The Individual's Truth of Infinite Possibility

There's no better way to overpower a trickle of doubt than with a flood of truth. 

Francis Underwood, House of Cards.

It's part of the fun of living in an imperfect universe - no-one will ever know exactly who you are. If you asked all the people who have ever met you to describe you, you'd receive a different version from each of them. We can think of this as the Infinite Me theory. If perception is reality, there are as many 'mes' as there are other people; for all practical purposes that's an infinite number, especially if you count life forms we've yet to meet from other planets.

Speaking of which, I note Michael Douglas in the news earlier in the week. Michael is from Planet Hollywood, a glittering disco-ball of well-lit gas way out there on the left side of the galaxy. He is what passes for royalty there, which means he's a second generation meat puppet.

It seems Mr D has revealed that his recent bout of throat cancer was as a result of sapphic overindulgence, a plethora of pussy in other words. Pussy-eating, to be accurate, because it seems the human pappilomavirus, passed orally, was to blame. Allegedly to blame. Now, given that Michael's been married to Welsh bomb Catherine Zeta-Jones for quite some time, one wonders just what's occurring here. Especially after she was declared "...HPV-free...".

I'm not interested in underestimating the importance of understanding the link between anything and cunnilingus. In good health and in poor, knowledge is power. And given Mr Muff-Muncher's sway with the media, we're all more informed about the dangers of HPV. That's a good thing. And yet. And yet there's something grimy about a bloke who smoke, drank, snorted, licked and fucked his way around the universe for decades revealing that his ill-health was from a single simple pleasure.

Floods of truth, it seems, come with fast-moving tongues.




Bottoms Up, From High Between Her Thighs.

Knowledge - The Greatest Gift

If Womens' Studies courses were really concerned with disseminating information about women, they'd be chock-full of blokes. Let's face it, guys are enthusiastic - if somewhat clueless - lifelong devotees of female form and function, and could truly benefit from professional instruction.

But a course dealing with the whys and wherefores of practical lady behaviour would be instantly shut down by the same women who run the aforementioned Womens' Studies faculty. Ironic, eh?

Take cunnilingus, for example. When a young man tastes his first pussy, it confirms everything he'd come to expect from his initial forays, namely, finger-fucking. Pussy tastes, feels and smells like nothing else in the universe, which can be a shock for the learner lover. What to do? How does this warm pleasure palace work, and how can I improve my performance so that she thinks more highly of me?

If nothing else, when we see our first female orgasm up close, we realize our life-long quest is to hone whatever input we have to the process. We like having you shake and moan, squirt and gush, scream and blush. It's addictive.

Sadly, sending the average male youth to be helpful with such a thing is equivalent to tuning a nuclear submarine with a crescent wrench. He might find and tighten the correct bolts, but it's all gonna be hit and miss.

The right tools for the job, the job of being with a woman on all levels, do exist. Most men eventually find that place of understanding, and, dare I say it, competence, both between the thighs and between the ears. The pity is that it mostly requires trial and error, which means her trial and patience with his error. Question and answer from a disinterested third party would make a huge difference.

Does anyone know of an actual Woman Instructor?




Bottoms Up, Educators.

The David Copperfield Moment

Reading online profiles is engaging sport. By looking at the photos and comparing the narrative with the headline I try to put together a general abstract of the woman and what she's thinking.

You need to be an amateur cryptologist to do this, because no-one displays their complete self in a personal ad. Once you've spent enough time puzzling over a lot of these things, patterns become clear. Successful decryption begins with finding repeated words and phrases. These commonalities, repeated in many separate profiles, form the starting point from which entire messages can be cracked.

What is interesting is how few profiles stand out from the crowd. A lot of the time it's like reading the equivalent of - sorry to say this - a whole bunch of classifieds. This is not criticism, merely observation. Revealing telling insights with a coupla snaps and two-hundred words isn't normal, with good reason. Self-protection is a valuable instinct.

