The Secret of the Ancient Underpants

Men have quirks when it comes to wardrobe. I submit that the average man has:

+ 2 favourite shirts

+ 1 favourite pair jeans

+ 9 favourite pair sox

+ 1, perhaps 2 favourite pair shoes

and most importantly,

+ 3 favourite pair underpants.

Man's relationship with his smalls exasperates many women when they discover that these three pairs of beloved underduds are in less than pristine condition. Indeed, it's possible that they're weeks, months, or - in extremis - years past euthanasia. Clearly, there's something going on here.

My explanation for men keeping their boxers, briefs and/or tighty whities beyond their use-by date is simple, if unusual. Ready? Underpants have a soul. I don't mean soul in the southern fried way; I mean that each individual item has a spirit that differentiates it from all others. Open a three-pack of underoos and you find three different personalities. One will be okay, nothing special, one might perhaps be too tight, biting in the wrong places, and one might be the perfect combo of comfort and utility.

The process is the same as meeting three new people. After two or three social occasions (or, in underwear-speak, two or three wearings) we pick the company we like. We connect with some people (undertrou) more than others. Men value loyalty, so it follows that we want to stay with our friends (fave undies) until the bitter end.

That's why we have a drawer full of jockey acquaintances, but only a handful of daggy, saggy, holey, faded but hugely loved underpants. They're our friends.



Bottoms Up, Men Who Rock the Bikini.

Why Men Love Women

Lost in the tumble dryer of life is the number one reason men love women: you are different from us.

You: are the pink thong we found amongst our load of whites.

You: are the bird of paradise we discovered bunking in with our chickens.

You: represent the bouillabaissein a world of canned soup. 

YOU: are the blue-cheese stuffed olive that magically appeared in our whisky.


We recognize parts of ourselves in you. There's the day-to-day stuff, like breathing, eating, sleeping, cutting your toe-nails. They're all clearly recognizable.

Then there are the bits and pieces that we understand, but don't do ourselves: the endless fussing with hair, the individual driving style, preoccupations with inconsequential celebrities, capri pants. And of course there's the shit we simply sit back and watch in amazement: anything reproductive up to and including childbirth; catfights; multi-tasking and the complete mystery/wonderment that is the false eyelash.

Important to understand here is the subtlety of these things. It's the way you approach life that fascinates us. Your emPHASis is all different; up when ours is down; inside when ours is out; blended when ours is on the rocks. Fascination stems from the slight eccentricity of a view of the universe 15 degrees removed. And by eccentricity, I mean adorable quirk.

So if anyone tells you that the way to a better world is to be more like a man, think about this beautiful harmony we have with each other, and wonder why anyone would want it different.





Bottoms Up, make-up appliers in traffic.

Wow! Subtle.

Desperation comes in many forms, none so blind as the person who hangs on to another person beyond the life of their relationship - no matter how short.

Men and women can both overlook critical, possibly damaging qualities and behaviours in their sig others, but there is a timing difference, at least in my experience.

Women overlook rottenness in a man early in the relationship, almost before it's begun.

Men will overlook exactly the same kind of rottenness in a woman late in a relationship, when it's nearly done.

Of course, of course, this is a generalization, and either sex can fit into either category, or neither. But the mechanism is clear to me: when a woman is of a mind to have a man in her life, she'll squeeze him into her criteria with a shoe-horn and bacon grease. When a man has been given the time to discover a woman is (ostensibly) the one for him, he'll hold onto her, even after everyone else can see they're not a match.

The fundamental difference here is that women, in general, feel that the incompatibilities - or sheer unacceptabilities - of a man she wants are within her ability to change. She can smooth out any rough edges, no matter how ingrained. Guys tend to figure that the (bad) stuff that makes them draw a quick breathe will spread, and so are best avoided. Yes, we'll still have sex if it's available, but a commitment...perhaps not.

However, if we do make a commitment over a period of time, we'll stick with it, maybe because we're afraid of being demonstrably wrong. That's our ego talking, a voice we need to ignore way more often.



Bottoms Up, Humans.

Two Chimps on a Davenport

I tried outrage once, and what a waste of time. It was a stretch of whatever emotion I was inflating, a complete push. I discovered that outrage doesn't make friends; outrage puts you - alone - in the back yard at parties, when everyone knows that the guest bedroom is the place to be.

