Hope Springs Eternal

As an underaged but regular drinker, Friday nights were everything. Sports, school, vacations: nothing came close to that specific nervous anticipation before meeting my buddies for (illegal) drinks on the last day of the week.

Naturally there's something about being a teenager. One has the sure knowledge that you have the world completely by the balls. As a male, my own balls told me everything I needed - that I could get away with the underage drinking gig; my parents would never know; that I would be irresistible to girls; that this time would last forever.

Wrong. On all four counts.

But the pain of such mistakes lead to refining the plan. Once I was a legal drinker, the focus shifted from the thrill of drinking in public to the women one might meet in the process. The Friday night anticipation - and associated excited nervousness - persisted, not for the booze, but for the broads. A little success in the romance department whilst drinking sealed the deal.

Alcohol reduces inhibition (duh) a fact I continually learn and sometimes regret, usually the morning after. So it's (again, duh) no surprise that drinking and dating go together like gin and tonic. More accurately drinking and pre-dating go together, because nothing puts one in mind of meeting the love of one's life than a glass or two of champagne, or 1.2 martinis, or a teaspoon of absinthe, or whatever gets you to the perfect drinking buzz.

Forgive me then if this love affair with drinking, friends, and the chance of meeting new lady friends mash up with Friday night anticipation, for this I know is true: If you walk into a bar and order a drink, you never know with whom you'll walk out.




Bottoms Up, Barflies!



Pic from Sports Illustrated (obv) and here [link]

Dames I Adore - Amy Winehouse

It was a mistake, her name, or her parents changed it at some point, but Amy was born Amy Crackwhorehouse. As a case of natal nominative determism predicting adult behaviour, her parents were right to change. The sad part is that she lived up to her pre-natal destiny.

Amy is a beautiful women on the inside, and that's what I love. She can sing, she's capable of affection and knows how to commit in a relationship...particularly if we're talking a relationship with a drug dealer. Discretion is important to me and obviously to Amy as well, given that she can conjur pretty much any kind of illegal dope whenever she needs. And she needs more often than most.

How is it that famous folk can get high in public and never face Roger Law? They have to do something really bad- and do it often Lindsay Lohan - before the Plod even notice. If it were me, I'd be in Q doing ten long before I could say 'medical marijuana'. Yet another reason to dig Miss Winehouse - she's gonna keep me from the iron bar motel.

Amy is a curious mix of old-fashioned and modern girl. She stuck by her husband, Mr Blake Fielder-Civil, while he served some of that aforementioned jail time for trying to pervert the course of justice and grievous bodily harm with intent. Small shit in the scheme of things. But it's boring making visits to English prisons twice a week, so she eventually dumped him in favour of long nights boozing and brawling. That's the New British Woman part of Amy - she doesn't mind a good brawl, and often swings at the people closest to her (who aren't drug dealers.) That would be the paparazzi. Or whomever is in the line ahead of her at the off-licence.

Nothing wrong with a stout woman demonstrating it.

My only quibble with Amy is her personal grooming. She's fond of the Liz Taylor version of Cleopatra's eye make-up, but I have a suspicion she's not terribly regular with her bath. She variously looks like a scabrous dog or a crackwhore on parole officer visit day. Sometimes I wonder if she's lost the soap under a pile of cider bottles or a pile of crack pipes.

All of which invokes my rule of some love remaining at arm's length. Wise men understand that if a woman doesn't appear to wash at least semi-regularly, you don't want any part of you in any part of her. There are some things even soap can't wash away.





Bottoms Up, Crackwhores!



Photo of darling Amy from here [link]

Pull Yourself to Bits

How refreshing to see male masturbation out in the open. Not completely out in the open, you understand, but on the teev. And not for reals, more acted out than naturalistic. From the waist up. Actually, it was more a hint than anything else. Still, for an act so popular and so little discussed it was a decent start.

Saturday night Mr Nights and I were watching Californication, Season One. I don't watch television, indeed don't even own one, so it was a treat to see so many naked women, gorgeous breasts and rampant shagging on the box. Where has this show been hiding? It's like twenty-seven minutes of guy fantasy/Penthouse letters acted by beautiful and sometimes teenaged women.

Episode Two, I think it was, showed a secondary character (a man) discovering naughty photographs of his sexetary on the internet. He does what every bloke with a pulse would do, to wit: grab his schlong and manipulate it to erection and orgasm. We don't see any of this, of course. The shot (camera shot) is of him behind a desk, head and torso only. Masturbation is implied.


Sidebar: Odd, to my mind, that all kinds of m/f congress is shown in this show, but the penis is evidently not yet ready for prime-time. Double standard, no? End sidebar.


My quibble about this male jerk-off scene is that it looked too much like the Meg Ryan orgasm scene from When Harry met Sally. Frankly, I thought her rendition was a little actorly, but Evan Handler's rendition of the male O in Californication was quite over the top. For a start he was too vocal. Masturbating men will tell you that it's all about what's going on in your brain, and the link between the physical manipulation and one's imagination. It's a silent, internal thing. Also, he lasted only about fifteen seconds, which is totally not the point. The idea of wanking is to prolong those endorphin-fuelled feelings for as long as possible; orgasm is just the icing on the cake.

Maybe a grunt or two at the crowning glory stage is normal, but all that gasping for breathe and "Oh God" shit is pure chick. (Although when one is having sex with a woman, it's natural to up the verbal communication factor. Natural and automatic, I submit.)

Which gives me an idea. I wonder if it wouldn't be smart for couples, early on in the relationship, to watch each other get themselves off. In fact, I'd go further and say the earlier, the better. It would save a lot of time finding out what the other person likes. First date masturbating? That might be taking it too far, but at least it's creative.



