The David Copperfield Moment

Reading online profiles is engaging sport. By looking at the photos and comparing the narrative with the headline I try to put together a general abstract of the woman and what she's thinking.

You need to be an amateur cryptologist to do this, because no-one displays their complete self in a personal ad. Once you've spent enough time puzzling over a lot of these things, patterns become clear. Successful decryption begins with finding repeated words and phrases. These commonalities, repeated in many separate profiles, form the starting point from which entire messages can be cracked.

What is interesting is how few profiles stand out from the crowd. A lot of the time it's like reading the equivalent of - sorry to say this - a whole bunch of classifieds. This is not criticism, merely observation. Revealing telling insights with a coupla snaps and two-hundred words isn't normal, with good reason. Self-protection is a valuable instinct.

Near the top of my 'memorables' list is a woman who posted a confident, breezy profile with some likewise upbeat photos. One pic, of her standing beside an F-250 in jeans and heels, had the following caption:


Me and my truck - when I'm wearing a skirt you will probably want to help me up! ;-) 


Wombat Decode Report:

1. I understand that if ever you're my boyfriend, you'll be interested in my body.

2. I'm good with that.




Bottoms Up, Magicians.  

Incompetent Cervix

The initial hint that you're dealing with a very different animal comes in that first sex-ed class. When they show that slide of the interior female, the shock lasts a long time, I can tell you.You know the one, that diagram - anterior view I think it's called - showing the lower lady thorax's contents in all its glory; uterus, tubes, ovaries and all. No disrespect intended, but when a ten year-old boy is faced with this for the first time, it looks positively alien. Like something a cheap sci-fi movie props man cobbled together, the vague likeness of a venus fly-trap.

Not only are there all those odd-looking parts, but they do odd things, too. Eggs shoot out, stuff builds up on uterine walls, hormones rain all over the shop and there's blood everywhere. (Although sex educators are at pains to point out the wonder, mystery and beauty of all this argle-bargle, stressing that periodic blood is different from circulatory blood.)

See, I paid attention.

The first reaction is "OMG, all that's inside you?" drawing inevitable comparisons to one's own alien parts. In our case, they're only mildly other-wordly, being, as they are, more out there. Besides, the penis is a simple hydraulic/plumbing fixture and more or less self-contained. Balls? Best to consider them biological punctuation.

Puberty and sexual maturity change everything, naturally. What at first seemed gooey and intimidating becomes, well, still gooey and intimidating, but in a way that makes a bloke devote his life to lady-parts exploration. Then there's the secret of actual child-bearing, where the complexity multiplies, together with the possible problems.

For instance, an incompetent cervix is a mere inconvenience to a woman; an incompetent penis would devastate a man. Therein the difference between the sexes.



Bottoms Up, Triffids.

Expecting the Unexpected

 Eliza Dushku

Meeting and dating someone in quick succession can be one of the funnest things in the universe. If you feel you have something with this new person the exhilaration of discovery is like a drug. Gimme more!

The downside of that is if it doesn't work out, you end up in a relationship with some sketchy dude who sells you low-grade shit at street-plus prices. Wait. That's another kind of drug, although the analogy holds pretty well.

We singles are all looking for that starburst of wonder and goodwill, elusive as it might be. There's no way to pre-figure the feeling, the chemistry follows no particular rules. Encounters with this drug are not restricted to singles either - I can think of at least three married women with whom I've shared that moment of singularity, of knowing. Fortunately, my better nature prevented anything more happening. There are quite a few what-ifs hanging out there in the universe.

Like any drug, mutual discovery is best enjoyed in the right environment. Bathrooms and cars are fun, but more appropriate when you're both on a slightly more solid footing. Passion can overwhelm common sense, so at least in the beginning some dating structure is good.

That's an old-fashioned view, I understand. Trouble is that heightened emotions - all I can think about is HER - leave no room for circumspection. It's all about wondering what she's doing, whether I need a haircut and how her pussy might taste.




Bottoms Up, Newly Acquainted.

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.

Here's how to find your wedding-day limousine.

Making the Most of It

Kelly Brook photo credit.

Despite attraction being the elusive beast that it is, I'm not sure that making ones-self attractive is all that complicated.

Singlicious's thinking is a good example:

It's true those of us without a low waist-to-hip ratio generally understand that our attraction lies elsewhere (boobs, in my case), but I think that if we care about attracting men, we generally still dress in such a way as to approach that ideal as much as possible (not meaning skimpily, necessarily, but to create the illusion of a smaller waist, etc.).

We're all physically less than perfect, making 'perfect' a foolish standard to begin with. What does perfect even mean? What Vogue determines? But we are critical animals - more so of others than ourselves - which leads us to compare others to our imagined 'perfect' physical template.

Decades of observing female bodies leads me to this: Everyone has at least one great physical asset. It might be gorgeous lips, or delicately turned ankles, a graceful neck or, ahem, a great set of boobs. Acknowledging this is, ie: the woman doing so to herself, is good. Equally good is extending the realism to note the other stuff that MIGHT not be as beautifully formed. From that point, it is fairly simple to manipulate one's outward appearance to highlight the selling points and perhaps camouflage some others.

