Archives for June 2016

Insecurity Wanes

insecurityHave you ever thought about how your insecurity has changed over the years? Jealousy and envy seem to fade as we age. I remember being crippled by the thought of my high school sweetheart so much as kissing another boy. Now, if my woman is getting side action, I give minuscule shit, as long as his spunk stays off me.

Wonder why that is? Biological thing, I suppose. During prime mating years, we are in competition mode to get our genes spread. Once those years pass, it’s more about pleasure than reproduction. Plus, we are aware of all the cost and drama associated with spouses and offspring, so we tend to lean away.

As a young lad, if there was any mention of a prior lover, my mind would spin out into comparing my skills versus his, and if she loves me more. If his cock was larger, he made her come more often, or he was a superior anything, news of such could send me into depression.

Now, if a mate gets that eye-sparkle when the ex is mentioned, I simply ask, “What did he do for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“What did he do that made him worthy of your admiration and dedication?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. Look, if you want him back, keep his skills secret. If you want me to improve and exceed expectations, I need to know which skills to work on.”

“I don’t want him back, silly.”

“That’s nice of you to say. All right. I’ll lead with an example. What if I tell you my ex-wife gave amazing blow jobs, resulting in my fondest toe-curling orgasms?”

“Ew. I don’t want to hear that.”

“Yes, you do, and here’s why: Because, you want to supplant her. Second place sucks. Just ask the Warriors.”

“How does knowing your ex-wife is the Lebron James of beejays help me?”

“… by asking me what made her beejays better. Then—and here’s the most important part—use that information to mimic her style, and improve thereupon.”

“Fine. What made her beejays so special?”

“Oh, I was just using that as a hypothetical case.”

“So, your ex wasn’t a beejay specialist?”

“I didn’t say that either.”

“Men.”

“You’re not ready, grasshopper. A bit more skin toughening and we’ll go there. For now, feel secure in the fact that your skills are superb, or I’d have departed.”

If that conversation made you uneasy, you could use some toughening, too. Lose the fear, my dear. Inform your mate, and sleep better.

Holding It

cloudThis can’t be something only I experience, can it? Is it a nervous reaction? Perhaps, something to do with aging, or my some-would-say poor diet choices? Can’t be solely a male thing, either.

OK, I’m going to let it out, and you tell me if you can relate.

PFFFBBLT! (Excuse me.)

Quite often, when I am about to receive the finest of gifts a man could ask for (yes, a blow job), an annoying bubble of noxiousity (new word) threatens to ruin the relationship. So, I lie there concentrating on squeezing my ass Kegel instead of fully enjoying the moment.

Now, for all you prim and proper girlies who just went, “Ew,” I hear you, and don’t try to tell me you never had a burrito fart brewing whence your man was face deep in your mufficity (new word #2). Worse yet, whereas we men at least have a barrier between anus and chin, your tucked in goodies leave the Mexican border wide open, which could result in quite a chin rattling if one of those bean babies were released.

This is particularly stressful, because gas release during other sex acts can be done tactfully. Heck, even the doubly precarious sixty-nine position is superior since one gets to play both offense and defense. Any other situation requires minimal sphincter control to keep things silent. Or, simply put on some marching band music during nookie, as to disguise any oopsies by confusing them with trombones.

Holding it is important early in a relationship with someone you actually like. A fart you can’t blame on a pet will likely live you lonely and a popular topic of her next lady rant. So, allow Dr. Beano to provide some insights as to how to handle that butt burp.

