Dead Rubber

It would end much of the fluff filling celebrity newspapers and gossip websites, but if men took charge of their potency, their lives would be more in their control.

The only guaranteed male contraceptive is the vasectomy. In case you forgot your basic male reproductive anatomy, this procedure cuts and seals the vas deferentia, the tubes that carry sperm from the testicles into the seminal stream.

Sidebar: There appears to be, in my discussions with women about this, misunderstanding of how jism is made. Semen is the overarching term for the complete ejaculate. Semen Cocktail is formed during the process of ejaculation, when sperm passes through the vas and mixes with other fluids from the prostate and elsewhere. In short, the actual reproductive material, the love-taddies or sperm, comprise only around 10% of the ejaculate. That's what is stopped by the vasectomy. The rest is a mix of fructose, enzymes, citric acid and lipids designed to protect and lubricate the sperm on the way to the eggs.

End sidebar.

Interestingly, the vagina is chemically hostile to sperm. The mix of fluids comprising male orgasmic fireworks is mostly a tank battalion designed to storm the castle of the lady's gooey defences. The only difference between the vasectomized and the unvasectomized man is the potential pregnancy. Everything else is exactly the same, including, I am reliably informed, the taste.

So. Once a man has an heir, a spare, and perhaps one or two more for luck, he'd be smart to take charge of his shit, and get the big V. I've heard that, later in life, women find a potent but infertile man irresistible.





Bottoms Up, Ejaculators!

Horse Harrar

Women come in two types - the horsewoman, and the non-horsewoman.

Understandable, really, that some ladies find the equine superior to the sapien. Apart from the age-old attraction of 1,000 pounds of muscular flesh cantering between your spread thighs, there are more subtle appeals. A battle for a woman's heart fought between a man and a stallion would be closer than you expect. Don't underestimate the power of the quadruped, viz:

-> A horse, went not in use, is happy standing around eating grass. Easy maintenance.
-> A man, when not in use, is likely to find activities of which a g/f won't approve. Higher maintenance.

-> The horse can carry the woman many miles without complaint.
-> The man can carry the woman over the threshold (if he does even that.)

-> Horses like to be ridden hard and put away wet.
-> Men like to ride their g/f hard and make her wet. (This should work in the man's favour.)

-> Horses don't have opinions, nor do they answer back snappishly.
-> Men have opinions and will tell you what they are, snappishly or otherwise.

-> Horses want to be told what to do.
-> Men want to tell you what to do.

-> Horses have huge, thick, long dicks.
-> Men read books.

-> Horses don't mind having a woman on their back, then being asked to perform tricks.
-> When men have women metaphorically on their backs, we don't like it at all.

A cool examination of my list tells me that men win this race, but only by a short half-head.



Bottoms Up, Equestriennes!

Coffee Dates by Type: Wombatgram # 9

Coffee dates can be good, bad, indifferent or mind-blowing.

Click on the Wombatgram for better viewing.




Bottoms Up Caffeinators!

Friday Fluffer - Ink Your Pink

Jezebel, always a source of solid guidance for the modern woman, explored the world of pubic decoration recently.

They call it 'Vatooing' (as in Vaginal Tatooing) but as the article points out it's really upper pubic area decoration. UPAD isn't quite as catchy. A spirited argument exists as to whether whether the correct term is 'Vatoo' or 'Twatoo', as per here. [link] I have no skin in this game. So to speak.

Here's the original article. [link]<-----click to see. (Beware Jezebel's horribly slow servers.)



Bottoms Up, Cuntstunters!


Hat tip to the ever-on-the-leading-edge Snaf [link]

Love, Sex and Deception

I review books in a particular way. Firstly, I avoid introductions and prefaces; if the book's any good I figure I should be able to begin at chapter one and proceed to the end without explanatory notes. Any half-decent book will stand on the text alone.

Explanatory notes are for after digesting the complete book meal, if you'll forgive the unbalanced metaphor. I like to think of them as a nice fig or a spoonful of tiramisu, a sweet syntactical end-point.

Secondly, I refrain from reading any kind of cover blurb. Actual negative comments are as rare as dodos, and for the same reason - reviewers who disparage a book or its author are dead as far as book publishers and PR people are concerned.

All of which is a somewhat ironic introduction to my review of a book called Love, Sex and Deception: The Chronicles of Online Dating. The photograph, above, is of the co-authors, a mother-and-daughter duo who created this opus, Lisa Hultin and Claire Hultin.

