Blackout

My buddy Mr Nights left town and moved to Vegas.

Astonishing.

People actually live in Vegas? You mean not everyone there walks up and down the Strip drinking from open containers dreaming of three buck prime rib and endless winning hands of twenty-one?

People have jobs and work in SinTown?

Apart from losing a drinking mate, I've lost a portion of my memory. One unfortunate quality of drinking - okay, excessive drinking - is that one can lose time. Cleaning out my car over the weekend, I found a business card; a card I think belongs to a woman I chatted up with Nights one night, slightly under the influence.

It's bothersome this blackout thing, because I so rarely overindulge, and when it does happen, it seems I meet the most enthusiastic women. They're sufficiently enthusiastic to give me their business card with a cellphone number hand-written on the blank side too.

I remember the beginning of the night. Working from before dawn, I'd joined Mr Nights for HH drinks at five, making the rookie mistake of not partaking, snackwise. We pushed on to a steakhouse bar, looking for professional ladies similarly on the prowl. (That would be bankers, lawyers, accountants, not the other kind of professional you perv.)

Naturally that didn't quite work, but the next bar did, coinciding with my alcoholic amnesia.

Drat.

The problem now is that I have this card, with a phone number (an enthusiastic phone number) and no way to dial it. Not only did I chat up a decent-looking woman (this according to Mr Nights) but I met his ex-wife...and have no memory of it.

Double Drat.

I feel like a drink.


Bottoms Up, What Happens in Vegas Everyone Knows Abouters!

Photo of woman from here [link]

Friday Fluffer - Cowboys like Cowgirls

Coworkers are more likely to end up with each other, so it's no surprise that love blooms between the chaps. Cowboys and cowgirls too are getting it on all over the place, although it's likely most of them have never roped anything more than soap. City Cowpersons in Honda Civics outnumber Horseborne Cowpersons approx. 1000 to 1.

Country music (in the form of Big & Rich) supplied a public service announcement against animal cruelty with their tune "Save a Horse [Ride a Cowboy]." Seemingly obvious advice, but wait until you've been on a month-long cattle drive - Trigger will begin to look mighty attractive, if a somewhat sloppy kisser.

For the horseless Urban Cowboy out there who likes his morning latte, THIS coffee store is for you.

Cowgirl Espresso :-) <-----Link Safe For Work




Bottoms Up, Cowpats!

Interested in Cowgirl Yoga? That's where the picture's from [link]

Hair

Him: What are you, a leg man, a tit man, an arse man or what?

Me: Oh, I'm a hair man.

Him: A hair man? (Incredulously.)

Me: Yep.


Call it a top down approach. The hair tells you almost everything about a woman you need to know. The rest you can fill in from her shoes and her fingernails.

Note that I wrote "...everything...you need to know..." not "...everything...".

Let's put it this way: Any time or money a dame spends on the right hair-do will be time or money well spent. Men who begrudge this are foolish.




Bottoms Up, French Rollers!

Horror Movie

I feel I have to tell you that whenever I watch a movie and a couple kiss, I have to turn away.

Zombies with arms torn off, bloody violence, Fight Club - none of these raises my blood pressure one point. But that close-up of a big smooch with that swelling music ensures that I look away from the screen and imagine myself elsewhere.

Phew. That feels better.






Bottoms Up, Kissistas!

Friday Fluffer - Viking Girls

When viking men were off crossing oceans for an afternoon's pillaging, what were the lady vikings up to?

The viking life would be one of sad farewells and glad reunions...perhaps.

Maybe the viking dames were happy to see their men sail over the horizon and not have big boofy blokes about the place with their fishy breath and horny helmets.

And what would dating a vikingette be like? Something like this I guess. Safe For Work.



It's not just me. The world loves Viking womanflesh.

Bottoms Up, Norsemen!

Pillowfight

Pillowfighting tactics rarely receive an airing in polite conversation. Whenever the subject comes up, people tend to become quiet, shuffle their feet, look over your shoulder and eventually walk off.

That's my experience.

Good pillowfighters are rare: their skills rank alongside those of competent fencers (the rapier kind, not the keeping cows in a pasture kind) or synchronized swimmers. And the underground nature of pillowfighting is such that you never know if someone's a champion until you fight them and find out. In fact, the person next to you right now might be a savant pillowfighter .

