Expectant Sex

Stuck in a painful silence on a first date? Introduce the topic of sex whilst pregnant and see what happens.

Okay, so a first date is too early, but by the fifth date I'd be using this as a critical question - obviously, especially if you're the woman. It seems that many men have an incomplete knowledge of the female reproductive tract. Surprise, eh?

In a way it's touching. Some guys apparently avoid vaginal sex for fear of somehow molesting, harming, defiling, aborting or otherwise embarrassing the in-utero sprog. The thought of their penis pistoning up and down inside the mother gives the dude less of a piston and more of a python. A soft python.

Coupla points here, men. Firstly, there is a pre-designed barrier between the baby and you. It's called the cervix. It has muscles strong enough to break your arm should you somehow end up in that position. Plus it is a VERY sensitive piece of your lady, as you would know when you're making sweet love and accidentally go too far. She'll let you know ALL about it.

Secondly, your lady also comes pre-designed with a place for you to have sex, known as the vaginal canal. It's otherwise known as the birth canal when used in the reverse direction, but don't dwell on that. Think of the sweet, warm, gooey love trench as a vestibule, where your junk is kept nicely separate from your pristine unborn child.

As an almost too obvious Thirdly: pregnant ladies are full of hormones that make them hornier than an Arizona cactus. Capitalize, men. For her sake.




Bottoms Up, Hot Mammas.

Green Light, You Fool! Go!

Emma Caulfield

As a younger man I was a complete bonehead wrt women. I remember (amongst a few such incidents) a particular Saturday morning. The lovely dark-haired young lady and I had been on a couple of dates, and we planned to spend the morning out and about. We drove around to her mother's house, a substantial pile in a sweet part of town. Mother wasn't home. As we wandered the rooms, I failed to notice that her gorgeousness was wearing a very flirty dress, spent a lot of time close to me, and lingered long in her childhood bedroom showing me bits and pieces from earlier days. Only later did I realize just how bright and clear her green lights shone in my direction.

Damn. Another opportunity missed.

What was I thinking? In retrospect she was SHOUTING at me to CAPITALIZE on her horniness.



The single, active, hetero man requires two core skills.

1. Be able to find, charm, envelope and start the motor of attractive single women.

2. Know when attractive single women have found, chosen, and desire them.

These are the light and shade of satisfying our sexual desire. To get what biology drives us towards, we must navigate the female defenses and/or know when the drawbridge is down.

Unfortunately, the two sides of this coin share little by way of requisite skills. Going out and (effectively) hunting a woman is the light. It's the time-worn Hemmingway-esque approach that relies on confidence, optimism, showmanship and out-gunning the next guy. It's the shotgun blast and reload approach.

The shade is different. If a woman chooses, it calls for a more careful thought process. The subtleties of this path to heaven-on-earth sometimes elude younger, less mature man. Ahem. Clearly, I speak from experience, and now I understand it, would happily live in the shade. 





Bottoms Up, You Subtle Wonders You.

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.

You're Such a Dirty Bitch

 Manuela Arcuri photo credit.

You're such a dirty bitch.

God you're so wet, I love it.

Oooh, yeah, that feels great.

Your pussy feels so tight. 

Mmmmm, I could do this forever.


Guess what we're doing here? Yes, I'm talking during sex, and now that it's written down, it's kinda lame - unimaginative, even. But  when I start thinking about improving my sex-talk repertoire, the right words elude me.

My working theory is this: If a woman is sharing her mind and body with me in heavenly congress, she wants me to be as close to her ideal lover as possible. I guess women have the two extremes of men in mind - the worst possible and the best. The worst kind of lover sticks it in, wiggles it around for a bit, ejaculates and remains silent throughout. (Although under some circumstances I can see some women wanting precisely that. Tricky creatures.)

The ideal lover is skilled at making her feel beautiful and sexy; understands just how to help her mind and body stay horny; exerts the right amount of authority; talks eloquently and sexily; and fucks her long and often.

Frankly, that doesn't seem like such a big ask, especially in a loving marriage or committed LTR. Still, the right kind of talking during sex looks to be the most elusive element. From personal experience, men should avoid:


~ laughter. Women seem to take this personally, rather than as an expression of joy.

~ filth-talk if she's not in the mood. Best to discuss this beforehand.

~ comparison to other women, even if positively. Duh.

~ explicit functional chat if she's not prepared for it. Body parts have distinctly unsexy names.

~ anything that makes her feel self-conscious. Until she's comfortable with admiring honesty.


That's a start. As with much surrounding sexual preferences, it's best discussed away from the heat of the moment. Start when fully-clothed, and over dinner, ask:

Darling, when we're making love, do you like it when I tell you how hot you are in Latin?

With luck you'll be able to capitalize on the feeling and try your sex-talk immediately. Practice makes perfect.



Bottoms Up, Woman-Whisperers.

Happy Hour in Summer

A piece of advice for men is that it's a waste of time playing the "...does she like me?..." game. No-one knows the answer - maybe she does, maybe she doesn't - so fugheddaboutit, dude.

When you're up to your plums in gums with a woman, that's when you know if she likes you. And make no assumptions, it might just be a sympathy/release/one night thing. There's no telling. Don't make wedding plans.

