Here's To You Mrs Robinson

Nothing like a slice of seduction pie to give you an appetite for stockings and hotel-room afternoons. Hotel sex is great because inside those walls the congress is guilt-free, something to do with the air freshener Lupe and Consuelo spray or the dwarf bathroom supplies. If I am mistaken and that smell isn't the whiff of guilt-free bonking, it must be some other factor of which I'm unaware - the fact of someone else laundering the dried-fluid-soaked sheets, perhaps. Yum.

Anne Bancroft seducing Dustin Hoffman wouldn't work in a film thesedays. He'd be (1) totally into the MILF action from the get-go, and (2) would have no concern at remaining a slacker shagger of bored housewives for the rest of his days. The Graduate's problem is that it drills mightily into the boring questions, such as why is Tootsie staring like a goober at the best gams he's likely to see...in bare feet? No, that's the kind of question it should be asking, and doesn't. Damned Hollywood.

Dustin's a dope to worry his cute tousled hair-do over whether to choose his Cougar or the Cougar's daughter, a question that I think Bill Clinton resolved years ago. Choose them both, and a bacon burger to go. Actually it's men who just wanna have fun, Cyndi Lauper.




Bottoms Up, Mes Enfants!


Pic of Dustin and Anne from The Graduate, but this version is 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]

The China Syndrome

All we singletons (and not a few marrieds) lament the lack of the perfect partner in our lives. We look here and there, under that rock, on top of that mountain, at the end of that street, and still no-one makes the grade.

A solution exists if you believe that finding right person is a matter of fishing a sufficiently large dating pool - China. China now has "37 million more men then women, and there are as {many} as 120 boys born for 100 girls." [link]

Okay, this is a solution for only the ladies. Men: I'm working on it.

Let's allow that to settle for a few seconds. China has spare men equivalent to the entire population of Canada plus the population of Greater Sydney, Orrstraya. That's a heck of a lot of horny marriageable guys, my female friends. Imagine yourself arriving in a Chinese city, being mobbed with potential suitors. It would be like an entire Walmart Supercenter coming to your place begging you to buy something. Anything. The most subtle sign of interest would be greeted with sighs of appreciation, bouquets, love notes and flattering invitations. Speak, and they stand and applaud. Go on a date and they make you a hero of the revolution.

I sense a new trend in tourism starting right here.





Illustration found here [link]

I think she made a pass at me.

Slightly old-fashioned, the expression 'making a pass' at an object of desire deserves greater currency. I like it. A comeback is in order.

Making a pass is subtle and discrete, a couple of characteristics missing from the hookup culture.

Compare and contrast;

So, friend-with-benes, do you wanna have sex?

with;

{whispered in her ear} Your legs look gorgeous in that skirt. Let's explore this further in my hotel room.

The point about a pass is that, while it is discrete, intent is never in doubt. The message is clear to both parties - at least in theory.

Those skilled in making passes make certain the belusted knows what the passer is thinking. Trouble is that there are so many amateurs out there making a hash of it. The worst of these is the Passive-Aggressive Pass, in which a pass is made backhandedly or at a distance. Underconfident men or women afraid of rejection make this kind of non-pass. They cobble together a series of hints, or beg. Begging and hinting do not constitute a pass. The accomplished passer puts himself or herself right out there. They are saying I want you without reservation.

Also, proximity is critical in pass culture. You should be close enough to smell each other.

THE RULES OF THE PASS:

A pass must be made face to face, or mouth to ear.

A pass must be clear to both parties.

A pass ideally results in sex within the day.

A pass correctly executed is always accepted as a compliment.

A pass rejected must be so honoured, but does not prevent further attempts.

A pass, once completed, resets, meaning it's a one-shot event. There are no pass credits.







Thanks to 30ty for the inspiration.[link]

Photo from here [link]

Edited for specificity. And speeeling.

Get a Room

You're out having a few drinks, someone across the room catches your eye, and before long you're talking. Soon enough the magic pot of sexual chemistry is bubbling away and biology takes over. It's why singles (and cheaters) go out, for just this moment.

Nature's signal to move somewhere more private is when someone yells out "Get a room!" As a guy, I can tell you this is a badge of honour, a bolster to one's sex-ego. That phrase says "Goal!" with witnesses.

But where to go to keep the juice going? Your place? My place? A motel? The Marriott? All have problems. The chandeliers are being cleaned at my place. Apparently your place is hosting your brother and his buddies on leave from the Navy. Motel lighting will ruin even the most ardent amorous mood. Hotels are dumbly expensive for a tryst.

If we were in Japan, we would go to the closest love hotel. These brilliant places reflect the wonderfully pragmatic and chicly crowded Japanese urban culture. People have sex during the day. People need a venue for such assignations. Ergo, the Love Hotel.

As a business model, it's a winner, but I wonder if it would play in the US?

All you ever want to know about how to patronize a love hotel.