Milquetoast ever since, it's worth noting that I see lots of guys in the same mental space now. Hot-headedness has given way to a kind of mellow acceptance, especially of other blokes. For this I thank our womenfolk. Ladies, I think you've won.

After years of being told...

+ to show my feminine side

+ not to be afraid of crying

+ to be a little less macho

+ to try getting in touch with my emotions 

...y'all can stop now. I'm there, I'm right there with you. No need to continue, I have seen the (foxglove hued) light.

 
To the outside observer (ie: women) the male social process must appear to be little more than mildly boastful bravado mixed with sport-talk. I'm sure you see it through the female prism, which is to say that you think we're working out the hierarchy in the room; who's above and below whom in the pecking order.

The reverse is true. What's really happening is that we're attempting to find the common ground, so that we know how to communicate. This low-level détente is designed precisely to avoid conflict. We know how discord goes, and it's good for no man. Much better to figure out how we can sit happily and watch the women doing their thing at parties. 

BTW, I'm waiting for the first man to say to a woman:

+ you know, you should really find your masculine side.



Bottoms Up, Peaceniks.

Run Silent, Run Deep

If you recorded a video of me in the heat of a disagreement with a woman, you'd likely see me more frustrated than angry. For every ten words she gets out - like pinpoint jabs to the solar plexus - I'd stammer out two or three. And she'd brush them off. That's the frustrating part, the fact that we seem to work in different weight classes, or even different fighting disciplines. She's a lithe and wiry Thai boxer, I'm Hulk Hogan.

That's the problem. Woman can chop men up with a few well-placed zingers before we've even realized were in a fight. When her blood's up, I'm still lacing my boots while she's already counting a points victory - which is the other half of the disappointment, because by the time I have my mouthguard in and gloves on, she's already having a warm-down massage. Game over. I lose.

So what's the deal here? The mismatch of verbal skill between us is vast to the point of unfairness. Guys generally can't connect response to mouth anywhere near as fast as the lady, leaving us pondering a point from three minutes ago that's already been lost. Not only is it a transmission problem, it's a speed of connection problem.

You'll note here that I'm probably an extreme case. Not only do I intensely dislike disagreements that are in the least bit emotional, I actively avoid them. On the other hand, I love verbal jousting without the heat ie: when nothing's at stake. When we're cool and operating under the same rules, it's fun. As a result, I don't have much practice with the kind of hot conflict that's inevitable in any kind of long-term relationship. In the end I imagine that's deeply unsatisfying to women.

The next time that you think a man's a strong, silent type, consider this: he's silent only because the words are slow to be spoken, not because they're not there.



Bottoms Up, Fighters.

Would You Let Your Sister Date Donald Trump?

Muriel Baumeister.

Passing West Palm Beach airport during the week, I spied The Trumpster's Boeing 757 sitting proud amongst all the other fancy-pants jets. Trump is there quite often, given that he owns Mar-A-Lago, an historic pile on frou-frou Palm Beach.

Trump's famous not only for his property empire, but also for regularly renovating his love-life. His pathology is to consistently upgrade wives when their time is up. It's a rich-guy thing, I guess. Why stick with someone when there's a mezzanine floor full of willing totty a few floors down the private elevator from one's penthouse?

Giving in to the temptation of a perkier model doesn't make Trump a bad man. But it doesn't make him a good one, either. This is what used to be known - quaintly - as "the character question". A man's character doesn't interest modern culture that much any more. Bulk media prefer narcissism and self-expression to doing the right thing and selflessness. Unfortunately, where television dwells, so go the people. Mostly, anyway.

I don't have a sister, but if I did, I'd want her dating and marrying men of character. I'd hope she'd want to, too.

Bottoms Up, Gulfstream Owners.

Man 1.0

Photo credit. 

Civilization depends in large part upon men curbing their instincts. Restraint, self-discipline, filtering, gratification denial; call it what you like, it's all about out-thinking the first reaction.

In a monogamous relationship, it's natural for a woman to want to see a little (or, umm, a lot?) of the unrestricted male. I don't mean violence, of course. That's where trust comes in. But for everyone's benefit, raising the gate on a few more basic instincts leads to a happier experience. How many times have I heard women ask:

How do you really feel?

or

Just let go!

or variations thereof.