The trouble, in my opinion, begins with the sub-title: The Chronicles of Online Dating. I've been around dating blogs and books for five years now, so to imply that this book has any kind of rank in the world of writing about online dating is risible. Talented, smart, creative people are out there every day blogging about the dating game. Anyone can relate a story - the brilliance lies in interpretation and dissection. Fortunately, we're living in an age of surfeit in this area.

I should explain that the book is a series of chapters containing a series of tales from alleged online daters. The chapters group similar experiences (Disaster Dates From Hell, Navigating Through A Jungle) punctuated with advice from the authors;

"Unfortunately, the Internet is a mysterious medium popular with predators looking for opportunity. Even a mafia gofer will eventually find a willing participant. I once had a lady admit she made a vast majority of her sales by networking online dates. If you run into a con, report and abuse or block them from contact."

Wise. Good. But for whom is this advice intended? Surely anyone who has ever been on a regular date understands not all people are truthful with their intentions? Why would online dating be different?

Which highlights my overall ill-will towards this book - it feels more like a kids' edition than anything an adult could use. There's no insight, no intelligent deconstruction, nothing to make you go Ah-Ha! More than that, a depressing quality surrounds all the dating tales. Either the person dating is a dope, or the people they meet are mopes, or they're both both. Uplifting thoughts are rare.

My own personal view of online dating is clear - I am opposed. But the fact is that every day people find their significant other, and hundreds of them marry. Obviously, I am wrong. For some folks the electronic dating scene is the best thing that ever happened, which makes me happy to be wrong.

Obviously, I'm not recommending this book unless you have a ten-year-old you are trying to keep away from dating. For that purpose, it's a great buy. Otherwise, spend time to find good blogs about real-life online dating and read them. You'll be infinitely more entertained.

In keeping with my policy, here's the first paragraph of the introduction, quoted verbatim:

"We are a mother and daughter that (sic) have dated online, compared notes, collected hundreds of hilarious dating stories from around the country, and decided to write a trendy little lit (sic) concerning research, short stories, tips and tricks that are related to personal internet dating experiences. Part of the impetus for doing the book-and the rational (sic) for the title: Love, Sex, and Deception: The Chronicles of Online Dating is that throughout dating, everyone has either expressed finding true love, to great sex, or has at least been deceived once or twice."

If I'd read this first, I wouldn't have wasted all that time actually reading the infernal thing.

Grade: F

Reproduced here [link]




Bottoms Up, You Quality Bloggers, You!

Faith. Hope. Charity.

The chance - however slim - of finding a new bar chock full of sex-starved MILFs keeps me trying new drinking holes. Mr Nights and I adjourned from the business of the day a little early yesterday to try just such a place. Granted, it was early, and, ditto, it was Monday, but hot ready-to-roll chicks take no notice of those boring pedestrian details.

Hope springs eternal in the mind of the single drinking man, with the unfortunate side-effect that hope displaces logic. Optimism is valuable when dating, but ridiculously inflated imagination is quite another thing. In my head, the bar will be decorated with interesting women. Singles sit at the bar nursing martinis, couples and groups laugh gayly at tables. Some are dressed in silk, others in jeans. Primarily they're all in good spirits, relaxed and open to proposal.


>>>> suitably dreamy interlude music <<<<

This is one reason men get up in the morning. Our out-of-this-universe optimism about meeting sexually available and friendly women begins when the sperm penetrates the egg, and dies only when we're fossilized. Apart from keeping liquor and bar industries profitable, this is useful otherwise only to keep the numbers of horny men up to the women interested in them. In the long run it's about keeping the species viable, but I prefer to think of it as the beautiful meshing of booty and booze.

The new bar was a bust, and I'm not just referring to the delightful Lindsey, our barkeep's breasts. Full of daytime drinkers, she was a contrasting vision in black cat-suit. Not only did she sport a Brooklyn Bridge-quality cleavage, she supplied us with cheese and apple and pretzel snacks.

No MILFs, no silk cocktail dresses, in fact apart from Lindsay, no women of any kind. Still, it's not all bad. There's always this other place I've heard about.

Bottoms Up, Cat-Suiters!


Photo of cocktail dress from here [link]

Harry Wanted to Boff Sally

The chic and desirable Doc30ty did us all a favour. She started her Blogger Santa Christmas in August idea whereupon participating bloggers are given three anonymously sourced questions to do with as they choose. Herewith my Q's and A's.

