December 5, 2008
Offenstock
Freedom of speech is a real bitch, especially when other people contrarily theirs right next to you as you exercise yours. The typical religion-atheist name-calling is going on here. This incident doesn’t interest me all that much, but it did get me thinking.
Wouldn’t it be fun to organize the most offensive celebration of freedom of speech? You could invite people who represent the entire spectrum of thought and welcome them to put up signs, stand on their soapboxes and try their damndest to convince others that they are right.
Here’s how I might go about it:
1. Hire a bunch of smart off-duty police officers (and, no, that isn’t necessarily an oxymoron) who respect the constitution, and make sure they know that the goal of the festival is for it to be anything goes, no matter how offensive. Aside from displaying child pornography, no message is to be censored nor its author to be silenced.
2. Warn everyone who enters that they likely will be offended by much of what they are exposed.
3. Warn everyone that violence and harassment will not tolerated at all but that it is reasonable to expect arguments to take place.
And then let the good times roll. It would be an interesting little experiment, don’t you think? I wonder how long before a punch is thrown.
December 4, 2008
Of sloppy seconds
Sean Avery, the most notorious pest in the National Hockey League was suspended by the league earlier this week. Avery has shown great skill for getting in trouble for his actions on the ice and his comments off. Here’s what landed him in hot water this time:
“I’m really happy to be back in Calgary; I love Canada. I just want to comment on how it’s become like a common thing in the NHL for guys to fall in love with my sloppy seconds. I don’t know what that’s about, but enjoy the game tonight.”
The sloppy seconds he was specifically referring to was actress Elisha Cuthbert, who is now dating Calgary defenseman Dion Phaneuf, but since Avery’s talking about guys plural, he’s also tossing ex-girlfriend Rachel Hunter, who is now dating Los Angeles forward Jaret Stoll, into the mix as well.
Sloppy seconds.
Technically, she was Rod Stewart's sloppy seconds when Avery had her.
I’m not hear to say what should be done with Avery. That horse has been beaten to death by others. No, I want to talk about the literal definition of sloppy seconds — a thoroughly fucked pussy that is being enjoyed by another man.
I’ve been the third wheel in about a half dozen threesomes, and they’ve always been of the two-men, one-woman variety. (No, I’ve not yet reached the holy grail of a FFM threeway, but hope springs eternal.) Anyway, I’ve played with married couples, engaged couples and live-in lovers, and I’ve enjoyed myself (well, actually her self) each time. Though each encounter was unique, there was a common theme — the man loved to watch his woman fuck and suck another cock. And, except for one encounter that I discovered was set up so the man could suck another man (not a bad surprise with his submissive girlfriend joining in), the men treated those just-fucked pussies, those sloppy seconds, like they were the best thing in the world.
The most unusual of the threesomes was with one of the married couples. Technically, it wasn’t a threesome, since he didn’t participate while I was still there, but when a guy drive around town while his woman sucks and fucks me in the back of the conversion van, I’m inclined to stretch the definition of threesome a bit to let this qualify. I met them through a personals ad on a swingers site, and after minimal e-mail communication, we decided to meet at a restaurant within a day or two.
I was unsure if I wanted to go through with it because the photos she sent to me a couple hours before our meeting weren’t all that exciting, but there is nothing more frustrating to a swinger than to be stood up, so I decided to go ahead with the meeting, fully intending to give them a polite “thanks but no thanks” and explain that I didn’t feel comfortable unless unless there was an overwhelming electricity between us.
It never got to that point. She was so aggressive, so wanton, that I simply didn’t have a chance. We met in a parking lot, with plans to make feel out each other over lunch. When I pulled my car next to their van, the husband motioned for me to hop into the back with his wife. Within 10 seconds of the door closing behind me, she was leaning back, stroking her pussy through her panties and asking me to show her my cock.
I actually resisted. This was a bit too sudden for me; I like seduction and foreplay, and I loved to anticipate and to be teased. This was far too rushed for me to enjoy. Then she leaned forward and asked if she could take it out. Without waiting for an answer, she opened my jeans and fished out my cock. It wasn’t hard. What can I say, I wasn’t physically turned on by her, and her bluntness caught me off guard in a bad way.