Bottoms Up, Self-Pleasurers!



Happy Rachael Ray from here [link]

Friday Fluffer - Is She Filthy?

Sitting in a car at a crosswalk with a buddy, a hottie sashayed in front of us. We followed her progress across the road in unison, drinking in every curve.

I innocently wondered out loud whether she performed a particularly sordid sexual act.

"My friend," my friend replied in measured voice, "they all get their freak on. The only question is whether it's with you."



View all Friday Fluffers here [link]




Bottoms Up, Dirty Girls!




Filthy bitch from here [link]

Getting Lucky

Flatteringly, I've been linked (and Cut and Pasted) by Lucky Girl, for which I must invite myself to New York and buy her dinner.

God, wouldn't that be a fine thing, going to New York? Yeah, and not likely for the next little while (even if Lucky Girl actually allowed me to squire her around for a couple of hours.)

Which nicely leads me to the thought of dating in the Great Recession. Unemployed people date too, don't they? Underemployed people date as well, I assume, but with a much reduced budget. Noticeable in my cruising the bars is that while there are fewer people out dining, folks are still out drinking. But I'm in Florida, which no longer has any work apart from changing adult diapers.

Maybe dating with fewer dollars in your sky-rocket is easier. If there's less in the way of fluff between meeting and bonking, the decision is made earlier, and on more realistic grounds. I have gone overboard too early on a date. Big dinners, bottles of champagne, elaborate plans are NOT appropriate for the first TEN dates at least. That lesson cost me MUCHO money, I can tell you. And while flashing the cash can push a chick over the edge if she's wavering, it won't undress her if she can't imagine herself with you.

It's so often about how she thinks about you, whether she imagines herself in whatever romanto/domestic sitch she dreams about.


Bottoms Up, Job Seekers!




Pic of fast daters from here [link]

Dames I Adore - Kate Gosselin

Kate's uterus is, I am reliably informed, now in the Uterus Hall of Fame. We men are intellectually aware of how one woman can have a litter of kids...and yet she remains the material of significantly awful nightmares. I have this vision of a never-ending expulsion of babies from between her legs.

However: Childbirth is but a tiny fraction of womanly skills, so let's not dwell. Even if I occasionally wake to the vision of Kate's vagina issuing new-borns like a barn-cat, that will not prevent me from seeing her for the woman she is and not a life-support system for that over-stretched cervix. Begone, obsession!

Kate is unfortunately defined by all the stuff we see surrounding her. Her ex-husband, for one, shouldn't be held against her. Neither should the decision to adopt a television network as her ninth child. And neither should the three plastic surgeons, the six agents, the fifteen hair stylists nor the fashion consultant on retainer influence us in our opinion.

Kate's a regular suburban girl who got lucky with fertility drugs. It's the same story the world over, as Angelina Jolie will tell you. Err, actually, that's not true, because Angelina's a nutburger and adopted....how many of those kids?

Anyway, Kate's attraction to me is all about her accessibility. She's the girl-next-door with whom we played pong-knuckle in tenth grade; she's got that sturdy fetlock look that regular guys recognize as valuable when pushing the mower; and darling Kate loves her false titties as much as any frottage aficionado.

Kate might be a bossy ball-buster, but there's so much more to adore. If you're reading this Kate, how about a make-out session and a little game of stink finger? You know you want it.



Bottoms Up, Octomoms!



Kate at her best from England's second-best newspaper [link]

Friday Fluffer - Gスポット

In the Anglosphere, we're used to talking about and feeling for the G-Spot, despite evidence it's all one big hoax. <----Link. Being a hoax is no reason to disbelieve anything in today's world, so in the face of evidence, I choose to believe. However, I went to find out what "G-Spot" is in other languages. In Japanese, I know, it is "G-Supotto", which I find singularly cute.

In German: G Punkt (Really the Gräfenberg Spot.)

In Arabic: ز الموقع

In Welsh: G Fan

In Dutch: Four Heinekens and a Grope

God love the Lowlanders. Them and their fingers in dykes.





Bottoms Up, G-Spotters.

Thighs courtesy of here [link]

Dating Options

I can make a case that our internal life, our consciousness, is an endless series of decisions. Today I attempted to write a diary of all the decisions I made, but after ten minutes the number was ridiculous enough to prove my point. Try it for yourself, when you're doing anything but sleeping. (Hard to make a decision when you're asleep, which is why it's called being unconscious.)

Decisions imply choice. One either takes this course of action, or that one, which smells suspiciously like the binary language that runs our digital universe. Evolution has taken away some choices; breathing, for example or digestion. Bonking is a choice, but with a large uncontrollable element.

Take that concept one step further, and one can say that that the more advanced the organism, the greater the range of choices one can see into the future. Einstein, I guess, was great at understanding the spread (width?) of choice that a string of decisions might create. I, on the other side, am happy to limit my choice breadth to beer from the bottle or beer from the tap.

Dating decision-making is more fraught than choosing beer because it oozes into all areas of our life. Dating decisions are emotional. Dating decisions are logical. Dating decisions are practical. Dating decisions are even sometimes out of our control (see reference to bonking, above.)

I happen to think that decision-making is a skill. Skills improve with experience and practice, but they really improve when we set out to consciously make them better. Would our dating decisions benefit from some light work-outs? Is there a need for Dating Decision Coaching?




Bottoms Up, Deciders!

Decisions, Decisions

I think this is called chaos...or it might be complexity. Either way.


Bottoms Up, Decisors!