Local television news rocks. If it weren't for the FCC these shows would instantly turn porno. My fellow Aussie, Mr Murdoch, employed NYC hottie Rosanna Scotto with this in mind. Cocks and cum are on her mind. Good girl.
You will not regret reading and watching this Gothamist SFW [link].
Or watch here if you're inclined.
Bottoms Up, Vegans!
Pic of Rosanna covered in white from here [link]
Reading Snaf's and KayDee's blogs recently has been a little like being backstage watching the audience reaction to a new Broadway production. The show - a musical, methinks, called Let the Spunk Fly - is a physical show, full of nudity and grunts that has a climax with a twist: there is no climax.
All of us backstage are men, in on the plot twist. And those in the audience are all women, who have no idea what's about to happen.
The real trick of the show is that the women leave thinking that something's happened, when in fact nothing has.
Okay, okay, enough of the smart-arse metaphors.
It looks like lots of chicks are surprised that they're not the only ones providing artificial orgasms. My reaction is everyman's - Huh? You mean I fooled you the way you fooled me?
Frankly, I really don't care that much. Sometimes I won't want to express my reproductive fluids, but it doesn't seem like that big of a deal. There's always next time. And we got to spend naked or semi-naked fun time together, right?
My question of women is: What else don't you know about your men?
Bottoms Up, Fuckers!
Me, I'm a Taurean.
That makes me:
Patient and reliable
Warmhearted and loving
Persistent and determined
Placid and security loving
On the dark side that makes me:
Jealous and possessive
Resentful and inflexible
Self-indulgent and greedy
Some kind of package, eh?
Astrology is a truly clever invention, because it preys upon our need to know. I want to know how the world views me; I want to know how I fit; it's fascinating to predict the future; it's comforting to know I'm better off with a Virgo than an Aquarian.
The fact that astrologists, palm-readers, psychics, seers, taroists and sundry other future-gazers can still make a living shows how desperately we are - we need to know anything about ourselves we don't already know. Fear of the unknown, especially the future, is a vestige of our less knowledgeable past.
But not knowing the future is a problem only if you think it is. Imagine if you had a printout of the course of your life from now until the hour of your death; would that make the days between now and then less stressful?
See, I think that remaining calm in the face of chaos and the randomness of the universe is the great adventure. If you accept the unknown, you don't resent what happens, and if you can stay flexible and philosophic, you don't mind what happens.
That's why I would think carefully about a girlfriend with a heavy astrology or tarot habit - it strikes me as slightly nutty. But that's because I'm a Taurus, and we can be judgmental.
Bottoms Up, Stargazers.
Mrs Ann's sandwich board from here [link]
I went on a sixth date last night. I wasn't my sixth date, you understand, which sounds like eating a cupcake without the frosting, but a sixth date it was. In fact the daters were strangers to me, and I didn't even know we were all on the date together until after the first bottle of wine. Which is exactly how these things should go.
Date six is pretty close to the perfect time to introduce the rest of the world to a relationship. At that point there's enough understanding and empathy for the couple to weather the inevitable new stuff that crops up about each other. Questioners and cynics like me are the worst people to have around, because directness has unintended consequences.
Despite that, I'm wondering if it might be the smart way to go about easing a new relationship into the universe - first introduce it to strangers rather than friends or family. Strangers don't know exes, history or quirks, which leaves them only with observation and perspective. What better way to close a few small gaps between newbies than an evening chatting with a dispassionate but well-disposed unknown? Perhaps I can turn this into a business - a kind of third wheel dater to check if you're both ready for the big leagues of Thanksgiving or your mother's birthday party.
I am relieved to say that that the (very cool and entirely charming) couple looked quite on track for a seventh date when I excused myself. In fact, I'd say they looked like they'd both discovered a limitless supply of cupcakes with frosting in (on?) each other.
Bottoms Up, Cupcakes!
Cupcake with cupcakes from here [link]
Another weekend passed without scoring, another play period without a notch carved on my bedpost. At the moment I'm suffering from sweeheart deficiency disorder, for which I shall soon be obtaining treatment. It's gotta a be a syndrome of some sort; a chronic problem like this must be treatable with a really expensive drug.
And by the way, why do we surreptitiously keep score? What difference does the total number of people with whom we have conducted coitus make? If my instinct is correct there's a curve out there that looks something like the trajectory of a low-orbit rocket launch - after a certain number of partners, it's all just floating about in space.
I would like to create a large-scale experiment. Men on the hunt for pussy would split into two groups. The first group would, during the chat-up phase, say they'd had sex with only two women ever in their lives. The other half would explicitly make mention that they'd had sex with twenty women. What's your bet as to the outcome?