Then she started to stroke me.
The she lower her head and took me in her mouth.
As if on cue, her husband turned back toward the windshield and started the van. “How ’bout we go for a ride?” he asked.
He drove around the city for about 40 minutes, with her sucking me, me fucking her missionary style with the blinds of the windows drawn and me suckling on her puffy nipples and fingering her pussy while her he watched in the rearview mirror. He was quiet until I came in her pussy, then he couldn’t stop talking about how he wanted to go down on her, taste our combined juices and then slide inside her well-lubricated pussy. He was stroking himself through his jeans as he said this, and he drove like a bat out of hell to drop me back off at my car so he could get about his business.
The other men in the couples I’ve played with have been have been the same way. Aside from the one who sucked me off with his fiancee, none of them wanted to perform a sex act on me nor have me perform one on him, but they relished the opportunity to enjoy sloppy seconds. In each of those encounters, I was the first one to penetrate the woman. Randomness probably was a factor in how a few of those encounters played out (after all, it’s not like they scripted it), but in a couple of these, it was very clear that the man wanted to slide inside his wife or fiance just after another man had fucked her.
I have a talent for cumming with gusto. Maybe it’s because I’ve masturbated so much in my life, or maybe I’ve simply been bestowed with a biological blessing that enables me to shoot a thick wad over six feet when I ejaculate. Three times I’ve hit the ceiling with a cumshot during mutual masturbation sessions with a lover while laying on my back in bed. And I can’t count the number of times I’ve nearly blinded myself ( while masturbating in bed) or a lover (during oral) with my cumshot. So, to a degree, I get this cum fetish. After all, I’ve been the beneficiary of it. Trust me, guys with my talent quickly learn to appreciate those married men who love creampies (a cum-filled pussy) and women who love pearl necklaces. So, although Sean Avery clearly was trying to piss off those other hockey players, there are a lot of men and women would be turned if he directed his sloppy seconds comment their direction. (In fact, you can find a lot of them at Wifelovers.com, a site that caters to couples that delight in sexually adventurous wives.)
And if Rachel Hunter or Elisha Cuthbert is the sloppy seconds in question, you can count me among them.
December 3, 2008
Whore, who’s your daddy?
When I wrote, I’ve known a few whores — and I don’t mean sellouts in the general sense. I mean those whose predecessors birthed this dirty word in a dirty alley centuries ago, I was tempted to digress into the origins of whore. Word origins intrigue me, and I love to guess at them before I look them up. One of my favorites is bonfire, which comes from bone fire, which is what it was called when the victims of the bubonic plague were stacked into a pile and set ablaze in hopes of curtailing the spread of the disease. *
BTW, I’d been told that the childhood rhyme Ring Around the Rosie has it’s origins in the plague years, but Snopes debunks that here. But you can see why people would think that:
Ring-around a rosie
A pocket full of posies
Ashes! Ashes!
We all fall down.
Line 1: Rosie = a red blemish on the skin. Think rosacea. This mark with a red ring around it was a indication that a person had been infected by the plague.
Line 2: The smell of decaying bodies was so bad that people would carry flower petals (I presume pockets was used in the rhyme for alliteration, but it’s conceivable that people kept them there) and hold them to their nose.
Line 3: It was standard practice to burn the bodies of plague victims.
Line 4: A pretty grim forecast, like the playground visions Sarah Connors had in Terminator. No future, indeed.
Anyway, I decided against searching out the origins of whore because the post already was shaping up to be pretty long, and, besides, it seems very appropriate to not know the lineage of a word that applies to a type of woman who, historically, could not know for certain who the fathers of her children are.
Marina. Not a whore. Definitely hot.
However, I have a huge crush on Marina of HotForWords, and I shamelessly confess to masturbating to her philology videos. I suspect I’m not the only one — smart women are a major turn on for many men. Perhaps I’ll ask her to put her hair in pigtails (mmmmm, pigtails), show a little cleavage, and talk about the origin of whore with that sexy accent of hers.
