Following hot on the calloused, diamond-studded, well-sandaled heels of such prime beef anchor paper houses as FHM, Maxim, Men's Weekly, etc. who have all answered the question to death about to where meet members of the opposite sex (depending on how opposite you really want to go--because there is a small street on the wrong side of Mexico City (if there is indeed a right side) that will test the limits of even Cosplay serial masturbators with necrophitic colon-fetishes) . . . I thought I'd explore the answer to the OTHER question. . . .
The one that no one asks . . .
Where NOT to meet women.
Here is my list of 10 places you are guaranteed not to meet or get lucky (or unlucky) with a woman:
1. Men's restrooms at truck stops where the nasal-whining music of Willie Nelson is piped into the parking lot near the gas pumps. Chili is cheap and plentiful; deodorant is optional. The toilet seats are literally bolted in the upright position and the women's bathrooms have been converted into makeshift foosball tables.
2. San Francisco. That is to say you may very well meet and mate with individuals who look like women, but one quick check of their genetics will prove otherwise. The police scientists (I know, seems like an oxymoron, but they do exist) were developing a test that involved a cotton swab and a small glass tube with a rock like substance at the bottom that would turn blue upon contact with a Y chromosome, but the courts deemed it "profiling, frivolous and unnecessary".
3. The audience of Oprah. There will be TONS of women there (literally, they actually have industrial sized shocks beneath the stage), but they will have no interest in you whatsoever. Due to the little studied "Black Hole Oprah Phenomena" or BHOP, you, a man, will become invisible to the naked or clothed eye (for girls who wear eye patches) of any woman within a 1 mile radius of the full figured talk show host. They will only be interested in Oprah and the prizes they may or may not win. Women love Oprah. You are a man. You do not love Oprah, nor do you see the fascination. Try Maury.
4. France. You are something other than French. I know this because no one French reads this blog. I've made sure of it by NEVER ever (not even once) mentioning the "C" word (no, not Cancer, Cunt or Calcutta, but thanks for playing). Young French women are complicated, pouty and like to play hard to get; old French women are complicated, depressed and are hard to get. No one but French men have a shot with any of them unless you storm the country with jackboots or know how to "get trapped in an invisible glass box while wearing white gloves and white makeup" or are willing to invest a tranquilizer gun that dispenses Rohypnol darts at amazingly long ranges. French women are astonishingly fast, despite their rampant cigarette usage.
5. The Moon. 'Nuff said. We checked it out. We came up dry (depending on your usage of the word "came"). The moon is definitely BYOP.
6. New York, Central Park at precisely 4:21 A.M. every 48th Thursday of the year. We're still studying this one. We have no idea why this becomes a null spot for the female species. Could be Solar flares. Could be a estrogen-vacuuming vortex of some sort. Or it might have to do with the fact that Charlie Sheen's cock once escaped on this precise day and time six years ago and made a nuisance of itself. (Sheen's cock is like a meteor slamming into the Earth; it only needs to happen once to make a lasting impression.)
7. Any conventions where the single focus is role playing that involves dice with more than 6 sides. Pretty much any convention that has dice with more than 6 sides will be devoid of women. In fact, dice that has more than 6 sides are to women what garlic soaked in Holy Water and God's urine is to Republicans, er, I mean vampires.
8. Sewage Treatment facilities. Maybe it's the smell. Maybe it's the idea. Maybe it's the fact that there are zero, count them, zero women who don't think they can do better job-wise, but running shit through pipes and pouring chemicals on them seems to be something that only interests men.
9. Alaska. I know. You've seen Northern Exposure and pictures of Sarah Palin and her many daughters whose family crest actually has a broken condom on the shield to symbolize poor judgment, but the fact that most people forget is that Sarah Palin and her family are all actually fictional. As of this writing, the U.S. Census Bureau proclaims that females make up 48% of the population in this frigid state. What they've neglected to mention is that the Census Workers are so lonely in the frozen North that they now consider most wild life as "entirely datable", and they're not talking about "data".
10. The Senate. Go figure, but it's a sausage fest. 17 women to 83 men. I honestly don't know what the Senators are thinking. I for one like the sound of pantyhose whisking whisking whisking until I'm ready to lay down another $20 at the local strip club during my three hour, eight Bourbon lunch, but who am I to judge?
Read the damn comic.
Showing posts with label women. Show all posts
Showing posts with label women. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Thursday, April 29, 2010
There is Absolutely Nothing Wrong With Me...but the Rest of You are Highly Suspect!
I'm over 40. I drink. I fuck. I eat.
Three out of those 4 are really easy, and the last one just requires a little more effort....or on the odd weekend money, or just a trip to Vegas. But the point is that anything you find easy is obviously a talent.
Getting older is like stumbling down a hill during a blackout. You don't remember where or why things started hurting, but you know you must've fucked up somewhere, because suddenly they do.
So I have a talent for these things, which is not to say I'm good at them, just that I find them easy.
But the first thing...the first thing is taking it's toll.
At the risk of sounding like an old guy, I have trouble after spicy foods now. Don't ask. Believe me . . . you don't want to know. I rarely dig into a pile of hot wings anymore. The guy at Wing Zone once insisted I taste the Atomic sauce before he would serve it to me. I didn't break a sweat. It was a matter of pride. Besides, I'd eaten hotter. I'd once had a curry in India that had me speechless and breathless. I'm serious. I literally could not take a breath. I was crying, sweating and in pure heaven. And it wasn't that kind of bullshit Habanero hot either that's all burn and no flavor. This curry not only delivered the internal core temperature of the Sun into my mouth, but it was fucking delicious.
And then one day, what went in hot, came out hot. And spicy food was no fun anymore.
But I can still drink. Except. . . .
Well, I used to buy the cheapest beer and sneered at the idiots that paid more 3.99 for a 12 pack because...hello! This beer was cheap as shit and you got just as drunk. Now, I only buy nice wines, and imported beer. Give me a glass or two of wine and I'm nodding off halfway through Gray's Anatomy.
Okay, I don't really watch Gray's Anatomy, but you get the idea. Then there was the morning I woke up and realized I'd been so drunk I'd almost driven off a bridge, and that somehow in my drunken state, I'd managed to change the tire I'd popped on the bridge railing.
That was about the time I decided to start sleeping in my car instead of driving. Now I only drink at home, and only every now and then. It's so pathetic that I rarely even drink in the mornings anymore, because, y'know, you lose the whole day, and after working all week, my fucking weekends are fucking precious! I don't want to spend the whole day drunk and sleeping it off. I'd rather go to Home Depot or Bed, Bath, and Beyond to buy new towels!!!!!!
Sad, but true. You never really own a house; it owns you.
Okay, on to the last subject: fucking.
In High School, with my first "sexual" girlfriend, I actually got off 5 times in the span of just a couple of hours.
That doesn't happen anymore. Which is not to say I don't like getting off and don't have some advanced ideas of what sex can be--the more intense, the better--but afterward, I actually want to talk, and giggle, tickle, and do stupid things, and say stupid things.
I'm pretty sure as men get older, they turn into women. I'm also reasonably sure women turn into men.
