Archives for August 2013

More observations about the walk of shame.

thewalkIt was the topic of very first essay I published, thirteen or so books ago. It dealt with the shame I felt when realizing a woman was taking the walk of shame away from me, and that I was responsible for a significant portion of her shame. Guess it could be worse–it could be a jog of shame … while crying.

Well, I have a few more years under my expanding belt, and there are a few aspects of this walk that can actually be pride-worthy (on my part):

  • If she is carrying undergarments.
  • If she looks back and winks.
  • If she’s limping.
  • If she stops midway, pivots, returns, throws me on the floor, and fucks the dog out of me one more time, just for kicks.

I still wonder what goes through the typical woman’s mind during the walk. When I took the walk, my concern used to be where I left my genetic bullets. Now, my mind is mostly occupied with finding the nearest apple fritter, and if I’ll ever get past level 33 in Candy Crush.

(Oh, and here’s a great big “fuck you” for the makers of Candy Crush. *Sweet* You pricks. I’m not paying. *Tasty* I’ll sit on the toilet, and have my legs fall asleep for an entire fucking year before giving you some of my not-so-hard-earned money. The least you could do is show me a random topless woman instead of that stupid crying heart telling me I need to wait twenty minutes before trying again. Bastards! Piss me off. I hope a truck full of Pez dispensers smashes into your office and explodes red die #40 over your programmers, turning them into cannibalistic zombies. *Deee-licious*)

But, I digress.

My senses are more numb now, but my feelings are still a bit twinged. I’m wondering if there are ways I can make that walk less shameful for her (except for the obvious one where we actually develop sincere emotional feelings toward each other). I suppose I could ride her out to her car on an electric scooter. Nah. That would be exponential shame. Well, I have come up with a few:

  1. Make one of my epic cappuccinos for her in a drip-safe to-go mug.
  2. Have a Christmas tree up year-round with a stack of boxes from which she may select her parting gift.
  3. Sneak out during the night, and place a few scratch-off lottery tickets under her windshield wiper.
  4. Leave a trail of jellybeans (the fruit ones, not the disgusting spice ones) leading to her car. Fuck. Never mind. Ants.
  5. Get up before her, launder her clothing, and leave them folded neatly on her nightstand with a pink bow.

It’s no use. The safest bet is to either get her out before sunrise, or give up home-field advantage, and take the walk myself.

 

The most popular kinks, and what they say about you.

kinkyNot those Kinks, silly. It’s a lovely band, with catchy tunes, but I’m referring to sexual kinkiness. I do have first- and second-hand experience, which has led to certain conclusions, bound to be way off-mark because I’m oblivious. Yet, perhaps you’ve been exposed to a few of these, and can consider my impression, or kindly add some of your own.

These kinks can vary in severity from experimental to mild to “I can come without it.” Whether you’re dabbling in dirty talk or shoving produce up your butt, you’ll find this guide useful. I suggest you save a PDF version, have it laminated (probably not a good idea to have a clerk do it for you), and pin it to your headboard along with a handy clip-on light.