Novice though I am, rules play a part. Here are the ones I know of:

1. Pillowfighting is a dry land sport. If you find yourself in the bath, or in the rain, you're doing it wrong.

2. Only one man at a time can pillowfight. That implies that at a minimum, a 'feather' (the pillowfighting term for a 'bout') consists of one man and one woman.

3. Quality feathers always have more than one woman, and the man should always be me.

4. Women fighters will always be in either lingerie or jimjams. Men can be in a three-piece suit for all I care.

5. At least one pillow should be present. Actually using it is optional.

6. During the fight, if a piece of your outfit is removed or otherwise comes off, you can't put it back on. No returns.

7. Although robust participation is good, females should all scream like whiny little bitches at some point.

8. Sportswomanship requires that at the end of the feather - or at any point during the fight - all parties hug. Light petting is encouraged. After that, you can do what you like. We're all adults here.








Bottoms Up, It's Bedtime!

The Girlfriend Experience

I want to write something along the lines of:

The Girlfriend Experience is about the closeness of two people meshing at inter-dimensional levels for spiritual reasons.

But that doesn't ring true - the contradictory evidence in my life alone is overwhelming.

Maybe that's because the whole relationship-dating complex tends toward hard-bitten-ness as people age. We begin to appear as - or begin to look for - financial saviours or mental leaning-posts rather than specially connected individuals.

My golden age was from fifteen until twenty-one. Innocent of wordly motives, a girlfriend was just that - about having a girl as a friend. Girls are soft and smell great and feel different and look at shit differently. That's nice. I want one of them close to me, on my side.

Innocence. That's the key word, implying a voyage of discovery with someone. From innocence to knowledge. And then to BDSM, but only after a decent interval.



Girlfriend Experience illustration from here [link]

Life Curves - Wombatgram #11

Some windows of opportunity are wide open, some are heart-breakingly short.



Click on the Wombatgram to view with more detail.

Bottoms Up, Lifers.

Dames I Adore - Sheetal Bhagat

Confession time: Indian women are hot - and fertile, if the sub-continent's burgeoning population is any guide.

It's an interesting question on its own, whether the viability of a woman's eggs or the spunk of her ovaries makes her more sexy. I'd like to research that sometime. Just how to equate the internal workings of a chick with her physical attractiveness is a mystery at the moment, but there must be a way.

Can one smell fertility? Is there a pheromone for ripeness?

Popular culture has it that men with balls are better, by which P-Culture means men with metaphoric cojones make for better men. This is the same P-Culture that gives us high points like Jon Gosselin and Ryan Seacrest. Tell me again why we take one goddam bit of notice of P-Culture.

I shall answer my own request: Because of women like Sheetal Bhagat.

Right, so she's not a Bollywood star, she's not the Indian Prime Minister and she doesn't have twelve kids...that we know of. What she does do is cook and be sexy, on a show called Masterchef.

Reality television participants aren't my usual oeuvre, but there's something about Miss Sheetal. I can't smell her, I can't taste her, I can only look at her from afar.






Pic of Sheetal from here [link]

Friday Fluffer - Spanking

I was reading Library Girl recently, she's fun. Really, quite fun.

Link to Library Girl.

Her kink is that she likes being spanked. I wondered why it is that a woman would so enjoy a bit of a spanking. And here's the best answer I found:

Link to Why would a woman want to be spanked?

Interesting title that: Taken In Hand.





Errr, Bottoms Up, Spankees!

What can you do for me?

Hi honey.

I'm cute.

Look at me. My skin is soft. If I decide, you can touch it.

What can you do for me?

* giggle *



Bottoms Up, Lucksters!

Central Casting

"Central Casting" is the metaphoric place writers go when they can't find (or are too lazy to work-up) the words to describe a person. Or a dog. It's a kind of shorthand that says "picture perfect just like Hollywood makes."

I'm reading a book in which the over-educated author wrote that (and I paraphrase because if I have to find and read that paragraph again I'll resort to opening the emergency vodka) a Scottish Terrier in the doorway of a Scottish house looked like he was "...from central casting".

Somehow it escaped her that all Scottie dogs look alike and therefore one doesn't need Central Casting: Canine Division. And finding one around a house in Scotland is even less Hollywood - it's a slice of the real world.

Anyway, I'm clearly over-thinking this.

But consider what a store called "Central Casting" would look like. It would be an online fantasy showcase of people and the qualities we think would fulfill all our desires in another person. (Sorry, it sounds kinda creepy, but it's all in the imagination.)