Not so easy. Curtailing the civilization software and (temporarily) re-installing Man 1.0 requires practice and understanding. My practice and your understanding.

Now. Where are those 5 1/4" floppy disks?



Bottoms Up, Coders.

Changes, Not the David Bowie Kind.

Leena Huff from here.

Awesome though female liberation is, it has a few kinks. (No, not those kind of kinks you Ponyplay/S&M/Doctor&Nurse/PublicSex/Latex/Goretex/Wrapping/Bondage/Lingerie/Swinging devotees, you.)

Kinks that spring to mind are the kind which lead to misunderstandings. Mostly they're misunderstandings of intention, along these lines:

He's cute and I like him. Why won't he fuck me?

Right, let us begin.

1. He might want to fuck you, but just not right now. No reason.

2. He might want to fuck you, but wants to make sure...of something he might not be able to articulate.

3. He might want to fuck you, but wants you to stop being the aggressor so he can do it his way.

4. He might want to fuck you but just has a lot on his mind right about now.

5. He might want to fuck you, but needs time to work out something you know nothing about.

6. He might want to fuck you, but wants to tell you something first.

7. He might want to fuck you, but wants to make sure it doesn't stop at one.

8. He might want to fuck you, but within the confines of some kind of commitment.

And so on.

Or he might NOT want to fuck you, but can't bring himself to say the words. No man wants to say:

I don't know why, but I cannot fuck you.

Nothing good ever comes from that statement.






Bottoms Up, Kinksters.

Intel Inside

Photo credit.

Being a bloke I sometimes feel that I'm a molecular computer running a software loop that goes something like this:

hips pussy skin smell belly round soft bumfluff warm breast curve nipple reaction breath sweet wanting heartrate arch desire wanting touch lips quiver...

...and so on for ever and ever and ever until I think I'm gonna burst.

In the most literal way this is a BASIC male program, pretty much always running in the background. Yes, that was a computer joke. This least subtle of routines loads when we wake up in the morning, and is only shut down when we go to sleep. And sometimes not even then if my recent dreams are any guide.

If we are just a mushy biological processor, we run all kinds of weird and sometimes incompatible software. For instance, there's the code that allows us to blog about the fact of the many disparate inputs to attraction and sex, which is a pretty high-level thing. Then there is the code that compels (dudes) to hip thrust and ejaculate.

No doubt which of those instructions to the CPU has precedence.

Anyway.

Did I tell you that my current fascination with the female form is hips? Goddam, they're good.




Bottoms Up, Hipsters.

Curves

Pic credit

Allegedly, many guys prefer a body type that includes a low waist to hip measurement. Nothing new in that: a slim-waisted girl with hips and boobs will always catch your eye.

But there's more subtlety to attraction than just curves, and women without that specific fat/bone/muscle configuration seem to understand that their attraction might lie elsewhere too. Sure, the hour-glass might catch my eye initially, but it's so fleeting as to be almost irrelevant.

Yes, we are superficial animals...superficially. The layers of attraction are deep enough - and sufficiently abstract - that Jessica Rabbit is only a minor distraction, deemed valuable only by perceived cultural norms. Gosh, I'm sounding like some awful psych professor.

Pfft. Cultural norms indeed.

My point is that attraction is SO individual as to be beyond easy characterization, an excellent state of affairs. Curves are TOTALLY in the eye of the beholder.



Bottoms Up, Attractors.

Trophy Husband

Q: What does a woman want?

A: A man she can admire, a man she respects, a man she knows is strong.




Q: What does a man want?

A: A woman who admires him, a woman who respects him, a woman who can see his strength.




Bottoms Up, Realists.

Pull Yourself to Bits

How refreshing to see male masturbation out in the open. Not completely out in the open, you understand, but on the teev. And not for reals, more acted out than naturalistic. From the waist up. Actually, it was more a hint than anything else. Still, for an act so popular and so little discussed it was a decent start.

Saturday night Mr Nights and I were watching Californication, Season One. I don't watch television, indeed don't even own one, so it was a treat to see so many naked women, gorgeous breasts and rampant shagging on the box. Where has this show been hiding? It's like twenty-seven minutes of guy fantasy/Penthouse letters acted by beautiful and sometimes teenaged women.