* Disclaimer: The college professor who told me about the origins of bonfire also told me about Ring Around the Rosie, so I’m probably going to have to look up bonfire to be certain.
Whores. At least they can afford to be good at a hobby
Can we ever be content for an extended period of time? And can we still love something if we are paid to do it?
For months, my best friend has been telling me he wants desperately to quit his job. It’s boring. There’s no room for creativity. And it makes him feel like a whore.
I’ve known a few whores — and I don’t mean sellouts in the general sense. I mean those whose predecessors birthed this dirty word in a dirty alley centuries ago. They’re not necessarily bad people, these whores, and, in my opinion, the moral argument against them and legalized prostitution is the same as debating about keeping professional athletes out of the Olympics.
Anyway, my buddy, Mark, wants to quit his job because he can’t stand working at home in his underwear if he so desires. He is sick of holding the highest title he’s ever had professionally. And he has convinced himself he’s miserable while earning a salary that is about 80 percent more than any job he’s ever held in his life. Not only is he earning far more than he ever did by telecommuting from home, he lucked out by doing so during a span when fuel prices are obscenely high. Oh, and his job is in a field that he enjoys immensely and spends much of his hobby time in.
Mark tells me he has squirreled away enough money to get by while working a crappy mindless job and concentrating on playing music and writing screenplays, two endeavors he’s good at but not great — nor even very good — at. Mark feels he is entering an extremely creative period in his life. He thinks it’s not such a bad idea to leave the white collar (when he chooses to wear one) world to chase his dreams for up to 24 months and then evaluating things.
You’re thinking one of two things — “Do it, Mark!” or “God, this guy is stupid.”
I’m thinking both. And I’m trying to figure out if it’s common-sense or jealousy that has me cautioning him not to quit this job and chase his dreams
When I was in college, I felt full of talent and potential. I was convinced that very good, if not great things, were in the cards. Not someday-I’ll-be-president great, mind you, but great in the sense that maybe I’ll do something that is remembered for maybe 20 or 50 years or so after I retire, even if only among a specialized niche of people.
It hasn’t happened. I’ve enjoyed a pretty nice run in which I really was at the top of my game professionally for about eight or ten years, but I’ve succumbed to the malaise that settles into the bones of every big fish in a small pond and causes him to list to the one side as he goes belly up and ends a relatively inconsequential life. I’ve gone from being the guy who earns the kudos to the respected veteran who now hands them out to the young guy.
Before he landed his current gig, Mark was on a career trajectory that would have him reaching this point maybe in 15 or 20 years or so. But circumstances broke just right and he landed what he thought was his dream job.
And now he wants to give it up. If he replaces it with a crap job and the opportunity to strum his guitar 24 hours a day, when he ultimately tries to get back in the field his resume is going to tell employers that this prime job was an aberration. How else could anyone interpret going from upper management to bartender or landscaper? The fact that he would resign such a position during the worst economic crisis in nearly 80 years would only launch more red flags.
Yet, I know his yearning. I recognize the desire to do something you love when you’ve realized that what you used to love isn’t fun now that you’re getting paid to do it.
Which brings me back to the Olympics. You remember the first U.S. Olympic team made of NBA players, right? Traditionalist screamed that doing so would ruin the purity of the Olympics. More than a few people considering it whoring; truly, permitting pros to compete would make the Olympics a little less noble.
Less noble, indeed, which brings to mind Jack Kelly. Jack was born in 1889 and became one of the great oarsmen — i.e. rowing — in history. As is the case today, a rower in the early 1900s couldn’t make a decent living rowing a boat in competitions, so Jack had to work. He earned a paycheck as a bricklayer.
Anyway, Jack was regarded as one of the finest scullers in the world. He was a six-time U.S. national champion and he had put together a 126-race winning streak. Then came the 1920 the Diamond Sculls at the Henley Royal Regatta in England, the Super Bowl of rowing.
Jack’s application was rejected.
