Dungeon for Rent

The huge number of industrial buildings offered for lease got me thinking the other day. My small Floridian town is suffering from unemployment and idiotic government as much as any place, but there's enough money around for this idea: A Dungeon for Rent.

BDSM (bondage and discipline, submission and sadomasochism) verges on being mainstream thesedays. I presume it's the natural progression from the pornocization of society, but whatever I might think about that isn't going to stop me from making some jink from people's kink.

Big industrial buildings lend themselves to creatively designed dungeons. Mine would be decorated in black, mostly, of course, with blood-red highlights. Lighting would be cheap, as candles are the dungeonmaster's illumination of choice. There would be rooms with various kinds of whipping posts, crosses mostly, with simple shackles and chains for the primitive players. Special rooms with suspension devices are likely to be popular too. You can bring your own gags, crops and whips, or, for a fee, I'll provide you with rental punishment and restraint equipment.

As with the Japanese Love Hotels (some of which I understand now come with dungeons for rent) discretion would be the name of the game. Players in couples or groups would be kept apart by time or wall. And separate entrances and exits would keep them that way.

At Wombat's Dungeon World, no-one need know you like your love hog-tied and gagged in a dark, dripping den of depravity.





Delicious photo from here. The English are big into Dungeon Life, apparently. [link]

Dinner on the Table

A man of my acquaintance turned near bankruptcy into near billions. He works all the time. He calls his wife all the time, tells her he loves her all the time. There's not a second of the day she doesn't know where he is and what he's doing.

She receives Aston Martins on Valentine's Day. She takes summers in Bermuda. She writes cheques (big cheques) to any dopey political or social cause she wants.

But what she never does is have a hot meal waiting for her husband when he gets home after an eighteen hour day.

He orders in pizza. Or he stops for KFC. Or he just goes without.

The man licks her arse and grills her cheese, but she can't so much as fry him an egg. But I'm the only one unhappy about it.




Fried eggs and bacon from here [link]

Dental Nurse Daydream

Having spent all last week obsessing over a cracked tooth, I was reminded again of the peculiar relationship the (generally) women assistants/nurses/hygienists have with (oftentimes) male dentists. Lust can blossom over a gaping jaw and a whining drill, apparently.

The time I became aware of something more than professional courtesy between two these trained specialists was in my childhood. Dr Begley was the family dentist, a mild-mannered man with a moustache and an acerbic wit. Now I see that the jokes weren't for my benefit - they were for Louise, his beautiful blonde assistant.

I loved Louise, but I think Dr Begley was getting all the action. Plus I was only ten. She actually fit the mould of the chaste-but-slutty nurse, with the white dress, white hose and full bob. Maybe she modelled for bedroom attire catalogues in her spare time. In any case, she was all that and a bag of chips, and I think it wasn't coincidental that there was always a gap between the Doctor's appointments. Never did I ever see a patient waiting after me, nor someone limping out, sore and pale before me.

It's a guess, of course, but one can pick up much from subtle looks between man and woman when their faces are six inches away.

A dualistic nature pertains to these dental-office relationships. Not only does the competence of the assistant/nurse/hygienist need to be there, but they are also completely subservient to the god-dentist. My question is whether this extends to their romantic lives as well, or whether the demure woman turns domme when the last patient leaves for the day.






Nurse romance cover from here [link]

All Single NYC Girls...

...and everyone else must read Snaf's post today. It's brilliant. [Here.]

She reviews Julie Klausner's book, thereby kicking off the Blogger Critics Network in fine style. Just as you'd expect of a sassy NYC dater.

The idea is for we bloggers to review books of interest to us: In our case, it's books about dating, sex and relationships.

My original review is here. (I Don't Care About Your Band by Julie Klausner)[link]




Photo of typical NYC single girl from here. [link]

Siege

A marriage or LTR might be done, over, cooked and stinking up the joint, but no-one is allowed to say so until one or other of the participants says it first.

This public defense of the widely held private opinion is the same mentality that those under siege take. Stalingrad in World War II springs to mind, or Boston in 1775/6.

