Sex is Awkward

You might think that the natural companion to sex with a new lover is satisfaction, right? That might be partially true, but awkwardness will be an acquaintance for at least part of that journey.

Sex is the natural outflow of physical attraction and desire, like a volcano combines crustal weakness and hot magma. Mmmmmmm, magma. Volcanoes, unlike us, aren't raised to have self-awareness, which means that they don't get embarrassed when they leak molten rock all over the duvet. A spurting volcanic eruption, wide open caldera, full-throated screaming and frantic bubbling are the hallmarks of vociferous volcanology.

Once the pressure is released, so to speak, there exists a gap in time where the passion subsides, and reality returns. My thinking is that the awkwardness we feel in that immediate aftermath of an...eruption is part embarrassment at revealing our unvarnished, animal side, and part wondering whether our new partner thinks we're okay.

Will they think enough of us to come check out our geophysics a second time, or will they just want to toss us a bunch of virgins?



Bottoms Up, Hot Pockets of Love.

How To Date A Supermodel

How to date a supermodel:

Step 1: Find your supermodel.

Step 2. Ask her out on a date.

Shame on you. You thought this would be tricky. She's just another woman, you know, not some kind of deity with a décolletage.

Granted, supermodels are a little thin on the ground, especially if you live in Waukegan or Wolverhampton. Likewise, you're unlikely to bump into one ordering a number one combo at McDonalds. But if you own an eighty metre-long yacht, spend mucho time in Monaco and vacation sixty-three weeks a year, the odds are better. In fact, hot babes in bikinis are probably lining up to express their affection right now. Why not go for the crème de la crème?

For one thing, supermodels always feel a little unhinged to me. You would be too if everyone within tonguing distance was tossing your salad and telling you how awesome you are. A certain unreality would come to seem normal. Unfortunately, unreality creeps towards insecurity, insecurity leads to paranoia, paranoia to drug abuse, and drug abuse to constipation, a (ahem) regular supermodel ailment I'm led to believe.

So that's the up and down of supermodel pursuit. You get to be chased by paparazzi and have your melon photographed with a famous chick; she gets to sit on your pedestal. 




Bottoms Up Bar Rafaeli fans.

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.

Smoke and Penises

Elena's pic credit.

A work colleague used the expression "head job" last week.

It wasn't an inappropriate use of the phrase, despite the nauseating level of "sensitivity-" and "harassment-" and sundry other politically correct "-training" insanities that bejewel working life thesedays.

No-one was insulted or harassed or made the victim of smutty innuendo - it was a simple anecdote in which "head shop" was misunderstood as "head job".

Okay, so it's a predictable spoonerism. More of interest is the unfashionability of the term "head job". It sounds so eighties to me - something that a drunk film star would say on a late-night chat show. Or how a teenager would shock its' parents.

"Head job" has, of course, been replaced with "blow job". It's a matter of record that the BJ involves the male ejaculate, whereas giving head is the oral precursor. In a way it reflects the supersize- me mentality: Give me the most of everything you can, whether I can stomach it or not.

Frankly, I'm wistful about the head job. It's a remnant from a (slightly) less debauched time, more about the fun of the penis than the end result. Head celebrates the journey rather than the destination. Head is innocent; blowing is intentional. Head is bucolic. BJs are industrial.

I'm just a funny old romantic.





Bottoms Up, Smokers.

Overthinking: Engaging the Complication Cicuitry

Road warrior pic credit.

Wouldn't it be sweet if life was a simple progression from certainty to certainty? If at every point requiring a decision, we had a Wombatproof method by which we could choose the right path, time after time?

I say Wombatproof because I have an impeccable record of, at forks in the road, leaving the paved superhighway behind. Instead I battle on with the steep and rocky path strewn with monsters and zombies and mantraps with pointed sticks at the bottom. Very pointy sticks. The impression I have is that everyone else is able to choose the better way on more than a random basis, but what do I know? - I'm a notoriously bad judge of character.

