Nymphomania

Nymphomania is more or less the same as insatiability, I guess, although there must be some degree of difference. Perhaps insatiables do it with one person, and nymphomaniacs do it with anyone.

Whatever it is, I hope that the word is no longer a term of approbation. Nymphomania used to have the clinical descriptor 'furor uterinus' whereas thesedays it's called 'hypersexuality'. It's still considered an abnormality, but it's one you can wear on your sleeve.

I knew a girl once who was a sort of oral nymphomaniac. She wouldn't engage in intercourse with any one but a steady boyfriend, but she'd happily fellate any fella who asked. She turned up at my place one night, late, jumped into bed with me, had her way and left. If that sounds like a Hustler letter, it's not meant to, because it's true.

I think it was a hobby - instead of a notch on her bedpost, she had another swallow.

Whatever. None of the guys I knew who were in the 'Kate Club' considered her a nympho, and in fact we all conducted regular social intercourse with her. It was just her thing. Indeed, had she been a full-blown all-out nympho, we'd never use the word as a pejorative - we'd just want a piece of the action.

But maybe that's just my experience. I wonder if women with strong sex-drives are still feared by men, rather than seen as someone to whom the red-blooded man introduces himself.





Bottoms Up, Nymphos!

Harmony and Disharmony

Marriage can contain most other kinds of relationships, but when one gets loose: trouble.



Bottoms Up, Musicians!

Previous Wombatgram here [link]

Friday Fluffer - Guess Her Muff

This is what blokes do all the time. Not dream of lesbians, but use our imaginations.

When we see a woman, we try to guess her muff.

NOTE NOTE NOTE NOTE NOTE

This Site has disappeared.

Guess Her Muff. <-----Link

But here's another celebrating women.

Link.

Warning: Nudity and NSFW.

Further Friday Fluffers here [link]



Bottoms Up, Muffins!

Selling Yourself.

Similarities between successful selling and successful dating include being proud of the product you're selling. Dating is partially about selling yourself, if only in a passive way. It's about attracting people too - being sold to - so all we daters are partly customers and partly salespeople.

Some folks are quite aggressive with their salesmanship. Whether that means they have greater faith in themselves as a product than someone with a gentler style isn't clear to me. A case could be made for the in-your-face dater as someone with less faith in their ability to attract the special one, or it might just be too much booze.

Pick-Up Artists fall into the over-selling category. The Game is full of characters who push themselves beyond their usual boundaries to attract women. They're studies in overcoming natural disbelief in themselves by overcompensating in the chase. Such effort is exhausting. It stands to reason that the PUA world is full of burned-out cases, with the notable exception of those who make money teaching their particular sales pitch to others.

The other kind of dater is the one who relies less on sales and more on attraction. Traditionally women comprise the largest portion of this category, but that's changing. My most recent successes in the dating department have come because the woman chose me; she pitched me with herself, and gave me the choice. The transaction is more subtle than I'm expressing it here, but the energy direction is accurate.



Bottoms Up, Product Marketers!


Pic from Pining for Nordstrom [link]

Edited for the usual poor quality expression.

Who are you really?

Learning how to sell is largely about listening. A gratifying part of being a better salesman is succeeding in silencing your own voice so you can hear what other people are communicating - what they're really saying.

Here's what I discovered while listening to people talk: we constantly tell everyone who we are. I reckon that within the first twenty sentences, the person you're with will tell you what's on their mind, what they think about that thing, and they will reveal a large measure of who they are.

What I used to do was to prepare my answer or reply way before the other person finished speaking. Before the first few words of each sentence were out of the other person's mouth, I was ready to fire my thoughts back. Conversations like this aren't communication, they're two concurrent monologues.

I remember from a long-ago marketing class that communication has two parts. First is the communication, then there is feedback. Knowing this and holding it in mind changes the dynamics of conversations, especially conversations with a new, possibly datable, person.

That's what I concentrate on now, listening to the woman, and giving great feedback. The unanticipated consequence of this is that very early on, without even thinking about it, I can tell if she's for me or not. It's easier to move on (rather than make a move) if you can see who she really is, rather than who she says she is.



