End-Play

There are no straight lines in nature, which goes a long way towards explaining the female rump.

There used to be additional text in Genesis:

...and on the tenth day, He created lady rear-ends, and seeing that they were beautiful, named them buttocks...

...but scholars figured a seven-day work-week was sufficient for the the Almighty, and, anyway, the ethereal quality of these things was self-evident. So they dropped their creation from the text. Pity, really, because I feel it gives things a more recognizable character.

I bet you aren't aware that history is full of other, less grand stories testifying as to the way we men adore the curve of you ladies' backsides. You know the Mona Lisa? She's the one stuck in Le Louvre with 157,000 of her closest friends gawping at her every day. What's not well known is that Leonardo da Vinci originally wanted to paint a picture of her buttocks. She demurred, however, and said that she'd smile enigmatically and guarantee interest in the portrait for centuries if he captured her face instead.

I have it on good authority that her inspiring happy look came about when the painter gently caressed her bottom...

...Oh, Leo, you forward thing you. What a nice touch you have...mmmmm, just there...

...at which point he said

HOLD IT! That' perfect! Just the look I want!...

...neatly explaining why she looks that peculiar way.

Womens' buttocks are, clearly, the work of the divine. The curves are not of this paltry material world, giving many of us reason to spend our lives devoted to their admiration. Some guys will tell you they rank other aspects of feminine form higher, but in the end, we're all quiet lovers of your reverse.




Bottoms Up, Bottoms Lovers!

Better Be Good To Me

How about that human genome, eh? What a t'riffic little jobby that bad boy is, explaining everything from hammer toes to serial killer tendencies, plus the really important stuff like male pattern baldness.

My genetic predisposition is like a bad Vuitton knock-off - somewhere in the past lies a quality original. Unfortunately, for successive generations the leather provenance has been on a downward slide, and the stitching...well, let's just say you wouldn't fool anyone at your local pub.

But there is hope. The flip side of the genetic blackjack game is the environmental input we all receive. I like to think of this as the role model side of life, because that's how junior learns how to behave. Parents form the front line, with (in my day, anyway) television as a backstop. You'd be surprised at the extent of Gilligan's Island's influence in my own life. (I'm Team Mary Ann BTW. Ginger was way too high maintenance. Who takes ball gowns to a tropical island?)

If I had to plant a flag in this argument, I'd say that environment - the influence of role models - is more important than genetics. Young'uns start learning and mimicking right from day one. Seems to me that there's almost zero inherited ability in the higher social skills area; finding a decent mate, for instance. Discerning what kind of behaviour divides the good people from the bad, for another, is all observed knowledge.

I'm pretty sure this is why we all have to learn the mating lessons from scratch every time. Our biology is amazing, but not coded for understanding the difference between a Coach bag and a grocery bag.




Bottoms Up, Quality Mavens.

Be Careful For What You Wish

Eva Amurri

A recurring theme in my life is how often I learn lessons about living by making mistakes. I write Kiss & Blog because airing my thoughts on dating and relationships helps with nailing down at least a few rules of engagement. Falling flat on one's face is a universal experience for anyone who has ever had more than one encounter with the opposite sex, but I can't help wondering how much better my nose would look had I been privy to some inside skinny before I began. Your nose, of course, is as cute as a button.

It does begin with one's parents. Not only do we have DNA shepherding us behind the scenes, we all model our behaviour on the example they provide(ed). Some examples are good, of course, but many aren't and a number are downright destructive. Awareness of this helps. Out-thinking one's formative environment can lead to a better life. That's pretty much where I'm at, figuring out what my programming is - genetic and environmental - and deciding whether any of it is any good.

Taking a long, hard look around leaves me quizzical at how many others are in the same position. My parents gave me precisely zero sexual education, no tips on relationships and not one guiding principle on how to avoid girl-trouble. (Not that girls are intrinsically trouble - it's the way I behave around them that creates such a thing.) So it's an almost universal co-ed dorm room, this University of Life and Love where we all start from scratch, generation after generation. Wouldn't it be cool if we could build knowledge of what works and what doesn't and pass it on to our babies? Yes, but apparently we don't.