Episode Two, I think it was, showed a secondary character (a man) discovering naughty photographs of his sexetary on the internet. He does what every bloke with a pulse would do, to wit: grab his schlong and manipulate it to erection and orgasm. We don't see any of this, of course. The shot (camera shot) is of him behind a desk, head and torso only. Masturbation is implied.


Sidebar: Odd, to my mind, that all kinds of m/f congress is shown in this show, but the penis is evidently not yet ready for prime-time. Double standard, no? End sidebar.


My quibble about this male jerk-off scene is that it looked too much like the Meg Ryan orgasm scene from When Harry met Sally. Frankly, I thought her rendition was a little actorly, but Evan Handler's rendition of the male O in Californication was quite over the top. For a start he was too vocal. Masturbating men will tell you that it's all about what's going on in your brain, and the link between the physical manipulation and one's imagination. It's a silent, internal thing. Also, he lasted only about fifteen seconds, which is totally not the point. The idea of wanking is to prolong those endorphin-fuelled feelings for as long as possible; orgasm is just the icing on the cake.

Maybe a grunt or two at the crowning glory stage is normal, but all that gasping for breathe and "Oh God" shit is pure chick. (Although when one is having sex with a woman, it's natural to up the verbal communication factor. Natural and automatic, I submit.)

Which gives me an idea. I wonder if it wouldn't be smart for couples, early on in the relationship, to watch each other get themselves off. In fact, I'd go further and say the earlier, the better. It would save a lot of time finding out what the other person likes. First date masturbating? That might be taking it too far, but at least it's creative.



Bottoms Up, Self-Pleasurers!



Happy Rachael Ray from here [link]

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}

What Do Men Say?

Unusually, I'm about to recommend another websiteslashblog.[link] I have no clue who the people are, but I see there's talent among the production and editorial staff and (guessing) money backing them too.

The premise is one I like and try to put into practice here @ KnB, namely the idea that women want to hear what men think about, and about them. My efforts are miserable, but the following interview is worthwhile.

It helps that Miss Schell, the interviewer, does a bang-up job of not verbally obstructing the guys.

It's worth a look, safe for work, and nicely amiable.





Bottoms Up, Inquisitors!

RubixGirl from here. [link]

The Secret

Guessing now, but I imagine that men spend a minimum of ten percent of their lives thinking about women. That's 65,700 hours in the average male lifetime completely dedicated to contemplating the be-skirted sex.

And the marital status of the dude doesn't matter. Single guys spend their allocation wondering how to snare one; guys in relationships wonder if she is the one; married fellas have the complicated circumstance of having one bird in the hand and a nest and previous birds in the bush. That's not something about which I can authoritatively speak.

I'm writing a review of a book about a famous American man. Revealing his name would spoil the fun, but the following excerpt, which is a quote from a friend of his, caught my eye. Some truths about women are universal, even if we - all we men - think we know stuff others don't.

Here's how to woo a woman.

"(He) treated romance as a job - not as a conquest, but as a process. The reason that every woman who ever met him fell in love with him - and I've never met one who didn't - is because he put so much effort into it. Any woman who came to (his place) would be wined and dined. (He) would prepare elaborate meals with oysters, chocolate, strawberries, champagne - drugs, if that's what they were into. He had a magical ability to make a woman feel as though she was the only one who ever existed - he actually used to laugh at other men because he knew how good he was."

Aye. Make a woman the centre of your universe...at least while you're together. That's The Secret.



Bottoms Up, Lotharios!


Pic of cheer-leader from a now-defunct blog, so it's pointless providing attribution. I bet she likes an oyster and some champagne.

Little Black Book

Before hookups, sexting and booty calls, the discreet man with an argument in his trousers turned to a simple piece of hardware known as the Little Black Book.

The Little Black Book is terrifically James Bond in the Sean Connery-as-James Bond way. Other Connery-style Bond icons are unprotected sex, unemotional one-night stands, rampant chest hair, sexually aggressive women double-agents, martinis, champagne, neckties and Walther PPKs.

Sigh. They were the days.

We're all clear that the LBB contained the phone numbers of one's sexual partners aren't we - past, present, prospective and possible lovers? That was the point, the ability to contact women who might be up for a little slap and tickle at short notice.