You, sir, will never divine what she's thinking, so don't try.

Happy Hour tonight had Mr Nights, my local co-conspirator, and your humble correspondent in the company of five hot babes. Sam was there, as was Elizabeth, plus other examples of hawt chick-flesh seemingly happy in a social milieu.

That's the frustrating element. You're a man in a social setting, reigning in the most base instincts you have and...

...I'm sorry, what did you say? I was checking out your breasts, wondering what they'd taste like...

...wow, that's so interesting. Tell me again how you met your ex-husband...

See what I mean? Every road I drive this conversation down is sexual, whereas the gathering was to commiserate Mr Nights' move to Nevada.

Las Vegas. Now that sounds like fun, doncha think?


Bottoms Up, Gamblers!




Vegas woman photo from here [link]

Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down

The bow-tie is unfairly characterized as the neckware of fools and dandies, a misreading of the fashion in my opinion.

The men who affect the bow-tie are trying to look different, trying too hard because the bow-tie is a cliché that says "I'm trying to look different." They're obviously attempting to stand out, and everyone knows it...except the wearer, which confirms them as terminally un-hip.

If only the bow-tie was associated with restraint sex. From personal experience, regular neckties make perfect tools with which to tie a woman to the bed, or to restrain her arms or legs, or even to blindfold her. But bowties are a more perfect length, and you can always wear them the next day and keep the scent close to your nose.


Bottoms Up, Dominators!



Bow-tie sweater from here [link]

Friday Fluffer - Talk Dirty To Me

Talking dirty is another of those bonking skills that improves with practice. Some are better at filth-chat than others, so here are two videos to help. (The first one won't allow embedding, but it's worth the visit to YouTube.)

Both safe for work.


It's not what you say, it's how you say it. [link]<------Amusing video.









Bottoms Up, Trash-Talking Sluts!




Foul mouthed woman from here [link]

Friday Fluffer - Condom Eiffel Towers

I'm led to believe that latex sheaths coated with nonoxynol-9 have uses other than to prevent one night stands becoming paternity suit filers.

Here's evidence.




Bottoms Up Squeakers!


Forward woman pic from my favourite state [link]

And another hat-tip to Snaf, without whom I'd be bereft of material.

Passion Consultant

Monday night was my first encounter with a Passion Consultant. This might, at first blush, appear to be a godsend, because life's notably lacking in passion at the moment. Had I been more quick on the uptake, Miss PC could have answered a few queries rattling around my head, but I was more interested in looking down her girlfriend's top.

It's a lost opportunity, but I still have her business card.

The card says to "Call today to get started on your new career as a Passion Consultant."

And why not? I've worked with business consultants, been screwed by tax consultants and had my lawn cut by gardening "consultants". None of these people knew what they were doing, so consulting about passion shouldn't be any different. Defining what consultants do is an imprecise exercise at best, so I can make the job anything I want.

Basically I want my own business cards that say:

Wombat
Passion Consultant.

If I act like I'm an expert, someone's bound to want to try me out. I believe in learning on the job.





Bottoms Up, Amorous Ones!




Pic from the OhMiBod Blog [link]

Cold Hard Steel.

Gayle is my pet Cougar. She's fortyish, single, direct and horny, the four food groups that sustain Cougars. To round out her qualifications, she's into younger men for sex alone, the catnip no Cougar can resist. We're friends, but I have plans for her as an advisor.

I didn't know she was my pet Cougar until last Friday night. Over H-Hour drinks we had a frank and earnest discussion about the virtues and vices of men with pierced tongues. That is a subject about which I know nothing.

Naturally, when I think of cold hard steel I think of my penis. Well not my penis exactly, but a woman's tongue-stud providing extra stimulation for my penis during fellatio. Judging by the way Gayle's eyes rolled back in their sockets and her uncontrollable leg-shaking, a man using his own tongue-stud on a Cougar's cooter works as well for women as for men, orgasm/pleasure-wise. Or even pre-orgasm/pleasure-wise.

All that eye-fluttering and invoking the Lord was for demonstration purposes only. I certainly wasn't providing her with pleasure, what with my virgin tongue and the other drinkers and all. But the memory of her (much) younger lover using his accessorized tongue to good effect gave her performance depth. She really dug the steel-on-clit feeling. Like a ball-bearing in Spam, I guess.

Bottoms up, pierced ones!






Graph from here [link]

Friday Fluffer - Caged Heat

Although I cannot find the article online, I read recently about a woman falling in love with a man in prison. Unusual, to be sure, but not unheard of. Until you know their ages; she is 75, and he is 37. Crikey. That's odd enough in the non-incarcerated community, but when one party lives in the iron-bar motel...can we say 'screw loose'?

Which might not be the best expression if one's putative lover is doing porridge.

The big question is why anyone would fall for someone who is:

a) a criminal and

b) locked up.

But people do, and not just for non-violent felons. Serial killers like Jeffrey Dahmer and Ted Bundy attracted many women correspondents. Front and centre, those gals are fucked up.

How about we make a little money from this romantic backwater and set up a social network for folks looking for a little caged heat? Unfortunately, I'm too late. Here's Meet-an-Inmate, serving inmates and their free lovers since 1998. [link]


Also Jailbabes. [link]