Pleased To Meet You; I Want You.

Despite all our planning, thinking, wishing and dreaming, the reason we're attracted to one individual is a mystery. It just happens.

I found myself with that feeling of mysterious attraction recently, in an ordinary day-to-day circumstance. The woman and I made a small business transaction, but from the moment I came close to her, that magical, unexplainable interest filled me. The animal...thing, whatever it is, lives outside of logic in a special compartment to which only a few special people have a key. It's wild. Untameable.

Civility requires that whomever feels this way about someone keep it to themselves. Professing instant desire about a stranger falls well outside normal behaviour. Explaining an unexplainable visceral attraction to someone might even be illegal: who knows thesedays? Which means that the only course of action is to flirt a little, try to figure out if she's feeling the same way and attempt to communicate by thought rays what's going on inside your head.

Yeah, that never works.

Which is unnerving, because in the moment, desperation is the binding emotion. It's essential that this thermonuclear emotion be validated somehow...and of course, it cannot, unless you have the chutzpah to ask her out. That is a long shot, but as long as you're prepared to jeopardize whatever reason you met the person in the first place, is about the best you can do. When you leap the creek into romance with zero back-story, you will most likely end up with wet pants. Be so advised.

So I took my own counsel, and did nothing but indulge in a little mild chit-chat and departed. The large, frustrating residue of one of these encounters is that you'll never know if she felt the same way. Maybe she was hot for me in equal proportion, or perhaps she was wondering why this guy was hanging about with googly eyes making dopey small-talk.

Analysis in the light of day doesn't help. I've turned this thing - as with all previous instances - upside down and around about in my head, and come no closer to finding a common thread or even a strategy to deal with them. It's an all or nothing deal; either invite them out on a date then and there, or walk away.



Bottoms Up, Instant Desirables.

Muddling Crush

Barkeeps come in two flavors: barmen and barwenches.

No, actually, that's wrong, my idea of a little anti-PC joke. The two categories really are:

Bartenders who remember your drink.

Bartenders who do not remember your drink.

The sex of a good bartender should be irrelevant, but it's not, because I will never, ever develop a crush on a barman, but I have crushed on many a barwench. (Sorry, there's not much to say about the real division between good and bad bar staff. The sexual aspect is way more interesting.)

Take Jen, for instance, my current bar crush. She works in the back bar of a close-by Italian restaurant. The bar specializes in organic cocktails and wood-fired pizzas. Pepe (from Naples) cooks as good a pizza margherita as I've had outside his home town, but he often deflects praise by lamenting the lack of perfect dough hereabouts. He sports a chronic sad look, as if he misses the smell of Ducati exhaust and extravagantly perfumed girls parading at sunset.

I know how he feels.

Jen, however, is there to cast out the Euro-blues. She's of Irish blood, with the pale skin and dark hair. Her lower teeth overlap ever so slightly, and her bar style is somewhat slow. But she always remembers my drink, she always takes time to have a chat, and boy, can she muddle.

Being a (sorta) organic bar means there are lots of "martinis" including vegetation requiring detailed preparation. Ginger, basil, blood oranges - Jen chops and pours and tears and mixes them with lots of liquor so that the air is full of long-chain molecules of boozy wonder. I'm a classic gin martini man - don't skimp on the vermouth - so it's all alcoholic alchemy to me, but watching Jen's dextrous fingers at work is some of the best entertainment around.

Explaining the crush requires no more explanation, right? The perfect wench not only looks beautiful, she wants nothing more than to make me another drink.

I'm hooked.





Bottoms Up, Muddlers!

Edit: Photo not of Jen.

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}

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]

Can we leave the light on?

Laughable.

Can we leave the light on?

Well, yeah, otherwise how will I be able to see what I'm doing?





Bottoms Up, Ninjas!



Ronin thanks to [link]

Love and Lust

Love is a many splendoured thing, lust is not.






Bottoms Up, Lusters!


Wombatgram #2 here.

Ejaculate: You'll Make Her Happy

Reading Snaf's and KayDee's blogs recently has been a little like being backstage watching the audience reaction to a new Broadway production. The show - a musical, methinks, called Let the Spunk Fly - is a physical show, full of nudity and grunts that has a climax with a twist: there is no climax.

