Pleased To Meet You; I Want You.

Despite all our planning, thinking, wishing and dreaming, the reason we're attracted to one individual is a mystery. It just happens.

I found myself with that feeling of mysterious attraction recently, in an ordinary day-to-day circumstance. The woman and I made a small business transaction, but from the moment I came close to her, that magical, unexplainable interest filled me. The animal...thing, whatever it is, lives outside of logic in a special compartment to which only a few special people have a key. It's wild. Untameable.

Civility requires that whomever feels this way about someone keep it to themselves. Professing instant desire about a stranger falls well outside normal behaviour. Explaining an unexplainable visceral attraction to someone might even be illegal: who knows thesedays? Which means that the only course of action is to flirt a little, try to figure out if she's feeling the same way and attempt to communicate by thought rays what's going on inside your head.

Yeah, that never works.

Which is unnerving, because in the moment, desperation is the binding emotion. It's essential that this thermonuclear emotion be validated somehow...and of course, it cannot, unless you have the chutzpah to ask her out. That is a long shot, but as long as you're prepared to jeopardize whatever reason you met the person in the first place, is about the best you can do. When you leap the creek into romance with zero back-story, you will most likely end up with wet pants. Be so advised.

So I took my own counsel, and did nothing but indulge in a little mild chit-chat and departed. The large, frustrating residue of one of these encounters is that you'll never know if she felt the same way. Maybe she was hot for me in equal proportion, or perhaps she was wondering why this guy was hanging about with googly eyes making dopey small-talk.

Analysis in the light of day doesn't help. I've turned this thing - as with all previous instances - upside down and around about in my head, and come no closer to finding a common thread or even a strategy to deal with them. It's an all or nothing deal; either invite them out on a date then and there, or walk away.



Bottoms Up, Instant Desirables.

You're Such a Dirty Bitch

 Manuela Arcuri photo credit.

You're such a dirty bitch.

God you're so wet, I love it.

Oooh, yeah, that feels great.

Your pussy feels so tight. 

Mmmmm, I could do this forever.


Guess what we're doing here? Yes, I'm talking during sex, and now that it's written down, it's kinda lame - unimaginative, even. But  when I start thinking about improving my sex-talk repertoire, the right words elude me.

My working theory is this: If a woman is sharing her mind and body with me in heavenly congress, she wants me to be as close to her ideal lover as possible. I guess women have the two extremes of men in mind - the worst possible and the best. The worst kind of lover sticks it in, wiggles it around for a bit, ejaculates and remains silent throughout. (Although under some circumstances I can see some women wanting precisely that. Tricky creatures.)

The ideal lover is skilled at making her feel beautiful and sexy; understands just how to help her mind and body stay horny; exerts the right amount of authority; talks eloquently and sexily; and fucks her long and often.

Frankly, that doesn't seem like such a big ask, especially in a loving marriage or committed LTR. Still, the right kind of talking during sex looks to be the most elusive element. From personal experience, men should avoid:


~ laughter. Women seem to take this personally, rather than as an expression of joy.

~ filth-talk if she's not in the mood. Best to discuss this beforehand.

~ comparison to other women, even if positively. Duh.

~ explicit functional chat if she's not prepared for it. Body parts have distinctly unsexy names.

~ anything that makes her feel self-conscious. Until she's comfortable with admiring honesty.


That's a start. As with much surrounding sexual preferences, it's best discussed away from the heat of the moment. Start when fully-clothed, and over dinner, ask:

Darling, when we're making love, do you like it when I tell you how hot you are in Latin?

With luck you'll be able to capitalize on the feeling and try your sex-talk immediately. Practice makes perfect.



Bottoms Up, Woman-Whisperers.

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.

Stop/Start

Barbara Bach from Celebs101

Your experience is different, I am certain, but let me tell you about mine. Far from the seamless process presented by porn - and, often, Hollywood - it's messy getting from here to orgasm with a chick. Disjointed. Stop and start, if you like. More like being in Friday night traffic than anything else, sometimes speeding along, sometimes going nowhere.