1. In When Harry Met Sally, he says that men and women can't be friends because the sex thing always gets in the way, do you believe this statement to be true?

Yes, the statement is true. And it's false. Shall I explain? Okay.

Consider two people, a man and a woman, sitting at a table in a restaurant, much like Harry and Sally did in the movie. They might be friends, or they might not, but they have things in common, can converse, share some energy. There is no sex involved, yet.

The potential for sex is what gets in the way of this relationship staying as a friendship or developing into a friendship. If either one of them thinks about and cannot act upon the other sexually for more than 1% (plus or minus, YMMV) of the time, then sex gets in the way.

The alternative is that they are mutually attracted and go on to have sex. Regularly. Presuming they have all the other prerequisites for a friendship in place, the sex probably won't get in the way, and the relationship takes its course. I submit that's what many of us would consider the best kind of relationship - friendship with someone we love and have sex with.

In short: If significant sexual desire is kept in the head, it will eventually get in the way of a friendship. Openness about one's desire (at an appropriate point) will go a long way to shrinking it back down below the 1% threshold, or towards getting laid. Either/or.

So I hope you see my point. It's not the sex that gets in the way, it's the potential for sex. Unrequited longings doom m/f friendships.

2. If you could re-run your life again, what is the one thing that you would do differently?

I should have stopped and married the girl I know now I should have stopped and married. She wasn't perfect, but she was the right one. And had I asked, I think she would have. Dammit. What a fool.

3. If you could offer me one bit of advice to get through life, what would it be?

Gain wisdom beyond your years, maintain energy from your early years, and never, ever take yourself seriously. There are enough of us out here to fulfil the 'taking yourself seriously' quota for centuries to come - no need to pile on.

For myself, I can tell you that the greatest gift has been understanding the architecture of optimism. Fear of the future and regret for the past will kill you as surely as a knife to the heart. But if you believe in a future positive the past immediately begins to load up with contentment, and tomorrow doesn't look so bad.



Bottoms Up, Optimists!



Pic from the Twin Cities Daily Photo. I want to go to MSP now. [link]

Showering With Friends

I like the colour pink, and was told once that it suits me by a 'colour consultant.'

She was one of those women who flourish in fat good times, when people have money to waste on the kind of women who convince us they can change our lives by removing taupe from our 'wardrobe palette'. For a stupid big fee.

As a result, I used to wear pink business shirts - with blue and dark pink ties in case the message that pink is good for me wasn't completely obvious. Pink supposedly says 'gay' but I'm sufficiently at ease with my sexuality to be unconcerned. Perhaps that's the thing about pink on heterosexual men; it's ironic.

Times are far from fat, and I haven't tripped over a colour consultant in days. I could have used one in SuperTarget this morning, as I searched for a shower-curtain. Naturally, I was drawn to the pink one. It spoke to me in a way that none of the others could, hinting at loofahs and sharing hot water and scented body-wash with a lady friend. Grrrr. Give me a slippery, soapy wench, someone.

But an evil voice spoke up: What does a pink shower curtain say about you, Mister? Will that lady friend be so keen to lather up if she thinks you're a pink shower-curtain kinda lad?

So it came to pass that, right there in the bathroom section of SuperTarget, I gave in to the evil voice. I chose the shower-curtain with the aqua, teal and navy-blue dots. The days of pink are over.

Oh, and China? If you insist on sending me your cheap-jack shoddy plastic shower-curtains, you could have the respect to actually punch out the holes for the rings. Fucking jokers. And Target? Ten bucks for that? You're even worse. Screw you, too.



Bottoms Up, Shoppers!

Friday Fluffer - New Use for Nylons

As if the idea of stockings isn't sexy enough, there's this:

Tie two or three knots in a nylon stocking, and gently wrap it (don’t tie it) around the base of his penis so it’s snug but still has some give. The compression makes him even more sensitive, and the knots stimulate your clitoris as you move in girl-on-top.

Anyone tried it?

From the wonderful folks at Cosmopolitan.


Bottoms Up, Adventurers!


Pic from here [link]

Never Look a Gift Babe in the Brain

Mr Nights' comment yesterday neatly captured one segment of men's response to women.

Never look a gift babe in the brain translated means if she's willing to have sex, the conversation won't matter. So we don't worry about it.

Compartmentalization rules. Women will fall into a few obvious categories, with some variation from man to man. Women will be:

-> for sex and sex-related activities if it's clear that's what they want.

