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.

Friday Fluffer - Bigger is Better Unless It's Too Big

The Friday Fluffer is nothing without the kind of information headlined as follows:

Study reveals well-endowed men get the girls.

New research has shown that 21st century females are far more similar to their cavewomen ancestors than originally thought, because the size of a man's penis still plays a key role in deciding how attractive a woman rates him. 

Oh dear. Maybe all y'all aren't as sophisticated as you thought. But wait... 

In what may come as a relief to many men, manhood must not be so large that it appears out of proportion to the rest of his body. 

Wait a second! I thought you said that size was key? So the big swinging dick gets the girls, unless he doesn't because his cock brushes the ground.

Sheesh. Read for yourself and see if you can figure it out...

UK Daily Mail Online - Size Really Does Matter In The Bedroom.



Bottoms Up, Capacious Ones.

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.

Expectant Sex

Stuck in a painful silence on a first date? Introduce the topic of sex whilst pregnant and see what happens.

Okay, so a first date is too early, but by the fifth date I'd be using this as a critical question - obviously, especially if you're the woman. It seems that many men have an incomplete knowledge of the female reproductive tract. Surprise, eh?

In a way it's touching. Some guys apparently avoid vaginal sex for fear of somehow molesting, harming, defiling, aborting or otherwise embarrassing the in-utero sprog. The thought of their penis pistoning up and down inside the mother gives the dude less of a piston and more of a python. A soft python.

Coupla points here, men. Firstly, there is a pre-designed barrier between the baby and you. It's called the cervix. It has muscles strong enough to break your arm should you somehow end up in that position. Plus it is a VERY sensitive piece of your lady, as you would know when you're making sweet love and accidentally go too far. She'll let you know ALL about it.

Secondly, your lady also comes pre-designed with a place for you to have sex, known as the vaginal canal. It's otherwise known as the birth canal when used in the reverse direction, but don't dwell on that. Think of the sweet, warm, gooey love trench as a vestibule, where your junk is kept nicely separate from your pristine unborn child.

As an almost too obvious Thirdly: pregnant ladies are full of hormones that make them hornier than an Arizona cactus. Capitalize, men. For her sake.




Bottoms Up, Hot Mammas.

Incompetent Cervix

The initial hint that you're dealing with a very different animal comes in that first sex-ed class. When they show that slide of the interior female, the shock lasts a long time, I can tell you.You know the one, that diagram - anterior view I think it's called - showing the lower lady thorax's contents in all its glory; uterus, tubes, ovaries and all. No disrespect intended, but when a ten year-old boy is faced with this for the first time, it looks positively alien. Like something a cheap sci-fi movie props man cobbled together, the vague likeness of a venus fly-trap.

Not only are there all those odd-looking parts, but they do odd things, too. Eggs shoot out, stuff builds up on uterine walls, hormones rain all over the shop and there's blood everywhere. (Although sex educators are at pains to point out the wonder, mystery and beauty of all this argle-bargle, stressing that periodic blood is different from circulatory blood.)

See, I paid attention.

The first reaction is "OMG, all that's inside you?" drawing inevitable comparisons to one's own alien parts. In our case, they're only mildly other-wordly, being, as they are, more out there. Besides, the penis is a simple hydraulic/plumbing fixture and more or less self-contained. Balls? Best to consider them biological punctuation.

Puberty and sexual maturity change everything, naturally. What at first seemed gooey and intimidating becomes, well, still gooey and intimidating, but in a way that makes a bloke devote his life to lady-parts exploration. Then there's the secret of actual child-bearing, where the complexity multiplies, together with the possible problems.

For instance, an incompetent cervix is a mere inconvenience to a woman; an incompetent penis would devastate a man. Therein the difference between the sexes.



Bottoms Up, Triffids.

Friday Fluffer - It's Just A Weird Situation All Round

Elle Macpherson pic credit.

Not that Elle would ever be a fluffer. Although who knows what floats her 155' boat?

For the last Friday Fluffer of 2011, I give you the BEST way yet discovered to create pet names. Actually, I'm serious. This works, if only for a laugh. SFW.





Bottoms Up Sexy Candy Pandas.

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.)

Sexy is as Sexy Does

 Catherine Bell's cleavage credit.

Be advised that anything I write about online dating refers to women only. Although you would think that checking out the opposition [read: other guys hawking their fork] a smart strategy, doing so is beyond me. Comfort with one's sexuality is one thing - deliberately investigating dudes is quite another.

Can't. Tell. Internet. I. Want. To. Look. At. Men.

So I rely on you, dear reader, to tell stories of male profile quirks.

Spectacular as bulk online Lady Catalogues are, my interest is in the detail. One popular specific self-descriptor is that of "sexy", as in:

"...I'm a sexy, giving, mother of two looking to find a real man..."

I see. A cynic might translate this as:

"...I like sex (a lot) but will be restricted by these damn kids and your own dick's reliability..."

But I'm not a cynic. I'm a realist, and therefore think that sexiness lies in the eye of the beholder.  Surely I get to determine if you're sexy?...And your very presence online contraindicates.

Hmmm. Perhaps I am a cynic.




Bottoms Up, Self- Assessors.

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.

I Nailed Her

Hazel pic credit.

English gives us so many ways. We can fuck her, shag her, give her one, bonk her, boink her, make her day, give her wotfer.

There's hiding the sausage, boffing, humping, screwing, boning, driving the pink bus home and, simply, making love.

