Groove Is In The Heart

I can't think of any physical skill more attractive to women than the ability to dance. Being a surgeon, perhaps, or a tradesman, like a plumber.

Nah, dancing wins hands-down. How often will you need a surgeon or a plumber in a lifetime, versus how often can you dance in a lifetime? Dancing's something you can do every day, and probably should.

Whenever I think of a male dancing role-model, Fred Astaire comes to mind. That's archaic, and more than a little weird considering he was born in 1899 and made movies with Ginger Rogers more than eighty years ago. Surely there are more recent male dancers?

John Travolta circa Saturday Night Fever? (Disco, Yeah!)

Sammy Davis Junior?

Ummmmmm....Gregory Hines?

You see I think this is a huge opportunity for average males like me. Attracting women necessarily has a marketing angle - separating yourself from the competition is part of the game. But the overwhelming majority of guys have a mental block about dancing. Partly that's because there's an effeminate feel to it - incorrectly, BTW - and partly because to be even mildly accomplished takes a lot of mental and physical effort.  

Which brings us to dancing schools. Dancing schools are a kind of anti-matter organization for guys like me. As much as we'd like to try, we don't want to exhibit our complete unco-ordination to a group of strangers. Likewise, we don't want the instructor hectoring us while we are demonstrating just how slow/stupid/clumsy/cloven-hoofed we are.

...no, no NO, like this...two-three...and this two-three...can't you feel the music?...

You understand the mental picture we have - that of a smallish, well dressed man in front of the class speaking contemptuously to the clod with donkey-feet. Me.

The answer is probably one-on-one instruction until I'm good enough for group classes. Given enough patient coaching, time, and practice, there's no reason even I couldn't get half-decent at tango. It's not like I have no rhythm - it just needs a little coaxing.

The reward of being masterful with a woman right up close in public speaks for itself. Olé.



Bottoms Up, Tangoistas.

Women are from Two-Stroke

 Ferrari F430

I read Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus when it was published a few light years ago. It was enlightening in an obvious way, by which I mean that the metaphor overwhelmed the information. Does anyone not understand that men and women are different? Did we need an entire book to make that point? Were the stereotypes thusly created valuable?

Still, it created positive controversy. The chattering class had something vaguely titillating with which to pretend-shock friends, and Dr Oprah's millionaire factory created another alumnus. Chalk it up to nothing succeeding like success.

But something about the premise bugged me, and still does. I can't quite put my finger on it, but the idea that men and women are from different planets - abstract as the whole deal is - strikes me as more divisive than creative. We're the same species divided into two sexes, not two civilizations.

Anyhoo, as they say in the classics, I found a metaphor that I like that helps explain one Martian/Venusian characteristic, and it's this:

Men's sexual motor is always on, idling when not in gear, revving hard when in motion.

Women's sexual motor is off much of the time, needing to be started before moving  from the curb.

Neat eh?

Because I always take stuff too far, I'd say that:

Men are diesels. Diesels happily run all the time, but also thrive on hard revving.

Women are two-stroke engines NPI. Two strokes are lively and have high power-to-weight, but are best suited to be on when needed, and off when not.

Men, this was a teachable moment for me (another modern linguistic triumph.) Remember, before attempting anything, first start her up, and, better still, warm her up.




Bottoms Up, Internal Combustors.

Allow Yourself Pleasure

"Most women need permission to express themselves sexually and allow themselves pleasure."*

I sense an element of truth in this statement, and yet raise my eyebrows. 'Permission' implies someone has the authority allowing each individual female release. Is is possible that women themselves deny that permission? Do women stop their own natural behaviour? Why?

This kind of self flagellation is foreign to guys. We routinely deny ourselves expression from the other end of that spectrum - controlling our impulses civilizes us. This, too, can be overdone, leading to male sexual introversion.

Perhaps we could meet in the middle. Ladies, give yourself permission. Men, go meet the women.




Bottoms Up, Permit Holders!



Pic from here [link]

*Quote from a quote from "Release the Seductress Within" by Laurie Sue Brockway.

The Secret

Guessing now, but I imagine that men spend a minimum of ten percent of their lives thinking about women. That's 65,700 hours in the average male lifetime completely dedicated to contemplating the be-skirted sex.

And the marital status of the dude doesn't matter. Single guys spend their allocation wondering how to snare one; guys in relationships wonder if she is the one; married fellas have the complicated circumstance of having one bird in the hand and a nest and previous birds in the bush. That's not something about which I can authoritatively speak.

I'm writing a review of a book about a famous American man. Revealing his name would spoil the fun, but the following excerpt, which is a quote from a friend of his, caught my eye. Some truths about women are universal, even if we - all we men - think we know stuff others don't.

Here's how to woo a woman.