Changing the way I approach forks in the road is a slow business. Especially with respect to ladies, a clear-cut way to move forward can be difficult to find. One could trust one's gut, of course, but clarity of communication isn't Gut's forte. When Mind gets involved, it's like the whole rest of the world gets to have an input - there's so MUCH information that can be pretzeled into a decision.

It's like there's a whole department of the brain specifically designed to complicate even the most simple thing. For instance: Should I call her back now or later? Is it too soon? Will she think me too keen? Too needy? Not needy enough?

Exhausting, isn't it. In writing this, the answer becomes clear, but I'd still like some way to disengage the Complication Circuitry. All is does is send me around in circles.





Bottoms Up, Over-Thinkers.


wombat@kissnblog.com

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.

Friday Fluffer - Cowboys like Cowgirls

Coworkers are more likely to end up with each other, so it's no surprise that love blooms between the chaps. Cowboys and cowgirls too are getting it on all over the place, although it's likely most of them have never roped anything more than soap. City Cowpersons in Honda Civics outnumber Horseborne Cowpersons approx. 1000 to 1.

Country music (in the form of Big & Rich) supplied a public service announcement against animal cruelty with their tune "Save a Horse [Ride a Cowboy]." Seemingly obvious advice, but wait until you've been on a month-long cattle drive - Trigger will begin to look mighty attractive, if a somewhat sloppy kisser.

For the horseless Urban Cowboy out there who likes his morning latte, THIS coffee store is for you.

Cowgirl Espresso :-) <-----Link Safe For Work




Bottoms Up, Cowpats!

Interested in Cowgirl Yoga? That's where the picture's from [link]

Dames I Adore - Sheetal Bhagat

Confession time: Indian women are hot - and fertile, if the sub-continent's burgeoning population is any guide.

It's an interesting question on its own, whether the viability of a woman's eggs or the spunk of her ovaries makes her more sexy. I'd like to research that sometime. Just how to equate the internal workings of a chick with her physical attractiveness is a mystery at the moment, but there must be a way.

Can one smell fertility? Is there a pheromone for ripeness?

Popular culture has it that men with balls are better, by which P-Culture means men with metaphoric cojones make for better men. This is the same P-Culture that gives us high points like Jon Gosselin and Ryan Seacrest. Tell me again why we take one goddam bit of notice of P-Culture.

I shall answer my own request: Because of women like Sheetal Bhagat.

Right, so she's not a Bollywood star, she's not the Indian Prime Minister and she doesn't have twelve kids...that we know of. What she does do is cook and be sexy, on a show called Masterchef.

Reality television participants aren't my usual oeuvre, but there's something about Miss Sheetal. I can't smell her, I can't taste her, I can only look at her from afar.






Pic of Sheetal from here [link]

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]

Dames I Adore - Amy Winehouse

It was a mistake, her name, or her parents changed it at some point, but Amy was born Amy Crackwhorehouse. As a case of natal nominative determism predicting adult behaviour, her parents were right to change. The sad part is that she lived up to her pre-natal destiny.

Amy is a beautiful women on the inside, and that's what I love. She can sing, she's capable of affection and knows how to commit in a relationship...particularly if we're talking a relationship with a drug dealer. Discretion is important to me and obviously to Amy as well, given that she can conjur pretty much any kind of illegal dope whenever she needs. And she needs more often than most.

How is it that famous folk can get high in public and never face Roger Law? They have to do something really bad- and do it often Lindsay Lohan - before the Plod even notice. If it were me, I'd be in Q doing ten long before I could say 'medical marijuana'. Yet another reason to dig Miss Winehouse - she's gonna keep me from the iron bar motel.

Amy is a curious mix of old-fashioned and modern girl. She stuck by her husband, Mr Blake Fielder-Civil, while he served some of that aforementioned jail time for trying to pervert the course of justice and grievous bodily harm with intent. Small shit in the scheme of things. But it's boring making visits to English prisons twice a week, so she eventually dumped him in favour of long nights boozing and brawling. That's the New British Woman part of Amy - she doesn't mind a good brawl, and often swings at the people closest to her (who aren't drug dealers.) That would be the paparazzi. Or whomever is in the line ahead of her at the off-licence.