And what's with all that notches on bedposts carpentry b.s. anyway? It's SO two centuries ago. Surely there's an iPhone app for that now. Sheesh. I wish these metaphors would automatically update.
Bottoms Up.
Stud from here [link]
Edited for split infinitives.
What a beautiful creature, the common snook. They're feisty and fun to catch, not to mention tasty. Look at those markings and tell me that's not one hot fish.
Bottoms Up!
Testament to Kiss & Blog's growing reach is our latest sponsorship; the Governor of California.
Here is the Austrian Adonis talking about his time as a Fluffer [link]
Always on the lookout for a good fluffer story, the twenty bucks I sent to Sacramento for undisclosed 'concessions' looks like it bore fruit. The Golden State, is, after all, irretrievably fucked, and sponsorship by even minor entities like yours truly will please their creditors.
Funny to think my Jackson has already been snaffled up by CA's new owner - the Chicoms.
Bottoms Up, Golden Staters!
Gayle is my pet Cougar. She's fortyish, single, direct and horny, the four food groups that sustain Cougars. To round out her qualifications, she's into younger men for sex alone, the catnip no Cougar can resist. We're friends, but I have plans for her as an advisor.
I didn't know she was my pet Cougar until last Friday night. Over H-Hour drinks we had a frank and earnest discussion about the virtues and vices of men with pierced tongues. That is a subject about which I know nothing.
Naturally, when I think of cold hard steel I think of my penis. Well not my penis exactly, but a woman's tongue-stud providing extra stimulation for my penis during fellatio. Judging by the way Gayle's eyes rolled back in their sockets and her uncontrollable leg-shaking, a man using his own tongue-stud on a Cougar's cooter works as well for women as for men, orgasm/pleasure-wise. Or even pre-orgasm/pleasure-wise.
All that eye-fluttering and invoking the Lord was for demonstration purposes only. I certainly wasn't providing her with pleasure, what with my virgin tongue and the other drinkers and all. But the memory of her (much) younger lover using his accessorized tongue to good effect gave her performance depth. She really dug the steel-on-clit feeling. Like a ball-bearing in Spam, I guess.
Bottoms up, pierced ones!
Graph from here [link]
Individualism's great, but what you call individualism I reserve the right to call strangeness. Strangeness can be fun and interesting too, but I probably don't want to date you if you're strange tipping to weird. That's the way I roll.
Pets are one area in which I have little tolerance for the non-mainstream. A certain one-upmanship taints pet ownership, especially amongst those whose non-human companions extend beyond cats and dogs.
Take ferrets, for example. A mate of mine from years ago dated (for a short time) a very attractive chick who came equipped with a ferret. Mostly the rat wrapped itself around the back of her neck, with its hideous face poking out from under her hair above her left shoulder. She went everywhere with that beast, talking to it like it understood. It reminded me of a ventriloquist and her dummy, constantly blathering back and forth.
Snakes and other reptiles skip the strange category and move straight to weird. Dating a woman with a diamond python or two in her living room is beyond me. Ditto lizards, spiders, grasshoppers and Madagascar hissing cockroaches. [link]
Even mainstream pets tell us a lot about the owner. Single women with miniature dogs have them as baby replacements; men with miniature dogs are homosexual; anyone with a pit-bull is a retard. Which leaves only cat-owners as sane people. So that's who I'll date.
Have pussy? Call me.
Bottoms up!
Photo of Woman with Ferret from here [link]
Manliness is many things. The many things include knowing how to repair a balky carburettor, the ability to distinguish cows from bulls, and panache when stringing a tennis racquet. Others don't necessarily see it this way, but eventually everyone comes to understand that the quality "Man" doesn't reside in your trousers.
Which is a nice segue into the problem with men and trousers, and our clothing items in general. We have favourites. Yes, I know it's progressive and compassionate not to discriminate, but the fact remains that all guys pick winners among their wardrobe.
I, for instance, own many shirts, but the one closest to my heart is a putty-coloured camp shirt. It just feels so right, and I know that I will wear it way beyond the point at which it should be a car-wash de-greasing rag. Way beyond.
This is a common thread thread in most men's lives. Once we find the perfect pair of jeans, we'll wear them until they're more hole than denim. Socks, the same. Underduds, the same. We simply cannot bring ourselves to toss out perfectly serviceable garments (oh, and shoes, too) in favour of new stuff.
We like our friends, and mistrust strangers. It's part of being a man.
Bottoms up, fashionistas.
Pic from here [link]
Sass and smarts never get old. Here are my favourite Mae West quotes:
Too many girls follow the line of least resistance--but a good line is hard to resist.