Near the top of my 'memorables' list is a woman who posted a confident, breezy profile with some likewise upbeat photos. One pic, of her standing beside an F-250 in jeans and heels, had the following caption:


Me and my truck - when I'm wearing a skirt you will probably want to help me up! ;-) 


Wombat Decode Report:

1. I understand that if ever you're my boyfriend, you'll be interested in my body.

2. I'm good with that.




Bottoms Up, Magicians.  

Friday Fluffer - Make Love Not Porn

Ashley Tisdale

The crack-addictive nature of porn for guys is the never-ending stream of new, easy trim. Just one more pussy can be more tempting than any woman will ever understand.

Until now.

I think Cindy might have run smack bang into the middle of something sticky that she didn't like.

Cindy Gallop's TED talk.

And here's her (awfully designed but interesting) website. Make Love Not Porn.



Bottoms Up, Pron-Stars.

Expecting the Unexpected

 Eliza Dushku

Meeting and dating someone in quick succession can be one of the funnest things in the universe. If you feel you have something with this new person the exhilaration of discovery is like a drug. Gimme more!

The downside of that is if it doesn't work out, you end up in a relationship with some sketchy dude who sells you low-grade shit at street-plus prices. Wait. That's another kind of drug, although the analogy holds pretty well.

We singles are all looking for that starburst of wonder and goodwill, elusive as it might be. There's no way to pre-figure the feeling, the chemistry follows no particular rules. Encounters with this drug are not restricted to singles either - I can think of at least three married women with whom I've shared that moment of singularity, of knowing. Fortunately, my better nature prevented anything more happening. There are quite a few what-ifs hanging out there in the universe.

Like any drug, mutual discovery is best enjoyed in the right environment. Bathrooms and cars are fun, but more appropriate when you're both on a slightly more solid footing. Passion can overwhelm common sense, so at least in the beginning some dating structure is good.

That's an old-fashioned view, I understand. Trouble is that heightened emotions - all I can think about is HER - leave no room for circumspection. It's all about wondering what she's doing, whether I need a haircut and how her pussy might taste.




Bottoms Up, Newly Acquainted.

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.)

Lessons from my Cat

Pic credit.

Pain is so closely related to pleasure that we sometimes lose track of where one morphs into the other. Hormones, I guess, all those interesting wee chemicals our bodies live and die by create this intriguing dichotomy.

During sex, with the taught pleasure string and the altered pain threshold, pain and pleasure can even be reversed. In the cool calm of a Sunday morning, HOW WEIRD IS THAT?

Not really so weird, as long as we understand that a good flogging is excellent for one's wellbeing. Alright, so maybe just a light flogging, between consenting adults, with all the usual precautions. Gawd, I can't even make a small joke about the pleasures of a little S&M play without safety caveats. What have our sex lives become now that the Safety Nazis and PC Police are in the corner watching us act out our fantasies?

Oh, did I mention to ALWAYS use a safeword?

Anyway, my cat teaches me much about the nature of women. Cats have claws. Cats, when happy, knead those claws into one's flesh. It's a classic pleasure and pain scenario: my sweet tortoiseshell purrs and punctures my skin. She's in ecstasy, and I'm...happy she's happy. But OUCH, those things are sharp!

Remember, women have claws, too. Thank goodness.





Bottoms Up, Felines!

The Pussy Never Lies

Photo Credit.

Few feelings compare to the one engendered when a hand slid - up or down - to the pussy is rewarded with The Big Wet. Discovering a warm gooey pussy is a lottery win, validation, and a promise of wonders to come all rolled in to one. It's a sweet-salty treasure, especially the first time. (Although the feeling rarely declines much over time.)

I don't know if this is true, but women generally aren't given to state:

God, I'm wet for you as much as they should.

When a dude's interested, it's pretty obvious, and for sure he need not announce:

You know you've given me wood?

