The Mermaid Conundrum

Long sea-borne men of yore yearned for the sight of women so much that their imaginations went nuts. The power of desire for anything feminine - together with the isolation - sent their minds on weird pathways, including morphing fish into females. Such is the power you have over us. No wonder that when explorers found themselves in places like Tahiti, with its ripely available beauties, they had to trick their crews into leaving.

The attraction of the half-fish, half woman is two-fold:

1. She cannot run away when caught.

2. She is, for the most part, bare-breasted (or close enough).

The sub-text is that the mermaid is both attainable and detainable, fitting right into the fantasy template - after all, what use is there dreaming of something uncatchable?

 (We need to think like a horny sailor stuck on a stinky sailboat during a years-long voyage here to capture the zeitgeist.)

All-in-all, mermaids are women, perfected. They're available mid-ocean if one uses the right bait, they won't escape if lured shipboard and they're sexually out there. Regarding the matter of below-the-waist details, I shall refrain from making tasteless banter about whether they de-scale. Some waters are best left uncharted.

It occurs to me that land-only ladies share at least one mermaid attraction, the high-heeled shoe. Heels hinder you running away just as a lower-half flipper slows the mermaid down. We like a little chase, but want the odds stacked on our side.



Bottoms Up, Stilletos.

Buffing Your Lucky

Here's a recipe:

  ~ Find one ripe woman whose divorce finalized within the last week.

  ~ Add five of her sorority sisters in town for the weekend.

  ~  Wrap all six in sexy dresses and tasty heels.

  ~ Supply them with two cars and designated drivers for the night. 

  ~ Marinate the ladies in quality vodka and just enough bar snacks.

Serve to any lecherous man within five-inch heel walking distance.

After a couple of hours and three nightspots, the mission of the night became clear - to find the recently singlefied Sister a new man. In essence, her married Greeks chat up whatever blokes they found with complete deniability - it's not for them, they're finding a new dude for her.

They're buffing her lucky. (Peals of uninhibited laughter.)








Bottoms Up, Pledgers.

Intel Inside

Photo credit.

Being a bloke I sometimes feel that I'm a molecular computer running a software loop that goes something like this:

hips pussy skin smell belly round soft bumfluff warm breast curve nipple reaction breath sweet wanting heartrate arch desire wanting touch lips quiver...

...and so on for ever and ever and ever until I think I'm gonna burst.

In the most literal way this is a BASIC male program, pretty much always running in the background. Yes, that was a computer joke. This least subtle of routines loads when we wake up in the morning, and is only shut down when we go to sleep. And sometimes not even then if my recent dreams are any guide.

If we are just a mushy biological processor, we run all kinds of weird and sometimes incompatible software. For instance, there's the code that allows us to blog about the fact of the many disparate inputs to attraction and sex, which is a pretty high-level thing. Then there is the code that compels (dudes) to hip thrust and ejaculate.

No doubt which of those instructions to the CPU has precedence.

Anyway.

Did I tell you that my current fascination with the female form is hips? Goddam, they're good.




Bottoms Up, Hipsters.