"(He) treated romance as a job - not as a conquest, but as a process. The reason that every woman who ever met him fell in love with him - and I've never met one who didn't - is because he put so much effort into it. Any woman who came to (his place) would be wined and dined. (He) would prepare elaborate meals with oysters, chocolate, strawberries, champagne - drugs, if that's what they were into. He had a magical ability to make a woman feel as though she was the only one who ever existed - he actually used to laugh at other men because he knew how good he was."

Aye. Make a woman the centre of your universe...at least while you're together. That's The Secret.



Bottoms Up, Lotharios!


Pic of cheer-leader from a now-defunct blog, so it's pointless providing attribution. I bet she likes an oyster and some champagne.

Friday Fluffer - Freedom of Speech

Pussy Power might work on heterosexual men, but the 'tween legs dynamo does not influence the majesty of the law.

Jennifer LaPenta wore her I Have the Pussy, So I Make the Rules tee in the gallery during her friend's court hearing. The Judge was not amused - and Jennifer was cited for contempt.

She left the court in cuffs with a 48 hour sentence to serve. Unfortunately for Jen, this was not an elaborate submission game, and the man who led her away was not taking her to his dungeon for some fun.

The Smoking Gun has the story and the pics. [link]



Bottoms Up, New Inmates!

She's Into Superstition.

Me, I'm a Taurean.

That makes me:

Patient and reliable
Warmhearted and loving
Persistent and determined
Placid and security loving

On the dark side that makes me:

Jealous and possessive
Resentful and inflexible
Self-indulgent and greedy


Some kind of package, eh?

Astrology is a truly clever invention, because it preys upon our need to know. I want to know how the world views me; I want to know how I fit; it's fascinating to predict the future; it's comforting to know I'm better off with a Virgo than an Aquarian.

The fact that astrologists, palm-readers, psychics, seers, taroists and sundry other future-gazers can still make a living shows how desperately we are - we need to know anything about ourselves we don't already know. Fear of the unknown, especially the future, is a vestige of our less knowledgeable past.

But not knowing the future is a problem only if you think it is. Imagine if you had a printout of the course of your life from now until the hour of your death; would that make the days between now and then less stressful?

See, I think that remaining calm in the face of chaos and the randomness of the universe is the great adventure. If you accept the unknown, you don't resent what happens, and if you can stay flexible and philosophic, you don't mind what happens.

That's why I would think carefully about a girlfriend with a heavy astrology or tarot habit - it strikes me as slightly nutty. But that's because I'm a Taurus, and we can be judgmental.



Bottoms Up, Stargazers.




Mrs Ann's sandwich board from here [link]

Ferrets

Individualism's great, but what you call individualism I reserve the right to call strangeness. Strangeness can be fun and interesting too, but I probably don't want to date you if you're strange tipping to weird. That's the way I roll.

Pets are one area in which I have little tolerance for the non-mainstream. A certain one-upmanship taints pet ownership, especially amongst those whose non-human companions extend beyond cats and dogs.

Take ferrets, for example. A mate of mine from years ago dated (for a short time) a very attractive chick who came equipped with a ferret. Mostly the rat wrapped itself around the back of her neck, with its hideous face poking out from under her hair above her left shoulder. She went everywhere with that beast, talking to it like it understood. It reminded me of a ventriloquist and her dummy, constantly blathering back and forth.

Snakes and other reptiles skip the strange category and move straight to weird. Dating a woman with a diamond python or two in her living room is beyond me. Ditto lizards, spiders, grasshoppers and Madagascar hissing cockroaches. [link]

Even mainstream pets tell us a lot about the owner. Single women with miniature dogs have them as baby replacements; men with miniature dogs are homosexual; anyone with a pit-bull is a retard. Which leaves only cat-owners as sane people. So that's who I'll date.

Have pussy? Call me.


Bottoms up!





Photo of Woman with Ferret from here [link]

What is a woman thinking?

The interior of my mind (I'd like to think) is similar to that of an English gentleman's club. There are books and whisky; fine conversations and ancient agreements; nuance and humour. A smell of leather wafts around, the passing down of wisdom from one generation to another the currency of the house.

It's all bollox of course, a pure fantasy fuelled by (Sean Connery as) James Bond, failed British Empire schooling and a particular kind of snobbery one admires from afar, but can never really be a part of.

Never end a sentence with a preposition, by the way.

What interests me is what it's like inside the female brain. Those kitchy funnies depicting lady-brains as being all about shopping and emotion leave me cold, if only because the real thing is so much more likeable than that. A big mistake I have made in the past is to see women as a kind of enemy...or more like an untrustworthy ally, like, say Siegfried and Roy's tigers.

The female brain is an utter mystery to most guys I think, but it need not be so. One thing I discovered a while ago is that unlike mine, your brain is full of voices competing for attention. Goodness, it must be a cacophony in there. Guys need only understand that in order to be heard, they should be the loudest, most persistent voice. That's all. And I don't mean shouting without taking a breath. Just be there with a consistent, loving message, and you'll be heard.