We guys communicate these things well enough without resort to direct anatomical revelations. It's pretty much a one-way street - assume the man's ardor, evidence is required of the woman's.

Hence the need for confirmation with a sly hand slide.

The cooking world provides the best analogy. When you think the dish is ready to eat, one gently slides a thermometer inside to check for done-ness.

That's pretty much all I need say.



Bottoms Up, Wet Ones!

Sex and Cabbages

Frankly, there's no guidance as to where souerkraut and sex meet.

You have objections as to the introduction of fermented cabbage into love-making, and I don't blame you: sauerkraut is as much an acquired taste as pussy, especially if you're young and inexperienced.

Soon, my young man, you'll be sniffing the air.


Bottoms Up, Sausage Eaters!

Friday Fluffer - Guess Her Muff

This is what blokes do all the time. Not dream of lesbians, but use our imaginations.

When we see a woman, we try to guess her muff.

NOTE NOTE NOTE NOTE NOTE

This Site has disappeared.

Guess Her Muff. <-----Link

But here's another celebrating women.

Link.

Warning: Nudity and NSFW.

Further Friday Fluffers here [link]



Bottoms Up, Muffins!

Friday Fluffer - Freedom of Speech

Pussy Power might work on heterosexual men, but the 'tween legs dynamo does not influence the majesty of the law.

Jennifer LaPenta wore her I Have the Pussy, So I Make the Rules tee in the gallery during her friend's court hearing. The Judge was not amused - and Jennifer was cited for contempt.

She left the court in cuffs with a 48 hour sentence to serve. Unfortunately for Jen, this was not an elaborate submission game, and the man who led her away was not taking her to his dungeon for some fun.

The Smoking Gun has the story and the pics. [link]



Bottoms Up, New Inmates!

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]

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]

Post Pussy

This is destined to become a backwater of the internet, but just between you and me, will you ladies answer this question?

After a man has spent himself licking and sucking and lapping your gooey regions, do you want him to kiss you?

Yes, I want every woman who reads this to answer. Please.

Let's be clear: his chin is dripping with your juice, and his tongue red-raw from pleasuring your kitty/taint/arse.

Should he rise up from between your loins and look approvingly for a smooch?

Bottoms up!



Photo from here, although I doubt they're smart enough to realize the audience we provide them. [link]

Edited for overuse of 'lapping' and other sundry failings.

Friday Fluffer - Cooter Ice

BlueBabe's writing inspires me in many ways. Her post today [link] is about...well, let's just say that the guy she thought was a Pussy Aficionado turned out not to be.

I think her blog is restricted, but leave her a note here in comments, and she'll likely as not let you in the door of her amazing world.

In recognition of the fact that we can all learn more about some things, here's a link to the Cunnilingus Tutor's Top 50 ways to keep a lady happy.

CT's Top Fifty. [link]

As they say at the finest restaurants and the lowest diners: Enjoy!




Edit: BlueBabe requests you email her for access to her blog. It's totally worth it.

bluelovergirl1@aol.com

Happy pic from here [link]

Ladies Night

Thursday last week at around nine pm I felt like a couple of coldies at my local boozer. Angie wasn't working, so I couldn't indulge myself in Pink Squirrel-type banter. And Miles, who shakes a very good classic martini and is unusually adept at jokes at other people's expense, was pre-occupied - pre-occupied with his own search for country pie by the looks. Tending bar must be a top-ten way to access bulk trim.


So I happily chatted with the guy next to me and enjoyed my drink. India Pale Ale, with its aromatic, honeyed nose and nifty back-of-the-throat kick perfectly hit the spot.

At the beer-apex, around two drinks, I swivelled around and noticed that the bar had turned into something God-awful. It looked like the trade show from hell, with unctuous males panting to make a sale, and cock-sure females knowing they were in the dickie seat. Yes, you guessed it. Thursday night is Ladies Night, and the exhibitors and prospects were pouring in the door.

