Friday Fluffer - It's Just A Weird Situation All Round

Elle Macpherson pic credit.

Not that Elle would ever be a fluffer. Although who knows what floats her 155' boat?

For the last Friday Fluffer of 2011, I give you the BEST way yet discovered to create pet names. Actually, I'm serious. This works, if only for a laugh. SFW.





Bottoms Up Sexy Candy Pandas.

Love Matador

 Paz Vega photo credit.

The PUA community is fully aware of the value of dressing to impress. Overdressing, actually, with the aim of making themselves the centre of attention. Peacocking they call it.

Grabbing and maintaining a woman's eye is the aim, and a quirky or bright outfit will help. The theory is that once you set yourself apart from the shlubs in flops and cargo pants, bedding a woman is then a matter of time.

The lads are probably right.

In Florida, where I live, a man in a long-sleeved shirt creates a stir. If he's in a business suit with necktie and polished shoes, the local television news sends an outside broadcast unit. Of course the climate mitigates against much more than shorts and a flamingo-print shirt, but still; we're a state of slobs.

So I have a vision, thanks to Katherina. The most colourful and distinctive male outfit I can think of is that of the matador. I'm SO tempted to dress myself as a torero - accessorized with hat and blood-red cape - and go about my day. In the morning I'd take my espresso, go to the bank and pump some gas. In the afternoon, naturally, a siesta. And then at then at cocktail hour I'd head to my favourite bar trailing a line of swooning females.

I'd be like a Bullfighting Pied Piper.





Bottoms Up, Picadors.

You're Such a Dirty Bitch

 Manuela Arcuri photo credit.

You're such a dirty bitch.

God you're so wet, I love it.

Oooh, yeah, that feels great.

Your pussy feels so tight. 

Mmmmm, I could do this forever.


Guess what we're doing here? Yes, I'm talking during sex, and now that it's written down, it's kinda lame - unimaginative, even. But  when I start thinking about improving my sex-talk repertoire, the right words elude me.

My working theory is this: If a woman is sharing her mind and body with me in heavenly congress, she wants me to be as close to her ideal lover as possible. I guess women have the two extremes of men in mind - the worst possible and the best. The worst kind of lover sticks it in, wiggles it around for a bit, ejaculates and remains silent throughout. (Although under some circumstances I can see some women wanting precisely that. Tricky creatures.)

The ideal lover is skilled at making her feel beautiful and sexy; understands just how to help her mind and body stay horny; exerts the right amount of authority; talks eloquently and sexily; and fucks her long and often.

Frankly, that doesn't seem like such a big ask, especially in a loving marriage or committed LTR. Still, the right kind of talking during sex looks to be the most elusive element. From personal experience, men should avoid:


~ laughter. Women seem to take this personally, rather than as an expression of joy.

~ filth-talk if she's not in the mood. Best to discuss this beforehand.

~ comparison to other women, even if positively. Duh.

~ explicit functional chat if she's not prepared for it. Body parts have distinctly unsexy names.

~ anything that makes her feel self-conscious. Until she's comfortable with admiring honesty.


That's a start. As with much surrounding sexual preferences, it's best discussed away from the heat of the moment. Start when fully-clothed, and over dinner, ask:

Darling, when we're making love, do you like it when I tell you how hot you are in Latin?

With luck you'll be able to capitalize on the feeling and try your sex-talk immediately. Practice makes perfect.



Bottoms Up, Woman-Whisperers.

The Marriage Spider: Wombatgram #21

Try as you might, there's no killing the Marriage Spider.

Click on Wombatgram for all the hairy details.






Bottoms  Up, Arachnophobes.


For all previous Wombatgrams, try the Wombatgram home page, above. 

But Then Again, Too Few to Mention

Maria Grazia Cucinotta pic. 

Choosing the right partner.

I don't know, if there is some secret to making this happen, it's surely not in my possession. The answer is tantalizingly close, like she's so almost there...but she's not.

Or is she?

I am unmarried because I have yet to meet the right person. Well, maybe I've met her, but all the folderol surrounding dating is a barrier. Some people are ready, some people are not, and so the world turns.

Maturity matters. Some people I know married early in life, but they had it together enough to make it work. On the other hand, there are perpetually lagging souls who only present as decent prospects after a few years in oak barrels. Everyone's mileage varies.

If there is magic to be learned, maybe it is just that - that we're all different, and you knowing when you're ready for decanting is paramount.



Bottoms Up, Vignerons.

Wedding Night Sex

 Photo hat-tip: Miss Licious.

Somewhere, in blogland or a trashy newspaper, I read that fewer than fifty percent of couples have sex on their wedding night. That seems about right. Conventional weddings are awful, stressful things, non-conducive to relaxed (or even frenzied) lovemaking. Emotional and physical exhaustion ruin desire.

