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.

Dead Rubber

It would end much of the fluff filling celebrity newspapers and gossip websites, but if men took charge of their potency, their lives would be more in their control.

The only guaranteed male contraceptive is the vasectomy. In case you forgot your basic male reproductive anatomy, this procedure cuts and seals the vas deferentia, the tubes that carry sperm from the testicles into the seminal stream.

Sidebar: There appears to be, in my discussions with women about this, misunderstanding of how jism is made. Semen is the overarching term for the complete ejaculate. Semen Cocktail is formed during the process of ejaculation, when sperm passes through the vas and mixes with other fluids from the prostate and elsewhere. In short, the actual reproductive material, the love-taddies or sperm, comprise only around 10% of the ejaculate. That's what is stopped by the vasectomy. The rest is a mix of fructose, enzymes, citric acid and lipids designed to protect and lubricate the sperm on the way to the eggs.

End sidebar.

Interestingly, the vagina is chemically hostile to sperm. The mix of fluids comprising male orgasmic fireworks is mostly a tank battalion designed to storm the castle of the lady's gooey defences. The only difference between the vasectomized and the unvasectomized man is the potential pregnancy. Everything else is exactly the same, including, I am reliably informed, the taste.

So. Once a man has an heir, a spare, and perhaps one or two more for luck, he'd be smart to take charge of his shit, and get the big V. I've heard that, later in life, women find a potent but infertile man irresistible.





Bottoms Up, Ejaculators!

La Petite Mort

There's a part of me that envies the complexity of the female. I have way fewer moving parts than a woman, and some days - like today - I wonder if being a chick would stave off the boredom.

The reason any given woman will suffer less from boredom than any given man is because you have more mental rooms in which to play. You can take your emotions out for a spin and see what happens. There are always your sisters with whom to share. And if you're in the mood, you can always unbridle your sexy side for some fun.

The sisterhood is really important, because y'all are way more social animals than men. That means there's always someone at the end of your street or the end of your cellphone who might have something to say that will alleviate a dull day. At the very least, she'll call you "Sweetie" and "feel bad" for you. Women empathize.

Maybe life really is more dramatic for babes. Male orgasm (I imagine, backed up by porn) is a pretty standard thing. But female O is Shakespearean. (Irony of a using a playwright and actor noted.) Memories of ex-g/f Os are some of my favourite mental images, especially the near-death-like Petite Mort kind.

I like the Urban Dictionary's definition:

The little death is translation from the French "la petite mort", a popular reference for a sexual orgasm. The term has been broadly expanded to include specific instances of blacking out after orgasm and other supposed spiritual releases that come with orgasm. Speculations to its origin include current connotations of the phrase, including: * Greco-Roman belief that the oversecretion of bodily fluids would "dry out" one of the believed four humours, leading to death.

Seems I'm not the only one who enjoys the memory of climax past:

This is quite the discovery [link]<-----Interesting Link SFW


Bottoms Up, Climaxers!




Pic from here {link}

The Boner Gap

An awkward few seconds lurk in the space between knowing she's ready and crossing the moat. The preparatory work is done, according to the following checklist:

A. Girl nearby.

B. Aroused girl nearby.

C. At least partially naked girl nearby.

(Note: These first three points might be the same girl, or three, YMMV.)

D. Boner. (Your own.)

E. Condom.



Okay, now to connect your erect penis with the willing pussy. Time to bust out the condom.

Quickly now, the clock's running.

Another checklist:

A. Locate condom.

B. Tear open condom packet.

C. Retrieve that sucker from the packet.

D. Make sure you avoid the inside-out error.

E. Roll condom on penis.

F. Fully unfurl said prophylactic.

G. Insert properly outfitted manhood into luscious love trench.



What's the timing on that? Should we say between ten and thirty seconds?

We need a name for that gap. My suggestions include:

The Boner Gap.

The Keep it Up Interregnum.

Don't Let me Down, Dude, Gap.

Say Flaccid and I'll Kill You Gap.

The Why Hasn't Condom Packaging Improved in 100 Years Gap.

The How Bad Would a Baby Be Anyway? Gap.






Bottoms Up, Condomistas!


Pic of pigtailed aweseomeness from here [link]

Hat-tip to Snaf for the inspiration.

Friday Fluffer - Soy Jism

Local television news rocks. If it weren't for the FCC these shows would instantly turn porno. My fellow Aussie, Mr Murdoch, employed NYC hottie Rosanna Scotto with this in mind. Cocks and cum are on her mind. Good girl.

You will not regret reading and watching this Gothamist SFW [link].

Or watch here if you're inclined.





Bottoms Up, Vegans!




Pic of Rosanna covered in white from here [link]

My Penis is an Idiot

My penis is an idiot.

I can say this without fear of contradiction, because no-one will vouch for him in a moral or social sense, least of all me. Together, he and his two lurking buddies, The Testicles, took control of me at around age seventeen, and have yet to relinquish their power.

His epitaph will read:

Upright fellow, lacked judgment.

And that really tells you all you need to know. After all, every penis is a hydraulic accumulator, nothing more, nothing less. I guess he has an integrated fluid delivery system as well, but that only works when he's rigid. If the hydraulics fail, there's only one thing penises do.

Which makes me think about my penis as a kind of two-stunt circus animal. One trick is urination. Boring. The other trick is to grow exponentially in size and deliver one half of a baby. Put like that he sounds way more complex than I'd thought, but closer investigation reveals the truth. My baby half consists of wriggling love-tadpoles swimming around in their very own protein-matrix, all explosively delivered in a spurty bundle after four martinis, a fumble in the car and a few minutes of thrusting. Not exactly Harvard material now, is he?

Which is why I'm convinced he's just the pitch-man for The Testicles. Think of him as Ed McMahon to The Testicles' Johnny Carson. Dumb, one-note and easily duped, that's my penis.

So it's the Balls who hang around in the background manipulating their big fleshy friend. They're the ones who convince him to approach unobtainable women in the hope of hooking up, and they're the ones who laugh behind his back when he fails. It's in their interest to see him succeed, but he lacks the critical function of being able to say:

No, Balls, this is not the way into her pants. I need some time and a little subtlety, and it might happen, but for now, stop egging me on.

He can't think on his feet, so to speak, and finds it impossible to say no. He's a big ole lug, who likes to please his owner, his balls, and any passing woman.

He's an idiot.




Bottoms up!


Edited.