I rarely have to make the first move anymore. Really. Okay, I still have to get the phone number and follow up. I still have to pay for the date, for the most part, though the cool girls offer to pay a little here and there. But when it comes to the first kiss, the first naked romp through Hineyland, all I have to do is sit back and let the girl drive the tour bus.
It's. fucking. beautiful.
Women my age are much more comfortable with sex. They like it from behind. They want me on top. They want my hand up in their hair, pulling their head back so I can forcefully nibble on their neck, though they are quick to warn me against leaving any visible marks. Read that as "visible" marks. Women my age are fun. Okay...so they're breasts aren't exactly perky anymore, but their spirits are sure as hell free.
Sometimes I think the only thing I've got going for me is that I don't smoke, then I start thinking maybe I should try a trip to Amsterdam and re-visit getting stoned. Sometimes I think I've got cancer and should go ahead and start growing marijuana. Sometimes I dream about that really really really really really really spicy bowl of curry I had, but can't have anymore. Sometimes I wish my dick was just a tad more erect for just a tad longer. I don't miss cheap beer, but I miss the times and the guys I used to drink it with.
On the plus side, I'm getting really good at Left 4 Dead 2. Look for me, I'm Bad Teddy. I will save your ass if I'm not playing drunk.
Read the damn comic.
Three out of those 4 are really easy, and the last one just requires a little more effort....or on the odd weekend money, or just a trip to Vegas. But the point is that anything you find easy is obviously a talent.
Getting older is like stumbling down a hill during a blackout. You don't remember where or why things started hurting, but you know you must've fucked up somewhere, because suddenly they do.
So I have a talent for these things, which is not to say I'm good at them, just that I find them easy.
But the first thing...the first thing is taking it's toll.
At the risk of sounding like an old guy, I have trouble after spicy foods now. Don't ask. Believe me . . . you don't want to know. I rarely dig into a pile of hot wings anymore. The guy at Wing Zone once insisted I taste the Atomic sauce before he would serve it to me. I didn't break a sweat. It was a matter of pride. Besides, I'd eaten hotter. I'd once had a curry in India that had me speechless and breathless. I'm serious. I literally could not take a breath. I was crying, sweating and in pure heaven. And it wasn't that kind of bullshit Habanero hot either that's all burn and no flavor. This curry not only delivered the internal core temperature of the Sun into my mouth, but it was fucking delicious.
And then one day, what went in hot, came out hot. And spicy food was no fun anymore.
But I can still drink. Except. . . .
Well, I used to buy the cheapest beer and sneered at the idiots that paid more 3.99 for a 12 pack because...hello! This beer was cheap as shit and you got just as drunk. Now, I only buy nice wines, and imported beer. Give me a glass or two of wine and I'm nodding off halfway through Gray's Anatomy.
Okay, I don't really watch Gray's Anatomy, but you get the idea. Then there was the morning I woke up and realized I'd been so drunk I'd almost driven off a bridge, and that somehow in my drunken state, I'd managed to change the tire I'd popped on the bridge railing.
That was about the time I decided to start sleeping in my car instead of driving. Now I only drink at home, and only every now and then. It's so pathetic that I rarely even drink in the mornings anymore, because, y'know, you lose the whole day, and after working all week, my fucking weekends are fucking precious! I don't want to spend the whole day drunk and sleeping it off. I'd rather go to Home Depot or Bed, Bath, and Beyond to buy new towels!!!!!!
Sad, but true. You never really own a house; it owns you.
Okay, on to the last subject: fucking.
In High School, with my first "sexual" girlfriend, I actually got off 5 times in the span of just a couple of hours.
That doesn't happen anymore. Which is not to say I don't like getting off and don't have some advanced ideas of what sex can be--the more intense, the better--but afterward, I actually want to talk, and giggle, tickle, and do stupid things, and say stupid things.
I'm pretty sure as men get older, they turn into women. I'm also reasonably sure women turn into men.
I rarely have to make the first move anymore. Really. Okay, I still have to get the phone number and follow up. I still have to pay for the date, for the most part, though the cool girls offer to pay a little here and there. But when it comes to the first kiss, the first naked romp through Hineyland, all I have to do is sit back and let the girl drive the tour bus.
It's. fucking. beautiful.
Women my age are much more comfortable with sex. They like it from behind. They want me on top. They want my hand up in their hair, pulling their head back so I can forcefully nibble on their neck, though they are quick to warn me against leaving any visible marks. Read that as "visible" marks. Women my age are fun. Okay...so they're breasts aren't exactly perky anymore, but their spirits are sure as hell free.
Sometimes I think the only thing I've got going for me is that I don't smoke, then I start thinking maybe I should try a trip to Amsterdam and re-visit getting stoned. Sometimes I think I've got cancer and should go ahead and start growing marijuana. Sometimes I dream about that really really really really really really spicy bowl of curry I had, but can't have anymore. Sometimes I wish my dick was just a tad more erect for just a tad longer. I don't miss cheap beer, but I miss the times and the guys I used to drink it with.
On the plus side, I'm getting really good at Left 4 Dead 2. Look for me, I'm Bad Teddy. I will save your ass if I'm not playing drunk.
Read the damn comic.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
The Little Stripper That Could
If you've ever been to a strip club, excuse me . . . "Gentleman's" club. . . .
Fuck it! We can be honest, can't we? You and I? We may be gentleman before we enter the club, but we're ravenous wolves once we're in. We don't whoop and holler like you girls do in your silly little male strip clubs. We sit and we drink and sharpen our canine teeth, flick our tails, eat red meat and stare at the flesh writhing and wriggling on stage, the jiggly bits appeal to us the most, but the hair is nice, too.
Anyway, if you've ever dared to enter one, you know that at the end of the night it smells like the makeshift locker room of a platoon of Marines behind enemy lines. It smells like men. Sweat, spit and booze (with a hint of urine, vomit and gas). But there is a special kind of stink on amateur night.
Every thing is special on amateur night: the drinks, the crowd, the music, the women . . . especially the women.
A little note about our beloved strippers, whom we adore from afar: I've heard a lot of women complain about what strippers have that they don't. I've also heard a lot of men hem and haw and try to explain. Is it the moves? The pole? The music? The setting?
No, of course not.
We can't have them. That is what they give us that you can't. We can have you, the wife, the girlfriend, the friend with benefits. We have had you. They are there to be lusted after, not to be had. They are a fantasy and nothing more, and they stroke us from the inside out.
Anyway. . . .
Friday night, crowded together, shoulder to shoulder, double drinks in double fists, us men wait for our brothers' wives and girlfriends and friends to take the stage, to make us want them. It's not hard, but it's easy to fuck up. Surprisingly easy.
I can't blame the husband or the boyfriend who "lets" his girl get on stage. There is something powerfully appealing about knowing a whole club of men want your girl, and can't have her. But you can, and will, the moment you close the door behind you and one of you trips the other on to a bed, couch, carpet, dining room table or back seat. Value is about wanting, after all, and the more that want the prize, the more valuable it becomes.