Nothing wrong with a stout woman demonstrating it.

My only quibble with Amy is her personal grooming. She's fond of the Liz Taylor version of Cleopatra's eye make-up, but I have a suspicion she's not terribly regular with her bath. She variously looks like a scabrous dog or a crackwhore on parole officer visit day. Sometimes I wonder if she's lost the soap under a pile of cider bottles or a pile of crack pipes.

All of which invokes my rule of some love remaining at arm's length. Wise men understand that if a woman doesn't appear to wash at least semi-regularly, you don't want any part of you in any part of her. There are some things even soap can't wash away.





Bottoms Up, Crackwhores!



Photo of darling Amy from here [link]

Friday Fluffer - Homeless Bums

With governments everywhere ruining economies, problems eventually come to our own back yard.

Even attractive young women are finding themselves without a roof over their heads. They resort to selling their clothes for money and living on the beach in their bikinis. Homelessness stalks even the hottie.

So if you see such a homeless bum on the street, take her back to your place. Give her a hot meal and a clean bed. It's the right thing to do.





Bottoms Up!


Photo from my favourite, the OC News [link]

Fishing

What a beautiful creature, the common snook. They're feisty and fun to catch, not to mention tasty. Look at those markings and tell me that's not one hot fish.





Bottoms Up!

Dental Nurse Daydream

Having spent all last week obsessing over a cracked tooth, I was reminded again of the peculiar relationship the (generally) women assistants/nurses/hygienists have with (oftentimes) male dentists. Lust can blossom over a gaping jaw and a whining drill, apparently.

The time I became aware of something more than professional courtesy between two these trained specialists was in my childhood. Dr Begley was the family dentist, a mild-mannered man with a moustache and an acerbic wit. Now I see that the jokes weren't for my benefit - they were for Louise, his beautiful blonde assistant.

I loved Louise, but I think Dr Begley was getting all the action. Plus I was only ten. She actually fit the mould of the chaste-but-slutty nurse, with the white dress, white hose and full bob. Maybe she modelled for bedroom attire catalogues in her spare time. In any case, she was all that and a bag of chips, and I think it wasn't coincidental that there was always a gap between the Doctor's appointments. Never did I ever see a patient waiting after me, nor someone limping out, sore and pale before me.

It's a guess, of course, but one can pick up much from subtle looks between man and woman when their faces are six inches away.

A dualistic nature pertains to these dental-office relationships. Not only does the competence of the assistant/nurse/hygienist need to be there, but they are also completely subservient to the god-dentist. My question is whether this extends to their romantic lives as well, or whether the demure woman turns domme when the last patient leaves for the day.






Nurse romance cover from here [link]

Hot Clusters

Friends and acquaintances know that I had a stock reply to the the question:

Wombat, why did you leave Australia and emigrate to America?

I used to answer:

To find an American wife.

Perhaps it's my sense of humour, but my flip approach didn't ever work on the audience. Occasionally married guys would mutter:

Please. You can have mine.

I dropped that bit from the routine.

For some reason this thing about finding 'someone' features in conversations lately. Do I look like a need a woman to prop me up? Am I leaning? Do I look incomplete on my own? Is it last call for girlfriends?

Florida's the problem. Two kinds of single women inhabit my town.

1. The rich singles, who don't want to be 'A nurse or a purse.'

2. The not rich singles, who are looking for the (man)purse.

As a healthy, independent bloke neither of these archetypes holds any kind of appeal.

It's understood this is that kind of place. Men, therefore, and some women tell me of other cities they think would serve my purposes better. Lots mention Atlanta. Some (including ladies here at KnB) tell me the DC area is chock-full of lovelies. Honourable mentions include certain suburbs of Denver, New York City and coastal Southern California. (Hello Newport Beach!)

Single guys mention one place time and again. It pops up on internet searches and peripheral stuff like this [link]. Scottsdale, Arizona is the underground hottie capital of the United States. To think; a dry climate. What a wonderful change from Florida that would be.