-> for company and conversation if they mesh with our intellectual/physical interests.

-> for fun and amusement if our senses of humour are compatible.

-> for marriage and procreation if our spirits are synchronous.

Overlaps occur; think of them as interconnecting doors between compartments.

In a perfect world one woman would fulfill all of our needs, or, to complete the metaphor, fill all our compartments.

I have a half-formed idea that we can have sex with all of the woman-types, but that might be because I'm tired. We probably even attempt relationships (longer than a few shags) with one-compartment women, with predictable results. These are doomed.

Realistically, a decent level of all four compatibilities should be the minimum for an attempt at something serious. Figuring out that kind of thing takes time...and really, who has the patience for that stuff thesedays?





Bottoms Up, Compartmentalists!

Menage a Snooze

A certain animus towards Hugh Hefner wafts around the place, which is appropriate because he smells like stinky old person. He smells like old person because he is old person, wearing that funky fragrance like it's Old Spice.

The problem with Playboy's playboy-in-chief is his lost relevance. The niche he fills is that of the delusional male baby-boomer, an admittedly large demographic but one with vanishingly small future attraction. The days of women needing media-savvy pimps and a nude portfolio to kick-start their careers are over, although a distressingly large number of babes have yet to get the news. Hello internet, hello digital photography, hello do-it-yourself pimping.

I have a small sneaking admiration for Hugh. His redeeming quality is the ability to raise the ire of the Permanently Outraged. That gormless smile and the ridiculous three-girlfriends-at-a-time lifestyle are a parody of what he used to be - a fact that escapes only those who take it seriously.

And given what I've seen of his taste in chicks, Hugh and regular guys really have nothing in common. Those dopey blonde bimbos Hef likes are so far removed from the kind of sexy captivating non-perfect women I like as to be out of sight. Hugh's a fossil, and that's his only value.



Bottoms Up, Bikini-ed Babes!





Pic of Heidi from Playboy.

He's a Sociopath, She's Quirky.

I had to look up the definition of 'sociopath'. Tossing around psychiatric terms with no knowledge can land you in Blogger Court, where there's no right of appeal. Better to bluff your way through or hire The Juice's legal team...which would be fine except that most them are dead.

In any case, never plead guilty - Blogger Jail is full of lying bluffing sociopath writers who know the real meaning of giving someone a cup of 'sugar'.

The qualities of a sociopath are so wide-ranging that not having one of them would disqualify you from the human race. And the most obvious skill is not mentioned, namely the ability to have six concurrent girlfriends and never call one by another's name.

That's truly superhuman.

Sociopath Profile from here [link]

# Glibness and Superficial Charm

# Manipulative and Conning

# Grandiose Sense of Self

# Pathological Lying

# Lack of Remorse, Shame or Guilt

# Shallow Emotions

# Incapacity for Love

# Need for Stimulation

# Callousness/Lack of Empathy

# Poor Behavioral Controls/Impulsive Nature

# Early Behavior Problems/Juvenile Delinquency

# Irresponsibility/Unreliability

# Promiscuous Sexual Behavior/Infidelity

# Lack of Realistic Life Plan/Parasitic Lifestyle

# Criminal or Entrepreneurial Versatility


Tell me you have none of these.




Bottoms Up, Empaths!


Pic of Lorraine Bracco from here [link]

Dating Types

Click to enlarge, Possums.



Bottoms Up, Dating Pool!

Friday Fluffer - Gaga is Gaga

In a recent interview with Vanity Fair magazine, Lady Gaga said she tries to abstain from sex because she is afraid to lose her creative energy.

"I have this weird thing that if I sleep with someone they’re going to take my creativity from me through my vagina." {Emphasis mine.}

The singer admits she doesn’t trust anyone and don’t know if she will ever have.

"I’m always alone."



Can't think why.



Bottoms Up, Vaginal Expellers!




Pic from here [link]

20,000 Pubes Under the Tongue

My guess is that it's your experience too, that pubic hair isn't as well anchored to the pudendum as it ought. But what a jolly bonding thing it is to stop and amusingly highlight that you are removing a pube from between your teeth lest more than one collect and create a ball. Hilarious.

Which reminds me that this situation is called having sex, whereas one hair in your eggdrop soup calls for a lawsuit. What a funny olde world we live in. Thank you tort lawyers.