I'm assuming that our theoretical woman WANTS to either look attractive to men or actually attract them.

What I see in many women is a way of dressing or using makeup or styling their hair that demonstrates a lack of realistic stock-taking. (BTW, men are as bad or worse, but I'm not interested in them.) If you're a short woman with a big butt, capri pants will accentuate this fact. If you have big thighs, skinny jeans don't work, unless you want us to look at your thighs first. Crocs in public are always wrong. And so on.

Men are simple to the point that we can easily determine which woman is comfortable in her own skin, and who is trying too hard to be something else. Consider a hunting metaphor - the decoy duck looks okay from a distance, but don't try roasting it.




Bottoms Up, Decoys.

Curves

Pic credit

Allegedly, many guys prefer a body type that includes a low waist to hip measurement. Nothing new in that: a slim-waisted girl with hips and boobs will always catch your eye.

But there's more subtlety to attraction than just curves, and women without that specific fat/bone/muscle configuration seem to understand that their attraction might lie elsewhere too. Sure, the hour-glass might catch my eye initially, but it's so fleeting as to be almost irrelevant.

Yes, we are superficial animals...superficially. The layers of attraction are deep enough - and sufficiently abstract - that Jessica Rabbit is only a minor distraction, deemed valuable only by perceived cultural norms. Gosh, I'm sounding like some awful psych professor.

Pfft. Cultural norms indeed.

My point is that attraction is SO individual as to be beyond easy characterization, an excellent state of affairs. Curves are TOTALLY in the eye of the beholder.



Bottoms Up, Attractors.

Menage a Snooze

A certain animus towards Hugh Hefner wafts around the place, which is appropriate because he smells like stinky old person. He smells like old person because he is old person, wearing that funky fragrance like it's Old Spice.

The problem with Playboy's playboy-in-chief is his lost relevance. The niche he fills is that of the delusional male baby-boomer, an admittedly large demographic but one with vanishingly small future attraction. The days of women needing media-savvy pimps and a nude portfolio to kick-start their careers are over, although a distressingly large number of babes have yet to get the news. Hello internet, hello digital photography, hello do-it-yourself pimping.

I have a small sneaking admiration for Hugh. His redeeming quality is the ability to raise the ire of the Permanently Outraged. That gormless smile and the ridiculous three-girlfriends-at-a-time lifestyle are a parody of what he used to be - a fact that escapes only those who take it seriously.

And given what I've seen of his taste in chicks, Hugh and regular guys really have nothing in common. Those dopey blonde bimbos Hef likes are so far removed from the kind of sexy captivating non-perfect women I like as to be out of sight. Hugh's a fossil, and that's his only value.



Bottoms Up, Bikini-ed Babes!





Pic of Heidi from Playboy.

Whales Gush Too

Before the BP soiled fair Looosiana's shores it was the big mammals who screwed up the environment. When our brave lads from Nantucket went in search of lamp-oil, it fell upon whales to cough it up.

Sperm whales weren't, as you might imagine, chock full of human reproductive material, but the idea's admittedly amusing. Especially as Spermy's valuable cargo (the Victorian-era equivalent of a gigunda oil reservoir) was all in his head. Junk in the cranium for you urban types.

Many a long evening was lit by the light of smoky whale parts. Which might explain the Victorian attitude to sex.

Not only did our mammalian brothers and sisters die horrid painful deaths for their oil, various bits and pieces of them were used to stiffen corsets. In a saying common in whaling towns, every part of the whale was used...except the blowhole.

Corsets mystify only those who like everything natural about their woman. Cinching in a lady's waist to half its normal size gives all normal men a boner worthy of a whale. Why this is so is a matter of ongoing and very slow research, conducted mostly by convincing women to wear everything in their lingerie drawer, and then slowly removing it all with one's teeth.


Bottoms Up, Gushers!


Pic of Victorian Loverlies from here [link]

La Petite Mort

There's a part of me that envies the complexity of the female. I have way fewer moving parts than a woman, and some days - like today - I wonder if being a chick would stave off the boredom.

The reason any given woman will suffer less from boredom than any given man is because you have more mental rooms in which to play. You can take your emotions out for a spin and see what happens. There are always your sisters with whom to share. And if you're in the mood, you can always unbridle your sexy side for some fun.

The sisterhood is really important, because y'all are way more social animals than men. That means there's always someone at the end of your street or the end of your cellphone who might have something to say that will alleviate a dull day. At the very least, she'll call you "Sweetie" and "feel bad" for you. Women empathize.

Maybe life really is more dramatic for babes. Male orgasm (I imagine, backed up by porn) is a pretty standard thing. But female O is Shakespearean. (Irony of a using a playwright and actor noted.) Memories of ex-g/f Os are some of my favourite mental images, especially the near-death-like Petite Mort kind.