The idea's simple. Females drink (tiny pours in plastic cups) for free. Males pay full-price-plus (and sip from a regular glass.) Honey-bees home to flowers; whales swim to breeding grounds; salesman promise the world. It's the same old game, with a little less smokescreen.

Quote of the night came from the token cougar in heat: Oh Lord, they're not much older than my son. I just hope he won't recognize mine in the morning.






Stiff drink picture from here [link]

Edited because I was too clever to check the spelling of 'unctuous'.

Ripping Yarns

They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but I say the way to a woman's pussy is through her underpants. Through or around or (in the case of crotchless) between. Hells, it's giving me a woody thinking about the wonders of ladies and their underduds.

James Bond (of course) is the man best at undressing ladies, mostly because they don't have much on to start with. (Miss Moneypenny is the exception.) Funny that being a licenced-to-kill spy also entitles one to a cotery of easily-bedded hotties in evening gowns or bikinis.

Anyway, it was Sean Connery who I noted once de-frocked a lover by slicing through the spaghetti straps of her LBD, letting the thing fall to the floor.

:cut to shots of rampant elephant trunks and earthquakes:

Where was I? Right, the road to heaven lies beyond the boy-shorts.

There is an art in removing a lady's panties. Possible choices include demurely running them down the legs, if she's standing. If she's on her back, shimmy those things over her arse, create a tangle at the feet, then let her kick them off. And then there's ripping the damn things off so you can get to the action ASAP.

Nothing says God I want you NOW! like using brute strength to tear that shit off, and hopping into it with animal abandon.

:cue shots of elephant trunks rampant and earthquakes:

Yesterday I discovered how women feel about the wanton destruction of their sexy smalls at the hands of a neanderthal lover:

They Love It.

And the attraction? The sound of ripping lace.

I think they call this 'Win-Win'.





Thanks to Snaf for the lingerie-wearer's perspective. [link]

Loverly ladies photo from here [link]

Edited for incorrect panty-removal technique. Someone would have picked up the error.

Her Pussy Smells

I met my boss's girlfriend over the weekend. Ex-girlfriend, more accurately, although they're still friendly.

Do you know why I dropped her? he whispered conspiratorially.

No, I replied, thinking: because you're married?

Because she smelled bad.

What. BO?

No, he said, moving his index finger under his nose, eyebrows raised.

She had a smelly pussy?

Yep. I couldn't handle it.

Did you tell her? She might have an infection and doesn't know.

No. I can't deal with that shit.

But they all smell a little bit. It's part of their charm.

Yeah. But it was easier just not to see her anymore.





I'm figuring a way to ask him for her number.





Image from here [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]

Loving Winter

The inevitable question: If squirrels hide nuts for the winter, what do pussies store? Tuna fish? Shrimp cocktail? Steak au jus? One can only wonder.

Winter in the northern hemisphere is about staying warm, because cold really happens here. In Australia winter is a kind of limp-wristed summer, a season merely without as much sun, like it's (the sun) gone on vacation for a while and left just the pilot-light burning. Sure the days are shorter and people wear more layers, but it's not 'winter' in the same way that Minnesota has winter. Or Manitoba. They're from the same animal family, but many, many cousins removed.

Open fires and dead animals are a staple of winter, and not just the cooking of. In my top one-hundred list of things to do before I leave this piece of space-time is #76:

"Make Love to the One I Love on Animal Rug in Front of Open Fire."

There it is, right there, below #75:

"Spend Week in Bed with Miss Venezuela (any year will do)".

It's another of those nagging cliché-type thingies, yet still keeps its exoticness. Exoticity? It looks to be a neat thing to do.

Sophisticated people move past making love on dead animals early in life. I think they complete all the standard sexual fetishes and variations before leaving university, which explains a lot about universities. And because I attended universities, but didn't graduate, it explains why I still need to find a woman, a fire, a dead-animal rug, and the time.

This winter, I swear.



Photo from here. [Link]