But let's say you've practised abstinence. It's your wedding night, and high time for a thorough seeing-too. For God knows how long you've both restricted yourselves, and now your rules allow for...well, anything, I guess. Where do you start?

 Where would you start? It must be like being locked overnight in your favourite store, able to take anything you want. Presumably masturbation is allowed if you're pre-maritally abstinent towards your beloved, so holding back the reservoir wouldn't be too overwhelming. I guess the whole point is having penis in vagina, so the quickest way to make that happen would be the first order of business.

I wonder how many folks are disappointed at that first time? Wouldn't that be a sinking feeling, discovering that after all that delayed gratification, you'd hitched yourself to a dud bash?

Still, it must be quite a moment, that first time, outcome notwithstanding.



Miss Miz's favourite link. SFW

Bottoms Up, Newlyweds.

Digital Love Analogue

 Stephanie Gateshet.

We're clearly moving from centuries of an analogue world to lives defined digitally. The changes are easy to see - we no longer measure, we count;  infinite shading is now thin slicing; perhaps is either on/off.

If this isn't the revolution of all revolutions, I don't know what is.

But, like, whatever. My interest lies in whether we're changing the nature of love. Is love analogue or digital? Do we look at love like a Caravaggio or a PDF file? Is the answer as obvious as it seems?

Digital love sounds awful. A bunch of ones and zeros on a wafer of silicon won't get anyone's heart racing, let alone inspire them to write a song or pen poetry. However, those ones and zeros are canny things; they understand that they're neither warm nor sexy, so they present us with a more lovable facade. The photo above, for instance. Or blogs. Or iTunes. Somewhere along the line, the digital gods found themselves a first-rate PR firm, and followed its advice.

The problem is that all their solutions are good at describing love but hopeless at actually being it. The look that melts your heart, the feeling of her touch, the invisible communication of minds in synch - I guess a robot will eventually simulate these things, but it will still be reproduction of love, not the core.

So I think we're safe for now. Love will be analogue for a long time, probably until your DNA has sex with an iPad, at which point we're all screwed. Or apped. But at that point it won't matter: we'll all be too busy shopping at Amazon for a lover to notice.




Bottoms Up, Microprocessors.

Busting a Move

Maureen O'Hara pic credit.

Patpong 1 and 2 are the best known streets for titty- and fuck-bars in Bangkok. They're hot, steamy and stinky streets, which is remarkably appropriate for a sex-based precinct. Bonking is on sale here: girls are the medium and the only barrier to negotiate is the price.

Hanging around in a club, one often finds oneself on the receiving end of a paper dart or a ping-pong ball. Innocently sipping a Mekong whiskey and ice, you notice a slightly soggy projectile hitting you on the head. Nothing odd about this, apart from the launching device - a vagina. Don't be fooled. Experienced bar-girls have aim worthy of the best sniper, and delight in wowing patrons - both men and women - with their version of  target practice. Hey, don't blame me. It's a cultural thing.

One night, in a fairly decent club, the usual all-girl pelvic olympics was interrupted by a sex show. A guy and girl arrived on the elevated stage, the lighting dimmed, and their "lovemaking" began. A few details linger:

+ she was stunningly beautiful

+ I felt bad that he had some difficulty attaining wood

+ I felt better when she fellated him to solidity

+ the performance had the aura of them actually being a couple

+ I felt the music was inappropriate. Was it Shostakovitch?

+ the entire menagerie (bar, naked women, gawping tourists, shagging on stage) didn't feel odd, given the location

And, most relevant to this post:

+ I was in awe of the way they moved so gracefully from one position to another.

The entire (overly long) thing was like someone choreographed every penis/vagina sexual position into one outing. The "Joy of Sex" in 3-D.

Miss Miz reminded me of this night with her musings on side-by-side penetration. I like her thought of "transitioning" from one position to another, to suit the mood and stimulations of one or other sexual partner. Wouldn't it be just awesome to sit down with your beloved and actually pre-plan how you're gonna have sex? I haven't done this, and can't think why not. As a kicker, doing so over email or IM or even Twitter, say, takes social intercourse to a whole new level.

I imagine that most people (like me) just figure stuff out as they go along. We start somewhere along the Fucking Continuum (TM) and move back and forth...somehow. I guess someone takes charge, or there's gentle persuasion, or mutual agreement or out come the handcuffs. All of which sounds like fun. But the ideal of planning a sexual tryst, from position to position, like planning a ten-course meal, appeals muchly.




Bottoms Up, (After Some Reverse Cowgirl.)

Separating Wheat from Chaff

Mary-Louise Parker pic credit.