I see you're a man with ideals. I better be going before you've still got them.
When women go wrong, men go right after them.
An ounce of performance is worth pounds of promises.
I'll try anything once, twice if I like it, three times to make sure.
Bottoms Up!
Pic from here, but probably not originally [link]
In reverse order, these activities make me feel physically good.
6. Waking after a regenerative night's sleep.
5. Completion of a cardio and/or strength work-out.
4. A swim, or any kind of in-water activity.
3. Peak cocktail buzz at 1.2 martinis.
2. Class A Elimination ie: a great shit.
1. Orgasm, preferably with female accompaniment.
Other stuff can feel good, but tend to the more adrenaline-based end of the spectrum. Reaching the peak of a mountain or driving fast both fall into that category. YMMV, of course.
No surprise that reproduction makes us feel good. Nature's clever like that.
I had a point about this, but forgot what it was. If I think of it, I'll get back to you. What I am thinking is that I should have ranked the feeling of when one surreptitiously slides one's hand up a lady's skirt, to find that she's already sweetly slippery. That might be up there somewhere.
Nah, that's more of an anticipation thing, not in the same ballpark at all.
Bottoms up!
Pic of Milka Duno from here. [link]
My penis is an idiot.
I can say this without fear of contradiction, because no-one will vouch for him in a moral or social sense, least of all me. Together, he and his two lurking buddies, The Testicles, took control of me at around age seventeen, and have yet to relinquish their power.
His epitaph will read:
Upright fellow, lacked judgment.
And that really tells you all you need to know. After all, every penis is a hydraulic accumulator, nothing more, nothing less. I guess he has an integrated fluid delivery system as well, but that only works when he's rigid. If the hydraulics fail, there's only one thing penises do.
Which makes me think about my penis as a kind of two-stunt circus animal. One trick is urination. Boring. The other trick is to grow exponentially in size and deliver one half of a baby. Put like that he sounds way more complex than I'd thought, but closer investigation reveals the truth. My baby half consists of wriggling love-tadpoles swimming around in their very own protein-matrix, all explosively delivered in a spurty bundle after four martinis, a fumble in the car and a few minutes of thrusting. Not exactly Harvard material now, is he?
Which is why I'm convinced he's just the pitch-man for The Testicles. Think of him as Ed McMahon to The Testicles' Johnny Carson. Dumb, one-note and easily duped, that's my penis.
So it's the Balls who hang around in the background manipulating their big fleshy friend. They're the ones who convince him to approach unobtainable women in the hope of hooking up, and they're the ones who laugh behind his back when he fails. It's in their interest to see him succeed, but he lacks the critical function of being able to say:
No, Balls, this is not the way into her pants. I need some time and a little subtlety, and it might happen, but for now, stop egging me on.
He can't think on his feet, so to speak, and finds it impossible to say no. He's a big ole lug, who likes to please his owner, his balls, and any passing woman.
He's an idiot.
Bottoms up!
Edited.
At first it's amusing, this habit of porn stars taking nominative determinative screen names. There's Anna Malle (RIP), Chesty Larou, Busty St Clair, and Shy Love, to name a few women. Nothing malign in that, of course, the history of false nommes is long and illustrious. George Eliot's successful books were written not by a man, but by Mary Ann Evans, who, amongst several other reasons, wanted to keep her affair with a married man secret.
Even bloggers sometimes choose to supplant their real-life tag with something more evocative. Ahem.
So it's not the fact of taking a fanciful name that plants the seed of doubt, it's the quality of the name. Really: John T. Bone?
This whole field speaks to how The Industry looks upon us, the end-users of porn, or 'mooks'. That's how they refer to you people who like a bit of video filth, by the way, which leaves even the cynics and manipulators from Hollywood looking like soon to be beatified saints - at least they call us 'the audience'.
The difference between The Valley and Hollywood is only a small range of hills and a slight shift of attitude. They're both after your wallet. One takes what they think is the high road, and the other one shows you the pussy. One makes you go to the movie theater, and the other has the decency to allow access from your computer. One says "...fuck you, this is the way you should think..." and the other one says...well, just choose your preferred hole.
Which brings us to Mr Seymore Butts. First negative: that name. Had he chosen 'Seymour', we might assume a modicum of cleverness. But he didn't. Which is the nub of porn's problem, that it's a caricature, a two-dimensional medium just close enough to possibly reflect real life, and yet it so obviously doesn't. He's a porn star of some standing apparently, boasting over six-hundred notches on his bedhead. That gives him more insight that the average mook, and he chose to let us all know how much insight in his recently published 'Rock Her World: The Sex Guide for the Modern Man.'
