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!

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.

Nymphomania

Nymphomania is more or less the same as insatiability, I guess, although there must be some degree of difference. Perhaps insatiables do it with one person, and nymphomaniacs do it with anyone.

Whatever it is, I hope that the word is no longer a term of approbation. Nymphomania used to have the clinical descriptor 'furor uterinus' whereas thesedays it's called 'hypersexuality'. It's still considered an abnormality, but it's one you can wear on your sleeve.

I knew a girl once who was a sort of oral nymphomaniac. She wouldn't engage in intercourse with any one but a steady boyfriend, but she'd happily fellate any fella who asked. She turned up at my place one night, late, jumped into bed with me, had her way and left. If that sounds like a Hustler letter, it's not meant to, because it's true.

I think it was a hobby - instead of a notch on her bedpost, she had another swallow.

Whatever. None of the guys I knew who were in the 'Kate Club' considered her a nympho, and in fact we all conducted regular social intercourse with her. It was just her thing. Indeed, had she been a full-blown all-out nympho, we'd never use the word as a pejorative - we'd just want a piece of the action.

But maybe that's just my experience. I wonder if women with strong sex-drives are still feared by men, rather than seen as someone to whom the red-blooded man introduces himself.





Bottoms Up, Nymphos!

Mr Clean

With a couple of hours to spare around noon today, here's what I did.

1. Grabbed my caddy of environmentally friendly cleaning products (which, by the way, I keep close to me at all times.)

2. Collected, from my 'cleaning' drawer, micro-fibre squares, sponges and polishing cloths.

3. Entered the bathroom.

Working from the top down, I cleaned the tiles first, shower and tub. Then on to the vanity, which is probably the easiest part, although faucets can be tricky. Toilet next, making sure to get to all those idiotic curves at the base that those dumb toilet designers create specifically to confound us. Then on to the floor, where you would have found me on hands and knees with an old toothbrush cleaning the grout. Lastly, the mirror, door handles, towel rails and the shelves of the medicine cabinet.

I stood up after about thirty minutes and looked upon my work with pride.

A (woman) friend opined recently that, had it been her bathroom, I could have expected a blowjob at that point. Is this a common reaction, and should I start a high-end cleaning business?





No, that's not my bathroom pictured. [link]

You are the best, darling.

In our porned-up society, sex-competitiveness has taken hold.

I give the best blow-jobs. Evah.

We screwed for hours man, hours!

Yeah, I'm a bit tired. Five times last night.

Boasting about length, volume, longevity, quantity or dirtiness of one's coupling is a kind of national vanity. One day the National Sex Directorate Czar will arrive to pin a blue ribbon on your chest: First Prize for Bonking.

Unfortunately, the Sex Directorate neglects to publish standards defining good and bad sex. It's the kind of basic oversight you'd expect from another dopey government department, so we naturally turn to the private sector for guidance. By default, the porn industry and its denizens give us the thumbs-up or -down for sexual behaviour, which leads us neatly back to where we started. If you want to know how to do something, seek guidance from specialists.

Ergo, porned-up world.

This is a notion utterly divorced from the truth. A big lie, if you like, that's all too easy to adopt. It's way simpler to discern good from bad sex based on porn criteria than to use our minds. Good sex begins and ends in the mind. Our bodies are the medium through which many layers of drives and emotion are expressed.

In the afterglow, when someone says to you: You're the best (pant, pant) darling, consider asking against whom he or she is measuring you.

On your knees, bitch.

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