the mechanics of romance?

i can’t for the life of me figure out why anyone would want to define the act of intercourse as “making love”. i find it to be quite a retarded way of thinking. the linking of one’s emotional state with a physical activity is strange at best, though not exclusively incorrect.

i enjoy hugs. i’d go as far as to say that hugs ROCK! i’m not sure how many people ever noticed it, but everytime i hug someone, anyone, regardless of gender, i close my eyes and soak it in.  automatically. it’s my vice, if one can call hugging a vice. i take them every chance i get. just ask Ana-Lucia how annoying my need to maul her for hugs is. she always tries to flee but i get my squeeze-time in. always.

it may sound creepy to you but i just really love hugging. i love it more than kissing and ‘making-out’ (what is making-out really?), and hugging often gets more points than say having sex. squeeze me while you’re hugging me, and i’ll be trying to find all means of getting back in your arms.

which brings me to the topic at hand, sex and romance. many people can tell you all sorts of things on the subject of romance and what romance entails, and what constitutes being romantic or a romantic. many people will also tell you that romance has absolutely nothing to do with sex, and that the two are mutually exclusive.

[rant]
i honestly don’t see what the problem is here, and why the two do in fact have to be separate activities. why can’t i be romantic with my face between her legs, or why can’t a woman be romantic with a cock in her mouth? are handjobs not romantic? how about fisting? can’t one be romantic while defiling their lover and talking dirty in the bedroom? and who’s to say that a hardcore alley-fuck creampie isn’t the most romantic thing on the planet?

and on that subject, sex in my book really isn’t the same as fucking. sex is that thing that married people do once a week, usually on Fridays. you schedule time to make it happen and you usually have to butter-up your spouse with food and alcoholic beverages to make it happen. it’s the reason wine coolers were invented i believe, as i am yet to hear of any unmarried woman claim to enjoy the occasional wine cooler the way one may enjoy the occasional scotch or glass of brandy or even a beer. in this context, they aren’t really “making love”, the husband wants to “bust a nut” and the wife figures if she doesn’t facilitate she’d be deemed a bad wife. if the reverse ever happens, the wife has and itch and the husband is always glad to scratch it, mainly because he’s a man. pathetic.

fucking, however, is that thing you do when you just want to get off; fucking is when you pretty much find the nearest warm body to act as substitute for your fingers/hand/fist/sex-toy/etc. the saying does go “Mom I’d Love to Fuck” and not “Mom I’d Love to Have Sex With”.
[/rant]

but i digress. the true purpose of the question mark in the subject of this entry is the fact that people seem to think that you need to be in love to have sex, and that the purpose of romance is to make someone fall in love with you. after re-analyzing the act of sexual intercourse, i’m still confused as to why anyone would find it remotely romantic. honestly now, achieving and erection so you can shove-n-retract it repeatedly until orgasm… please point out the part where your emotions come into play. i know right now you’re thinking that orgasm is supposed to be a deeply emotional experience but so should be peeing or making poop, not ‘making woopie’.

[EDIT]
hey. so after thinking about this a little more, i think that “making love” is in fact some activity that people the world over have for some reason associated with the act of sexual intercourse, which i still believe is just plain fucking (regardless of one’s emotional connection with the other).

perhaps the connection was made back when sexual intercourse was still considered a deeply personal activity that required a level of intimacy for it to actually happen. i believe that whatever this ‘activity’ is, one can most likely ‘make love’ without having sexual relations of any kind. i could be as simple as a tender touch or maybe the sweet nothings couples exchange.

don’t beat yourself up over it. like the quote above says, don’t expect love to enhance sex. it may seem like a bonus to some but in the end, it’s just a physical activity, with foreplay being pretty much fluffing your partner.

it just seems to me to be a very irresponsible practice to program people into thinking that sex is enhanced somehow by love or the state of being in love. it’s like telling little children that Santa Claus is real, or the tooth fairy is coming to give you coin for teeth.
[/EDIT]

5…4…3…2…1…

she kissed us both… Alisson still hates me… my balls still haven’t come down out of my torso…

"i thought you said this was going to be a rave!" i yelled over the pounding of the gigantic speakers. all around us, the sight of people younger than myself, and maybe too young to be drinking or smoking whatever it is they’re smoking. and the dancing… well that’s just something else. she said it was going to be a rave to ring in the new year, with friends. as usual, Wren says one thing about a place and when you get there it turns out to be something else. most of the time, it turns out to be a pretty good something else, so i’ll reserve judgement for now.