But back to the man in the boat. It's my phrase du jour, this happy nautical metaphor for the clitoris hiding in the decking. Sneaky individual that man in the boat, for sometimes he's under a sou'wester, and other times he's out on the poop deck just gagging for some company. And just why is he a man? Shirley an all girl crew is more appropriate?

Being criticised for lack of ability to find the clit is often man's lot. If Nintendo got their act together, they could do fantastically. Imagine this: A Wii game in which the object is to find and stimulate a digital clitoris until the boat is awash in wet'n'gooey. If Wii controllers accepted input from tongue, lips, fingers and teeth, we'd have ourselves a decent cunt simulator.



Bottoms Up, Gamers!



Pic from this excellent site [link]

Dry As a Nun's Nasty

Lady Lubrication should come naturally unless you're putting shit in places designed for expelling shit. Then you'll definitely need lubrication unless you're in Vegas where such acts are an amuse bouche to the main show which (if the relativity of these things holds) means the sex will have roughly the same quality of production as Cirque du Soleil.

Which those in the know know as the Circus of The Camel Toe.

Political Correctness prevents me from drawing attention to the fact that if you find yourself in the presence of a non-lubricating vag, you're probably in the presence of another dude, dude. Please be informed, LesbianGayTransoceanBifurcatedQueen Lobby, that this is not a drill, it's for real. A drill would probably be less painful, and wholly less embarrassing.

However, if surgically created vaginas or slippery blowjobs or squeaky camel toes are your thing, I see some lube in your future - probably bought in a 7-Eleven along with a 24-pack of Natty Light.

In a hopeless act of optimism, the well-oiled folks at K-Y { K-Y® Brand } sent me some of their new edible lube to test. All I can say is that it tastes fine on ice-cream. If you want to know how to use it for the job for which it was designed, read Snaf's thoughts about, apparently, a non-surgically created penis.

Link to the Snafugirl's sexy adventures with edible lube. [link]


Bottoms Up, Dessicants!


Pic by me.

DISCLAIMER: This posting comments on product sent to me on behalf of K-Y® Brand to facilitate my review.

Whales Gush Too

Before the BP soiled fair Looosiana's shores it was the big mammals who screwed up the environment. When our brave lads from Nantucket went in search of lamp-oil, it fell upon whales to cough it up.

Sperm whales weren't, as you might imagine, chock full of human reproductive material, but the idea's admittedly amusing. Especially as Spermy's valuable cargo (the Victorian-era equivalent of a gigunda oil reservoir) was all in his head. Junk in the cranium for you urban types.

Many a long evening was lit by the light of smoky whale parts. Which might explain the Victorian attitude to sex.

Not only did our mammalian brothers and sisters die horrid painful deaths for their oil, various bits and pieces of them were used to stiffen corsets. In a saying common in whaling towns, every part of the whale was used...except the blowhole.

Corsets mystify only those who like everything natural about their woman. Cinching in a lady's waist to half its normal size gives all normal men a boner worthy of a whale. Why this is so is a matter of ongoing and very slow research, conducted mostly by convincing women to wear everything in their lingerie drawer, and then slowly removing it all with one's teeth.


Bottoms Up, Gushers!


Pic of Victorian Loverlies from here [link]

Here's To You Mrs Robinson

Nothing like a slice of seduction pie to give you an appetite for stockings and hotel-room afternoons. Hotel sex is great because inside those walls the congress is guilt-free, something to do with the air freshener Lupe and Consuelo spray or the dwarf bathroom supplies. If I am mistaken and that smell isn't the whiff of guilt-free bonking, it must be some other factor of which I'm unaware - the fact of someone else laundering the dried-fluid-soaked sheets, perhaps. Yum.

Anne Bancroft seducing Dustin Hoffman wouldn't work in a film thesedays. He'd be (1) totally into the MILF action from the get-go, and (2) would have no concern at remaining a slacker shagger of bored housewives for the rest of his days. The Graduate's problem is that it drills mightily into the boring questions, such as why is Tootsie staring like a goober at the best gams he's likely to see...in bare feet? No, that's the kind of question it should be asking, and doesn't. Damned Hollywood.

Dustin's a dope to worry his cute tousled hair-do over whether to choose his Cougar or the Cougar's daughter, a question that I think Bill Clinton resolved years ago. Choose them both, and a bacon burger to go. Actually it's men who just wanna have fun, Cyndi Lauper.




Bottoms Up, Mes Enfants!


Pic of Dustin and Anne from The Graduate, but this version is from here. [link]