Another note about strippers: The pros get tired, they become routine after awhile. They dance every night, every day, and it's only natural that they start to get the stripper "look". Powerful thighs, tight waist, heavy makeup, long hair, slightly artificial breasts, eyes that are not always the brightest, but are sometimes dimmed to a soulless luster. Oh, we'll still watch and drool and lust after them, but there's a reason clubs are always looking for "fresh" girls.
But tonight's story is about one special would-be stripper who took on a drunken crowd of men that had had already climaxed and fallen flat on its face by the time she showed her eager, slightly oily face in the too-bright halogen swirling lights of this particular sweaty men's club.
We'd stood, brothers in arms . . . or dicks, if your prefer, and showed our appreciation for women, tall and short, curvy and skinny with primped hair and flat hair with trained dance experience and with none, with costumes and with bikinis . . . . We clapped. We threw money. We drank.
Then Jeanie took the stage.
She was not the stripper type. She wore no makeup, or very little. She was too short, with a pubescent figure, flat chested or close to it, freckled, thin and pale. She wore a black unitard with a leather skirt, black pumps, fishnets and strangely . . . cat ears with a bunny tail. Her themes were a bit mixed, but the music pounded irregardless, some techno no one but a German would recognize. Her hair was too kinky with curls, and too washed out, a faded brunette. Her lips were thin and unappealing, and she had the gawky, gangly look of a fawn on its first uncertain venture into the forest.
And we fell in love with her. Or maybe we fell in love with her eyes . . . her eyes were strong and full of glitter. She looked happy. She looked childlike. She looked like she wanted to be there, and like she wanted us. Each and every one of us. She was all wrong for the stripper profession, for the stripper stage, for the club. She belonged in a bus station somewhere with a "runaway" poster in the background.
She did not strut. She did a funny little skip step, her leather skirt somehow tickling our eyebrows. It was hiked too far up her waist, though her strategy was clear, as it did reveal the back of her unitard, which turned out to have been neatly trimmed into a thong. I had a sudden image of her feverishly cutting away material backstage, cat glasses posed low on her nose, freckles bright red on her cheeks, tongue parked at the corner of her thin lips.
She did not perform olympic-style acrobatics on the pole. Her thighs couldn't have held her. She hardly touched the pole. Instead, she played on the edge of the stage. She played us, the crowd, and we wanted her. She did not hang on the edge of the platform and perform scissor kicks, yoga style; she flipped her skirt at us, did a strange, sexy little snake dance, did that strange, slightly stupid dance from the Fifties where you hold your nose and pretend to be sinking down into the ocean, and it was absolutely, drop-dead sexy.
At one point, she made a show of removing one of her heels, sitting with her thin legs exposed, unbuckling a strap, rolling her eyes at us, making us laugh, then poking her leg out into the audience for help. We envied the man who got to remove her shoe. Then she did it again with the other shoe. She wasn't dancing; she was having fun.
She dropped her unitard and slowly rolled it down until her ribcage was exposed, then looked at us and blushed. How silly of her . . . she hadn't given us her skirt yet. She was more saucy now, motioning for help with her skirt, then chastising the young man who beached himself on side of the stage like a trained seal. The skirt came off. It went with the man as he was escorted off the stage by a trained gorilla. But she ran after him, whipped him around, flowed into his arms, gave him a quick kiss on the tip of his nose and was away before he could get in a single grope, flashing her bunny tail as she ran.
We were in love. Every single one of us. She wasn't a stripper. She wasn't a Supermodel. She was miles from perfection. She was imperfection incarnate and we loved every freckle, every dimple, every curl because of those imperfections, instead of in spite of them.
She danced for a little while. We didn't want it to end. We didn't want the rest of her clothes to come off, because that meant the show was over.
I wondered if the girls back stage were rooting for or against her. I hoped for the former, but I'm an optimist that way.
When she did finally reveal herself to us in all her naked splendor, it was just that, a revelation. She threw her arms up in the air, threw her head back with closed eyes and let us take her all in, her hip bones, her mound, her freckled thighs, her pubes.
We cheered. Us men. We never cheer for strippers. We yell, we shout, we drool, we moan and growl, but we never cheer.
And now, this is the part of the story where I must reveal the great fallibility of the sport of stripping.
Jeanie did not win. She didn't get second prize. She didn't even get honorable mention.
It was fixed. The crowd voted, but the announcer / club owner did not listen. I found out why the next week when I saw the winner on stage and divined the sordid truth.
She may have not won the money, but she should have. She won us over and without half the natural attributes of the others. She won us over on personality alone.
Next time someone tries to set me up with a girl with a great "personality", I'll think a moment before I make an ugly face. Maybe I'll take the risk. Maybe, just maybe, I'll marry someone like Jeanie, whose beauty really makes the overly used, after school special cliche true . . . it comes from the inside, the light, the sexy, happy heart that fills the eyes, the heart and the palate.
Jeanie . . . you were the winner, no matter what they said.
Fuck it! We can be honest, can't we? You and I? We may be gentleman before we enter the club, but we're ravenous wolves once we're in. We don't whoop and holler like you girls do in your silly little male strip clubs. We sit and we drink and sharpen our canine teeth, flick our tails, eat red meat and stare at the flesh writhing and wriggling on stage, the jiggly bits appeal to us the most, but the hair is nice, too.
Anyway, if you've ever dared to enter one, you know that at the end of the night it smells like the makeshift locker room of a platoon of Marines behind enemy lines. It smells like men. Sweat, spit and booze (with a hint of urine, vomit and gas). But there is a special kind of stink on amateur night.
Every thing is special on amateur night: the drinks, the crowd, the music, the women . . . especially the women.
A little note about our beloved strippers, whom we adore from afar: I've heard a lot of women complain about what strippers have that they don't. I've also heard a lot of men hem and haw and try to explain. Is it the moves? The pole? The music? The setting?
No, of course not.
We can't have them. That is what they give us that you can't. We can have you, the wife, the girlfriend, the friend with benefits. We have had you. They are there to be lusted after, not to be had. They are a fantasy and nothing more, and they stroke us from the inside out.
Anyway. . . .
Friday night, crowded together, shoulder to shoulder, double drinks in double fists, us men wait for our brothers' wives and girlfriends and friends to take the stage, to make us want them. It's not hard, but it's easy to fuck up. Surprisingly easy.
I can't blame the husband or the boyfriend who "lets" his girl get on stage. There is something powerfully appealing about knowing a whole club of men want your girl, and can't have her. But you can, and will, the moment you close the door behind you and one of you trips the other on to a bed, couch, carpet, dining room table or back seat. Value is about wanting, after all, and the more that want the prize, the more valuable it becomes.
Another note about strippers: The pros get tired, they become routine after awhile. They dance every night, every day, and it's only natural that they start to get the stripper "look". Powerful thighs, tight waist, heavy makeup, long hair, slightly artificial breasts, eyes that are not always the brightest, but are sometimes dimmed to a soulless luster. Oh, we'll still watch and drool and lust after them, but there's a reason clubs are always looking for "fresh" girls.