  • A great time to let that critter fly is when you are fetching the sex towel. If it’s exceptionally awful, you can also fetch a damp, warm wash rag while it dissipates.
  • In the odd chance that she scrambles to the half bath to squeeze out your unwelcomed deposit before you fetch the towel, fear not. Lift the sheet, blast away, then use the sheet as a fart sail, making sure no remnants remain.
  • Just hold it all night. Get up early to make her morning coffee. Enter the downstairs or guest bathroom. Turn on the fan, and let it rip. Might be wise to put some yellow police tape up afterward, in case she ventures that way to adjust her morning bun.
  • Tell her you forgot to put your monthly March of Dimes contribution check in the mailbox. Scurry outside. (Take any piece of paper. I know you’re not giving hard-earned money away.) Open the mailbox, and wake the dead as you blast away. If she hears it (wow, you rock), tell her you accidentally stepped on a frog.

Ladies, I thank you for making it this far, even after you said, “I’m not reading this. He’s gross.” You’re a true friend. Now, next time you’re down on him, I dare you to push his bellybutton to see what he’s holding. Come on. Great comic relief. What’s better than shits and giggles?

What Makes a Hot Mess?

20141229_170448The phrases of the year so far must be “literally” and “hot mess.” In fact, I’ve heard them literally used in the same sentence. I understand the word “literally.” Yes, I realize it is used improperly most of the time, so I avoid it lest I trigger the red-penned wrath of my editors. I also resist the temptation to corner the person speaking by saying, “Really? That really happened? Seriously?”

This “hot mess” thing I’ve been struggling with. I was under the impression that the term described a gorgeous woman with the mental agility of a senile gnat. I’ve learned my impression was far too limiting. Hot messes can be men, children, and even inanimate objects, such as cars.

I’ve been called a hot mess. That’s ridiculous—about as accurate as calling me a chess master. The woman who said that was simply trying to use a new phrase, and I happened to be in the way. Yes, I am a mess at times. My brain is cluttered with an odd combination of vodka, sex, and a low regard for the entitled generation. So, call me an old mess. Fuck. Print it on a red cap, and I’ll wear it.

As I type this and my cat, Symon, whines at me for Greenies (kitty crack), I wonder if he is a hot mess. He’s really fucking cute … and annoying. That would be two of the pre-requisites for the title, right? He’s orange. His belly wobbles. He has horrible tartar and cat-atosis. But, damn he is a cute bugger. Much like I would bring a shot to a hot mess rambling about all things Kardashian, I toss Symon a crunchy green ball of yuck. And, like a hot mess, he begs for more.

I wonder if the hot part is meant to be somewhat literal (eee-fucking-gads, again), as in steaming hot pile of shit. Lord knows a hot pile of shit is much more repulsive than frozen shit. So, a hot mess is far worse than a cold mess because a hot mess is smellier and harder to toss.

A buddy-with-boobies once told me her car was a hot mess.

“What makes it a hot mess?”

“It’s a Mercedes, hence hot, and the mess is inside of it because I’m a bit of a hoarder.”

“Um. OK. So, your car doesn’t forget her underwear and run around trying to make out with high-haired boys.”

“I see you’ve met my friend, Diana.”

“She’s a hot mess?”

“Literally, the hottest. I mean, she totally skanks out every time we’re drinking. Then, she usually winds up calling me the next day asking which end the morning after pill goes in.”

“I like her … even more than your car.”

“Whatever. I should give her your number so you can make hot mess babies.”

There’s a time and place for a mess. Don’t hate on it. Don’t try to fix it. Sometimes you just gotta get dirty with it.

 

Hitting on Her

gymI drag myself to the gym and reluctantly climb aboard my latest nemesis: the curved self-powered treadmill. Next to me is one of the gym’s trainers who is off duty and riding a stationary bike. She’s 30ish and adorable, as one would expect. I appreciate her like a Ferrari—from a safe distance.

In the measly ten minutes I spend jogging on the torture device, she is hit on no less than three times. Obviously, she’s used to it, and handles it gracefully. Take a wild guess how many times I’ve been hit on in my almost 40 fucking years of going to the gym. I’ll give you a hint: It’s fewer than once.