Gradually the food runs short, so less and less to eat becomes acceptable. (Marriage equivalent: progressively less communication.)

Gradually the fuel runs short, so colder days and nights are taken for granted. (Marriage equivalent: sex becomes less frequent, more perfunctory.)

Gradually the participants daydream about better times, willing the reality to be different. (Marriage equivalent: resorting to drink or drugs or anonymous sex outside the relationship.)

To outside observers this is as obvious as Mick Jagger's lips. We know what's happening in the lives of those close to us nearly as soon as they do, and acknowledge it (out of their hearing) much sooner.

No-one outside a relationship can ever know all the ins-and-outs, but dispassionate onlookers have the advantage of perspective. Nature apparently sets us up to defend indefensible positions - or nearly indefensible, because although the Americans won the siege of Boston, the Germans failed to take Stalingrad. But do you really want to go through that kind of epic horror?[link]





Revolutionary War spy pic from here [link]

Friday Fluffer - Cooter Ice

BlueBabe's writing inspires me in many ways. Her post today [link] is about...well, let's just say that the guy she thought was a Pussy Aficionado turned out not to be.

I think her blog is restricted, but leave her a note here in comments, and she'll likely as not let you in the door of her amazing world.

In recognition of the fact that we can all learn more about some things, here's a link to the Cunnilingus Tutor's Top 50 ways to keep a lady happy.

CT's Top Fifty. [link]

As they say at the finest restaurants and the lowest diners: Enjoy!




Edit: BlueBabe requests you email her for access to her blog. It's totally worth it.

bluelovergirl1@aol.com

Happy pic from here [link]

Hot Clusters

Friends and acquaintances know that I had a stock reply to the the question:

Wombat, why did you leave Australia and emigrate to America?

I used to answer:

To find an American wife.

Perhaps it's my sense of humour, but my flip approach didn't ever work on the audience. Occasionally married guys would mutter:

Please. You can have mine.

I dropped that bit from the routine.

For some reason this thing about finding 'someone' features in conversations lately. Do I look like a need a woman to prop me up? Am I leaning? Do I look incomplete on my own? Is it last call for girlfriends?

Florida's the problem. Two kinds of single women inhabit my town.

1. The rich singles, who don't want to be 'A nurse or a purse.'

2. The not rich singles, who are looking for the (man)purse.

As a healthy, independent bloke neither of these archetypes holds any kind of appeal.

It's understood this is that kind of place. Men, therefore, and some women tell me of other cities they think would serve my purposes better. Lots mention Atlanta. Some (including ladies here at KnB) tell me the DC area is chock-full of lovelies. Honourable mentions include certain suburbs of Denver, New York City and coastal Southern California. (Hello Newport Beach!)

Single guys mention one place time and again. It pops up on internet searches and peripheral stuff like this [link]. Scottsdale, Arizona is the underground hottie capital of the United States. To think; a dry climate. What a wonderful change from Florida that would be.







Arizona Wildcats picture from here [link]

Who is your Secret Lover?

The answer is self-generating, but I wonder how our choice of partner would change if no-one else knew who they were, or what they looked like.

In other words, disregard the idea that you and your lover will ever be seen together in public. And no-one will ever know you're intimate and happily so with that person. How would that affect your ideal?

I imagine the social and familial acceptability of one's partner is worth somewhere between one quarter and one-half of the points. Accounting for such basic criteria doesn't strike me as something we do in western societies, because expectations lie at the lower end of the spectrum. But if you're from a culture in which you the individual are lesser, and the family and society are greater, their influence on your choice and thinking will be different.

To my mind, contemplating the way we think about this background sociopathy makes it easier to see where we're going. Perhaps an arranged marriage really is the best way, despite my desire to pick and choose.




Hitchcockian photo from here [link]

Simplicity, Clarice.

Simple, complex and chaotic.

But is it accurate?