  1. BDSM – Obviously, from the Fifty Shades hysteria, this is the most popular one. It can range from the gentle tying of one’s wrists (easily undone) to choking the shit out of someone while calling them names. Personally, I don’t want to be tied. I can sit on my hands. Have at it, darling. Yet, others enjoy being restrained, and at the mercy of a lover. Having a helpless partner is simply too tempting for a joker like me. Heck, I’d probably shave an eyebrow or squirt honey on her and call the dog. People who are typically into BDSM either have low self-esteem or are narcissistic. Good luck figuring out which one it is.
  2. Dirty Talk – Don’t do this with me, or I promise I will laugh, and it will kill the moment. The ever-so-popular line, “Oh, God. Yes. Fuck me hard. Yes. Fuck the shit out of me,” causes my overly literal interpreting mind to wonder what would happen if I did happen to knock a fudgy squirt from her. That’s probably not going to get her (or me) to O-town (but, it will get her onto my blog). Part of dirty talk is name calling. Be careful here. Most people do not want to be called dirty whore, slut, skank, pig, twat, or an ex-girlfriend’s or mother’s name. You can build up to massive kinkery, but begin with the gentle “Yeah, you like that don’t you,” to be safe, because the recipient probably watches too much porn, and may be in the Secret Service or FBI.
  3. Feet – Some people like massaging (fine), some like tickling (what?), and some even (ew) like (omg) licking (ick) and sucking (JFC!). I say feet are best used for transportation. Yet, I know these fetishes exist. If my woman gets creamy over having her feet rubbed, a-rubbing I will go. Mostly because I’m aware of what nastiness grows beneath my toenails, I will run from the bedroom screaming if a foot reaches my lips. The person who needs to suck toes was weened of Mommy’s nipple too soon.
  4. Role Playing – Officer, Daddy, and the naughty school girl are popular ones. Or, you can go to a bar separately, use different names, and act as if you don’t know each other. Then, you can flirt, and wind up having a one-night stand, which is technically still a thirty-ninth night stand. Maybe I’m off-base here, but if my woman is turned on when I act like a stranger, I see warning flags waving. Doing this may provide short-term relief from tedium, but it doesn’t address the base issue, which is the fact that she’s over me.
  5. Food – It belongs in the mouth, sweetie pie. If you need foreign objects (and you’re not a professional wrestler), try searching Amazon for the latest adult toys. You’ll find all sizes, shapes, and colors. Some go hum, some go buzz, and some require manual dexterity. Dry pepperoni, hot Italian sausage, zucchini, and string cheese belong on pizza, which should (once cooled) enter the body through the mouth, not the anus. Just sayin’. It can be kinky fun to blindfold the lover and feed her (a la 9 1/2 Weeks). I don’t need to warn you that while this may be a good way to dispose of those nearing-expiration-date items, it hints that there may be coping with food issues beginning to rear their ugly rear.

If your partner suggests you try one or more of the above, scratch your chin, stare skyward, and consider where it’s leading. Might be fun. Might not. Guess you won’t know till you try. Go for it, then blog about it.

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?”

“We?”

“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.”

“Maybe.”

“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.”

“Maybe.”

“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.”

“Basically.”

“You’re pretty fucking awesome.”

“I know.”

Still not that into you.

intouWe’ve come a long way from the not-responded-to love letter. Those days, we’d consider the mail may have gone undelivered. Weather, insufficient postage, or someone’s dog may have been to blame. Then, there was the phone call that went to the answering machine after five long rings. We’d leave polite messages, beginning with “Hey, it’s me.” No return call could be due to accidental erasure of the message. A kind email would be sent years later. Hmm, perhaps it went to his junk mail folder. Now, we’ve reached the next level: The black-holed text message. Maybe she lost her phone.

Face it, friends–no response still means he or she is still just not that into you.

You should consider the lack of a response to be the kindest rejection possible, because it leaves the reason open to your imagination. Instead of considering the possibility that the object of your desire finds you unattractive or repulsive, why not assume that person realized you’re so attractive, the distraction you cause is far too much to take? That must be it: You are a delicacy, and the non-responder is quitting you cold turkey to avoid addiction. Sexually exhausted and mentally distracted is no way to go through life. Sorry. You must go.

I’ve been rejected for any number of reasons. I’ve beaten myself up enough to know them by heart:

  • Too hairy (except top of head).
  • Has cats.
  • Hates kids.
  • Had a vasectomy. (That can work both for and against me.)
  • Too old.
  • Writes horribly perverted prose.
  • Swears too fucking often.
  • Drinks too fucking much, too fucking often.
  • Considers the following to be complete bullshit, and isn’t afraid to say so: religion, new age medicine, yoga, meditation, therapy, valet parking, biking, marathons, and decaffeinated anything.
  • Has temporarily parked his penis far too many places.