I realize societal pressures make it rare for women to hit on men in general. But, never? Not one fucking time? No woman has ever seen my shapely (round is a shape) body and thought, There’s a cute fella. Maybe I’ll give him a go. Sad. All those presses, curls, and lifts, and I’m left with squat.

Meh.

Still, as these man-beasts approached the goddess, all I could do is observe and cringe. It’s like when construction workers whistle—it has never resulted in flattery and penetration. Why do it? There’s nothing they can say to her or ask her that is appropriate while she’s off duty, with earbuds in, trying to maintain the lovely body she has built.

Then, I thought how it must suck to be her. I bet she’d rather be the chubby girl on the elliptical. She works there, so she can’t deliver the line that comes to mind: “Seriously? I can’t even pedal once around this virtual track without avoiding man-swine? Beat it, creeper!”

If I sat one of the guys down for an interview, I’m sure I’d hear all sorts of reasons:

  • “Dude, nothing ventured beats a bird in hand.”
  • “I was just being nice.”
  • “She didn’t tell me to fuck off, so I have a shot.”
  • “Chicks dig confident men … I think.”
  • “She made eye contact. She was begging me to approach her.”

Ick.

Guys, please stop hitting on women in the following situations:

  • At the gym.
  • In court.
  • At a funeral.
  • In a restroom.
  • When she’s bartending.

Those are all poor choices that make our entire gender look bad. It’s the reason that, by the third sentence she utters, she will have mentioned a boyfriend or husband, even if she has neither.

Conversely, I highly encourage women to hit on men anytime, anyplace. Nothing is inappropriate. Make your intentions clear, and the stuttering puppy will follow you anywhere.

Trump Lies for the Bedroom

trumpliesIf I give you a compliment or tell you something you want to believe, you probably think I’m being honest. That’s how Trump has found so much political success, when he deserves absolutely none. He keeps telling masses of people what they want to hear, while he is well aware he is spouting lies. Then, when he gets caught in a lie, he creates another lie to offset it or distract the suspicious.

That’s some dangerous shit, right there.

How would that work for me in the dating world? Could I become a comb-over Casanova by fibbing? Sure! I just need to target women who are gullible, insecure, and desperate, then tell them what they want to hear.

I’m convinced I can find something beautiful about every woman I meet, if I look close enough (or stand far enough away). The key is I need to compliment based on her insecurity, not my preference. Telling an amply-busted beauty that she has nice tits will be fruitless. She knows her glands are loved by many, and my affirmation is worth little. However, a woman with silver dollar pancake titties will welcome my adoration and give me bonus access to such, thus making me a happy boy. (Tiny titties you can touch are better than big ones you can’t.)

Women are often concerned about weight, even more than men. Men need to tread carefully here. You can’t tell a fat girl she’s skinny. She’ll become snarky. She’ll kick you in the beans and blog about you. You need to tell her she’s perfect as she is. Remind her you don’t want to date a woman with abs, and you need someone to share your love of New York cheesecake. This works better if you actually play the part, order, and eat the dessert instead of turning in your man card by wearing bicycle pants while dining on a bland pile of kale fuckery.

Both genders love hearing about how smart they are and how great they are at their role—be it a job, bedmate, or hobby. Again, it is more important for your sincerity to be inferred than genuine. Any words of appreciation will pay dividends.

“Ooh, sweetie, you’re so gorgeous on top of me.”

“So, I’m not gorgeous on bottom?”

“Actually, you’re equally gorgeous on top, bottom, and in front. Allow me to thumb that delicious little love bean of yours whilst you grind.”

“What are you saying? Is my clit too small?”

“Come on, baby. Nobody wants an oyster-sized clit. It fits my thumb perfectly.”

“… but, not your tongue? You haven’t been there in a while, if you know what I mean. Am I not fresh?”

“I … what? Um. No, silly. You’re quite flowery. I just assumed I was spending too much time down there. Don’t want to bore you.”

“Bore me.”

This is the point where the great lie-master Trump has taught me to switch gears.