It was because he was a manual laborer. He was a professional. He wasn’t born into wealth, and he didn’t partake in the sport because it was a noble diversion. In other words, because he had to work for a living — even though he wasn’t working as a rower — he wasn’t a true amateur.
I always bring up Jack whenever the pro/amateur debate arises. While being an amateur means you do something for love, not money, the fact is that only those with wealth can afford to be passionate amateurs in pricey or time-consuming endeavors. Mixed in with that high-minded sentiments of the purity of the sport is a healthy dose of elitism.
So, where does that leave Mark?
I expect his longtime lover and housemate will put her foot down and make it clear she doesn’t intend to pick up his slack when it comes time to pay the bills. Mark will resent her for it for a while, but he’ll know she’s right.
And where does that leave me? Pretty much in the same place I’ve been for the past decade. I’ll content myself by entertaining thoughts of starting projects that are too grand in scope to ever be initiated, nevermind completed. When the complexity of it all begins to overwhelm me, I’ll shift my attention elsewhere. Always attacking a new project with the enthusiasm of an amateur, always lacking the diligence of a pro — I’m equal parts slut and whore, unwilling and afraid to devote myself to one or the other.
December 1, 2008
Of deer, musth, lust and death
I was two seconds slower than death this morning. The Hyundai in the incoming lane was not.
The deer shot out from the brush-lined, roadside creek in front of me. Even with the dull light of early morning and the steady cold rain, I saw it soon enough to hit my brakes, though I wasn’t in any real danger of hitting the buck. The same couldn’t be said for the guy in Hyundai.
As the other driver skidded to a stop, the deer was flung back and to its side, flipping head or tail, its four legs desperately clawing for solid footing as its internal organs endured catastrophic injury. No more than 10 feet away from my car, the animal struggled to rise then staggered off the road and into the woods opposite of where it had emerged.
Shaken but not injured, the other driver told me he was OK, then he fished out his insurance card and started dialing his agent. I hung around a few minutes until a police car showed up, then continued my commute.
Odds are the deer was driven by one of two impulses — to flee hunters or to procreate. Since today is that start of hunting season around here, it’s likely that the animal ran into its death while fleeing another death that waited patiently in a treestand. But given the subject matter of this blog (you’ll discover it soon enough, trust me), I’m entertaining the possibility that this buck was running toward — not from — something.
We’re knee-deep in deer mating season. The bucks catch the scent of a doe in heat, and their first and only thought is to rut with her. And if there’s a ribbon of asphalt between the buck and doe, you can be sure the animal isn’t going to look both ways before crossing the street.
I recall seeing a documentary about elephants that detailed a similar problem, with one little difference. If an elephant runs into your car, you’re fucked. And though deer might be a major nuisance when it comes to gardens, I’d take that over the lust-induced rages that elephants visit on tribal villages. When elephants are like this, it’s called musth. When deer are like this, it’s called November. There’s a reason why November always is the statistical leader in deer-related traffic accidents nationwide, and this is it.
Never mind that today is December 1. Deer do not own calendars. Neither do their penises.
Anyway, I’d been considering the subject of my first blog post for about a week or so, wanting to make sure I struck the right tone.
Then, while driving to work today, this fell into my lap. For someone who has allowed himself to be ruled by lust more than most people, this is the perfect hello. I hope the metaphor isn’t an absolute fit — the animal’s corpse is likely 50 or 100 yards away from where the Hyundai struck it, after all — but I suspect it’ll prove to be a pretty apt one.
Had I left home a couple seconds earlier this morning or laid on the gas a little more than I had, I’d be griping about towtruck drivers, the need for a new car and likely insurance agents. Instead, I’m playing the role of witness. I’m the voyeur who opens his mouth and tells others. This and the posts that follow are my testimony.
Last week, despite less-than stellar service a month earlier, I walked into a massage parlor and paid an Asian woman to wash me, massage me and then please me. I used to feel shame whenever I visited these women and these places. This time I only felt relief that the service was good. I don’t think that’s necessarily a good thing.
Things we don't tell others 