I hope they don't mind me stealing it. Huuuuuugely appreciatve. [link]

Ladies Night

Thursday last week at around nine pm I felt like a couple of coldies at my local boozer. Angie wasn't working, so I couldn't indulge myself in Pink Squirrel-type banter. And Miles, who shakes a very good classic martini and is unusually adept at jokes at other people's expense, was pre-occupied - pre-occupied with his own search for country pie by the looks. Tending bar must be a top-ten way to access bulk trim.


So I happily chatted with the guy next to me and enjoyed my drink. India Pale Ale, with its aromatic, honeyed nose and nifty back-of-the-throat kick perfectly hit the spot.

At the beer-apex, around two drinks, I swivelled around and noticed that the bar had turned into something God-awful. It looked like the trade show from hell, with unctuous males panting to make a sale, and cock-sure females knowing they were in the dickie seat. Yes, you guessed it. Thursday night is Ladies Night, and the exhibitors and prospects were pouring in the door.

The idea's simple. Females drink (tiny pours in plastic cups) for free. Males pay full-price-plus (and sip from a regular glass.) Honey-bees home to flowers; whales swim to breeding grounds; salesman promise the world. It's the same old game, with a little less smokescreen.

Quote of the night came from the token cougar in heat: Oh Lord, they're not much older than my son. I just hope he won't recognize mine in the morning.






Stiff drink picture from here [link]

Edited because I was too clever to check the spelling of 'unctuous'.

Friday Fluffer - Love Letters

One of the most popular Googled posts hereabouts is this one: Love Letters [link]

If you have a romantic bone in your body or your trousers, I recommend you give it a shot. Not for what I had to say, but for the letters quoted.

So it was with some amazement that I found myself the recipient of a copy of the DVD pictured. Who knows how these PR people work. They send me a slightly personalized email asking about my interest, and POOF! there's a package in my box.

Let's get this straight: I am a huge, retrograde, old fashioned fan of hand-written letters. If they involve love, all the better. What we have here is a stellar dramatic production of a performance of historic love letters between Clara Schumann[link] and her husband, some hack pianist.

I am incapable of reviewing this thing dispassionately, so I plan to send it to the person most likely to give us clarity: Mr Martian. [link] Send me a real life postal address, and review this wondrous thing for us, my friend.

For those who like shortcuts, the DVD is a performance of Schumann's work punctuated by love letters between husband and wife. The parts are played by Sting and his wife, Trudie. It is heartachingly beautiful, despite the pedigree of the performers.

But I want Martian's opinion.




Photo by me.

This is a quick run-down of the DVD performance. [link]

Ripping Yarns

They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but I say the way to a woman's pussy is through her underpants. Through or around or (in the case of crotchless) between. Hells, it's giving me a woody thinking about the wonders of ladies and their underduds.

James Bond (of course) is the man best at undressing ladies, mostly because they don't have much on to start with. (Miss Moneypenny is the exception.) Funny that being a licenced-to-kill spy also entitles one to a cotery of easily-bedded hotties in evening gowns or bikinis.

Anyway, it was Sean Connery who I noted once de-frocked a lover by slicing through the spaghetti straps of her LBD, letting the thing fall to the floor.

:cut to shots of rampant elephant trunks and earthquakes:

Where was I? Right, the road to heaven lies beyond the boy-shorts.

There is an art in removing a lady's panties. Possible choices include demurely running them down the legs, if she's standing. If she's on her back, shimmy those things over her arse, create a tangle at the feet, then let her kick them off. And then there's ripping the damn things off so you can get to the action ASAP.

Nothing says God I want you NOW! like using brute strength to tear that shit off, and hopping into it with animal abandon.

:cue shots of elephant trunks rampant and earthquakes:

Yesterday I discovered how women feel about the wanton destruction of their sexy smalls at the hands of a neanderthal lover:

They Love It.

And the attraction? The sound of ripping lace.

I think they call this 'Win-Win'.





Thanks to Snaf for the lingerie-wearer's perspective. [link]

Loverly ladies photo from here [link]

Edited for incorrect panty-removal technique. Someone would have picked up the error.

Fornicate in the Forum

It was only when a weird Jewish sect from Judea came to Rome did Romans change their attitude to sex. For the few hundred years before the first century AD, Rome had families at the centre of society, but sexual morality was looser than it subsequently became.[link] The rise of Christianity changed ideas of what was right and wrong, with an inevitable shift in behaviour.