“Hey, what’s that noise? Did you hear that? Fuck, did I leave the car running?”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“You have any idea how many people die every year from carbon monoxide poisoning? It’s scary.”

“You want me to hop off and check the garage?”

“No way. I’m the man. There could be a burglar making noise. You keep your loveliness right here while I check. I’m bringing a baseball bat just in case. I will protect you from the Mexican rapist with my all-American Louisville Slugger. Oh, and keep things going down there while I’m gone.”

“What? Am I too dry for you?”

“Dry? Heavens, no! You’re an Amazon forest of moisture.”

“Amazon? So, my clit is too small, and my vag is too large?”

“They’re ideally sized, actually. Can’t wait to get back in there, sweetie. But, first, I’m going to introduce Jose to my wooden rod of submission.”

“That sounds kind of gay. Do you like men too?”

“No. Fuck. That came out all wrong. Look, I’ll be right back.”

Time for another misdirection. Women are all about the combination of food and sex. Time to hit the fridge.

“Look, honey, I brought cherries and a banana.”

“What was the noise?”

“Aw, it was nothing. Probably the neighbor’s mutt.”

“So, you’d rather eat than have sex?”

“What? No. We’re going to do both. I’m going to string these cherries together and shove them in your naughty place.”

“What about the stems? That seems uncomfortable.”

“I’ll remove the stems.”

“And, the banana?”

“I’ll peel it.”

“I mean, where is that banana going?”

“Where would you like it, you naughty little girl?”

“Ew, you want to have sex with a little girl? That’s pretty messed up.”

“Just this sexy, little, over-eighteen girl in front of me.”

“All right. Um, let’s eat the cherries. Cool?”

“… as a cucumber.”

God, this lying stuff is hard work. How does The Donald do it?

Tasty is the Foot

footinmouthOften, when trying to lighten the mood, clowns like me serve a verbal gem that winds up causing a good foot chewing. We forget that the things we find amusing may not be taken as intended, or the timing of the delivery has room for improvement.

I consider myself a master of crassness and poor timing, as exemplified by a few good foot munchings this past weekend.

Scene #1 – The Clerk

I enter a 7-11 to pick up seeds and Gatorade for my adult baseball (not fucking softball) game. In tow, I have a lovely young lady. She grabs some lady stuff (US Weekly). Clerk asks if the purchases are combined. I’m a gentleman. Yes, of course they are. Clerk begins friendly banter.

“That’s nice of you, buying this for your …”

(I fear the word “daughter” or “maid” about to emerge, so I interject.)

“Girlfriend.”

“Of course. You’re a handsome man. You deserve a young lady-friend.”

“Thank you, and you need a vision check-up.”

As often is the case, I was not making eye contact with the clerk during this discussion. This is my introversion. I’ve been working on it. People, unlike wild beasts, prefer to be looked in the eyes when addressed. I know this. I should do this. I pick a bad time to begin—after my vision comment.

When I made eye contact, a horror swept over me, as one eye across from me had a blueberry sized growth.

“Yeah, I have eye cancer, which kind of messes me up at times, but I can see well enough to say you’re handsome.”

All I could do was thank her, leave, and beg my lady-friend for forgiveness. Fortunately, while being early in our relationship, she knows me well enough to point and laugh at my misstep.

Scene #2 – The Game

We arrive at the baseball (does not involve kegs at loose bases) game. While putting on my spikes (softball players wear sneakers, dammit), a teammate begins applying tar spray on his bat handle. A black teammate hears the spraying and quips.

“Hey, anybody got sunscreen?”

Yes, I know he’s black. Yes, I know he doesn’t need sunscreen. Yes, I know he is being silly. I’m still brain-locked from the clerk encounter. I respond.

“That’s not … well, maybe for you.”

A silence fell across the dugout.

Does Home Depot sell brain-to-mouth filters? I’m in desperate need.