Everything I know is a synthesis of experience (good and bad), both mine and peers as related to me. Which is a problem of itself. When we grope for understanding based on what our buddies tell us, dating life can easily slip into some odd movie combination of American Pie and American Psycho. Finding the path that's right for each of us as individuals requires a lot of going it alone. No way around it.

All of which leaves me in the following position: I work to discover the architecture of how to live life. Finding a framework on which to hang a desirable façade, one that's true to the underpinning foundations, is a lifetime quest.



Bottoms Up, Lifetime Questers.

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.

The Long and Short of Strap-On Dildos

I'm in two minds about fishing. On the one hand there is the grouper sandwich and macadamia encrusted mahi-mahi. Mmmmm....mahi-mahi. On the other hand there are hooks and nets.



How is the salmon served again?



Fishermen are divided into two species - recreational anglers, that is. There are live-bait fishermen and artificial-bait fishermen. It's not a trivial difference. These are Old Testament/New Testament kind of arguments, unsolved by beer or beer-battered catfish. But let us not tarry. My fishy musings aren't for nothing, dear friends. There are sex aids afoot and what wonders lie before us!



Behold, the strap-on dildo. This piece of priapic pulchritude fills a gap - so to speak - when a penis is missing. One imagines that most owners are lesbians, but no doubt there's a big market for women who want to show their menfolk what it's like to have six or more inches of extruded polymer shoved up their butt.



Which isn't where I'd like to focus. What's interesting to me is that Mr P is always invited to the party, whether the participants like penis or not. Lesbians, are, presumably, those most likely to purchase a strap-on...which must pain them no end. Interesting that those with only sapphic attractions still like an ersatz bloke about the place; one held in place with buckles and straps.



Let's review: When a dick's not to hand, there are always artificial dicks, even if you don't like dick or the person to whom he's attached. Bravo, marital aid industry and UPS. You've done us proud. Even those of us who use live bait.









Bottoms Up, Naturists.

Mama's Got a Squeezebox

Hope Solo pic credit.

My best information is that women are split between vaginal orgasmobabes and clitoral orgasmobabes. Unevenly split, as it turns out, for a pretty obvious reason: the vagina is not a pleasure centre, whereas the clitoris is.

A brief cruise around my trusted sources (my hairstylist, the supermarket checkout lady this morning) tells us that roughly two-thirds of women need some kind of clitoral love to orgasm. Vaginal orgasm alone is a less visited corner of the sex cave, which is not to say we can't light a candle and go find some. It seems that it's a bit of a squeeze and not so much upside to the journey.

There is, naturally enough, a wrinkle, and it is the G-spot. That's an upside wrinkle by the way. Given the right stimulation, the mighty Grafenburg is the key to vaginal Oh! But given its usual position, can be difficult-ish to engage. (With the penis, that is. Hand-jobs are a different tub of gelato.)

Vaginal elasticity being what it is, there are lots of fun ways to find lady-pleasure. I'm writing here more to blokes than the sheilas - one would hope that chicks already know how to get themselves off. Because I'm entirely representative of most men, I can tell you that we love the challenge of helping you find that beautiful butt-quivering, leg shaking, hip thrusting, pussy-pouting, full-throttle climax. They're awesome! Perhaps we like finding them inside you because ours are so relatively easy to come by.

In any case, guys, be aware that until you find otherwise, the little man in the boat is key to the nuclear reactor...but beyond that, mixing a little G-spot exploration with appropriate partner positioning (downward dog, anyone?) can make her day. And, as you and I know, ours, too.





Bottoms Up, G-Spotters.

A G-Post from long ago. Still good, unless female anatomy has changed.

Why can't I save her?

I note a thread in my dating history that I guess some others know too. It's the state of mind that says:

There's a girl I think needs help. I can save her.

It's a foolish way of thinking, but for a long time I couldn't quantify why it doesn't work. Experience taught me that people change only when they want to; the impetus for doing so must come wholly from within. Knowing that someone would benefit from help is different from them deciding to change.