One euphemism I'm not so sure of is nailing her. Nailing her has overtones of carpentry, an odd juxtaposition of trade and, well, rough trade.

Nailing a woman is a conquest. Domination - of the hammer over the nail - is the name of the game, in the same way that attaching two pieces of wood together demonstrates domination of man over lumber.

Unfair a generalization it might be, but whenever I hear a guy boasting that he nailed a dame...I wonder if the dame knows the affair is over. Do men ever re-visit a driven nail?

Nailing = The End.





Bottoms Up, Brazilian Nut Woods.

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.

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!

Friday Fluffer - New Use for Nylons

As if the idea of stockings isn't sexy enough, there's this:

Tie two or three knots in a nylon stocking, and gently wrap it (don’t tie it) around the base of his penis so it’s snug but still has some give. The compression makes him even more sensitive, and the knots stimulate your clitoris as you move in girl-on-top.

Anyone tried it?

From the wonderful folks at Cosmopolitan.


Bottoms Up, Adventurers!


Pic from here [link]

Dry As a Nun's Nasty

Lady Lubrication should come naturally unless you're putting shit in places designed for expelling shit. Then you'll definitely need lubrication unless you're in Vegas where such acts are an amuse bouche to the main show which (if the relativity of these things holds) means the sex will have roughly the same quality of production as Cirque du Soleil.

Which those in the know know as the Circus of The Camel Toe.

Political Correctness prevents me from drawing attention to the fact that if you find yourself in the presence of a non-lubricating vag, you're probably in the presence of another dude, dude. Please be informed, LesbianGayTransoceanBifurcatedQueen Lobby, that this is not a drill, it's for real. A drill would probably be less painful, and wholly less embarrassing.

However, if surgically created vaginas or slippery blowjobs or squeaky camel toes are your thing, I see some lube in your future - probably bought in a 7-Eleven along with a 24-pack of Natty Light.

In a hopeless act of optimism, the well-oiled folks at K-Y { K-Y® Brand } sent me some of their new edible lube to test. All I can say is that it tastes fine on ice-cream. If you want to know how to use it for the job for which it was designed, read Snaf's thoughts about, apparently, a non-surgically created penis.

Link to the Snafugirl's sexy adventures with edible lube. [link]


Bottoms Up, Dessicants!


Pic by me.

DISCLAIMER: This posting comments on product sent to me on behalf of K-Y® Brand to facilitate my review.

Friday Fluffer - Happy Ending

Sentimentalist that he is, the penis enjoys a happy ending.

As with much involving dicks, technique is important, not least when raising the delicate subject of a happy ending with one's massage therapist. Here's how not to do it:

"...Al Gore fondled and groped her during a massage session ...describing...the former Vice President as a giggling "crazed sex poodle" who gave a "come hither" look before pouncing on her in a Portland hotel suite."

Full article from the Smoking Gun.[link]<------SFW worth reading.

The picture of a naked, corpulent Al Gore as a crazed sex poodle gives happy endings a bad name. No wonder Tipper wants out.



Bottoms Up, Happy Enders!


wombat@kissnblog.com

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]

Cold Hard Steel.

Gayle is my pet Cougar. She's fortyish, single, direct and horny, the four food groups that sustain Cougars. To round out her qualifications, she's into younger men for sex alone, the catnip no Cougar can resist. We're friends, but I have plans for her as an advisor.

I didn't know she was my pet Cougar until last Friday night. Over H-Hour drinks we had a frank and earnest discussion about the virtues and vices of men with pierced tongues. That is a subject about which I know nothing.

Naturally, when I think of cold hard steel I think of my penis. Well not my penis exactly, but a woman's tongue-stud providing extra stimulation for my penis during fellatio. Judging by the way Gayle's eyes rolled back in their sockets and her uncontrollable leg-shaking, a man using his own tongue-stud on a Cougar's cooter works as well for women as for men, orgasm/pleasure-wise. Or even pre-orgasm/pleasure-wise.

All that eye-fluttering and invoking the Lord was for demonstration purposes only. I certainly wasn't providing her with pleasure, what with my virgin tongue and the other drinkers and all. But the memory of her (much) younger lover using his accessorized tongue to good effect gave her performance depth. She really dug the steel-on-clit feeling. Like a ball-bearing in Spam, I guess.

Bottoms up, pierced ones!






Graph 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.

Friday Fluffer - The Rise of the Hedgehog

If anyone is qualified to write about Fluffers, it's Ron Jeremy. [Wikipedia link] This is his autobiography which, as you can see, didn't sell at full retail price. The publisher's loss is our gain, because this isn't a half bad read.

Ron tells the tale of his loves and likes in fine style. He started out as a legit actor, but then his penis got in the way.*

In case you don't know, Ron is one of the universe's most prolific porn actors. His curriculum penii includes more than 1,750 films, over 4,000 sex partners and the dubious boast that the oldest women with whom he had sex on video was Rosie, aged 87. They co-starred in 87 and Still Bangin'.

Describing how he separates sex with women on camera and sex with girlfriends, Ron says that "sex is like" leaving us to draw the conclusion that romantic sex is something else. Presumably, if a man walks up to a woman and says:

Hi. I like you. Let's have sex, she'll react positively.

Yeah. Only on porn sets.









*For the record, Ron's penis is 9.75 inches long.

The Hardest (working) Man in Showbiz by Ron Jeremy. ISBN: 978-0-06-084082-2