What's considered acceptable in sex changes depending upon the culture. Everyday activities in the Anglosphere can be heretical in the Islamosphere, and v/v. The Hindu life-cycle blueprint is different from Buddhist Nirvana-seeking. Religion and politics inevitably shape how we have sex, with whom, and how we talk about it.

So...if the spectrum of activity starts with complete sexual liberty, and ends with permanent abstinence, somewhere in the middle lies the best compromise for individuals, families and society, right? Some indulgence and some discipline (not the leather and whips kind); as with all compromises, keeping reasonably within the white lines isn't always easy.





Mosaic of the Ancients here [link]

Modern Rome [link]

Edited to minimize Imperial Roman tone. SPQR.

Sex With Attitude

Repellent thought that it is, I guess that our parents build the foundations of our attitude to sex. Inbuilt drives to reproduce work on one level, obviously, but as anyone who has ever asked a complete stranger for sex knows, drive needs a driver - or a chauffeur, really, to get where it wants to go. Smoothing out the rough edges of animalism helps us accommodate that inner beastie, and is partially the reason parents exist; to tell us how.

In other words, our parents give us the architecture by which we think about and approach sex.

Let's contemplate that for a minute or two: Your parents create the framework for your sex life. By sex life, I am not talking about the reproductive blarney. I'm talking about how you feel about your feelings, how you deal with the irrationality of attraction, or how you resolve conflicts around fidelity or abstinence.

The problem that I see is that we entrust this very important job to two amateurs who are probably embarrassed to even consider their darling sixteen-year-old fucking like a minx. Which is probably why in the end we learn more about what sex means - or should mean - from our peers and media. That starts in one's teenage years and they hardly seem better choices. At least our peers provide a kind of library of sex-facts, a sort of TeenBonkWiki. None of the information is likely any good, but at least one can pick and choose from all the foolish notions out there in the school quadrangle.

In the end, most of us rely on the time-honoured methods: experience, advertisements and porn, although I guess someone has 'rents who rocked at telling it like it is.




Happy family from here. [link] Don't bother reading the article.

Edited for too many partiallys, a word of which I am apparently partial.

First Date Failure

A friend ragged me today via txt about my recent first date failure. She's the one who thinks I'm a narcissist. Stuff like this:

I can't believe she didn't fall for your charms.

Dripping sarcasm like a cheap hooker's pussy.

It made my day until I realized that only a narcissist would look favourably upon such a thinly veiled insult.

Here's another question I would like to ask a woman: [previously in the series]

Choose your favourite from among the following evenings out;

1. An orchestral performance.

2. A broadway-style musical production.

3. A modern music concert eg: The Beatles.

4. A night at an Irish pub listening to Gaelic music.




Flautist from here [link]

Honour and Offer

Slightly bummed tonight because yet again I'm left with another communications mystery around women.

You remember that I had a date set-up created for me by some friends.[link]

The date went well as far as I could tell:

-> she was attractive and very nicely dressed in boots and knock-off (short) Pucci dress.

-> I made no obvious faux pas on initial introduction, always a hairy area.

-> she appeared to not find me completely physically repulsive.

-> the conversation was natural and unforced.

-> the introducing couple were great and made life easy.

-> spinach salad thankfully didn't end in dreaded spinach in the tooth-gap.

-> I made her laugh, three times.

-> we hugged good-bye.

Let's say that my grade was a gentleman's C.

I called the next day to say how delightful meeting her was.

I called two days after, spoke to her, she was busy, and agreed to call back two days after that.

I called then, and the call went straight (I mean, straight) to voicemail.

I called three days after that, ditto.

I called a week later, ditto.

The furrowed forehead I have is because of the minute or so we had together after our matchmakers made their gracious exit. It seemed abundantly clear to me that she would be up for a date sometime later, and that she liked me. We even had TWO good-by hugs and pecks.

Despite my studied disinterest in an outcome, it's still mystifying.







Pic from Czech [link]