Think that gives me a complex? Nope. Know why? Because I am narcissistic enough to consider myself perfect, and the rejecter flawed. If someone doesn’t enjoy me, she has poor taste in men. She has done me a favor by releasing me to discover a woman with better taste. (Oh, she’s out there … somewhere.)

So, ladies, if you’ve gone on that first date, which you thought went magnificently, and it has been two days with no contact from him, what gives? Most likely? He doesn’t want to have sex with you right now, or he isn’t willing to put in the work required to get you naked. You might get that late-night “Wassup?” text message a week from now. (That’s the drunk him, who wants to have sex with you.) Don’t smear your mascara over it. It doesn’t mean you’re overweight, stinky, or wrinkly-elbowed. It means he has shitty taste in women. You don’t want to be with a boy with shitty taste, do you? That sort of fellow will splurge at Kmart. He’ll whip up marvelous dishes of mac ‘n cheese with hot dog slices. His car (with the boogie board, Cheetos, and empty Monster cans in the back) will need to be parked on a downward slope in order to start. Freshening up to him will entail slapping some Brut on his ball sack. He has awful taste, and it would lower you to be with him. Lose his number because he’s still not that into you, but I am … I mean, if you are.

 

Here’s a picture of me in my panties.

panties“Nice. What am I supposed to do with that?”

“I don’t know. You like it, right?”

“Yes. Very sexy, but what’s the point?”

“That’s the point: turning you on.”

“You’re an hour away.”

“So?”

“So, it’s like showing me a picture of black forest cake.”

“How so?”

“Looks delicious, but I can’t have any.”

“You can, though.”

“Yes, a fucking hour from now. Much better it would be if you texted me that picture right before you rang my doorbell … and, if you were carrying a black forest cake. Fuck, now I’m starved.”

“You don’t like being turned on?”

“Of course I do. All right. Consider this: What if looking at that picture gives me wood, and I need to go relieve myself, or I’ll suffer painful blue balls?”

“That’s kind of hot.”

“Ah, but after I eat an entire black forest cake, I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Huh?”

“Metaphor. Look, if I go toss a batch down the shower drain right now, by the time you get here I’m going to be left with something resembling saltwater taffy in the sun.”

“Then, I’ll send you another picture.”

“Right. But, after I eat entire cake … Jesus. Never mind.”

“If it bothers you, I’ll stop sending them.”

“No, it doesn’t bother me. Please do not stop. Let’s just work on the timing a bit.”

“OK. When should I send you pictures?”

“Five minutes before I see you, and you’re up for nookie.”

“Nookie?”

“Christ. I’m a fossil. Keep forgetting. Um, I believe your generation calls it crossing a blurred line, getting lucky.”

“You could send me a picture back, you know.”

“Not happening.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m not photogenic. My phone contains pictures of food, cats, and baseball fields.”

“Boring.”

“How about picture of a big, juicy sausage?”

“Now, I’m hungry.”

“Now you know how I feel when I see those black panties.”

“You’re hungry for panties?”

“Seems to be a slight disconnect. Let’s drop the metaphors. Here’s the plan: You send me sexy pictures as often as you like. I’ll save them and place them in my spank vault until minutes before we’re getting together. I will send you no pictures. Feel free to subscribe to The Daily Cock.”

“I don’t need to see cock pictures. That would be gross. Just send me something sexy.”

“New York Cheesecake?”

“…”

“Shoofly Pie?”

“…”

“Hello?”

Privacy? You had better get used to not having any.

privacyWe’ve got hoards of quasi-reporters swarming around us at all times. Everyone’s a phone tap away from recording you. Not to mention there are traffic cameras and cameras both inside and outside of most establishments. So, what’s a person got to do to have a little privacy?

Well, like I advise my thrill-seeking friends, “If you don’t want to get caught cheating on your woman, how about not fucking cheating?”