But tonight's story is about one special would-be stripper who took on a drunken crowd of men that had had already climaxed and fallen flat on its face by the time she showed her eager, slightly oily face in the too-bright halogen swirling lights of this particular sweaty men's club.
We'd stood, brothers in arms . . . or dicks, if your prefer, and showed our appreciation for women, tall and short, curvy and skinny with primped hair and flat hair with trained dance experience and with none, with costumes and with bikinis . . . . We clapped. We threw money. We drank.
Then Jeanie took the stage.
She was not the stripper type. She wore no makeup, or very little. She was too short, with a pubescent figure, flat chested or close to it, freckled, thin and pale. She wore a black unitard with a leather skirt, black pumps, fishnets and strangely . . . cat ears with a bunny tail. Her themes were a bit mixed, but the music pounded irregardless, some techno no one but a German would recognize. Her hair was too kinky with curls, and too washed out, a faded brunette. Her lips were thin and unappealing, and she had the gawky, gangly look of a fawn on its first uncertain venture into the forest.
And we fell in love with her. Or maybe we fell in love with her eyes . . . her eyes were strong and full of glitter. She looked happy. She looked childlike. She looked like she wanted to be there, and like she wanted us. Each and every one of us. She was all wrong for the stripper profession, for the stripper stage, for the club. She belonged in a bus station somewhere with a "runaway" poster in the background.
She did not strut. She did a funny little skip step, her leather skirt somehow tickling our eyebrows. It was hiked too far up her waist, though her strategy was clear, as it did reveal the back of her unitard, which turned out to have been neatly trimmed into a thong. I had a sudden image of her feverishly cutting away material backstage, cat glasses posed low on her nose, freckles bright red on her cheeks, tongue parked at the corner of her thin lips.
She did not perform olympic-style acrobatics on the pole. Her thighs couldn't have held her. She hardly touched the pole. Instead, she played on the edge of the stage. She played us, the crowd, and we wanted her. She did not hang on the edge of the platform and perform scissor kicks, yoga style; she flipped her skirt at us, did a strange, sexy little snake dance, did that strange, slightly stupid dance from the Fifties where you hold your nose and pretend to be sinking down into the ocean, and it was absolutely, drop-dead sexy.
At one point, she made a show of removing one of her heels, sitting with her thin legs exposed, unbuckling a strap, rolling her eyes at us, making us laugh, then poking her leg out into the audience for help. We envied the man who got to remove her shoe. Then she did it again with the other shoe. She wasn't dancing; she was having fun.
She dropped her unitard and slowly rolled it down until her ribcage was exposed, then looked at us and blushed. How silly of her . . . she hadn't given us her skirt yet. She was more saucy now, motioning for help with her skirt, then chastising the young man who beached himself on side of the stage like a trained seal. The skirt came off. It went with the man as he was escorted off the stage by a trained gorilla. But she ran after him, whipped him around, flowed into his arms, gave him a quick kiss on the tip of his nose and was away before he could get in a single grope, flashing her bunny tail as she ran.
We were in love. Every single one of us. She wasn't a stripper. She wasn't a Supermodel. She was miles from perfection. She was imperfection incarnate and we loved every freckle, every dimple, every curl because of those imperfections, instead of in spite of them.
She danced for a little while. We didn't want it to end. We didn't want the rest of her clothes to come off, because that meant the show was over.
I wondered if the girls back stage were rooting for or against her. I hoped for the former, but I'm an optimist that way.
When she did finally reveal herself to us in all her naked splendor, it was just that, a revelation. She threw her arms up in the air, threw her head back with closed eyes and let us take her all in, her hip bones, her mound, her freckled thighs, her pubes.
We cheered. Us men. We never cheer for strippers. We yell, we shout, we drool, we moan and growl, but we never cheer.
And now, this is the part of the story where I must reveal the great fallibility of the sport of stripping.
Jeanie did not win. She didn't get second prize. She didn't even get honorable mention.
It was fixed. The crowd voted, but the announcer / club owner did not listen. I found out why the next week when I saw the winner on stage and divined the sordid truth.
She may have not won the money, but she should have. She won us over and without half the natural attributes of the others. She won us over on personality alone.
Next time someone tries to set me up with a girl with a great "personality", I'll think a moment before I make an ugly face. Maybe I'll take the risk. Maybe, just maybe, I'll marry someone like Jeanie, whose beauty really makes the overly used, after school special cliche true . . . it comes from the inside, the light, the sexy, happy heart that fills the eyes, the heart and the palate.
Jeanie . . . you were the winner, no matter what they said.
Friday, July 3, 2009
What I Learned From Dating Fat Chicks
First of all, fat chicks don't always have low self esteem.
Portly or no, every girl is grateful for a good roll in the hay (and sometimes even a bad one), but not every girl appreciates a good roll in the hay like a fat chick does. I won't bother defining what makes a fat chick fat. Our definitions would differ, from me to you, from you to your friend, from your friend to your friend's favorite supermodel, and so on. But I will offer that in my experience fat chicks don't hate themselves nearly as much as skinny chicks.
Fat girls are fat. They already know what's wrong with them. They either eat too much, don't exercise enough or both. They don't go looking for other flaws. Why bother when you can't escape the biggest flaw of all? Skinny girls, on the other hand, can be trying. They are the conquistadors of low self esteem, always seeking out the next flaw, in perpetual journeys across the mirrors of the world for the next wrinkle, next cellulite, next mole, freckle or sagging body part.
Skinny girls spend more time in front of the mirror, and they don't eat or if they do eat they spend a suspiciously large amount of time in the bathroom directly afterward. Fat girls aren't anorexic, and usually not bulimic, or if they're bulimic they have the added curse of not being very good at it. After all, the point is to be thin, right?
When you take a skinny girl to a pizza joint, they either order salad or they get halfway through one slice and pat their tummies with a simpering smile. Which means I eat the rest of the pizza, which means I get fat. Fat girls carry their fair share of the eating, which means they stay fat and I stay however I am.
Skinny girls have more energy during sex, but who wants that? I don't want a girl that will make me walk like I had a colonoscopy with a fumble-fingered doctor the next day. I want a girl that exhausts quickly. I can do foreplay, but fiveplay and sixplay gets a little tiring.
I want a girl that drinks beer. 'nuff said.
Skinny girls are like skeletons in a latex dress. Fat girls got curves (sometimes hidden under other curves).
And frankly they're more fun to be around. They worry less about food, booze and laying on the couch for the entire weekend. And if you want to go somewhere, all you have to do is suggest that it will be good exercise. Dangle dreams of being thin and they're in the car with a towel and a water bottle in nothing flat. Fat girls do worry about skinny girls stealing their men, of course, (I doubt skinny girls worry about their man straying to plumpville), but they want to believe. When you explain to them that the thin, bony toothpick girls disgust you, they believe you. Skinny girls always worry someone skinnier will steal you away.
Fat chicks appreciate attention more. Skinny girls, pretty or not, get attention. They get a lot of it. If they're skinny except for their breasts, then they get even more attention. Watch the eyes of every man in a bar when a fat chick and a skinny chick walk in together, and you will begin to think that fat chicks have the gift of invisibility, though not always by choice.
