Archive for the 'Sex' Category

Amber Lee is the Obama Girl

Saturday, June 30, 2007

And she lives here. And, in my heart.

I is for your iPod can help your sex life

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

I love me some Diggnation on my iPod.

I used to love it more. Now my love is fatigued from the drunken giggling and debates about vomit stains.

I listen to podcasts, including Diggnation, through my car stereo hooked in with an old-school aux adapter, the kind the new car commercials are touting as some new revolution in car stereoship. It’s a freaking 1/8″ input. Been around forever. Don’t be fooled.


On the last Diggnation, they discuss this story in Psychology Today about how SEMEN MAKES WOMEN HAPPY (oh thank you Psychology Today).

Before I picked her up, I paused the podcast at that story, so as we’re driving, I unpause it, real casual-like, and let it roll without comment.

After you’ve been around a while, you learn to get smooth like that. Women love to think things just “happen.” Like, fucking. “It just happened.”

I could tell she was interested in the story, but acted, of course, like Kevin and Alex were saying stupid shit about it. Which they were.

But you gotta let things simmer with women, don’t you? Don’t push. It’ll come when its ready.

And today, I get the first dirty email from her I’ve gotten in forever. She wants us to “catch up” on some things. Which, I translate to getting her freak on.

The lesson of the day is Good things tend to happen if you create circumstances to foster good things.

A is for Ah, why are you doing this to your mother?

Monday, June 11, 2007

I approached the entrance to an all-night Kroger supermarket late last Friday night. I was gettting…does it matter what I was getting? No, I don’t think it does. But what I wanted was not found there, but was found at a Fiesta supermarket. I’m more a Kroger guy than a Fiesta guy. Fiesta overwhelms me with its Calcutta Wal-Mart vibe.


So, as I approached the entrance, I noticed a tall, trim blonde coming at the entrance on a trajectory that would cause us to collide if one of us didn’t change our speed. Isn’t it interesting how many minor course corrections we do just moving around on foot? We scoot around carts, we pause for old ladies, we sometimes decide that we have the right of way at a given supermarket intersection, for no good reason except that we’re tired of being so damn accomodating all the time.

Being a gentleman, and wanting a glimpse of her ass, I hesitated for a sec so she could make the entrance ahead of me. I smiled, you know. Studly-like.

She smiled back, real big, like, Oh, hiii!

Something just wasn’t right. She had too much makeup-foundation, tan stuff that made her look like she’d been smothered in butter and gently pan-fried.

And too much jawline.

She was dressed conservatively, with a business-casual blouse and mid-calf dress.

Damn, with those calves, she should have gone full-length. She had calves bigger’n mine, and her legs were shaved smooth. Wide shoulders. Not much of an ass, to speak of, either. Yeah, I looked.

Cue music.

Steven Tyler

So, dude looked like a lady. But not much like one. I purposely ducked this person through the store.

But all evening, I was thinking about her. Him. I kept thinking, what the fuck was going on in that guy’s head. He didn’t even seem gay to me, brilliant smile notwithstanding. He seemed like a straight guy who must have gotten a sexual thrill from dressing like an executive assistant.

I think the smile was because Glen wanted me, a guy, to approve of Glenda.

I didn’t approve. It wasn’t morally wrong to me, just weird and unexpected in that context. I didn’t approve, but that doesn’t change Glenda’s right to dress how the hell ever his wild side dictates. Who is wrong, this guy, or the guy that is so flummoxed by the encounter that I’m freaking blogging about it? Well, I think we’re both wrong. Variety in the world is great. But needing to be liked for how you look, or even what you do, is a huge problem and removes us from our true selves and our true individuality.


The lesson of the day is Stop seeking approval.

Hello, bracists

Friday, June 8, 2007

I went to the dental hygienist today to have my first real cleaning after getting my braces removed.

What? Yeah.

About a year and a half ago, I got braces. Too bad I wasn’t writing in this blog about the singular joys of being an adult single man with braces. I would have called it the “Do I have something in my teeth?” blog. The subhead would say something inspiring, like, you’re never too old to improve yourself. Or If you refuse to date people with braces, you’re a bracist.

I thought there would be lots of bracists out there. But I was totally wrong. Maybe it is because I didn’t give a flying F, but I got laid the day after I got my braces on. A few months later, I “got with” a woman I had been trying to “get with” for a very, very long time.