Bottoms Up, Listeners!



Edited for pic, simplicity and clarity.

Pic from here [link]

Love and Lust

Love is a many splendoured thing, lust is not.






Bottoms Up, Lusters!


Wombatgram #2 here.

Friday Fluffer - Homeless Bums

With governments everywhere ruining economies, problems eventually come to our own back yard.

Even attractive young women are finding themselves without a roof over their heads. They resort to selling their clothes for money and living on the beach in their bikinis. Homelessness stalks even the hottie.

So if you see such a homeless bum on the street, take her back to your place. Give her a hot meal and a clean bed. It's the right thing to do.





Bottoms Up!


Photo from my favourite, the OC News [link]

Passion Consultant

Monday night was my first encounter with a Passion Consultant. This might, at first blush, appear to be a godsend, because life's notably lacking in passion at the moment. Had I been more quick on the uptake, Miss PC could have answered a few queries rattling around my head, but I was more interested in looking down her girlfriend's top.

It's a lost opportunity, but I still have her business card.

The card says to "Call today to get started on your new career as a Passion Consultant."

And why not? I've worked with business consultants, been screwed by tax consultants and had my lawn cut by gardening "consultants". None of these people knew what they were doing, so consulting about passion shouldn't be any different. Defining what consultants do is an imprecise exercise at best, so I can make the job anything I want.

Basically I want my own business cards that say:

Wombat
Passion Consultant.

If I act like I'm an expert, someone's bound to want to try me out. I believe in learning on the job.





Bottoms Up, Amorous Ones!




Pic from the OhMiBod Blog [link]

The Secret

Guessing now, but I imagine that men spend a minimum of ten percent of their lives thinking about women. That's 65,700 hours in the average male lifetime completely dedicated to contemplating the be-skirted sex.

And the marital status of the dude doesn't matter. Single guys spend their allocation wondering how to snare one; guys in relationships wonder if she is the one; married fellas have the complicated circumstance of having one bird in the hand and a nest and previous birds in the bush. That's not something about which I can authoritatively speak.

I'm writing a review of a book about a famous American man. Revealing his name would spoil the fun, but the following excerpt, which is a quote from a friend of his, caught my eye. Some truths about women are universal, even if we - all we men - think we know stuff others don't.

Here's how to woo a woman.

"(He) treated romance as a job - not as a conquest, but as a process. The reason that every woman who ever met him fell in love with him - and I've never met one who didn't - is because he put so much effort into it. Any woman who came to (his place) would be wined and dined. (He) would prepare elaborate meals with oysters, chocolate, strawberries, champagne - drugs, if that's what they were into. He had a magical ability to make a woman feel as though she was the only one who ever existed - he actually used to laugh at other men because he knew how good he was."

Aye. Make a woman the centre of your universe...at least while you're together. That's The Secret.



Bottoms Up, Lotharios!


Pic of cheer-leader from a now-defunct blog, so it's pointless providing attribution. I bet she likes an oyster and some champagne.

Friday Fluffer - Instruments of Pleasure

The fight to the bottom afflicts businesses everywhere.

Walmart fights suppliers for a one cent advantage.

Airlines fight customers by charging for everything more than the seat.

Fast food joints sell us ever more food and ever less nutrition.

There is one business that aims for quality and satisfaction by selling us the best - at least in the line it calls 'Instruments of Pleasure'.

It is with great pleasure that I give you Kiki de Montparnasse.

Beautiful things for beautiful times. Quality. Probably NSFW, but only mildly. [link]





Bottoms Up, Pleasure Seekers!


Pic from here [link]

I Can Read Your Mind, Darling.

No I can't, sweetheart, so it would be easier overall if you just told me what you were thinking.

We have such difficulty doing this though, don't we? And when we think we know what we want, something in our head flips and there's another set of stuff we want. Dammit, this affects me at least as badly as everyone else, so I doubt it's a sex-based thing. My suspicion is that desire-drift grows from mental rootlessness - in other words, lack of a spiritual anchor.