For a bloke raised on images of Roger Moore as James Bond, ideal sex consists mostly of glib bon mots, double entendres and beautiful women just waiting to be bonked. These women aren't simply willing partners; they're often mute, mostly dressed in haute couture and there TO be fucked.

Movieland seduction is about being the leading man in the presence of a woman. Then it happens. Okay, there's a lull in the action and PHHHwaaarRRRRR, here comes Barbara Bach.

THEN they shag.

From this, it's no wonder we get Austin Powers. The premise is laughable.



Bottoms Up, Bondistas.

What can you do for me?

Hi honey.

I'm cute.

Look at me. My skin is soft. If I decide, you can touch it.

What can you do for me?

* giggle *



Bottoms Up, Lucksters!

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]

Dames I Adore - Amy Winehouse

It was a mistake, her name, or her parents changed it at some point, but Amy was born Amy Crackwhorehouse. As a case of natal nominative determism predicting adult behaviour, her parents were right to change. The sad part is that she lived up to her pre-natal destiny.

Amy is a beautiful women on the inside, and that's what I love. She can sing, she's capable of affection and knows how to commit in a relationship...particularly if we're talking a relationship with a drug dealer. Discretion is important to me and obviously to Amy as well, given that she can conjur pretty much any kind of illegal dope whenever she needs. And she needs more often than most.

How is it that famous folk can get high in public and never face Roger Law? They have to do something really bad- and do it often Lindsay Lohan - before the Plod even notice. If it were me, I'd be in Q doing ten long before I could say 'medical marijuana'. Yet another reason to dig Miss Winehouse - she's gonna keep me from the iron bar motel.

Amy is a curious mix of old-fashioned and modern girl. She stuck by her husband, Mr Blake Fielder-Civil, while he served some of that aforementioned jail time for trying to pervert the course of justice and grievous bodily harm with intent. Small shit in the scheme of things. But it's boring making visits to English prisons twice a week, so she eventually dumped him in favour of long nights boozing and brawling. That's the New British Woman part of Amy - she doesn't mind a good brawl, and often swings at the people closest to her (who aren't drug dealers.) That would be the paparazzi. Or whomever is in the line ahead of her at the off-licence.

Nothing wrong with a stout woman demonstrating it.

My only quibble with Amy is her personal grooming. She's fond of the Liz Taylor version of Cleopatra's eye make-up, but I have a suspicion she's not terribly regular with her bath. She variously looks like a scabrous dog or a crackwhore on parole officer visit day. Sometimes I wonder if she's lost the soap under a pile of cider bottles or a pile of crack pipes.

All of which invokes my rule of some love remaining at arm's length. Wise men understand that if a woman doesn't appear to wash at least semi-regularly, you don't want any part of you in any part of her. There are some things even soap can't wash away.





Bottoms Up, Crackwhores!



Photo of darling Amy from here [link]

Friday Fluffer - Talk Dirty To Me

Talking dirty is another of those bonking skills that improves with practice. Some are better at filth-chat than others, so here are two videos to help. (The first one won't allow embedding, but it's worth the visit to YouTube.)

Both safe for work.


It's not what you say, it's how you say it. [link]<------Amusing video.









Bottoms Up, Trash-Talking Sluts!




Foul mouthed woman 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.

Interview Technique and the Sock Drawer

Interviews are, like, totally the dumbest way to judge whether you should employ someone. Anyone you would want to employ will be smart enough to hide the character flaws and criminal intent you're looking to unearth, and yet you shouldn't employ them because they're flawed criminals.

Did that make sense?

Midway through one interview, I was asked to multiply 999 * 999 whilst seated facing three stern men. The stupid thing is that I had prepared for this kind of thing (plus counting backwards in 7s from 103.) Previous contenders had set up a study course based on exit interviews, so anyone going in had a pretty good idea about the whereabouts of crevasses.

Dating is the same thing as a job interview. Granted, there's a blurring of the line between interviewer and interviewee. Roles can reverse. But in essence it's about asking questions and reading the answers.

