The Date Horizon

Alyssa Miller

Two qualities I observe in my own brain:

1. It looks for patterns of behaviour (in women I date) that might or might not exist.

2. Its imagination leaps to long-term possibilities with women far beyond reality.

They're both manifestations of an inaccurate Date Horizon. The Date Horizon (did I just coin this?) is the natural expectation of what's reasonable from the other person given the current state of the liaison. For instance:

* After a first date, the Date Horizon can really only extend to the possibility of a second.

* After the first sex, the Date Horizon probably includes some number of future sessions. (NOTE: Or none.)

* Once the Fidelity Agreement's in place, the Date Horizon extends out by a few months.

* Marriage takes the Date Horizon at least to the natural horizon.


I imagine that we all get ahead of ourselves when we start out with someone new. Sadly, it's unrealistic and I believe ultimately destructive when the other person fails to live up to our dream (the hide!) or we actually start living in a way that's not reality-based.

So. Note to self: One step at a time. Take each date as it comes. Understand not everyone will work out. Keep a tight rein on the imagination. Watch how nice it is when the Date Horizon really does move beyond tomorrow.



Bottoms Up, Imagineers.

Groupon

Before too long, we won't refer to people as:

This is Amelia - she's from my book club.

It'll be all:

Let me introduce Suzette - we're members of the same swingers' group.

Which has benefits. Instead of ploughing through insufferable Oprah-approved tomes of PC claptrap, we'll be talking about...how that broad likes being ploughed wheelbarrow-style, how that one likes a little suffocation, and how to deal with The Clap. In a mutually supportive and compassionate way, of course. 

Swingers, too, want to make a difference. Or, more accurately, want someone different - a lot of someones different. It's all the same, though, right?

Be careful, however. Not everyone is hip to group sex as the new social networking. Pity Deborah Sherman, who lost her gig with a Denver television station. As the Denver Post delicately asked:

Did her termination have something to do with the story about a prescription-abusing doctor, whom Sherman met on a swinger website? 

Titanic. Debster's been unfairly victimized here, but I sense there's more to the story. Work for an investigative journalist perhaps?



Bottoms Up, Bottoms Uppers.

The Long and Short of Strap-On Dildos

I'm in two minds about fishing. On the one hand there is the grouper sandwich and macadamia encrusted mahi-mahi. Mmmmm....mahi-mahi. On the other hand there are hooks and nets.



How is the salmon served again?



Fishermen are divided into two species - recreational anglers, that is. There are live-bait fishermen and artificial-bait fishermen. It's not a trivial difference. These are Old Testament/New Testament kind of arguments, unsolved by beer or beer-battered catfish. But let us not tarry. My fishy musings aren't for nothing, dear friends. There are sex aids afoot and what wonders lie before us!



Behold, the strap-on dildo. This piece of priapic pulchritude fills a gap - so to speak - when a penis is missing. One imagines that most owners are lesbians, but no doubt there's a big market for women who want to show their menfolk what it's like to have six or more inches of extruded polymer shoved up their butt.



Which isn't where I'd like to focus. What's interesting to me is that Mr P is always invited to the party, whether the participants like penis or not. Lesbians, are, presumably, those most likely to purchase a strap-on...which must pain them no end. Interesting that those with only sapphic attractions still like an ersatz bloke about the place; one held in place with buckles and straps.



Let's review: When a dick's not to hand, there are always artificial dicks, even if you don't like dick or the person to whom he's attached. Bravo, marital aid industry and UPS. You've done us proud. Even those of us who use live bait.









Bottoms Up, Naturists.

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.

Sex in Space

Look, does anyone really know what's happening on the International Space Station? I've been suspicious of this low-orbiting satellite since the first bits went aloft in 1998. NASA has this huge website telling us how wonderful and space-licious this thing is, but, I mean, can they point to one thing they've actually achieved there? [link]

Pictured is Astronaut Nicole Stott. Congratulations to Nicole for just returning from 91 days on board the ISS. While she was up there she blogged, she tweeted, she checked her email and she looked out the window; in short, she spent her day much like the rest of us. [link] Has space travel become as boring as my own life?

Congratulations too, to Astronaut Randy Bresnik. Randy’s wife, Rebecca, gave birth to their baby girl, Abigail Mae, in Houston late Saturday night. [link] To celebrate, he went for a walk outside the Space Shuttle - which was attached to the ISS at the time - to smoke a cigar, which mightily ticked off NASA people. Then he posted on Facebook.

I think it's clear what's going on here. Abigail Mae is America's first space baby. She was actually born on the ISS two weeks ago to Astronette Nicole, and Tiger Woods is the father. That would explain his domestic misadventures, given that he neglected to tell his wife, Elin, that Nike had paid him a truck-load to father the first 'alien' human. [link] No sex, just a donation, you understand, all they wanted was his DNA.

So now it's all turned pear-shaped, because Elin went batso with a putter over Tiger's head. He then knocked over a fire hydrant and now won't talk to the cops. NASA's hugely peeved (again) that they can't point to wee Abby as the crowning achievement of $100 billion spent on an orbiting cathouse.

Nike's the only winner. Abigail just got her card for the Ladies' PGA tour, and they have her sponsorship locked up from here to Pluto.

Does she like me? Will my ego be bruised?

I need to specify more clearly what I'm trying to tease out with this green light business. Saving men from making embarrassing moves motivates me, because the Good Lord knows I have made many doomed approaches to women. Every rejection saps a little bit of energy, if only temporarily. So in the interests of helping my fellow man, I seek only to improve his odds of at least a civil response from a woman.

Green Light Theory (let's give this sucker a big Capitalized proper name to make it sound super important) is based in a simple idea. Here it is. Are you ready? Right. Here we go. Ahem.

Women get to say yes or no.

Cool isn't it? With that in mind...

...valid tools exist that a man can use to figure out whether any particular woman is more likely to say yes than no, thereby putting the odds in his favour.

That's all I'm talking about. By any means possible, it's way better taking a little time (and some understanding of human nature) to paint a mental picture of how she's situated with respect to you. Observe and listen to her. What's she telling you?

*

Green lights Part One, Green lights Part Two, Green Lights Part Four, Green Lights Part Five.