My Oh My

Sometime after discovering that one's penis is an instrument of pleasure, we men find that women think so too. Most women, that is, and a lot of them wouldn't go on national tellie saying so, but it's true nonetheless.

This is a milestone in man's life, this coming to grips with the fact that the odd assortment of appendages between our legs has appeal to others. It's like finding that the lame-o rock collection you started at age nine has a purring, soft, sweet-smelling audience of top-flight geologists who can't wait to examine your granite. Purring top-flight geologists in mini-skirts and librarian-glasses.

It can blow your mind, that shit.

Which, for the most part, it does. We spend all our lives henceforth trying to replicate that moment.

It's a quest not entirely without reward, either. That teenaged naïveté never completely disappears. At the special moment, when it's clear she wants to have sex with MY penis, there's magic in the air. It's a warping of space-time, a kind of star-gate to a better universe. We don't pretend to understand the mechanics of this. Nor do we care, for it's a fleeting thing, and by that point other stuff's happening.

Stuff like ripping off my hot geologist's blouse. 

Importantly, this fragment of (good) dislocation happens with wives and long-term girlfriends as much as with that new lady in your life. In fact, it's more pronounced, because of the contrast between that sweet person you like to make coffee for in the morning and the sex-devil she becomes. At one point of the evening you're balancing your checking account, then BOOM she's got her hand down your trousers with intent in her eye.

This is not the same person.........and yet it is the same person. Ah, the wonder of women.


Bottoms Up, Hot Geologists.

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.

Friday Fluffer - Meet Mr Sausage

Link to my Xtranormal page.

Greg and Greta discuss the finer points of carry-on luggage versus checked bags.




Bottoms Up, Mr Sausage.

If You Touch My Junk...

Photo Credit.

...I'll buy you a drink.

Those of us with a pulse spend an inordinate amount of our lives finding just the right person to touch our junk.

The US federal government is so responsive to the needs of the citizenry that it created an entire bureaucracy to touch your most reactive parts on demand. All you need is an airline boarding pass.

Two changes only needed to current Transportation Sexual-molestation Administration policy:

a. Ditch that homo requirement for only same-sex touch-ups. Viva the power of choice.

b. Offer extended-length junk-touching sessions.




Bottoms Up, High Flyers!

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.

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.

Take One Step Back

Guessing here, but I imagine that most guys rush foreplay. Being goal oriented does have drawbacks. Great in mergers and acquisitions. Leads to dissatisfaction in sex.

This is a case where the animal in us (rrrrrrawwrrrr) needs to be trained. If we behaved like bonobos, we'd be copulating pretty much all the time. Delaying copulating is the operative thought here - it's all about tantalizing the females before the males get their junk in where it counts.

Concentrating less on one's junk in the short term makes for a happy man in the long term. I think the answer to this is to really, really slow down the foreplay, or better still, find a way to fall in step with your lady's pace.

In a perfect sexual world, this would be every guy's aim. Experiment with the woman, and encourage her feedback. Every babe is different, so if you have a harem, school's in much of the time. The upside is that once you have the outline of a woman's sexual mind, life becomes very, very happy.

But you need to reach that point first, and male drive being what it is, speed looks to be the right thing; it is not. I would try slowing everything down by taking one step back for every step you make towards actual penetration. By that I mean if you're about to start caressing her breasts, try to hint at it first. If you're removing her panties, don't. Go do something else. Delay to the point that she's squirming with anticipation.

Suggestion, hinting, inference, teasing are the bedrocks of guiding her to want you with the same aggression that you want her.

In fact, the art of turning on a woman lies in creating anticipation. They love it, and it pays to remember that anticipation lives in the mind, not in the pussy.

Now, there will always be the times (or indeed the women) who aren't wired to find deliciousness in anticipation. In that case, they'll tell you. Learning to listen to what she's telling you is part of being at school. But I don't mean necessarily what she's verbalizing.

What she's telling you in every other way is more important.

Foreplay Part 1.

Foreplay Part 2.

Foreplay Part 4.