Dreaming about what you'd do with the winnings of a big lottery draw is a close analogy. At Central Casting, you would find the picture perfect partner. Add the best of all the real-life stuff from normal living, plus the magic of Hollywood.

It would be like a Whole Foods for singles - only not full of rich greenies wearing condescension-brand sandals. People like us would wander the aisles; discerning, wise people, observing the kind of quality goods Central Casting stocks.




Bottoms Up, Shoppers!

Proximity Breeds Love

High school is a seething swamp of sexual tension. Conventional thinking has it that it's because every pimply pubescent is a vat of hormones pushing them to rub nasties at any opportunity.

Okay, that's probably true, but there's another overlooked element of high school, which is proximity. In every class, those punks are an arms-length away from the opposite sex. For eight hours a day there are dozens of possible partners around you, close by, sharing the same experience. Everyone's so close.

Workplaces are similar, but not exactly the same. The cubicle stymies contact. Offices with doors separate people. Very few working situations replicate one's teenage years.

But if you want to find a man, find a place with lots of men. If you want a woman, find where the women work. Familiarity breeds interest, not contempt. Being close in an everyday kind of way creates a petri dish in which romance might grow. Like a fungus.




Bottoms Up, Proximates!


Office girl photo from cubicle chic blog [link]

Imperfect Relationships - Wombatgram #10

Getting it right isn't easy.

Click on the Wombatgram for easier reading.



Bottoms Up, Rebounders!

Don't Let the Bed Bugs Bite

In the eighties, impending lovers would concern themselves with HIV; in the nineties it was herpes; this decade saw a resurgence of syphilis. All that is history, because from now on, romantic fear will be of bugs.

Bedbugs, to be accurate, which have found a foothold in beds all over the country and are looking to make a home in a mattress near you. Really near you.

(Ohio is allegedly bedbug central, but that's sure to be New York elitists blaming innocent Midwesterners to divert attention.)

Consider this quote from a University of Kentucky study:

95% of U.S. pest management companies surveyed said they had 'encountered a bedbug infestation in the past year'.

Quoted from this Business Week article which neatly summarizes the problem. [link]

We'll look back on the last thirty years as a golden age, a period of insect-free sleep and fearless lying on perfect strangers' beds. Back then, careful folks would insist on blood tests to prove sex-worthiness; from now on they'll want a pest inspector's report.

Chat-up lines will morph, too. Men will sidle up to women in bars and whisper in their ears:

Hey honey, my place got sprayed today. Wanna come back and smell the DDT?

As the New York Times notes, there is no chemical that can reliably kill our new wee bedmates on a large scale. So I'd say it's back to sex on hard surfaces, like bathroom vanity units and hoods of cars. I guess it could be worse.






Bottoms Up, Nibblers!


Pic of lady bedbug from here [link]

Happy Hour in Summer

A piece of advice for men is that it's a waste of time playing the "...does she like me?..." game. No-one knows the answer - maybe she does, maybe she doesn't - so fugheddaboutit, dude.

When you're up to your plums in gums with a woman, that's when you know if she likes you. And make no assumptions, it might just be a sympathy/release/one night thing. There's no telling. Don't make wedding plans.

You, sir, will never divine what she's thinking, so don't try.

Happy Hour tonight had Mr Nights, my local co-conspirator, and your humble correspondent in the company of five hot babes. Sam was there, as was Elizabeth, plus other examples of hawt chick-flesh seemingly happy in a social milieu.

That's the frustrating element. You're a man in a social setting, reigning in the most base instincts you have and...

...I'm sorry, what did you say? I was checking out your breasts, wondering what they'd taste like...

...wow, that's so interesting. Tell me again how you met your ex-husband...

See what I mean? Every road I drive this conversation down is sexual, whereas the gathering was to commiserate Mr Nights' move to Nevada.

Las Vegas. Now that sounds like fun, doncha think?


Bottoms Up, Gamblers!




Vegas woman photo from here [link]

Friday Fluffer - Wedding Night Sex

The prepared man thinks ahead. On the night of his (hopefully one and only) wedding, he wants to be the best he can, so he searches the internet using the following terms:

wedding night sex

Horrified, he discovers that 52% of couples fail to fuck on their wedding night.

He vows he won't be a part of that majority.

Ten Wedding Night Sex Rules. [link]<-----Click for link, SFW.

A few more ideas spring to mind, but I'll keep them for my own night of nuptial bliss. Whenever that might be.


Bottoms Up, Brides!





Beautiful bride photo from here [link]