Gothic mouth

And, oh yes, others. It was as though my luck with women actually improved when I got those imposing metal strips in my mouth (no outside hardware, thank goodness).

Not that these ladies had brace fetishes (that I know of). What do you call a brace fetishist? A bracist, again?

Wait. Would a “bracist” seek out braces-wearers, or avoid them?

I’m completely sidetracked now. But you can probably see the lesson of the day a mile away, what with my fear of rejection being completely removed (because I expected 100% rejection due to the braces), my success rate in these interpersonal relationships skyrocketed. So, obviously….

The lesson of the day is “Hygienist” is a bitch to spell properly.

Hello, ankly, wheezy, and sexy

Wednesday, June 6, 2007

Here is a screenshot of a Google image search for “girls smoking” (Safesearch Moderately On, unfortunately).

girls smoking

And, for comparison, the same search minus the “smoking” part:

girls not smoking

Both sets contain fine specimens. Well, except for that Ziggy dude. I don’t know which group I’d rather take to a desert island, and I absolutely detest smoking.

At a stop light on my way home from work, I saw a mid-nineties Toyota with a couple of dents in the rear fenders and no gas cap flap. It had a gas cap. But not the flap that you cover the gas intake point up with. All its windows were rolled down. I was half a car length behind the vehicle, and in the next lane, so my angle was bad and I couldn’t see the driver or her passenger.

I did see that each of them were dangling a wrist out the window (that sounds somewhat morbid, as though they had carpals hanging from a chain, or perhaps from a volar radiocarpal ligament, like a good luck charm, but you know what I mean), to keep their smoking cigarettes from smoking up the insides of their beat-up car.

I also saw that they each had a foot sticking out the window. Yeah, the driver did, too. So I got a real nice eyeful of some hot white girl leg. That’s not me being sarcastic. Again, I couldn’t see their faces, but by the hue of toenail polish and the cellulite-free state of their thighs, I’d say they had to have been in their early twenties, and were hot as hell. As a matter of fact, I was thinking, I’d fuck the shit out of both of those girls.

Guys think that way, even nice guys, and even dads, and even your dad. They won’t admit it, though, because we’ve kinda been neutered these past few decades, but even though we can’t say it (unless you ladies ask us to. Please ask us to), we think it, and we think it a lot like that. We don’t look at attractive women and think we’d like to take them to a really nice restaurant and get to know them better. You know, as a person. We think that we’d fuck the shit out of them. Not literally. Well, I don’t.

But, back to the purpose of the wrist-dangling (not that I know the purpose of the ankle-dangling, unless their snatches just needed airing out, or they were advertising, or maybe they were just kind of stupid). Back to the cigarettes.

Cigarettes killed my dad. Lost him last year. Not to cancer, but to COPD caused by smoking. COPD is a real bitch, and I’d never heard of it before my dad was diagnosed.

I quit smoking on December 17, 1998. I still have the very last cigarette butt, in a tiny frame. I’m serious. I’ll have to tell you how to quit smoking sometime. I have a great system (guess it worked, huh?).

I’m down on cigarettes, cigarette manufacturers, and smokers, and I’m not real fond of straws, toothpicks, or clouds, either.

And I was thinking at the stoplight how disgusting it was that they smoked, and how glad I am that I quit, but then I realized that if a girl is hot enough, it really didn’t matter whether she smoked. If a girl is hot enough, really, it really probably wouldn’t matter if she smoked crack and injected PCP directly into her clitoris. Most guys would still bang her, if she was hot enough. She’d have to be really hot, a true dime, but guys would still do her. And I thought that, if the situation was reversed, women would still fazizzle men who behaved in ways they found abhorrent, if the man was physically hot enough. Even moms. Even your mom. No, I didn’t think that, I knew that.

That’s not the lesson, though.

The lesson is, we will have sex with beautiful people (almost) no matter what they do because we are driven to reproduce well.

Unless…unless they do bad shit to kids. I wouldn’t want to be with a woman in any sense, no matter if she made Angelina Jolie look like Rosie O, if they beat up their kids, or worse. Wouldn’t touch a bitch like that. But why?Because of the same reason. We must reproduce well, and there is no point in mixing your genes with some goddess’ genes if she isn’t going to treat the offspring well.

You can understand so much through evolution.

The lesson of the day is It is ok to want to have sex with smokers.