The other reason to keep a LBB was to find a possible date for a buddy. The unrecognized value of keeping the details of exes is not just that they might be interested in a fling for old times' sake, but that you know their track record. Mates look after mates in many ways.

Of course, the Law of Unexpected Consequences applies here too. When comparing LBBs, finding that you have one (or more) of the same names as your buddy raises questions best left unanswered.


Bottoms Up, 007s!




LBB from here [link]

Holes in Socks

Manliness is many things. The many things include knowing how to repair a balky carburettor, the ability to distinguish cows from bulls, and panache when stringing a tennis racquet. Others don't necessarily see it this way, but eventually everyone comes to understand that the quality "Man" doesn't reside in your trousers.

Which is a nice segue into the problem with men and trousers, and our clothing items in general. We have favourites. Yes, I know it's progressive and compassionate not to discriminate, but the fact remains that all guys pick winners among their wardrobe.

I, for instance, own many shirts, but the one closest to my heart is a putty-coloured camp shirt. It just feels so right, and I know that I will wear it way beyond the point at which it should be a car-wash de-greasing rag. Way beyond.

This is a common thread thread in most men's lives. Once we find the perfect pair of jeans, we'll wear them until they're more hole than denim. Socks, the same. Underduds, the same. We simply cannot bring ourselves to toss out perfectly serviceable garments (oh, and shoes, too) in favour of new stuff.

We like our friends, and mistrust strangers. It's part of being a man.


Bottoms up, fashionistas.





Pic from here [link]

Change Gears

Repulsion and attraction rest upon the smallest particles. Loving a woman can be about the way she tilts their head. Loathing a woman can be about the way she closes a door. It's ridiculous when placed on a plinth like that, but all my observations and experience tell me it's true.

A lot of the stuff that we might label 'small' is right on the edge of consciousness, too, in my opinion. I don't know exactly what it is I like about her...I just know. Detachment and self-examination are needed to figure out what our brain is filtering out, and what it's including. The answer is there, but we need to point the flashlight at the edges of how we think, towards the less obvious nooks and crannies of our personality.

This is the reason I dislike the standard online dating architecture. The profiles are all about big-picture things, painted with a large brush. Unfortunately, the paint is water-based, and washes away with the first exposure to rain. Yes, I like sailing and martinis, just like you, but where's the hook in that? I have just described about a billion people. Small is special and big is...well, it's just big.

The real point I want to make about this is that because my attraction for you is about the small stuff, you are entirely unlikely to know ahead of time what those small stuffs are. That's why it is such a waste of time to spend time thinking about your shortcomings - as, remember, you see them, not anyone else - to the detriment of being the best you can.

I have discovered this, thousands of years late, but it's worth repeating: change what you want to and accept the rest. Oh, and don't worry about what other people find attractive or repulsive. You have no control over that.

Martini, anyone?

Bottoms Up.




Woman contemplating from this man [link]

Friday Fluffer - Robotic Love

Wombat's Second Maxim should be:

Never underestimate the capacity of men to find new ways to stick their dicks in things.

If you thought the Pocket Pussy was bad enough - as I do - meet Roxxxy. Roxxxy is a programmable sex bot. She was developed by....

....you know what? This is so stupid, I can't continue. Decide for yourself. I'm not often embarrassed by my fellow man, but this is beyond pathetic. [link] Safe for work.




Pic from here [link]

Mr Clean

With a couple of hours to spare around noon today, here's what I did.

1. Grabbed my caddy of environmentally friendly cleaning products (which, by the way, I keep close to me at all times.)

2. Collected, from my 'cleaning' drawer, micro-fibre squares, sponges and polishing cloths.

3. Entered the bathroom.

Working from the top down, I cleaned the tiles first, shower and tub. Then on to the vanity, which is probably the easiest part, although faucets can be tricky. Toilet next, making sure to get to all those idiotic curves at the base that those dumb toilet designers create specifically to confound us. Then on to the floor, where you would have found me on hands and knees with an old toothbrush cleaning the grout. Lastly, the mirror, door handles, towel rails and the shelves of the medicine cabinet.

I stood up after about thirty minutes and looked upon my work with pride.

A (woman) friend opined recently that, had it been her bathroom, I could have expected a blowjob at that point. Is this a common reaction, and should I start a high-end cleaning business?





No, that's not my bathroom pictured. [link]