Arizona Wildcats picture from here [link]

Friday Fluffer - Curling at the Winter Olympics

Summer Olympics have Beach Volleyball.

Winter Olympics have Women's Curling.

Enough said except to emphasize how hot the Canadian Women's Curling Team is. Pictured is Cheryl Bernard, resident of Calgary and the uberMilf of Curling.

I imagine Curling Training Camp consists of touching up one's Frenched Nails, shopping for body-hugging yoga pants and chardonnay lunch with salad.

If you think this is criticism, you're wrong.



Pic from here [link]

What I wanted to write was how I spent an hour and a half and two glasses of cabernet mesmerized by the entire sexy-mumsy nature of curling. Why is this spectacle of ripe women on their knees on ice not more widely lauded? But I didn't want to appear trivial.

From the Wikipedia entry on Cheryl:
Recently, Bernard was nicknamed "The Curlgar" by American sportswriter Bill Simmons.[link]
Good enough for me.

Love is Criminal

This book was my weekend entertainment. It forced me to consider the advantages of being a crook, especially a crook who counterfeits C-notes.

There is a downside to contravening Federal US statutes, which includes being pursued by the Secret Service. Did you know that the Secret Service was originally charged with finding and bringing counterfeiters to justice? Only when Mr Roosevelt succeeded Mr McKinley did the Secret Service begin to protect US Presidents from nutters who would kill them.

The upside of counterfeiting is the women. The story of Art Williams[link] is all about women, how they fell in love with him, how they bore his children, how his mother went insane, and how they all helped him in his criminal life. This isn't some fictional tale detached from reality; the truth is that women found this guy attractive to the point where they'd ditch their families for him, break the law for him, and lie to the Secret Service for him.

I wonder: How bad does a Bad Boy have to be before women say no? Is there any point beyond which every woman holds up her hand and says Whoa buddy, this is going too far? (Sex crimes aside, of course.)

There is no conclusion to be drawn, other than love (or its blue-collar cousin, attraction) can conquer even the penal code. But the pervasive attraction of the Bad Boy leads me to believe there's some evolutionary advantage to taking on authority. Either that or bricks of $100 notes to be used for shopping expeditions are impossible to resist.




The Art of Making Money by Jason Kersten. ISBN 978-1-592-40446-9

Jason Kersten's homepage [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]

Check her out.

Do women understand the actions over which men have no control? I am thinking here in particular of one thing, although you might have experienced others.

No?

Here's the one I have in mind:

Walking down the street, if an attractive woman passes me going in the opposite direction, I must turn and look at her after we cross. It is physically and mentally Im-Possible for me to not do so. An irresistible force compels my muscles to slow, turn, and check her out from behind as she sails on down the sidewalk.

Pervy, perhaps. But it doesn't feel like that. I sense that the instinct resides deep in my autonomic programming, living happily beside the modules for breathing, heartbeat and blogging. No wonder I prefer cities to the country, and walking to cars.

How can I put this more clearly? I know. Passing a woman on a city street is like a gift, a beautifully packaged shortbread cookie that won't make you fat. It's a treat, a bouquet, a surprise, a puff of perfume with no downside.

A simple daily wonder.




Picture from here. [link]

Later edit: Photo REALLY from here. [link]

Friday Fluffer - The Chickipedia

The Chickipedia is another fine internet app. [link]

In true wiki style, it caters for every taste. [link]

Even women with blue hair. [link]





Previously on K&B. [link]
Liz Taylor's photo from here. [link]

Iceland, Hot Women

An Icelandic man of my recent acquaintance drew my attention to the following fact:

His homeland supplied the Miss World competition with three winners:

Holmfridur Karlsdóttir (1985) Linda Pétursdóttir (1988) and Unnur Birna Vilhjálmsdóttir (2005).

I checked. It's true.

With that record, Iceland has the highest population of Miss Worlds per head of any nation on earth.

I think that needs a personal verification.

*

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