Earthy Women

Photo Credit.

Vegetables are good for you, but can the same be said for earthy women? And just what is an earthy woman anyway?

This is my definition, which will be unlike yours:

Earthy women smell like loam and horse dung, have grit under their fingernails and hair everywhere. They're back to nature types, tie-dyed and be-sandaled, keen on doulas and dope.

Earthy women aren't that easy to find any more. Some died of drug overdose in the seventies, others left for hippie communes and a life of kaftans and chanting, never to venture back into society. Some even had children, who, in that delightful way kids have of hacking off their parents, went on to become accountants and Christians.

A sense of humour is not normally associated with earthy women - don't confuse earthy jokes with earthiness; they're worlds apart. And absolutely don't make jokes at their expense, they'll rip your bloody leg off if you demean women in any way.

Sex with earthy girls is something I have done, but here's what grossed me out: earthy women have dirty feet. That's a great quality for a plant, maybe not for a close encounter.



Bottoms Up, Friends of the Earth!

Muddling Crush

Barkeeps come in two flavors: barmen and barwenches.

No, actually, that's wrong, my idea of a little anti-PC joke. The two categories really are:

Bartenders who remember your drink.

Bartenders who do not remember your drink.

The sex of a good bartender should be irrelevant, but it's not, because I will never, ever develop a crush on a barman, but I have crushed on many a barwench. (Sorry, there's not much to say about the real division between good and bad bar staff. The sexual aspect is way more interesting.)

Take Jen, for instance, my current bar crush. She works in the back bar of a close-by Italian restaurant. The bar specializes in organic cocktails and wood-fired pizzas. Pepe (from Naples) cooks as good a pizza margherita as I've had outside his home town, but he often deflects praise by lamenting the lack of perfect dough hereabouts. He sports a chronic sad look, as if he misses the smell of Ducati exhaust and extravagantly perfumed girls parading at sunset.

I know how he feels.

Jen, however, is there to cast out the Euro-blues. She's of Irish blood, with the pale skin and dark hair. Her lower teeth overlap ever so slightly, and her bar style is somewhat slow. But she always remembers my drink, she always takes time to have a chat, and boy, can she muddle.

Being a (sorta) organic bar means there are lots of "martinis" including vegetation requiring detailed preparation. Ginger, basil, blood oranges - Jen chops and pours and tears and mixes them with lots of liquor so that the air is full of long-chain molecules of boozy wonder. I'm a classic gin martini man - don't skimp on the vermouth - so it's all alcoholic alchemy to me, but watching Jen's dextrous fingers at work is some of the best entertainment around.

Explaining the crush requires no more explanation, right? The perfect wench not only looks beautiful, she wants nothing more than to make me another drink.

I'm hooked.





Bottoms Up, Muddlers!

Edit: Photo not of Jen.

The Pussy Never Lies

Photo Credit.

Few feelings compare to the one engendered when a hand slid - up or down - to the pussy is rewarded with The Big Wet. Discovering a warm gooey pussy is a lottery win, validation, and a promise of wonders to come all rolled in to one. It's a sweet-salty treasure, especially the first time. (Although the feeling rarely declines much over time.)

I don't know if this is true, but women generally aren't given to state:

God, I'm wet for you as much as they should.

When a dude's interested, it's pretty obvious, and for sure he need not announce:

You know you've given me wood?

We guys communicate these things well enough without resort to direct anatomical revelations. It's pretty much a one-way street - assume the man's ardor, evidence is required of the woman's.

Hence the need for confirmation with a sly hand slide.

The cooking world provides the best analogy. When you think the dish is ready to eat, one gently slides a thermometer inside to check for done-ness.

That's pretty much all I need say.



Bottoms Up, Wet Ones!

My Pants are Too Tight

Indulging my new fascination. Introducing Greta and Greg.



Bottoms Up, Miscommunicators!

Wills and Kate

Picture credit.

Wombatgram of the Royal Life-Cycle.


My tribute to the future King and Queen of Australia. And some other places too.



Edit: The most insightful piece yet - brilliant.

Bottoms Up, Imperialists!

If You Touch My Junk...

Photo Credit.

...I'll buy you a drink.

Those of us with a pulse spend an inordinate amount of our lives finding just the right person to touch our junk.

The US federal government is so responsive to the needs of the citizenry that it created an entire bureaucracy to touch your most reactive parts on demand. All you need is an airline boarding pass.

Two changes only needed to current Transportation Sexual-molestation Administration policy:

a. Ditch that homo requirement for only same-sex touch-ups. Viva the power of choice.

b. Offer extended-length junk-touching sessions.




Bottoms Up, High Flyers!

A Quiet Drink

Drinking should be a social pastime. Lowering inhibitions as it does makes alcohol a swell social chemical, freeing us from the shyness that can keep us from chatting up hotties.

Social drinking is age-old for good reason. Anyone who has ever upended an adult bevvie understands this.

However, I can make a case to go out for a drink to be alone; to be amongst but not necessarily with people. My thinking goes like this:

1. I feel like a drink.

2. I don't feel like talking.

3. I can't be buggered calling/texting to see who else is around.

4. I only have twenty bucks to spare and don't want to buy anyone else a drink.

At my usual buzz peak of 1.2 martinis, a creative turbocharger kicks in, meaning that ideas begin to flow. That's when I reach for a pen and cocktail napkins, and start to draw and make notes that are brilliantly insightful at the time, and completely unintelligible the next morning.

Right about now, the idea of drinking alone in a bar seems preposterous, especially when the cutie sitting next to me at the bar laughs at my doodlings.

Quiet drinks are sometimes the best.




Bottoms Up, Doodlers!

Night Guard

Photo credit.


Is there a limit to the number of days in a week one is allowed to wake up to a small drool-puddle on the pillow?

If there is, I have the unhappy thought that I reached it this morning.



Bottoms Up, Mr Sandman!

Butlers and Vegetables

Picture credit.


Cabbage is sexier than you think.

Let's recast the humble cabbage, and let me specifically name the Savoy Cabbage as the lovers' cabbage. Doesn't it conjur up images of fancy English hotels, butlers, baths for two, fluffy robes and crumpet?

Even technical descriptions of the Savoy are deeply lusty:

A good head of Savoy cabbage will be solid in the center, somewhat conical shaped and heavy in relationship to size, with deep blue-green outer leaves and a pale green center. It tends to be available year round with the peak season in the winter months. Like most cabbages, it is very high in fiber, vitamins and minerals, and like other cruciferous vegetables has been proven to have cancer fighting properties.


What other vegetable can you think of that's half as luxurious? The Ritz Carrot? The Marriot Potato? The Red Roof Rutabaga?



Bottoms Up, Rabbits!

Sex and Cabbages

Frankly, there's no guidance as to where souerkraut and sex meet.

You have objections as to the introduction of fermented cabbage into love-making, and I don't blame you: sauerkraut is as much an acquired taste as pussy, especially if you're young and inexperienced.

Soon, my young man, you'll be sniffing the air.


Bottoms Up, Sausage Eaters!