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.

Friday Fluffer - A Tribute to Lady Jockeys

UK Sun photo credit.

In Louisville, Kentucky, they're already mixing the mint juleps. Ladies are at the salon pouffing their hair. Men are checking the form. Yes, the Kentucky Derby is this weekend, a celebration of fancy hats, fantabulation and failed bets.

If you think the only flesh celebrated at racetracks is equine, think again. A small(!) but sexy group of women jockeys purge and puke right along with the guys. Today, we celebrate one of them, Kirsty Milczarek, shown here in racing silks.




Bottoms Up, Hayriders.

wombat@kissnblog.com

Proximity Breeds Love

High school is a seething swamp of sexual tension. Conventional thinking has it that it's because every pimply pubescent is a vat of hormones pushing them to rub nasties at any opportunity.

Okay, that's probably true, but there's another overlooked element of high school, which is proximity. In every class, those punks are an arms-length away from the opposite sex. For eight hours a day there are dozens of possible partners around you, close by, sharing the same experience. Everyone's so close.

Workplaces are similar, but not exactly the same. The cubicle stymies contact. Offices with doors separate people. Very few working situations replicate one's teenage years.

But if you want to find a man, find a place with lots of men. If you want a woman, find where the women work. Familiarity breeds interest, not contempt. Being close in an everyday kind of way creates a petri dish in which romance might grow. Like a fungus.




Bottoms Up, Proximates!


Office girl photo from cubicle chic blog [link]

Hope Springs Eternal

As an underaged but regular drinker, Friday nights were everything. Sports, school, vacations: nothing came close to that specific nervous anticipation before meeting my buddies for (illegal) drinks on the last day of the week.

Naturally there's something about being a teenager. One has the sure knowledge that you have the world completely by the balls. As a male, my own balls told me everything I needed - that I could get away with the underage drinking gig; my parents would never know; that I would be irresistible to girls; that this time would last forever.

Wrong. On all four counts.

But the pain of such mistakes lead to refining the plan. Once I was a legal drinker, the focus shifted from the thrill of drinking in public to the women one might meet in the process. The Friday night anticipation - and associated excited nervousness - persisted, not for the booze, but for the broads. A little success in the romance department whilst drinking sealed the deal.

Alcohol reduces inhibition (duh) a fact I continually learn and sometimes regret, usually the morning after. So it's (again, duh) no surprise that drinking and dating go together like gin and tonic. More accurately drinking and pre-dating go together, because nothing puts one in mind of meeting the love of one's life than a glass or two of champagne, or 1.2 martinis, or a teaspoon of absinthe, or whatever gets you to the perfect drinking buzz.

Forgive me then if this love affair with drinking, friends, and the chance of meeting new lady friends mash up with Friday night anticipation, for this I know is true: If you walk into a bar and order a drink, you never know with whom you'll walk out.




Bottoms Up, Barflies!



Pic from Sports Illustrated (obv) and here [link]

Women on Top

The Masculine Movement's struggle runs up against the Pussy Ceiling in many fields. Men still represent a tiny minority of strippers, for example, or witness the inequality of sexual distribution in Public Relations jobs - 70% of practitioners there are female.

Matters are clear when it comes to college undergraduates in the United States too. The majority of students in post-secondary institutions are female - 57/43 - which reminds me it's high time to dust off my application for that Masters in Creative Writing and Beer. I like those odds. Perhaps that fact alone, the paucity of guys in higher education, speaks to the failure of the Masculine Movement. What we need is an inspirational figure, in the same way that the Feminists have Gloria Steinem or Germaine Greer.

Suggestions welcome.

Men are hopeless and becoming more so in many fields, but especially in sleeping their way to the top. It's a somewhat dated concept now, the idea that promotion or corporate advancement can be had by shagging your supervisor. More important is that with more women in authority, the opportunity for men to redress this imbalance improves every day.

Now, ma'am. May we talk about my raise?





Bottoms Up, Ladder Climbers!



Blackchickonabike supplied the pic. [link]

Brodeo

I pretty much gave up on my regular Friday bar on Friday. A long day labouring for money gives a bloke a thirst, and when booze alone can't release the animal spirits, the potential for finding women will tip the balance. Still dripping with Working Stiff cologne, I made Happy Hour with a minute to spare.

It's a hamster-wheel life, single maledom. It's one in which we are handily practiced at dismembering women with a head-to-toe glance. (That's a metaphoric dismemberment, but no less vicious for it.) She's either a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down, after which comes the calculation of whether she'd have an interest in a chap with twelve-hour-shift hair. Looks like another hundred scampers around the wheel when she sashays to the guy with the Bentley key fob.

Mr Nights, my drinking companion, looked kinda peeved. He'd been sipping tequila for an hour, and peevishness is a common-enough side-effect. But in this case it was the lack of women in the bar that had gotten to him.

It's a brodeo here, he said, despondent.

And he was right. Over his left and right shoulders was a herd of men, rather like beasts at a waterhole. In nature, a regular mix of sexes would naturally gather at the cool corner of the bar - which I think was the reason Mr Nights was off-balance. Absence of females felt all artificial and dysfunctional. The livestock references aren't accurate either. All showered and shaved and Alpha-ed up, the guys looked as useless as show-dogs. Bulls never looked so pouffed.

The good news is that even if one is stuck hamster-wheeling through life, it's possible to have more than one hamster wheel.



Bottoms Up, rodents!