Slather attention on a skinny chick and she'll be sizing you up. Are you the only game in town? Is there anyone else in the place that looks a little better, a little more successful? Smile at a fat chick and she's halfway yours. Ignore the skinny chick she's with and her thighs will part like a biblical sea.
Granted, depending on your definition of fat, the mechanics of sex may alter or even suffer slightly, but how many of us guys have laid our physiques over the girl of the evening and worried about crushing her? You don't worry about that so much with fat chicks. You do occasionally worry about the reverse, but again, that depends on your taste.
Last, but not least, I proclaim that dating fat chicks is not my fetish. It's just that more and more people are fat in the U.S., and I'm no slender puppy myself. And, of course, there is a difference between being curvy and obese, the number of curves for one thing. The heavier you get, the less curves you have. They are replaced by rolls. But when you kiss the pizza sauce stained lips of a curvy chick and tell them they're the most beautiful thing you've seen come around since flat screen plasmas, you'll see how easy the light turns on in their eyes. It's fun to switch that light on, and it makes you feel good.
And in the dark, all boobs have nipples, all voices moan and all beds squeak the same, though some admittedly more than others.
Aaron Diaz Hoal
(Originally published 4/7/08)
Portly or no, every girl is grateful for a good roll in the hay (and sometimes even a bad one), but not every girl appreciates a good roll in the hay like a fat chick does. I won't bother defining what makes a fat chick fat. Our definitions would differ, from me to you, from you to your friend, from your friend to your friend's favorite supermodel, and so on. But I will offer that in my experience fat chicks don't hate themselves nearly as much as skinny chicks.
Fat girls are fat. They already know what's wrong with them. They either eat too much, don't exercise enough or both. They don't go looking for other flaws. Why bother when you can't escape the biggest flaw of all? Skinny girls, on the other hand, can be trying. They are the conquistadors of low self esteem, always seeking out the next flaw, in perpetual journeys across the mirrors of the world for the next wrinkle, next cellulite, next mole, freckle or sagging body part.
Skinny girls spend more time in front of the mirror, and they don't eat or if they do eat they spend a suspiciously large amount of time in the bathroom directly afterward. Fat girls aren't anorexic, and usually not bulimic, or if they're bulimic they have the added curse of not being very good at it. After all, the point is to be thin, right?
When you take a skinny girl to a pizza joint, they either order salad or they get halfway through one slice and pat their tummies with a simpering smile. Which means I eat the rest of the pizza, which means I get fat. Fat girls carry their fair share of the eating, which means they stay fat and I stay however I am.
Skinny girls have more energy during sex, but who wants that? I don't want a girl that will make me walk like I had a colonoscopy with a fumble-fingered doctor the next day. I want a girl that exhausts quickly. I can do foreplay, but fiveplay and sixplay gets a little tiring.
I want a girl that drinks beer. 'nuff said.
Skinny girls are like skeletons in a latex dress. Fat girls got curves (sometimes hidden under other curves).
And frankly they're more fun to be around. They worry less about food, booze and laying on the couch for the entire weekend. And if you want to go somewhere, all you have to do is suggest that it will be good exercise. Dangle dreams of being thin and they're in the car with a towel and a water bottle in nothing flat. Fat girls do worry about skinny girls stealing their men, of course, (I doubt skinny girls worry about their man straying to plumpville), but they want to believe. When you explain to them that the thin, bony toothpick girls disgust you, they believe you. Skinny girls always worry someone skinnier will steal you away.
Fat chicks appreciate attention more. Skinny girls, pretty or not, get attention. They get a lot of it. If they're skinny except for their breasts, then they get even more attention. Watch the eyes of every man in a bar when a fat chick and a skinny chick walk in together, and you will begin to think that fat chicks have the gift of invisibility, though not always by choice.
Slather attention on a skinny chick and she'll be sizing you up. Are you the only game in town? Is there anyone else in the place that looks a little better, a little more successful? Smile at a fat chick and she's halfway yours. Ignore the skinny chick she's with and her thighs will part like a biblical sea.
Granted, depending on your definition of fat, the mechanics of sex may alter or even suffer slightly, but how many of us guys have laid our physiques over the girl of the evening and worried about crushing her? You don't worry about that so much with fat chicks. You do occasionally worry about the reverse, but again, that depends on your taste.
Last, but not least, I proclaim that dating fat chicks is not my fetish. It's just that more and more people are fat in the U.S., and I'm no slender puppy myself. And, of course, there is a difference between being curvy and obese, the number of curves for one thing. The heavier you get, the less curves you have. They are replaced by rolls. But when you kiss the pizza sauce stained lips of a curvy chick and tell them they're the most beautiful thing you've seen come around since flat screen plasmas, you'll see how easy the light turns on in their eyes. It's fun to switch that light on, and it makes you feel good.
And in the dark, all boobs have nipples, all voices moan and all beds squeak the same, though some admittedly more than others.
Aaron Diaz Hoal
(Originally published 4/7/08)
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Everything that is wrong with me gets me laid
Here's what women tend to like about me:
I'm a casual, relaxed, "go with the flow" kind of guy. I'm funny, flirtatious, a little naughty, reasonably attractive, smart (though mostly just clever), supportive, non-critical, non-jealous, stable, an excellent communicator, and last, but not least, I tend to "get" what women want.
Here's what women tend to hate about me:
(Go back to the second paragraph and read it all again.)
Get it? What attracts you, drives you away. My coin is shiny and only slightly tarnished, till you see the other side and realize the futility of changing me.
Let's take it all apart, just for the sake of deconstruction.
I'm relaxed. Good quality, right? But it also means . . . I'm lazy.
Good quality: I'm casual. Bad quality . . . I'd prefer to wear shorts and a tee shirt to your wedding. In a perfect world, pajamas (I have a nice selection of South Park PJs that would almost certainly match any bridesmaid's dresses!)
Good quality: I'm a "go with the glow" kind of guy. Bad quality . . . you create the go, I'll flow, which means you have to do all the work.
Are you seeing it now? Dating me, or anyone for that matter, except the pope, which in this day and age may be against some Italian law, but in the old days, the good old righteous days, the pope had a wife and sometimes a mistress. He was Italian, after all.
What was I saying? Oh, right, sex . . . no, that's not right, well it is, but. . . .
Dating me is like buying a house. A warm Sunlit parlor means your electric bills will be astronomical because your A/C will be running at 118%. "Cozy" means you can't turn around in the bathroom, even to wipe yourself.
Should we keep going? Somewhere, I can feel two drunken heads nodding and saying, "Shhure, whyda fuck not? Ishh your bottle!"
Good quality: I'm funny. Bad quality: I'm never serious, even when it's starting to make you want to go that big butcher's knife out of that drawer, and even then I'll probably make a joke about how I'm finally going to get your point.
Bloodshed, shovels in the wee hours, explanations, and you're the next subject of interest on 48 Hours: Hard Evidence . . . The Killing Joke!