Trouble is that we're all expert at masking. Straight-out honesty is often more difficult than telling the story we have in mind about ourselves, a story that might not necessarily be the whole truth. When they ask you "So, why do you want to work here?" has anyone ever told the truth?

In an ideal world, interviews would be held in the interviewee's bedroom. You can tell way more about a person from the state of their house or apartment or trailer than you can by asking them. It's not what people say that matters, it's what they do.

Same with dating. As soon as you can, get to your new friend and possible lover's place and check out their sock drawer. Guaranteed all the answers lie therein.




Bottoms Up, Sock Drawers!


Excellent pic of socked lady 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.

I Can Read Your Mind, Darling.

No I can't, sweetheart, so it would be easier overall if you just told me what you were thinking.

We have such difficulty doing this though, don't we? And when we think we know what we want, something in our head flips and there's another set of stuff we want. Dammit, this affects me at least as badly as everyone else, so I doubt it's a sex-based thing. My suspicion is that desire-drift grows from mental rootlessness - in other words, lack of a spiritual anchor.

There are two problems here:

1. Not knowing what we want.

2. Inability to communicate today's (or any) specific want.

The latter is a limitation of language. At the best granularity, I doubt we ever move beyond 80% efficiency when trying to get our thinking across to another. If the former - the actual meat of what we're looking for from the other person - changes direction like a school of fish, we transmit almost nothing.

Consistency is the answer. I should decide upon what I want, and tell the people who need to know what those things are. After a while, the message will get through.

Or I could find a woman who can read my mind




Bottoms Up, Communicators!

Pic from here.[link]

Feminist Literature

Floating around the internet searching for dungeon equipment proved immensely time wasting. Not only are there VERY few vendors, the quality of the goods looks decidedly dodgy. And surprisingly there's not much of a market for second-hand (pre-spanked?) BDSM kit...although maybe not so surprisingly.

Hey, I'll give you fifty for the rack, the standing cage and the two wooden stingers.

What I did find was an enormous amount of porn, which, as we all know, was the reason hand lotion was invented.

One kink I don't understand is this thing of writing shit on a woman. I'm looking at an example now. She's wearing spike heels and a sweet spiked collar. Her master (presumably) used a felt pen to write what amount to instructions all over her. Big arrows point at her cooter saying "For Fucking". On her buttocks, similar arrows lead to her chocolate starfish with the words "Cocks Go Here." On her boobs is the instruction "Cum All Over These" and at various places she's branded a "Slut".

Ooookay.




Exploring Uma photo from here [link]

Dungeon for Rent

The huge number of industrial buildings offered for lease got me thinking the other day. My small Floridian town is suffering from unemployment and idiotic government as much as any place, but there's enough money around for this idea: A Dungeon for Rent.

BDSM (bondage and discipline, submission and sadomasochism) verges on being mainstream thesedays. I presume it's the natural progression from the pornocization of society, but whatever I might think about that isn't going to stop me from making some jink from people's kink.

Big industrial buildings lend themselves to creatively designed dungeons. Mine would be decorated in black, mostly, of course, with blood-red highlights. Lighting would be cheap, as candles are the dungeonmaster's illumination of choice. There would be rooms with various kinds of whipping posts, crosses mostly, with simple shackles and chains for the primitive players. Special rooms with suspension devices are likely to be popular too. You can bring your own gags, crops and whips, or, for a fee, I'll provide you with rental punishment and restraint equipment.

As with the Japanese Love Hotels (some of which I understand now come with dungeons for rent) discretion would be the name of the game. Players in couples or groups would be kept apart by time or wall. And separate entrances and exits would keep them that way.

At Wombat's Dungeon World, no-one need know you like your love hog-tied and gagged in a dark, dripping den of depravity.





Delicious photo from here. The English are big into Dungeon Life, apparently. [link]

Love is Criminal

This book was my weekend entertainment. It forced me to consider the advantages of being a crook, especially a crook who counterfeits C-notes.