Look, privacy ain’t what it used to be, and it never will be. You can whine, complain, and blog until you’re blue. It won’t change the fact that there’s a reality TV show going on, and you’re the star. Do you think the government will demand Apple to remove the camera and microphones from their phones? Are the “no phones in the gym” signs going to have any effect? Nope.

You can deal with this one of two ways:

  1. Be pissed off, and spend your day being paranoid, while locking yourself in dark rooms. (Oh, by the way, there are infrared cameras that see clear as day when it’s pitch black.)
  2. Shrug it off.

Say, for example, you’re about to do something perfectly normal, but embarrassing if other people see you do it–um, say, pick your nose. Now, let’s say a bored teenage douchebag in the car in front of you just happens to be snapping a photo for Instagram at the very moment you go head mining. Then, that little fucker decides (because he watched a Tosh.0 marathon last night) it would be cool to zoom in, add effects and a snappy caption, and then post the picture on Facebook and Twitter as well. Now, your mother calls you.

“Honey, when did you buy that schnazzy new car, and why can’t you keep your finger out of your nose?”

“Ma!”

“I saw it on Instagram. Please tell me you didn’t wipe it under the dash.”

“No, I fucking ate it.”

“Language! And, gross. What’s wrong with you? I carry a tiny pouch of tissues in my car.”

“So, if I pick my nose with a thin piece of paper over my finger, it’s OK?”

“Why must you be so graphic? Here, your father wants to speak to you.”

“Sorry, Ma. Gotta go potty. I’ll send you pictures.”

You’re going to do the following things too. Nobody says you need to be proud of them, but you certainly need not be embarrassed by them.

  • Masturbate.
  • Fart.
  • Look at a woman’s boobs or butt.
  • Check out a man’s ass or crotch.
  • Scratch yourself. You might even sniff your finger.
  • Speed.
  • Clip your nose, ear, or pubic hair.
  • Talk to your pets.
  • Say something mean about your child, parent, spouse, neighbor, boss, etc.
  • Take a dump, wipe your butt, and check the paper to see if the coast is clear, unless you’re blind.

If one of the above turns into a Kodak moment (Google it, Generation Yers), so be it. The sooner you give no rats ass about it, the sooner people will stop pointing and laughing, and move on to invade a more sensitive person’s privacy. I’m not suggesting you take selfies of the above and post them. Please, don’t. But, learn to expect less privacy, and behave yourself.

It’s nice to be loved, but not enough.

deschrisWould you rather be with the person who loves you the most, or the one you love the most?

Chances are, the two are not within the same body. That complicates things. A man often thinks if he loves deeply, and can’t live without his woman, those feelings will be reciprocated. When the woman says, “That’s nice,” and walks away, the man is left wondering what he did wrong.

It’s not an easy lesson to learn. Just like anger and hatred don’t always breed more of the same, neither does love and kindness. You can’t control how or if your love is received and returned. Often it will; sometimes it won’t.

Desiree (The Bachelorette) loved Brooks, but Brooks didn’t love her back. Desiree took it to heart, cried, and worried that nobody would love her. She considered it a personal flaw. She hadn’t learned that love is a gift–not always appreciated, not always reciprocated. If it were, I’d be on Jennifer Aniston’s doorstep with a dozen roses. So, devastated Desiree went through the motions with the leftovers, and lo and behold she discovered that Chris loves her. That dispelled the fear she had of never being loved. A week after losing quite possibly the love of her life, she has amnesia and allows Chris to take a knee.

I wear the skeptic’s hat when I say, “This won’t end well.”

Call it male intuition, or just the jaded view of a jilted man, but I could see in her face that she decided to try to love Chris. She can close her eyes, and kiss whomever she desires, but it’s unlikely to be Chris. Sucks for him, but it’s going to be a valuable lesson.

It annoys my spiritual friends when I refer to evolution, but isn’t it probable that we’re subconsciously attracted to our best genetic match, which may not be the most physically attractive or emotionally stable person? In fact, I catch myself drawn to women for no apparent reason. Some of these women aren’t even slightly available to me. My friends will wonder if I’ve been hitting the sauce too hard, or just being nice. I don’t know why I want her close; I only know to follow my genes, since they made it this far.