I'm flirtatious. With you. With co-workers. With gay men. With other women. I'm flirtatious in general, which may at some point have you considering the corkscrew rather than the butcher knife. Let's hope I'm a good vintage.
I'm reasonably attractive, which means I vacillate (which to my shock has nothing to do with Vaseline) between being over-confident and being insecure. It also means I will probably not have my back hair lasered, but I will spend countless hours grooming my beard (or yours . . . see? that was a "butcher knife" joke . . . told you!).
I'm smart (mostly clever). Do you like feeling dumb? No one does. So when I let you do something dumb and then let out a dry witty remark about what you "should've" done, you'll probably move from the corkscrew department to the axe department. I recommend a hatchet. Axes tend to be too heavy for most women, which will probably be dying my words. "Should've . . . killed . . . me . . . . . with . . . . . chainsaw. . . . much . . . . easier. . . ."
Supportive. Right? What could be bad about that? Ah, let's find out, shall we? Supportive means supporting you even when you're fucking something up and supporting you in the expensive compensation at which point you'll turn to me and say, "Why the fuck didn't you stop me from doing something so asinine?!" Because I'm non-critical and supportive. See?
Non-critical. You're perfect. We both know it. Even when that spinach leaf in your teeth, a long ribbon of toilet paper on your heel, your skirt tucked neatly into the back of your pantyhose and your hair looking like Quasi-moto's hairdresser had a go at you. Once you've walked around all day like that, the phrase, "Hey, I love you just the way your are!", will likely get me buried in six pieces rather than 4. I don't want say anything about where that sixth "piece" will end up. But may I suggest an old ex's mailbox. He'll think twice about everything!
Non-jealous. Every once in awhile, don't you kind of want your man to get a little "tense" about other men?
Stable equals "not a risk taker".
An excellent communicator means I have the ability to turn your own words against you and squirm out of most the crappy things I do which you are trying to call me on only to find yourself apologizing and explaining why you did the thing you did. Tip: it's because you're a girl. I forgive you.
Last, but not least . . . "getting" what women really want, which means I'm going to know that when you're saying that seemingly innocuous thing that there's really something much deeper going on and it's going to drive you nuts because I'm going to call you on it rather than play your game and we're going to spend the next 40 minutes arguing about what you "really meant" only to have you finally give up and invite me over to have sex. You'll probably have much better luck in the morning before I've had my coffee. I'll tend to apologize and own up to anything when I'm just waking up, aching, uncaffeinated and feeling old (and spent), and feeling like a homeless person with the Swine Flu.
With all that said, I have a lovely, cozy, sunlit cottage on the beach to sell you.
Which means it's a dank, tiny, hot shack that might or might not be underwater depending on the tide.
Read the damn COMIC!!!!!
I'm a casual, relaxed, "go with the flow" kind of guy. I'm funny, flirtatious, a little naughty, reasonably attractive, smart (though mostly just clever), supportive, non-critical, non-jealous, stable, an excellent communicator, and last, but not least, I tend to "get" what women want.
Here's what women tend to hate about me:
(Go back to the second paragraph and read it all again.)
Get it? What attracts you, drives you away. My coin is shiny and only slightly tarnished, till you see the other side and realize the futility of changing me.
Let's take it all apart, just for the sake of deconstruction.
I'm relaxed. Good quality, right? But it also means . . . I'm lazy.
Good quality: I'm casual. Bad quality . . . I'd prefer to wear shorts and a tee shirt to your wedding. In a perfect world, pajamas (I have a nice selection of South Park PJs that would almost certainly match any bridesmaid's dresses!)
Good quality: I'm a "go with the glow" kind of guy. Bad quality . . . you create the go, I'll flow, which means you have to do all the work.
Are you seeing it now? Dating me, or anyone for that matter, except the pope, which in this day and age may be against some Italian law, but in the old days, the good old righteous days, the pope had a wife and sometimes a mistress. He was Italian, after all.
What was I saying? Oh, right, sex . . . no, that's not right, well it is, but. . . .
Dating me is like buying a house. A warm Sunlit parlor means your electric bills will be astronomical because your A/C will be running at 118%. "Cozy" means you can't turn around in the bathroom, even to wipe yourself.
Should we keep going? Somewhere, I can feel two drunken heads nodding and saying, "Shhure, whyda fuck not? Ishh your bottle!"
Good quality: I'm funny. Bad quality: I'm never serious, even when it's starting to make you want to go that big butcher's knife out of that drawer, and even then I'll probably make a joke about how I'm finally going to get your point.
Bloodshed, shovels in the wee hours, explanations, and you're the next subject of interest on 48 Hours: Hard Evidence . . . The Killing Joke!
I'm flirtatious. With you. With co-workers. With gay men. With other women. I'm flirtatious in general, which may at some point have you considering the corkscrew rather than the butcher knife. Let's hope I'm a good vintage.
I'm reasonably attractive, which means I vacillate (which to my shock has nothing to do with Vaseline) between being over-confident and being insecure. It also means I will probably not have my back hair lasered, but I will spend countless hours grooming my beard (or yours . . . see? that was a "butcher knife" joke . . . told you!).
I'm smart (mostly clever). Do you like feeling dumb? No one does. So when I let you do something dumb and then let out a dry witty remark about what you "should've" done, you'll probably move from the corkscrew department to the axe department. I recommend a hatchet. Axes tend to be too heavy for most women, which will probably be dying my words. "Should've . . . killed . . . me . . . . . with . . . . . chainsaw. . . . much . . . . easier. . . ."
Supportive. Right? What could be bad about that? Ah, let's find out, shall we? Supportive means supporting you even when you're fucking something up and supporting you in the expensive compensation at which point you'll turn to me and say, "Why the fuck didn't you stop me from doing something so asinine?!" Because I'm non-critical and supportive. See?
Non-critical. You're perfect. We both know it. Even when that spinach leaf in your teeth, a long ribbon of toilet paper on your heel, your skirt tucked neatly into the back of your pantyhose and your hair looking like Quasi-moto's hairdresser had a go at you. Once you've walked around all day like that, the phrase, "Hey, I love you just the way your are!", will likely get me buried in six pieces rather than 4. I don't want say anything about where that sixth "piece" will end up. But may I suggest an old ex's mailbox. He'll think twice about everything!
Non-jealous. Every once in awhile, don't you kind of want your man to get a little "tense" about other men?
Stable equals "not a risk taker".
An excellent communicator means I have the ability to turn your own words against you and squirm out of most the crappy things I do which you are trying to call me on only to find yourself apologizing and explaining why you did the thing you did. Tip: it's because you're a girl. I forgive you.
Last, but not least . . . "getting" what women really want, which means I'm going to know that when you're saying that seemingly innocuous thing that there's really something much deeper going on and it's going to drive you nuts because I'm going to call you on it rather than play your game and we're going to spend the next 40 minutes arguing about what you "really meant" only to have you finally give up and invite me over to have sex. You'll probably have much better luck in the morning before I've had my coffee. I'll tend to apologize and own up to anything when I'm just waking up, aching, uncaffeinated and feeling old (and spent), and feeling like a homeless person with the Swine Flu.