There is a downside to contravening Federal US statutes, which includes being pursued by the Secret Service. Did you know that the Secret Service was originally charged with finding and bringing counterfeiters to justice? Only when Mr Roosevelt succeeded Mr McKinley did the Secret Service begin to protect US Presidents from nutters who would kill them.

The upside of counterfeiting is the women. The story of Art Williams[link] is all about women, how they fell in love with him, how they bore his children, how his mother went insane, and how they all helped him in his criminal life. This isn't some fictional tale detached from reality; the truth is that women found this guy attractive to the point where they'd ditch their families for him, break the law for him, and lie to the Secret Service for him.

I wonder: How bad does a Bad Boy have to be before women say no? Is there any point beyond which every woman holds up her hand and says Whoa buddy, this is going too far? (Sex crimes aside, of course.)

There is no conclusion to be drawn, other than love (or its blue-collar cousin, attraction) can conquer even the penal code. But the pervasive attraction of the Bad Boy leads me to believe there's some evolutionary advantage to taking on authority. Either that or bricks of $100 notes to be used for shopping expeditions are impossible to resist.




The Art of Making Money by Jason Kersten. ISBN 978-1-592-40446-9

Jason Kersten's homepage [link]

Disparate desires

What to do with a mind full of disparate desires? Every day we need to decide for one thing and against another. Some days we'll make lots of choices; on others, very few. A lot of the time we don't even know we're making a decision.

When the big forks in the road arrive, I find myself more aware of the one door opening/one door closing metaphor. Confusion is not the right word, because I understand that this is a universe built to favour Boolean logic - if this happens, then that cannot happen (at least not right then.) It's more like I am eternally quizzical at the fractional dimensions of our minds. And yet despite that logical detachment I never get any closer to an answer.

Inclusion, exclusion; success, failure; 1 or zero. I get it. But that doesn't make the process easier.


I want:

To travel, and stay at home.

To be attached, but independent.

To be true to myself, and still not offend everybody.

To climb mountains and swim at the beach.

To say what I think, but not create foes.

To be alone, and to be with.

To keep it real dude, and make it big.

To avoid ego, and still be the man.



You see the dilemma.

Check her out.

Do women understand the actions over which men have no control? I am thinking here in particular of one thing, although you might have experienced others.

No?

Here's the one I have in mind:

Walking down the street, if an attractive woman passes me going in the opposite direction, I must turn and look at her after we cross. It is physically and mentally Im-Possible for me to not do so. An irresistible force compels my muscles to slow, turn, and check her out from behind as she sails on down the sidewalk.

Pervy, perhaps. But it doesn't feel like that. I sense that the instinct resides deep in my autonomic programming, living happily beside the modules for breathing, heartbeat and blogging. No wonder I prefer cities to the country, and walking to cars.

How can I put this more clearly? I know. Passing a woman on a city street is like a gift, a beautifully packaged shortbread cookie that won't make you fat. It's a treat, a bouquet, a surprise, a puff of perfume with no downside.

A simple daily wonder.




Picture from here. [link]

Later edit: Photo REALLY from here. [link]

Secret World of Women

DocAnnie alerted us to Dr Marta Meana's appearance on Oprah talking about her research. [link] Dr Meana's studies of women and desire led The Oprah to her and resulting fame. I have pulled a few quotes from the article. They need no help from me.

~

Being desired is the real orgasm...

~

...while moments of pleasure are great, it's the anticipation and buildup to those moments that really excite women.

~

...being desired means that a man doesn't just want to have sex. He wants to have sex with you.

~

One of the most common fantasies when it comes to women and sex is to be dominated by a desirable man...They throw caution to the wind, and they're going to take a chance that you're going to be okay with it...

~

Passion is dependent on novelty, discovery, desire...

~

One of the most complicated aspects of female desire, Dr. Meana says, is that women often want different things at different times...

~

There is an additional article here about the science of attraction. It confirms much of what many of us have come to understand, that smell is way more important than we have thought to date. [link]