Mr Butts' book is a how-to for guys wishing to become as good a lover as its author. It's his way of giving back, I suppose, but giving back in the same way that the IRS gives back tax refunds; it's all your dough to begin with. Yes, he steps out in logical style running through the equipment and various techniques in the three sections of the book: About Him, About Her and About Sex. Diagrams and humorous quotes pop up at odd times (reflecting a porn shoot perhaps?) but the Kama Sutra this ain't.
His description of the Missionary position "Allows for total access to both her pussy and ass, plus it is perfect for eye contact!"
Or in About Her: "3. Knowledge of Your Anatomy. The more you know about your body and how it works the better!"
Frankly, I did not read every word in this opus. It's the same principle I use when playing Russian Roulette with a loaded revolver. Sometimes less is more. This is sexual information written by someone who has literally seen it all, but seen it all through the mindset of a thirteen-year old. And a myopic, anal-obsessed thirteen-year old at that.
Which is pretty much what porn is. It's Warner Brothers with an orgasm, Saturday morning cartoons on Viagra, or two-dimensional voyeurism watched on the basis that VH1 is only showing repeats today.
Seymore Butts? No thanks.
Rock Her World, The Sex Guide for the Modern Man, by Adam Glasser, AKA Seymore Butts. Published by Gotham Books, a Division of Penguin. ISBN 978-1-592-40447-6
This review is part of the Blogger Critics Network. (Note the name change from Blogger Review Network.) Next to review will be 30ty, of her Life Begins at 30ty blog.[link] Yes, I know this is a book designed for men, but you never know, she might pass it on to a male blogger after she's critiqued it for us.
Send me a good real-life mailing address, Doc30ty, and I'll send you this magnificent work.
Bottoms up! (Quietly.)
My pic.
There is a way to make a night-time dental guard sexy, but I don't know what that is.
After a hellacious three weeks dealing with a cracked tooth, the diagnosis is: bruxism.[link] Yes, now we all know that I clench and grind. At night. In bed.
The answer to starving my dentist of future boat payments is, you guessed it, the dental night-guard. Although hardly the equivalent of dentures sitting on the nightstand, there's something Über-Utilitarian about my new toy - something anti-sexy.
Then again, I'm looking at it from my point of view. I find all kinds of minor things hot on women. Braces on teeth; spectacles; spectacles being pushed up the nose*; lisps; almost any other speech imperfection; and lots of other stuff.
That's all about nuance, I think. Nuance gives character, separates us from the next person, stops the boredom of perfection and gives us a hand-hold on who you are. Perhaps it's the way our brains work, to look for the off-centre detail. At least that's how my brain works.
Now, if anyone can suggest ways of making my new night-guard into a chick-magnet, please let me know.
Bottoms up!
Pic from here.[link]
* Hat-tip to Miss Jones. [link]
Unless you are Mr Pitt or Mr Clooney, a single man would do well to not approach two women together in a bar. The chances of a lone male detaching one from the other are slim at best, verging on impossible at worst.
If you like a challenge, just try. Proceed into a bar on your own, purchase a cocktail, and walk up to to a birdie pair. You will not separate them, no matter how good your script.
Men rarely share this kind of folk-lore. That's because we see all other men as enemies in the game of finding willing women, an insane way to behave.
There's a great deal of fun to be had trying, though. If you're in a group, or just up for the rhetorical sport, give it a go one day. Women stick together like God's adhesive if they're in even numbers. An odd-numbered group gives the man way better odds until the number of females is greater than five, when it's cash bar time.
My friend Sam (who happens to be a woman, so her real name is Samantha) was intrigued by all this at happy hour this evening.
But Wombat, she said, tilting her head suggestively to two ladies along the bar, Don't you like the blonde with the pink pig-tail?
Sam. No. I'm a brunette aficionado, and in any case it's a pair of women. I'm not stupid.
Sam and I need to talk more.
Bottoms up!
Picture is from somewhere, but I am too mesmerized by her bust to worry about linking.
Edited for all kinds of horrid abominations of HRH English.
An opposite case exists. Not all women want or enjoy cunnilingus. So to round out the week, here's the other side: (SFW)
"...for the women who just want you to stick it in already."<----Link to SFAppeal article.
I think the split of women who orgasm from vaginal penetration v clitoral stimulation (the dick v the lick competition) is around 40/60, which I can't imagine prevents anyone liking both.
But what do I know? I'm a dude.
Bottoms up!
Please note photos with dudes will end with this one.
This is destined to become a backwater of the internet, but just between you and me, will you ladies answer this question?
