Thursday Night is Fantasy Night

Honey, do you have any plans for our next game night?

Hmmm. Not really. Got something in mind?

Well, how about 'door-to-door salesman and lonely housewife'?

What are you selling?

Wouldn't you like to know...


If I were to write an outsider's guide to keeping marriages strong, I'd make scheduling a top priority. Not only the day-to-day household stuff, but setting aside regular chunks of time to nurture the idea of being together and to explore each other a little. Date nights, Finance Nights, Future Nights...making a plan to spend time communicating avoids the drift and misunderstandings of less organized unions.

However, being fidgety and easily bored humans, there's not much value in "Thursday, 8:00 pm to 10:00 pm: Together Time." That'll result in the television being switched on; precisely what you want to avoid. Structure and aim is important. Yes, just like your high-school science experiments, but with more adult content, whether it be planning your savings and investments or dressing up for a date.

I'd include a Game Night in the rotation. You might prefer to call it Role-Play or Sexy Night or something, but the intent is the same - to move away from the...ummm, rut of your regular sex life, and play a little. Fantasy is a good thing, and sharing secrets with your partner is a loving way of getting closer. We mask many secrets in the name of avoiding embarrassment, but if you can't tell your spouse what turns you on in your imagination, who can you tell?

 The wonderful thing about play-acting is that it is acting - you can slip the bonds of your everyday way of thinking and take on a new persona, if only for a while. It's liberating. Especially being with someone you trust, who wants to indulge your more outré likings...because she wants you to indulge hers.

That's what I call win-win.



Bottoms Up, Lonely Housewives.

Wake Up and Make Love to Me

I should have learned more at the feet of the master.

A housemate from my youth had the whole thing wired. He had carefully figured strategy, kept mental catalogues of tactics, and knew how to close. Never, men, underestimate the power of a good close. This guy had so woven the chasing and conquest of women into his life that a trip to the post office was, for him, as ripe with opportunity as a Friday night at our local meat-market.

It's important to note that he created his...what shall we call it?...art, around who he was. Artifice and posturing were kept to a minimum so that at times of stress, he didn't need to remember what to say. Everything flowed naturally from his personality.

Mind you, the smooth and successful end result required a lot of practice and discipline. Repetition and habit, he always said, were the key. Just do the same stuff over and over, so that when the babe for whom that shit works finds herself standing next to you, she is powerless.

One morning, I was having coffee when one of his ladies rushed downstairs and out the front door.

Morning Wombat!

Morning Kimbo!

She wore a big grin.

Later I asked my buddy why they were all so chipper when they left.

"Oh, that's easy," he replied. "From the very first night they stay, I insist on having a morning meeting with them."

You mean you boff them in the morning?

"Right. But I make a game of it, with a little role-play. They play minute-taker for the meeting, and I'm the chair." 

 He smirked.

I must have looked quizzical. He looked disappointed in me.

"The key is that she has to take the 'minutes' on the bed. That naturally puts her butt in the air. We avoid the whole morning breath thing, we don't have to look at each other after a big night, and she gets to call it her morning meeting rather than dawnbuster or some such."

"Once is enough. Then they're hooked. They often wake me up and say it's time for their morning meeting." 

"Plus, if they're late to work, they can simply say Sorry, there was a morning meeting I had to take."









 Bottoms Up, Stenographers.

Don't Stop the Dance

Zoe Saldana photo credit. 

Nineteen eighty-five just might represent the apogee of the music video. Weak, qualified statements don't make for good arguments, however, so I'll take a deep breath and say it: The Eighties were the Golden Age of Music Video.

There. Solidity. Definition.

I've taken to asking people what one tune they can point to that categorically changed their lives. Music's a universal, so I figure that it's a useful common denominator that written or spoken language isn't. Others, strangers, musicians, express what we feel better than ourselves.

And although this isn't my all-time-change-tune, it's from 1985. The Golden Age. Let's not change the dance, eh?




Bottoms Up, Looking Back In Wisdomers.

Fuck-Me Boots: A More Practical Collection

Women love shoes, and men do too, and women know that sexy shoes give we dudes boners. If you're a woman and you want attention, you put on your Fuck-Me pumps.