I like the Urban Dictionary's definition:

The little death is translation from the French "la petite mort", a popular reference for a sexual orgasm. The term has been broadly expanded to include specific instances of blacking out after orgasm and other supposed spiritual releases that come with orgasm. Speculations to its origin include current connotations of the phrase, including: * Greco-Roman belief that the oversecretion of bodily fluids would "dry out" one of the believed four humours, leading to death.

Seems I'm not the only one who enjoys the memory of climax past:

This is quite the discovery [link]<-----Interesting Link SFW


Bottoms Up, Climaxers!




Pic from here {link}

Friday Fluffer - Instruments of Pleasure

The fight to the bottom afflicts businesses everywhere.

Walmart fights suppliers for a one cent advantage.

Airlines fight customers by charging for everything more than the seat.

Fast food joints sell us ever more food and ever less nutrition.

There is one business that aims for quality and satisfaction by selling us the best - at least in the line it calls 'Instruments of Pleasure'.

It is with great pleasure that I give you Kiki de Montparnasse.

Beautiful things for beautiful times. Quality. Probably NSFW, but only mildly. [link]





Bottoms Up, Pleasure Seekers!


Pic from here [link]

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!

Friday Fluffer - Stick it in Already

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Feminist Literature

Floating around the internet searching for dungeon equipment proved immensely time wasting. Not only are there VERY few vendors, the quality of the goods looks decidedly dodgy. And surprisingly there's not much of a market for second-hand (pre-spanked?) BDSM kit...although maybe not so surprisingly.

Hey, I'll give you fifty for the rack, the standing cage and the two wooden stingers.

What I did find was an enormous amount of porn, which, as we all know, was the reason hand lotion was invented.

One kink I don't understand is this thing of writing shit on a woman. I'm looking at an example now. She's wearing spike heels and a sweet spiked collar. Her master (presumably) used a felt pen to write what amount to instructions all over her. Big arrows point at her cooter saying "For Fucking". On her buttocks, similar arrows lead to her chocolate starfish with the words "Cocks Go Here." On her boobs is the instruction "Cum All Over These" and at various places she's branded a "Slut".

Ooookay.




Exploring Uma photo from here [link]

Dungeon for Rent

The huge number of industrial buildings offered for lease got me thinking the other day. My small Floridian town is suffering from unemployment and idiotic government as much as any place, but there's enough money around for this idea: A Dungeon for Rent.

BDSM (bondage and discipline, submission and sadomasochism) verges on being mainstream thesedays. I presume it's the natural progression from the pornocization of society, but whatever I might think about that isn't going to stop me from making some jink from people's kink.

Big industrial buildings lend themselves to creatively designed dungeons. Mine would be decorated in black, mostly, of course, with blood-red highlights. Lighting would be cheap, as candles are the dungeonmaster's illumination of choice. There would be rooms with various kinds of whipping posts, crosses mostly, with simple shackles and chains for the primitive players. Special rooms with suspension devices are likely to be popular too. You can bring your own gags, crops and whips, or, for a fee, I'll provide you with rental punishment and restraint equipment.

As with the Japanese Love Hotels (some of which I understand now come with dungeons for rent) discretion would be the name of the game. Players in couples or groups would be kept apart by time or wall. And separate entrances and exits would keep them that way.

At Wombat's Dungeon World, no-one need know you like your love hog-tied and gagged in a dark, dripping den of depravity.





Delicious photo from here. The English are big into Dungeon Life, apparently. [link]

Friday Fluffer - Cooter Ice

BlueBabe's writing inspires me in many ways. Her post today [link] is about...well, let's just say that the guy she thought was a Pussy Aficionado turned out not to be.

I think her blog is restricted, but leave her a note here in comments, and she'll likely as not let you in the door of her amazing world.

In recognition of the fact that we can all learn more about some things, here's a link to the Cunnilingus Tutor's Top 50 ways to keep a lady happy.

CT's Top Fifty. [link]

As they say at the finest restaurants and the lowest diners: Enjoy!




Edit: BlueBabe requests you email her for access to her blog. It's totally worth it.

bluelovergirl1@aol.com

Happy pic from here [link]

Friday Fluffer - The Rise of the Hedgehog

If anyone is qualified to write about Fluffers, it's Ron Jeremy. [Wikipedia link] This is his autobiography which, as you can see, didn't sell at full retail price. The publisher's loss is our gain, because this isn't a half bad read.

Ron tells the tale of his loves and likes in fine style. He started out as a legit actor, but then his penis got in the way.*

In case you don't know, Ron is one of the universe's most prolific porn actors. His curriculum penii includes more than 1,750 films, over 4,000 sex partners and the dubious boast that the oldest women with whom he had sex on video was Rosie, aged 87. They co-starred in 87 and Still Bangin'.

Describing how he separates sex with women on camera and sex with girlfriends, Ron says that "sex is like" leaving us to draw the conclusion that romantic sex is something else. Presumably, if a man walks up to a woman and says:

Hi. I like you. Let's have sex, she'll react positively.

Yeah. Only on porn sets.









*For the record, Ron's penis is 9.75 inches long.

The Hardest (working) Man in Showbiz by Ron Jeremy. ISBN: 978-0-06-084082-2