So, how do we deal with this conundrum? We can’t just go around handing our hearts out like candy samples. Maybe we should treat lovers like wine–taste, savor, evaluate, and order a glass, bottle, case, or lifetime supply. If it’s fine, you’ll do what it takes to enjoy more of it, or it will sour and leave. If we find ways to enhance the lives of the ones we love, sometimes it will be appreciated and returned. Smile when that happens, shrug when it doesn’t, but never settle or feel unworthy, because you are magnificent!

2013 Official Guide to Tipping

breesYour relationship with your server is similar to your relationship with your lover: You have no fucking clue what she expects, so you’re set up for disappointment.

The only expectation set forth by American society is 15% of the tab (before tax) is an adequate tip for service as expected. If you tip 20%, it means the service was exceptional, or you are exceptionally generous. If you tip 10%, it means the service did not meet expectations, or you’re a cheap bastard. There are other possibilities for the noteworthy (in either direction) tip:

  • You were drunk, and forgot to get your change.
  • The server is lovely, and you mistakenly assume (as you would with a stripper) that a large tip will somehow get her naked.
  • The server greedily gave you a huge stack of ones, hoping you’d leave more behind because otherwise they will take up prime wallet space.
  • You’re trying to impress your date, and convince her you’re more generous than the average Match.com loser.
  • Your math skills leave something to be desired.

The media blasted NFL quarterback Drew Brees for leaving a small tip on a takeout order. First, since Drew can’t say it, allow me: “Fuck you, media.” There. Go ahead, Roger Goodell, suspend me for half a season. Second, that high-expectation-having server needs to be terminated, immediately. Any tip on a takeout order is a generous fucking tip. What would be exceptional service for the takeout person? A big smile? A double-check to make sure there’s extra soy sauce packets and napkins? A refrigerator magnet?

You, food delivery person, suck.

The server who serves an eat-in order at least puts forth some effort. She, and the bus boy and hostess, cleans and sets the table, guides me to it, and hands me a menu. She greets me, informs me of the specials, and asks what I’d like to drink (trip one). She enters my order, picks it up from the bar, and delivers it to me with a nice glass of ice water (trip two). She takes my order, asks how I’d like my steak done, and submits it to the kitchen. When ready, she assembles my food onto a service tray, carries it through an obstacle course of patrons, children, and other servers, and places the food in front of me (trip three). She makes an additional trip (four) for my next drink and Tapatio. She clears my plate, asks if I’d like dessert (without suggesting I could do without it), and retrieves said dessert with a steaming cup of coffee (trips five and six). She leaves the tab (trip seven). She takes the tab and my near-limit card, and returns (trip eight) with it nicely tucked in a little fold-y thing. After I leave, she cleans my mess (trip nine). She has visited me numerous times, interacted with me, and presented opportunities to be judged against my expectations.

Compare this interaction to the takeout clerk who (sometimes) takes my order, places it in a bag, and hands me the bag and a bill. This glorified paperboy should not expect any tip at all. His interaction with me included two trips at most–few chances to impress and give me a reason to pay extra for something I obviously wanted to pay less for, or I would have sat at a fucking table.

The takeout douchewaffle who whined about Drew’s tip should have set expectations properly.

“You’re Drew Brees. You make twenty million dollars a year. Your bill is seventy-five dollars, so I expect you to hand me a hundy, and tell me to keep the change, which amounts to less than you earn during a sneeze.”

Of course, Drew should have the opportunity to set expectations as well.

“You’re a second-rate server, or you’d be out on the floor. You’re not a Saints fan. Your pants are too tight, and you spend too much time taking pictures with your phone when you should be working. Give me my fucking food while it’s still warm, without picking your nose or ass, and appreciate the fact that you served a future Hall-of-Famer. If you want a bigger tip, be a better server, and earn your escape from this takeout counter.”