All of us backstage are men, in on the plot twist. And those in the audience are all women, who have no idea what's about to happen.

The real trick of the show is that the women leave thinking that something's happened, when in fact nothing has.

Okay, okay, enough of the smart-arse metaphors.

It looks like lots of chicks are surprised that they're not the only ones providing artificial orgasms. My reaction is everyman's - Huh? You mean I fooled you the way you fooled me?

Frankly, I really don't care that much. Sometimes I won't want to express my reproductive fluids, but it doesn't seem like that big of a deal. There's always next time. And we got to spend naked or semi-naked fun time together, right?

My question of women is: What else don't you know about your men?


Bottoms Up, Fuckers!

Feeling Good, Louis.

In reverse order, these activities make me feel physically good.

6. Waking after a regenerative night's sleep.

5. Completion of a cardio and/or strength work-out.

4. A swim, or any kind of in-water activity.

3. Peak cocktail buzz at 1.2 martinis.

2. Class A Elimination ie: a great shit.

1. Orgasm, preferably with female accompaniment.


Other stuff can feel good, but tend to the more adrenaline-based end of the spectrum. Reaching the peak of a mountain or driving fast both fall into that category. YMMV, of course.

No surprise that reproduction makes us feel good. Nature's clever like that.

I had a point about this, but forgot what it was. If I think of it, I'll get back to you. What I am thinking is that I should have ranked the feeling of when one surreptitiously slides one's hand up a lady's skirt, to find that she's already sweetly slippery. That might be up there somewhere.

Nah, that's more of an anticipation thing, not in the same ballpark at all.

Bottoms up!





Pic of Milka Duno from here. [link]

Dungeon for Rent

The huge number of industrial buildings offered for lease got me thinking the other day. My small Floridian town is suffering from unemployment and idiotic government as much as any place, but there's enough money around for this idea: A Dungeon for Rent.

BDSM (bondage and discipline, submission and sadomasochism) verges on being mainstream thesedays. I presume it's the natural progression from the pornocization of society, but whatever I might think about that isn't going to stop me from making some jink from people's kink.

Big industrial buildings lend themselves to creatively designed dungeons. Mine would be decorated in black, mostly, of course, with blood-red highlights. Lighting would be cheap, as candles are the dungeonmaster's illumination of choice. There would be rooms with various kinds of whipping posts, crosses mostly, with simple shackles and chains for the primitive players. Special rooms with suspension devices are likely to be popular too. You can bring your own gags, crops and whips, or, for a fee, I'll provide you with rental punishment and restraint equipment.

As with the Japanese Love Hotels (some of which I understand now come with dungeons for rent) discretion would be the name of the game. Players in couples or groups would be kept apart by time or wall. And separate entrances and exits would keep them that way.

At Wombat's Dungeon World, no-one need know you like your love hog-tied and gagged in a dark, dripping den of depravity.





Delicious photo from here. The English are big into Dungeon Life, apparently. [link]

Pussification

Pussification, the term, is the work of George Carlin, a now dead comedian. I found a difficult to read but decent working definition here. [link] But I think that pussification deserves more than a sociologist's bland words, so here's an illustrative story.

Once upon a time, there was a young man. This young man lived in Sydney, a big city on the east coast of Australia. He had many friends, and, being single, at least one eye open on the lookout for sweet young ladies.

A friend of his had a party one night, an event at which our hero met his friend's new housemate. The housemate was a bouncy blonde, self-employed and rather attractive. She also owned an automobile that our young man coveted, so, during the course of the party, a date was made to go for a drive in the sweet ride.

On the day of the driving-date, the weather was calm and warm, so the bouncy blonde wore a short skirt, a tee, and sandals. Everything went well. Our young man got to drive, bought the young lady lunch, and found himself attracted to his companion.

As the date drew to a close, an argument sprang up inside his head. The question? Whether to make a move, or whether to not make a move. All it would have taken was to casually place his hand on her naked knee as they drove along. A simple, unequivocal sign of carnal intent would have been met with either her removing his hand, or her not removing his hand.

In either case, the question would have been answered.

But he didn't. And she didn't. And now we'll never know.

That, my friends, is pussification, when a man will not risk rebuff from placing a hand on a woman's knee on a driving date.








Picture from here. [link]