There are two problems here:

1. Not knowing what we want.

2. Inability to communicate today's (or any) specific want.

The latter is a limitation of language. At the best granularity, I doubt we ever move beyond 80% efficiency when trying to get our thinking across to another. If the former - the actual meat of what we're looking for from the other person - changes direction like a school of fish, we transmit almost nothing.

Consistency is the answer. I should decide upon what I want, and tell the people who need to know what those things are. After a while, the message will get through.

Or I could find a woman who can read my mind




Bottoms Up, Communicators!

Pic from here.[link]

Little Black Book

Before hookups, sexting and booty calls, the discreet man with an argument in his trousers turned to a simple piece of hardware known as the Little Black Book.

The Little Black Book is terrifically James Bond in the Sean Connery-as-James Bond way. Other Connery-style Bond icons are unprotected sex, unemotional one-night stands, rampant chest hair, sexually aggressive women double-agents, martinis, champagne, neckties and Walther PPKs.

Sigh. They were the days.

We're all clear that the LBB contained the phone numbers of one's sexual partners aren't we - past, present, prospective and possible lovers? That was the point, the ability to contact women who might be up for a little slap and tickle at short notice.

The other reason to keep a LBB was to find a possible date for a buddy. The unrecognized value of keeping the details of exes is not just that they might be interested in a fling for old times' sake, but that you know their track record. Mates look after mates in many ways.

Of course, the Law of Unexpected Consequences applies here too. When comparing LBBs, finding that you have one (or more) of the same names as your buddy raises questions best left unanswered.


Bottoms Up, 007s!




LBB from here [link]

Friends With Benefits

Her: I thought you wanted to be my boyfriend?

Wombat: I do.

Her: When?

Wombat: Not right now.


Expectations kill relationships. They're the rocks that wreck super-tankers and sailing boats alike. No relationship is safe from them, and no chart shows them all. GPS works perfectly most of the time, but without knowledge of where not to go, metre-accuracy will only tell you precisely where you ran aground.

The ocean called "Friends With Benefits" is one with an unusually jagged coastline. As enticing as the concept appears, I fear most of us compartmentalize the 'friends' and the 'benefits' as if they can be. Like a watercolour Venn Diagram in the rain, those two can only bleed into each other with potentially messy results. Art is rarely the outcome.

Doc30ty highlights my point in her post. [link] Her male FWB half clearly didn't include exclusivity in his mental image of FWB. His thinking was more Benefits with a Friend, dare I say an expectation at variance with that of our beloved Doc30ty.

There are three ways to find a FWB relationship:

Friends first -> add benefits.

Simultaneous creation of friendship including benefits.

Beneficiaries first -> add friendship.

Is one way better than another? That's not for me to decide. What experience tells me is that my expectations will differ from my lady friend's, and the problem with that is that we both think there won't be any complications arising therefrom.

This is the temptation of the FWB deal: the simplicity of it appeals mightily, but it's impossible for any of us to not expect stuff beyond the raw acronym. We set sail in light winds and smooth seas but wake that night to the sound of crashing waves on gnarly rocks.



Bottoms Up, Landlubbers!



Diagram from here [link]

Edited for tense and incorrect plurals, as well as overuse of 'variance' - the usual thesaurus of Wombat idiocies.

Friday Fluffer - Freedom of Speech

Pussy Power might work on heterosexual men, but the 'tween legs dynamo does not influence the majesty of the law.

Jennifer LaPenta wore her I Have the Pussy, So I Make the Rules tee in the gallery during her friend's court hearing. The Judge was not amused - and Jennifer was cited for contempt.

She left the court in cuffs with a 48 hour sentence to serve. Unfortunately for Jen, this was not an elaborate submission game, and the man who led her away was not taking her to his dungeon for some fun.

The Smoking Gun has the story and the pics. [link]



Bottoms Up, New Inmates!

Bed-In

Inspired by John and Yoko, I plan to conduct a Bed-In sometime soon. Maybe this weekend.