After a man has spent himself licking and sucking and lapping your gooey regions, do you want him to kiss you?
Yes, I want every woman who reads this to answer. Please.
Let's be clear: his chin is dripping with your juice, and his tongue red-raw from pleasuring your kitty/taint/arse.
Should he rise up from between your loins and look approvingly for a smooch?
Bottoms up!
Photo from here, although I doubt they're smart enough to realize the audience we provide them. [link]
Edited for overuse of 'lapping' and other sundry failings.
There used to be only four basic taste descriptors, (salt, sweet, sour and bitter) but they (the smarties who study these things) discovered an extra one in 2002. I have called it umami, its Japanese name, but it's also known as savouriness.
It's quite something to think that everything we eat and drink can be completely described via a combination of these five categories. Smell plays a big part in the way food feels and tastes, as well as the texture. There's a lot going on there.
What's true of food is true of eating pussy too. Lots of weak jokes surround the taste of ladies' vaginas, but I don't swim with that school. Yes, there can be a fishy undertone to some lady juice, but by no means all holes taste the same. (By "all holes" I don't mean all holes in the one lady; I'm talking about the poon-hole in different ladies. Just wanted to make that clear, although other lady holes are fun too, and some even have teeth.)
The perfect pussy "...tastes like hot-sweet-sticky-kinda-salty candy." Who wouldn't like a second helping of that? I'd like it for all seven courses, thank-you waiter. The quote comes from this Salon.com article, an excellent read. I don't need to rehash it here. One truth I hadn't connected before is that hairy love trench is a fundamentally different experience than deforested trim. That's mostly because of the residual smells hiding in the pubes.
See, tasting and smelling are closely related in sex too.
All the evidence points to everything you ingest, inject or stick up your vagina changing its taste. Pretty obvious, that, and the same phenomenon as the sperm/semen combination tasting different depending upon what the owner eats. The big difference is in the contraception arts, which can make your va-jay-jay taste like hand sanitizer if you're not careful.
Frankly, I have yet to meet a muff I haven't liked. Some research in this area would be a fine thing, because of pet theory of mine: I believe that snatch tastes different depending on the position of the female, and wonder if there's any science to the postulation.
Bottoms up.
Tongue pic from here [link]
Edited out of respect for English.
For the female perspective on dining at the Y (girl on girl) try this [link]
Repulsion and attraction rest upon the smallest particles. Loving a woman can be about the way she tilts their head. Loathing a woman can be about the way she closes a door. It's ridiculous when placed on a plinth like that, but all my observations and experience tell me it's true.
A lot of the stuff that we might label 'small' is right on the edge of consciousness, too, in my opinion. I don't know exactly what it is I like about her...I just know. Detachment and self-examination are needed to figure out what our brain is filtering out, and what it's including. The answer is there, but we need to point the flashlight at the edges of how we think, towards the less obvious nooks and crannies of our personality.
This is the reason I dislike the standard online dating architecture. The profiles are all about big-picture things, painted with a large brush. Unfortunately, the paint is water-based, and washes away with the first exposure to rain. Yes, I like sailing and martinis, just like you, but where's the hook in that? I have just described about a billion people. Small is special and big is...well, it's just big.
The real point I want to make about this is that because my attraction for you is about the small stuff, you are entirely unlikely to know ahead of time what those small stuffs are. That's why it is such a waste of time to spend time thinking about your shortcomings - as, remember, you see them, not anyone else - to the detriment of being the best you can.
I have discovered this, thousands of years late, but it's worth repeating: change what you want to and accept the rest. Oh, and don't worry about what other people find attractive or repulsive. You have no control over that.
Martini, anyone?
Bottoms Up.
Woman contemplating from this man [link]
Floating around the internet searching for dungeon equipment proved immensely time wasting. Not only are there VERY few vendors, the quality of the goods looks decidedly dodgy. And surprisingly there's not much of a market for second-hand (pre-spanked?) BDSM kit...although maybe not so surprisingly.
Hey, I'll give you fifty for the rack, the standing cage and the two wooden stingers.
What I did find was an enormous amount of porn, which, as we all know, was the reason hand lotion was invented.
One kink I don't understand is this thing of writing shit on a woman. I'm looking at an example now. She's wearing spike heels and a sweet spiked collar. Her master (presumably) used a felt pen to write what amount to instructions all over her. Big arrows point at her cooter saying "For Fucking". On her buttocks, similar arrows lead to her chocolate starfish with the words "Cocks Go Here." On her boobs is the instruction "Cum All Over These" and at various places she's branded a "Slut".
Ooookay.
Exploring Uma photo from here [link]