Let's take this one step further. If cute lady-feet in hot shoes leads to bumping nasties, we horny folks should exhibit responsibility and use protection. What better place to keep prophylactics than on the actual shoes? That's the idea behind my new collection of shoes. Easy access will hopefully = more bonking.

Take the Wombat Louboutins, above. Not only are they extra-sexy, they come complete with one Trojan per foot, good enough for most one-night stands. (One for the night, one for the morning.)

Here's my version of the Nine West kitten-heeled peep-toe mule.






Features to note are the multiple, shag-ready condoms in a floral motif. High heels are hot, but the kitten-heel is often overlooked. It's the sexy girl-next-door look. For the less confident man, (read: shorter) women so attired are more easily approached.

And for the ultimate in rawwwrrrrr, my Knockoff Jimmy Choo gladiators. Note the condom straps integral to the construction of the shoe. Importantly, they are all of different sizes and ribbing, allowing loads of flexibility for the really active woman.







Bottoms Up, Fiery Babes.


wombat@kissnblog.com

The Pits

Armpit tattoo photo credit.

It's automatic, I can't help it. Whenever I see a woman's exposed armpit, I figure she's thinking sexy thoughts, because I sure am.

How many women understand the Power of the Pit? Of all the green lights, the deliberate exhibition of her armpit is a double-strength sign of sexual interest. Hands above head in a sleeveless top, she's game for it, baby.

Either that or she's bored as hell and just wants to stretch.

Armpits raise all kinds of emotions around the obvious issues: hair and smell. Men talk about these lofty matters all the time. Just the other day I had a long chat with a mate about how to deal with the situation when you make a move on a woman only to find she's hiding a couple of musk rats under each arm. I said to grin and work through; he wanted to catch and release those things.

Each to their own, right?

One woman friend had a - short-term - lover who got off on licking her armpits while he was fucking her. Problems here include the obvious one of the non-deliciousness of anti-perspirant.

As I say, each to their own.

In any case, if women don't realize how sexually loaded their armpits are, high time they were.




Bottoms Up Pit Warriors.

Butlers and Vegetables

Picture credit.


Cabbage is sexier than you think.

Let's recast the humble cabbage, and let me specifically name the Savoy Cabbage as the lovers' cabbage. Doesn't it conjur up images of fancy English hotels, butlers, baths for two, fluffy robes and crumpet?

Even technical descriptions of the Savoy are deeply lusty:

A good head of Savoy cabbage will be solid in the center, somewhat conical shaped and heavy in relationship to size, with deep blue-green outer leaves and a pale green center. It tends to be available year round with the peak season in the winter months. Like most cabbages, it is very high in fiber, vitamins and minerals, and like other cruciferous vegetables has been proven to have cancer fighting properties.


What other vegetable can you think of that's half as luxurious? The Ritz Carrot? The Marriot Potato? The Red Roof Rutabaga?



Bottoms Up, Rabbits!

Dames I Adore - Sheetal Bhagat

Confession time: Indian women are hot - and fertile, if the sub-continent's burgeoning population is any guide.

It's an interesting question on its own, whether the viability of a woman's eggs or the spunk of her ovaries makes her more sexy. I'd like to research that sometime. Just how to equate the internal workings of a chick with her physical attractiveness is a mystery at the moment, but there must be a way.

Can one smell fertility? Is there a pheromone for ripeness?

Popular culture has it that men with balls are better, by which P-Culture means men with metaphoric cojones make for better men. This is the same P-Culture that gives us high points like Jon Gosselin and Ryan Seacrest. Tell me again why we take one goddam bit of notice of P-Culture.

I shall answer my own request: Because of women like Sheetal Bhagat.

Right, so she's not a Bollywood star, she's not the Indian Prime Minister and she doesn't have twelve kids...that we know of. What she does do is cook and be sexy, on a show called Masterchef.

Reality television participants aren't my usual oeuvre, but there's something about Miss Sheetal. I can't smell her, I can't taste her, I can only look at her from afar.






Pic of Sheetal from here [link]