With all that said, I have a lovely, cozy, sunlit cottage on the beach to sell you.
Which means it's a dank, tiny, hot shack that might or might not be underwater depending on the tide.
Read the damn COMIC!!!!!
Friday, June 5, 2009
80% nice + 20% mean
A woman's heart is like an onion. I could spend the rest of my days peeling back the layers, only to be met with more layers. There is no inner truth, only layers.
Women have been called fickle, but then so has love, but then I'm convinced that love was invented by women. It's our fault for believing the lie when our genitalia tells us otherwise. After all, can you really blame the billboards for being broke and fat or yourself?
I always figured women just didn't know themselves, didn't know their true nature and spent every day trying to change who they were in an attempt to find out or were waiting for a man to tell them.
I could be wrong.
Now, I realize, it doesn't matter. Men don't have to understand women any more than a fisherman have to understand fish. That is to say, we must must understand female behavior and ignore the rationalizations that justify it.
Case in point: I happen to be dating a drop-dead gorgeous blonde who is a little bit of a ditz, a little bit of a child and who complains endlessly that I'm "mean". She asks me why I'm mean to her. I ask her why she would be with someone who is "mean" to her. She thinks about it for awhile and replies, "Well, you're not always mean. Sometimes you're really nice."
She's right. Sometimes, frequently, I am really nice to her. I cuddle with her, give her sweet kisses on the forehead, tuck her into bed, pat her bottom, make her laugh and generally encourage her to do whatever she thinks is best for herself.
But the mean parts are where I refuse to give her what she wants. I refuse to fall in love with her, refuse to call her my girlfriend, insist that I don't want a girlfriend and that I've been honest from the beginning only to listen to her rationalize in the following manner:
"Well, I mean . . . what really is a girlfriend? What is a relationship? Y'know, it's just friends and--"
"No, you know what a girlfriend is and what a relationship is, and right now, I'm just not looking for that."
"But, y'know, I mean, I just like being with you."
"I like being with you, too."
Of course, when she refers to me being mean, she could be talking about the time I spanked her until she cried because she wouldn't tell me what I wanted to know.
So I ask her why she would respond to such treatment. She says that she doesn't and that she responds much better to being treated nice.
I performed a little experiment on the off chance that I was wrong. Here's what I did:
I was really nice and sweet and kissed her and held her and whispered nice things in her ear about how beautiful she was and how good she smelled and so on. I slipped my hand under her skirt and tested her reaction. Think of it as a litmus test of sorts, except most such tests don't get you laid.
Dry as a bone. She might have been aroused emotionally, but not physically.
Then I was mean to her. I bossed her around, twisted her arm and forced her into my arms and kissed her hard on the mouth and bit her chin and turned her roughly around and had her bend over the counter while I checked her underwear.
She was wet.
Have I proven my case? She was ready and that was all the signal and reinforcement I needed.
The fact is you girls respond to a man's aggression, our assertiveness, our possessiveness. Yes, sometimes it's too much and it's a turn off, but even then there's a part of you that likes it.
The hot blonde I'm seeing (who is my age, by the way, and that is kind of refreshing) complains to no end that I think I understand women, but that I really don't. I always respond that I seem to understand enough to get her on her back with legs in the air, and that I've managed to avoid the usual traps that women subconsciously lay for us foolish men.
I'll let you be the judge. You can throw a pie in my face, slap me, throw a drink at me, if you like, and I'll freely admit that I'm not expert at keeping women, but I've never had a problem getting women.
Maybe that's what she means. Maybe the meanness will get her going in bed, but drive her away eventually.
But then, there's the depth. I'm a deep person, a truth seeker, a man open to discussion and learning from his mistakes.
Confusing, no? Not to me, but then I know me and I know what I'm about.
But I'm willing to be publicly educated so I'll put it to you. . . .
Why would a sweet, beautiful woman put up with a man who was mean to her every now and then?
Women have been called fickle, but then so has love, but then I'm convinced that love was invented by women. It's our fault for believing the lie when our genitalia tells us otherwise. After all, can you really blame the billboards for being broke and fat or yourself?
I always figured women just didn't know themselves, didn't know their true nature and spent every day trying to change who they were in an attempt to find out or were waiting for a man to tell them.
I could be wrong.
Now, I realize, it doesn't matter. Men don't have to understand women any more than a fisherman have to understand fish. That is to say, we must must understand female behavior and ignore the rationalizations that justify it.
Case in point: I happen to be dating a drop-dead gorgeous blonde who is a little bit of a ditz, a little bit of a child and who complains endlessly that I'm "mean". She asks me why I'm mean to her. I ask her why she would be with someone who is "mean" to her. She thinks about it for awhile and replies, "Well, you're not always mean. Sometimes you're really nice."
She's right. Sometimes, frequently, I am really nice to her. I cuddle with her, give her sweet kisses on the forehead, tuck her into bed, pat her bottom, make her laugh and generally encourage her to do whatever she thinks is best for herself.
But the mean parts are where I refuse to give her what she wants. I refuse to fall in love with her, refuse to call her my girlfriend, insist that I don't want a girlfriend and that I've been honest from the beginning only to listen to her rationalize in the following manner:
"Well, I mean . . . what really is a girlfriend? What is a relationship? Y'know, it's just friends and--"
"No, you know what a girlfriend is and what a relationship is, and right now, I'm just not looking for that."
"But, y'know, I mean, I just like being with you."
"I like being with you, too."
Of course, when she refers to me being mean, she could be talking about the time I spanked her until she cried because she wouldn't tell me what I wanted to know.
So I ask her why she would respond to such treatment. She says that she doesn't and that she responds much better to being treated nice.
I performed a little experiment on the off chance that I was wrong. Here's what I did:
I was really nice and sweet and kissed her and held her and whispered nice things in her ear about how beautiful she was and how good she smelled and so on. I slipped my hand under her skirt and tested her reaction. Think of it as a litmus test of sorts, except most such tests don't get you laid.
Dry as a bone. She might have been aroused emotionally, but not physically.
Then I was mean to her. I bossed her around, twisted her arm and forced her into my arms and kissed her hard on the mouth and bit her chin and turned her roughly around and had her bend over the counter while I checked her underwear.
She was wet.
Have I proven my case? She was ready and that was all the signal and reinforcement I needed.
The fact is you girls respond to a man's aggression, our assertiveness, our possessiveness. Yes, sometimes it's too much and it's a turn off, but even then there's a part of you that likes it.
The hot blonde I'm seeing (who is my age, by the way, and that is kind of refreshing) complains to no end that I think I understand women, but that I really don't. I always respond that I seem to understand enough to get her on her back with legs in the air, and that I've managed to avoid the usual traps that women subconsciously lay for us foolish men.
I'll let you be the judge. You can throw a pie in my face, slap me, throw a drink at me, if you like, and I'll freely admit that I'm not expert at keeping women, but I've never had a problem getting women.
Maybe that's what she means. Maybe the meanness will get her going in bed, but drive her away eventually.
But then, there's the depth. I'm a deep person, a truth seeker, a man open to discussion and learning from his mistakes.
