Busting a Move

Maureen O'Hara pic credit.

Patpong 1 and 2 are the best known streets for titty- and fuck-bars in Bangkok. They're hot, steamy and stinky streets, which is remarkably appropriate for a sex-based precinct. Bonking is on sale here: girls are the medium and the only barrier to negotiate is the price.

Hanging around in a club, one often finds oneself on the receiving end of a paper dart or a ping-pong ball. Innocently sipping a Mekong whiskey and ice, you notice a slightly soggy projectile hitting you on the head. Nothing odd about this, apart from the launching device - a vagina. Don't be fooled. Experienced bar-girls have aim worthy of the best sniper, and delight in wowing patrons - both men and women - with their version of  target practice. Hey, don't blame me. It's a cultural thing.

One night, in a fairly decent club, the usual all-girl pelvic olympics was interrupted by a sex show. A guy and girl arrived on the elevated stage, the lighting dimmed, and their "lovemaking" began. A few details linger:

+ she was stunningly beautiful

+ I felt bad that he had some difficulty attaining wood

+ I felt better when she fellated him to solidity

+ the performance had the aura of them actually being a couple

+ I felt the music was inappropriate. Was it Shostakovitch?

+ the entire menagerie (bar, naked women, gawping tourists, shagging on stage) didn't feel odd, given the location

And, most relevant to this post:

+ I was in awe of the way they moved so gracefully from one position to another.

The entire (overly long) thing was like someone choreographed every penis/vagina sexual position into one outing. The "Joy of Sex" in 3-D.

Miss Miz reminded me of this night with her musings on side-by-side penetration. I like her thought of "transitioning" from one position to another, to suit the mood and stimulations of one or other sexual partner. Wouldn't it be just awesome to sit down with your beloved and actually pre-plan how you're gonna have sex? I haven't done this, and can't think why not. As a kicker, doing so over email or IM or even Twitter, say, takes social intercourse to a whole new level.

I imagine that most people (like me) just figure stuff out as they go along. We start somewhere along the Fucking Continuum (TM) and move back and forth...somehow. I guess someone takes charge, or there's gentle persuasion, or mutual agreement or out come the handcuffs. All of which sounds like fun. But the ideal of planning a sexual tryst, from position to position, like planning a ten-course meal, appeals muchly.




Bottoms Up, (After Some Reverse Cowgirl.)

Bed-In

Inspired by John and Yoko, I plan to conduct a Bed-In sometime soon. Maybe this weekend.

What's a Bed-In, I hear you ask?[link]

Well, Grasshoppah, a Bed-In is a protest conducted entirely from one's bed. It's a kind of supine sit-in, designed to create maximum media coverage without lifting a finger.

Lennon and Ono's protest concerned world peace. It's natural for anyone to think that keeping horizontal and ordering room-service could momentously change the momentum of human history. Natural for self-absorbed dicks like John Lennon, anyway.

But I like his thinking. Why create sweaty Million Man Marches or immense stinking charity concerts when all one need do to attract media attention is to check into a hotel and jump into the fart-sack?

Two things missing from this weekend's Wombat Bed-In. Actually, three.

1. A cause.

2. My own Celebrity.

3. A woman with whom to share the Bed-In (mandatory.)

If I could find a famous woman with a cause looking for publicity, I would have the answer, and quite possibly a tax deduction.





Bottoms Up, Bedriders!

Pic of Dumb and Dumber from here [link]

Absinthe Makes the Heart Beat Faster, Cheri

It's a romantic conceit, of course, a vision as imaginary as it is unobtainable. Living in a Parisian garret occasionally crosses my mind, devoting my hours to creating something lasting from words, and perhaps gaining a French lover or two along the way.

The aim is to find any place a couple of levels above the street, because I'm not sure about the supply of garrets. One big room would be best, with floor to ceiling windows, preferably with a view of something louche - the rear of a boudoir or the window of a rich man's pied-à-terre so I could write about the women coming and going.

My bed would be big and low. It would live in the style of a loft, half-way between the main floor and the ceiling. A short flight of stairs - a ladder, really - would give it the feeling of being the top bed of a set of bunks. The fun of watching women climbing up would be worth the small awkwardness.

The pace of the day would be strictly French. (Hopefully) morning sex upon waking. Coffee and croissant for le petit déjeuner, then writing. A little yoga around noon, followed by lunch with a friend. Wine, to loosen my Protestant mind. A little more writing.

With good planning, a lover would arrive around a cinq heures, to indulge that most sophisticated Parisian scene; the cinq à sept aka love in the afternoon. We'd share dinner, perhaps eating out, perhaps cooking for ourselves, all the while watching for goings-on across the street. Material for writing is what I'm here for, it's not a vacation. On weekends we might head out, to a wine bar or for some absinthe.

My heart grows fonder at the thought.




Miss Paris from here. [link]

Edited for greater pomposity.