The decision process I figured out is to never commit to someone more than they commit to themselves.

This is one more of those life lessons that would have been handy to learn by instruction rather than repeated mistakes.




Bottoms Up, Lifesavers!





Photo courtesy of the Ocean City Sentinel. [link]

Edited for clarity.

Ejaculate: You'll Make Her Happy

Reading Snaf's and KayDee's blogs recently has been a little like being backstage watching the audience reaction to a new Broadway production. The show - a musical, methinks, called Let the Spunk Fly - is a physical show, full of nudity and grunts that has a climax with a twist: there is no climax.

All of us backstage are men, in on the plot twist. And those in the audience are all women, who have no idea what's about to happen.

The real trick of the show is that the women leave thinking that something's happened, when in fact nothing has.

Okay, okay, enough of the smart-arse metaphors.

It looks like lots of chicks are surprised that they're not the only ones providing artificial orgasms. My reaction is everyman's - Huh? You mean I fooled you the way you fooled me?

Frankly, I really don't care that much. Sometimes I won't want to express my reproductive fluids, but it doesn't seem like that big of a deal. There's always next time. And we got to spend naked or semi-naked fun time together, right?

My question of women is: What else don't you know about your men?


Bottoms Up, Fuckers!

Cupcakes

I went on a sixth date last night. I wasn't my sixth date, you understand, which sounds like eating a cupcake without the frosting, but a sixth date it was. In fact the daters were strangers to me, and I didn't even know we were all on the date together until after the first bottle of wine. Which is exactly how these things should go.

Date six is pretty close to the perfect time to introduce the rest of the world to a relationship. At that point there's enough understanding and empathy for the couple to weather the inevitable new stuff that crops up about each other. Questioners and cynics like me are the worst people to have around, because directness has unintended consequences.

Despite that, I'm wondering if it might be the smart way to go about easing a new relationship into the universe - first introduce it to strangers rather than friends or family. Strangers don't know exes, history or quirks, which leaves them only with observation and perspective. What better way to close a few small gaps between newbies than an evening chatting with a dispassionate but well-disposed unknown? Perhaps I can turn this into a business - a kind of third wheel dater to check if you're both ready for the big leagues of Thanksgiving or your mother's birthday party.

I am relieved to say that that the (very cool and entirely charming) couple looked quite on track for a seventh date when I excused myself. In fact, I'd say they looked like they'd both discovered a limitless supply of cupcakes with frosting in (on?) each other.



Bottoms Up, Cupcakes!


Cupcake with cupcakes from here [link]

Change Gears

Repulsion and attraction rest upon the smallest particles. Loving a woman can be about the way she tilts their head. Loathing a woman can be about the way she closes a door. It's ridiculous when placed on a plinth like that, but all my observations and experience tell me it's true.

A lot of the stuff that we might label 'small' is right on the edge of consciousness, too, in my opinion. I don't know exactly what it is I like about her...I just know. Detachment and self-examination are needed to figure out what our brain is filtering out, and what it's including. The answer is there, but we need to point the flashlight at the edges of how we think, towards the less obvious nooks and crannies of our personality.

This is the reason I dislike the standard online dating architecture. The profiles are all about big-picture things, painted with a large brush. Unfortunately, the paint is water-based, and washes away with the first exposure to rain. Yes, I like sailing and martinis, just like you, but where's the hook in that? I have just described about a billion people. Small is special and big is...well, it's just big.

The real point I want to make about this is that because my attraction for you is about the small stuff, you are entirely unlikely to know ahead of time what those small stuffs are. That's why it is such a waste of time to spend time thinking about your shortcomings - as, remember, you see them, not anyone else - to the detriment of being the best you can.

I have discovered this, thousands of years late, but it's worth repeating: change what you want to and accept the rest. Oh, and don't worry about what other people find attractive or repulsive. You have no control over that.

Martini, anyone?

Bottoms Up.




Woman contemplating from this man [link]