds.

As far as hands in vaginas go, let’s leave that to the experts, shall we? A hand belongs in the vagina if and when a baby needs fetching. Lord knows we don’t want that whole area contorted by a sideways tot. If the baby catcher needs to do alignment before extraction, this is acceptable, and a slender wrist should come in handy.

In my fifty-plus years, similar to a serving of Scotch, I don’t recall a woman asking for more than two fingers. This does remind me of a joke, though, which I shall share with my congregation:

“I want you to put another finger inside me.”

“All right. There you go.”

“Now, all five fingers.”

“Mm, hmm.”

“Ooh, yes. Put your whole hand in there.”

“Here ya go.”

“Now, I want you to put your other hand in there.”

“Really? OK.”

“Nice. Now, clap.”

“I can’t.”

“Tight, huh?”

Lord, I apologize to all those female readers who find my sense of humor to be senseless. Men, if you laugh at that joke it means you’re a joker.

People, please stop fisting each other. There are plenty of other things better suited for insertion, beginning with penises and ending with tubular toys that wiggle and hum. Perhaps we should open a rehab home for those hopelessly addicted to knuckle butt. I’ll get right on that. Now, stop thinking about sex and get to work.

I had a dream … I think.

I found an odd combination of substances causes vivid dreams. Drink Coors Light and piña coladas in the hot desert sun while floating in a pool full of bath water. Add three or four sake bombs (depending on your weight), many rolls of sushi, tequila, and a tightly-rolled, dark-skinned cigar. Then, stumble home and hit the hay, preferably before you hit your nose on the pavement.

“Hey, cutie.”

“Huh? What?”

“Remember me?”

“Fuck. Where … what the … who?”

“From the pool? Melissa?”

“Yes, yes, right. Sorry it’s dark. Wait a minute. How did you get in here?”

“Your roommate gave me the key.”

“Kudos to him. He gets a wingman of the year nomination from me.”

“So. What would you like to do, now that I’m here?”

“Um, bake a cake?”


“Well, I do have the sweetest ingredient.”

“Don’t you want to kiss?”

“Why, sure. I must warn you, though, I smell of fermentation and burned leaves. My penis is also at the perilous stage between being unable to rise to the occasion and unable to return to its original state.”

“Whiskey dick?”

“Something like that.”

“Let’s see what I can do.”

The dream girl peeled down my boxer-briefs and began inflating her love doll (me). I had a tweener. I kept thinking, please, Willy, don’t let me down. Luckily she was quite skilled and Willy rose to the occasion. I never really know for sure if a woman wants me to finish, unless she tells me, which is extremely rare. When she sensed the point of no return was approaching, she climbed back up and whispered to me.

“Do you have a condom?”

“Um, yeah, no.”

“Which is it? Yeah or No?”


“Shame on you. What sort of man goes on vacation without a condom.”

“The fixed kind who is also a low expectation having mother fucker.”

“Hm. That’s a shame.”

“Damn. You just want to sleep now, right?”

“No. I meant it’s a shame that you don’t want to have babies.”


“Well, no, I’m not getting pregnant tonight,” she continued while sliding her thong to the side and inserting me, “because I’m on the pill. I came prepared, Mister.”

The sex was good, I think. Dream sex always is, isn’t it? There are never premature ejaculations in dreams. No people walking in on you. No broken penises or bruised taints. No wet dog’s nose in the mix. No “oops, my period started early.” Dream sex is always awesome, except for the part when you wake up the next morning and realize it was just a dream. Then you limp through a breakfast buffet of runny eggs, stale bacon, and blintzes, wondering if that sort of serendipitous sex ever happens in real life.

Sexual Olympics you should try tonight.

sexual olympicsAll right, folks, it’s time to spice up your love lives. Competition is exciting. Some of you may be too shy to have judges nearby (I am available and will work for wine), so I recommend events that can be scored objectively. I hope you learned a lesson from those evil badminton teams: no intentionally losing events or you will be punished. Speaking of punishment …

Event #1 – Spanking

  • The objective here is to cause impermanent reddening and heightened sensitivity. This is typically easier for the man to excel, especially in the doggie position. However, a skilled woman can slap an ass in missionary position as long as her ankles aren’t in the vicinity of her earlobes. Extra points are scored for the slab-grab maneuver. Deductions will be assessed for booby and testicle slapping.

Event #2 – Slicking

  • This requires props, so load up on oils and syrups. You’ll receive extra points if you use honey, whipped cream, and jelly. There are deductions for buffalo wing sauce. I’d consider throwing down a baby pool, but that’s just me and my pristine sheets.

Event #3 – Sneak Attack

  • Instead of the usual–we go to bed, you blow me some, I go down on you a bit, we hump for five minutes, squirt, and sleep–this event requires spontaneity (and the ladies likey). Sneak up on your mate in the parking lot of work, the gym, or the market. Toss your lover into the back seat and have at it. Bonus points will be given if it’s sunny. Deductions will be given if you have a convertible and you’re parked near a school.

Event #4 – Sexting

  • Search online for sexy phrases (Why reinvent the wheel?), and fire up that camera phone. Keep your face out of the pictures and always take shots from above, not below, as saggy things look less saggy that way. You’ll get bonus points if the privates in the pictures are engorged and you get deductions if they are not your privates.

Event #5 – Water Sports

  • How creative you get in this event depends on how large your tub and shower is. I advise against using the Slip-n-Slide in your backyard, as neighbors can be nosy. In a pinch you can use a hose and your garage. This event requires soap bubbles, and I insist you use “no tears” brands as bloodshot eyes, while they conceal imperfections, are not sexy. You’ll receive extra points if you wear nose plugs, can shave privates without nicks, and can massage a scalp during penetration. There are deductions for losing the soap and peeing.


Be thankful that you can enjoy these events without the annoying delayed broadcast, which keeps you up past your bedtime watching something while making believe you don’t know how it ends. In fact, it’s perfectly acceptable to have NBC’s Olympic coverage on during your events, especially if swimmer/diver chests and crotch bulges, or gymnast/volleyballer lower ass quadrants enhance your performance.

On your mark … get set … go!