What's a Bed-In, I hear you ask?[link]

Well, Grasshoppah, a Bed-In is a protest conducted entirely from one's bed. It's a kind of supine sit-in, designed to create maximum media coverage without lifting a finger.

Lennon and Ono's protest concerned world peace. It's natural for anyone to think that keeping horizontal and ordering room-service could momentously change the momentum of human history. Natural for self-absorbed dicks like John Lennon, anyway.

But I like his thinking. Why create sweaty Million Man Marches or immense stinking charity concerts when all one need do to attract media attention is to check into a hotel and jump into the fart-sack?

Two things missing from this weekend's Wombat Bed-In. Actually, three.

1. A cause.

2. My own Celebrity.

3. A woman with whom to share the Bed-In (mandatory.)

If I could find a famous woman with a cause looking for publicity, I would have the answer, and quite possibly a tax deduction.





Bottoms Up, Bedriders!

Pic of Dumb and Dumber from here [link]

Cut Fruit

Apart from driving my car, yesterday's most dangerous time was the thirty minutes I spent eating a bowl of cut fruit from the supermarket. Once those nice people with the hair-nets break the seal on rind fruits, it's an invitation to ne'er do well bacteria. The California Canteloupe Advisory Board is clear on this; "melons should be washed before being opened or cut to remove any traces of bacteria which may have adhered to the rind."

Cut fruit bowls are expensive. The economical way of obtaining the sweet pleasures of nature is to buy whole fruit and wield the knife yourself. Then place the self-cut fruit in a bowl. This plan never works. Uncut fruit suffers from Whole Fruit Inertia, which is to say that it remains in its current state forever ie: whole, uncut, and motionless in the crisper compartment until it rots.

Deception plays a big role in the cut fruit department. Look at the refrigerator cabinet and the bowls have interesting stuff on top. Strawberry halves, ripe grapes, nice pineapple pieces, mango in season, slices of kiwi-fruit, juicy watermelon - these are the temptations to get you to buy. Once you're through that layer of delight, you realize you've been duped, again. Underneath the flavoursome hotties of the fruit world lies a huge core of blandness. Large unkempt chunks of honeydew and canteloupe are all that's left, but you plow on through that stuff vaguely resentful that even life's simple pleasures are a rip-off.

Today is a new day. Today is the day I'll walk into the supermarket and choose the cut fruit bowl that's laced with delicious fruit pieces all the way through. And those pussies at the Canteloupe Board be damned! If I'm contracting a food-borne illness, let it be in pursuit of my fantasy fruit.




Bottoms Up, Thrillseekers.



Miss Melons from here [link]

Brodeo

I pretty much gave up on my regular Friday bar on Friday. A long day labouring for money gives a bloke a thirst, and when booze alone can't release the animal spirits, the potential for finding women will tip the balance. Still dripping with Working Stiff cologne, I made Happy Hour with a minute to spare.

It's a hamster-wheel life, single maledom. It's one in which we are handily practiced at dismembering women with a head-to-toe glance. (That's a metaphoric dismemberment, but no less vicious for it.) She's either a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down, after which comes the calculation of whether she'd have an interest in a chap with twelve-hour-shift hair. Looks like another hundred scampers around the wheel when she sashays to the guy with the Bentley key fob.

Mr Nights, my drinking companion, looked kinda peeved. He'd been sipping tequila for an hour, and peevishness is a common-enough side-effect. But in this case it was the lack of women in the bar that had gotten to him.

It's a brodeo here, he said, despondent.

And he was right. Over his left and right shoulders was a herd of men, rather like beasts at a waterhole. In nature, a regular mix of sexes would naturally gather at the cool corner of the bar - which I think was the reason Mr Nights was off-balance. Absence of females felt all artificial and dysfunctional. The livestock references aren't accurate either. All showered and shaved and Alpha-ed up, the guys looked as useless as show-dogs. Bulls never looked so pouffed.

The good news is that even if one is stuck hamster-wheeling through life, it's possible to have more than one hamster wheel.



Bottoms Up, rodents!