Grain silos are dangerous. Fall into the top of one and you might end up suffocating as you struggle to escape, buried alive. There are trucks itching to run you over. Augers want to rip your hand off. And an empty silo can be full of explosive dust. No smoking, thankyouverymuch.

I'll resist the (strong) temptation to compare love to grain silos. Of course love doesn't physically injur anyone. But it can feel nearly as rotten then things turn bad.

My first grain silo accident happened when I had to move cities for a job. She was a friend turned lover, IMO still the best way to find the someone. She stayed, I left. We corresponded, I was busy. She found someone else, I discovered heartbreak. Only sleep soothed.

The loss wasn't fatal, however, and hope regenerated. Another crop came in. I know now the poor odds of success if you're in a long distance relationship.

Separating wheat from chaff. As long as it doesn't kill you. 




Bottoms Up, Croppers.

I Smell Sex and Candy

Anna Holtblad pic credit.

 I imagine that, if pressed to quickly - hurry, hurry! - come up with the name of a sexual position, most people would say "missionary". Okay, men might say "doggy". But both answers are a travesty, because female superior loses out to missionary and rear entry for no good reason.

"Female superior" lacks the snappy nomenclature of the other two, granted. But as an all-around winner, FS takes the Gold Orgasm every time. Thanks to the Dummies Guide people, you can compare missionary v fem sup here. Link.
 
(Who'd have thought: a Dummies Guide to Fucking?)

However. I have been told by women that female superior makes them feel vulnerable. Vulnerable? Well, sure. I have access to your lips, your breasts, your clitoris, and all the other wonderousness on your front side, which goes a long way to explaining why I like it so much.

Isn't vulnerability (read: unfettered access) the whole point? We're naked and my penis is inside your vagina. So I'd say we're both pretty vulnerable, especially to having a really good time.






Bottoms Up, Or Fronts Up, Whichever.

Kissing Confidential

Gwendolyn Whiteside's photo credit. 

I was seven and she was seven. She kissed me once, then she kissed me again. She turned into my first kissing partner, a classroom conspiracy engineered by her. I was a lost but complicit co-conspirator, unsure of what it was all about. Why is she doing this? What part should I be playing here? Why does she taste so good?

Jane Phillips, where are you? Wanna give it another shot?

The kissing faded, as did her ardor for me. Perhaps our mutual lack of make-out skills doomed us from the start, but my suspicion is that I killed it. Too much thinking, not enough action. I should have just rolled with it, especially as Jane not only brought extra lunch to school for me, but went out of her way to walk home with me too. She was the definition of the perfect girlfriend. With memory of the kissing faded, what remained was her smell, which I can conjur to this day.

But Jane wasn't the first person to kiss me. That would, presumably, have been my mother. Right, so they're two completely different kinds of kissing, but they're the same physical action separated only by context. Interesting that at a family function we can kiss a close friend or relative as a sign of connection and fealty, then go on to kiss our wife or husband and communicate something so much more. Kissing is both an instrument of alliance and of overt sexuality.

If you're a mechanistic evolutionist you'd look for a reason for the kiss. For kissing to survive as a behaviour it must have some benefit for both parties. Let's see. There is the transfer of germs - good for babies acquiring their parents' immune sophistication. There is the shared smell of swapping skin flakes and saliva - a sort of hazmat solidarity. And there's the busting of the very last ring of personal space - a what's yours is mine suspension of physical defences. Add up these elements and we have that most endearing of human qualities, the ability to give yourself to another, signalled by the pressing of one's mouth onto the body, head or mouth of another.

Evolution is a brutal judge of superfluous behaviour. Kissing survives for only one reason, and that is because it aids species continuation. Kissing is a quick and dirty way of figuring out if you're a sexual match. Bad kisser, bad lover. If she tastes wrong, she probably is wrong. On the other hand, someone who gives good kiss moves a long way up the list of preferred partners, and, speaking personally, a good kisser is a heavenly gift notwithstanding the outcome. A good kisser stands alone as such, or can lead to extra complexity ie: another generation of kissers.

Which brings me to the undeniable fact - that kissing has power beyond simple intimacy. We're social creatures, and we're tactile too. We want to meld with a special other, and the power of this drive appears to go beyond mere reproduction. At a fundamental level, we understand that attachment to another one and then descending levels of closeness to relatives and non-related individuals in concentric circles fulfills us. It's tribalism, the need to belong and know that we belong. Hence the kiss of enormous variation, from the humble kissing of the hand - at your service, Your Majesty - to the unbridled heat of connection during sex.

 Kissing sends the universal message - I want to be a part of you.




Bottoms Up, You Big Beautiful Kissers You.