Confusing, no? Not to me, but then I know me and I know what I'm about.
But I'm willing to be publicly educated so I'll put it to you. . . .
Why would a sweet, beautiful woman put up with a man who was mean to her every now and then?
Friday, January 2, 2009
How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Tampon
She stands in my living room, pupils dilated, nostrils flared, rosaciaed cheeks extra rosy, holding a diaphragm in the palm of her small hand, showing me her blood clot. Probably in response to some unsympathetic asshole-type thing I'd said about how she's always bitching about her period but she's had them for years now and shouldn't she be used to them by now?
"See?" she snarls, shoving the filled diaphragm towards me. I can see the clump of red in the center and I don't want to see the clump of red in the center so I shut my eyes and avert my face with the expression of a ten year old who has just had his first foray into an abattoir. "See? This is what WE have to put up with!"
In her passion, her hand shakes a tad and the clot drops on to my plush, white carpet. She bursts into tears, apologizes and runs for the Fabreeze, the soap, and the scrubby brush she uses when her cats have their accidents.
I light a cigarette and watch her scrub my carpet like some feverish maid who has just been threatened with I.N.S.
Time. Stops.
It does that sometimes.
I start thinking about shit. Weird shit. I usually do this after sex, before sex, when I'm trying to find someone to have sex with, and when I'm viewing porn. It pisses me off, because it's usually ill-timed, but not today. Today, the timing couldn't be better.
Men experience blood as the potential for death. Our only history with blood is being wounded. Losing blood is losing life is draining energy until we're cold and in the ground. Blood=bad thing.
For women it's more complex. (Isn't it always?) Women have the same experience with blood, PLUS the potential for life. Each uterine lining shed is another opportunity passed, another moment where they could've conceived, but didn't, and therefore are failures.
Time. Re-starts.
By now, she's finished scrubbing and I'm not saying a Goddamn word, despite the fact that I can still see a pink aura around the spot. I'll probably forget about it, but she won't. She'll feel ashamed about it every time she passes by until we finally call a professional cleaner or get a new carpet.
The important thing is I can take advantage of her guilt and have some rocking good sex for awhile. She might be a little more willing to go down on me or she might let me finally do her doggy-style. Either way, until her shame lifts or until I piss her off again (which is why I have to take it while I can get it), I'm looking to be a lucky boy.
Now, which is worse in your experience? Being sick in the hospital or having to visit a loved one who's sick in the hospital. I'd rather be wearing a thin, backless paper gown and having my guts laundered than to have to make small talk with someone who's managed to get past my defenses and make me care about them. It's just easier. I'd much rather piss blood for five to seven days than to have to listen to someone whine about it.
Every month, your girlfriend, sister, daughter and mother become mental patients. I'm not complaining. One out of those four give me a good occasional fuck (two if you live in Alabama or Mississippi; three if you live in Arkansas). And I'm just horny enough to plow through even during the violent march of the Crimson Crusade. If she's willing; I'm willing. I've had blood on my dick and on my hands and I've found that it all comes out with some soap and water. To some men, this idea is abhorrent. That's their business, but it's one less fuck for them and one more for me, and I've found when I show no disdain for Little Red Riding Blood, I score a lot more Brownie points. If she can put up with the mess and the stink (which I rarely notice anyway), I sure as Hell can. And I'm just horny enough to not care about the conditions (with the following exceptions: 1. whores in Mexico 2. transsexuals in transition and 3. common prostitutes).
Now, she's curled up in my lap, weeping, apologizing and ignoring my hand which has somehow snaked its way up under her shirt and wire-framed bra and planted itself on her breast. Maybe I'm a bastard, but I like her when she's like this, vulnerable, needy, wanty, soft and sweet. It's like an ice cream that's begun to melt. If your hand ain't a little sticky before it's all over, you're not doing it right.
Aaron Diaz Hoal
Originally published 1/27/08
"See?" she snarls, shoving the filled diaphragm towards me. I can see the clump of red in the center and I don't want to see the clump of red in the center so I shut my eyes and avert my face with the expression of a ten year old who has just had his first foray into an abattoir. "See? This is what WE have to put up with!"
In her passion, her hand shakes a tad and the clot drops on to my plush, white carpet. She bursts into tears, apologizes and runs for the Fabreeze, the soap, and the scrubby brush she uses when her cats have their accidents.
I light a cigarette and watch her scrub my carpet like some feverish maid who has just been threatened with I.N.S.
Time. Stops.
It does that sometimes.
I start thinking about shit. Weird shit. I usually do this after sex, before sex, when I'm trying to find someone to have sex with, and when I'm viewing porn. It pisses me off, because it's usually ill-timed, but not today. Today, the timing couldn't be better.
Men experience blood as the potential for death. Our only history with blood is being wounded. Losing blood is losing life is draining energy until we're cold and in the ground. Blood=bad thing.
For women it's more complex. (Isn't it always?) Women have the same experience with blood, PLUS the potential for life. Each uterine lining shed is another opportunity passed, another moment where they could've conceived, but didn't, and therefore are failures.
Time. Re-starts.
By now, she's finished scrubbing and I'm not saying a Goddamn word, despite the fact that I can still see a pink aura around the spot. I'll probably forget about it, but she won't. She'll feel ashamed about it every time she passes by until we finally call a professional cleaner or get a new carpet.
The important thing is I can take advantage of her guilt and have some rocking good sex for awhile. She might be a little more willing to go down on me or she might let me finally do her doggy-style. Either way, until her shame lifts or until I piss her off again (which is why I have to take it while I can get it), I'm looking to be a lucky boy.
Now, which is worse in your experience? Being sick in the hospital or having to visit a loved one who's sick in the hospital. I'd rather be wearing a thin, backless paper gown and having my guts laundered than to have to make small talk with someone who's managed to get past my defenses and make me care about them. It's just easier. I'd much rather piss blood for five to seven days than to have to listen to someone whine about it.
Every month, your girlfriend, sister, daughter and mother become mental patients. I'm not complaining. One out of those four give me a good occasional fuck (two if you live in Alabama or Mississippi; three if you live in Arkansas). And I'm just horny enough to plow through even during the violent march of the Crimson Crusade. If she's willing; I'm willing. I've had blood on my dick and on my hands and I've found that it all comes out with some soap and water. To some men, this idea is abhorrent. That's their business, but it's one less fuck for them and one more for me, and I've found when I show no disdain for Little Red Riding Blood, I score a lot more Brownie points. If she can put up with the mess and the stink (which I rarely notice anyway), I sure as Hell can. And I'm just horny enough to not care about the conditions (with the following exceptions: 1. whores in Mexico 2. transsexuals in transition and 3. common prostitutes).
Now, she's curled up in my lap, weeping, apologizing and ignoring my hand which has somehow snaked its way up under her shirt and wire-framed bra and planted itself on her breast. Maybe I'm a bastard, but I like her when she's like this, vulnerable, needy, wanty, soft and sweet. It's like an ice cream that's begun to melt. If your hand ain't a little sticky before it's all over, you're not doing it right.
Aaron Diaz Hoal
Originally published 1/27/08
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