"i didn’t think it was going to get hijacked! but how can you complain? open your eyes, man! you’ll be glad i got you to leave the house this time!" Wren replied, bouncing her way towards the crowd. a palm’s grip, knuckles, finger-tips… she’s gone… adrift in a sea of haze and warm bodies and pulsating lights harsh enough to trigger seizures in the most healthy of individuals. we can’t get separated… this isn’t going to be like the last time. i try to follow the wildly swinging unbraided pony tail as it rhythmically pops over the head of the crowd and disappears again. useless excuse me’s and pardon me’s… the music is too loud for it to make any difference. one person actually told me the portable toilets are behind the DJ’s perch; another replied with a mildly slurred ‘we all feelin’ free’. she’s stopped and i’m close enough to get a hold of her so i shoot out my hand to grab her arm and catch Alisson instead.

"what the fuck is he doing here?" she questions Wren. she’s not at all pleased with my presence and doesn’t even try to hide it.
"you’re both in my life now and i don’t plan on severing old ties simply because you can’t stand each other," Wren replies.
"oh, i don’t hate her, you know. i’ve got no problem with her; she’s the one hating on me," i chime, pointing at Alisson with double-barreled fingers. Alisson responds by blowing cigarette smoke in my face while stepping real close to stare me down. she’s ready to throwdown but i’d rather chill. i don’t want to ring in the new year with a fresh set of bruises. Alie may be petit but her soft form hides some serious muscle, and i know first hand just how effective kung-fu is in the arsenal of a jealous ex-girlfriend.

"okay okay," Wren interrupts. "why don’t i just fetch us something to drink?" she scans both our faces for a response, rolls her eyes and sighs exasperatedly while disappearing into the crowd again.
"you’re only a phase for her, you know that. she’ll never really leave me," Alisson threatens, taking a drag of her cigarette. "she still calls me at night. we still talk for hours. we have an ‘established’ rapport. you can’t break that bond," she continued.
"i know she won’t. she explained the whole thing to me last week. i have no intention of getting in between you two. i’d be a hypocrite and it wouldn’t be in her nature to do that to you. she’s too loyal, even though you can be a damn psycho about it," i explain. she freezes in mid-motion, bringing the cigarette only halfway to her mouth. confusion and disbelief ‘graffiti’d’ all over her face.
"is this some kind of trick? are you trying to jedi mind-trick me or something? i swear i’ll fucking cut you," she responds dropping her cigarette to the ground while with the other hand simultaneously reaching into her back pocket…

"drinks iz herre!" Wren chimes just in time. Alisson stops and feigns a smile while still staring me down in the corner of her eye. "i got you a cranberry something-or-the-other. there might be alcohol in it but not too much to annoy you. sowwy," she continued.
"cranberry? what are you on your period or something?" Alisson wryly yells, as if to get the attention of as many people as possible. it wasn’t the music… she looked around for eyes but no one could have cared what was going on in our little pocket of the crowd, they were just having too much fun for any of our drama to matter.
"i don’t really drink, so…" i respond. she gets that confused look again and takes a swig of her… i don’t know what the hell she’s drinking. it’s green, but beyond that i’m clueless. must be her favorite drink because she gives Wren an approving look after her first swallow.
"you remembered! you remembered!" Alisson squeals. she brushes her hand along the length of Wren’s shoulder, just to get to me.
"how could i forget!" Wren replies and the two break out into a cute little song and dance, possibly recalling the event where that green drink originated. i can only assume.

"so what’s been going on since i left. you two looked pretty serious. am i going to have to referee again?" Wren jokes. her smile quickly dissipates when she sees Alisson’s expression. "oh come on!! look, if you two can’t make nice i’m going to have to make new ‘friends’ and drop you both. you’re seriously damaging my aura with your constant hostility towards each other, and keeping me from getting effectively stoned," Wren complained. perhaps she does actually care to keep both of us in her ‘circle’. at some point Alie and i are going to have to bury the hatchet.

"alright everybody! it’s about that time!" the DJ shouts out over a bull-horn. all three of us glance down at our time-pieces… Alisson checks her watch, i check my phone and Wren consults her pocket-watch. minutes to midnight. "let’s do this!" the DJ exclaims while switching to a driving drum beat seemingly aimed at building tension. "10… 9…" he starts…

"8…" the crowd joins in.
"7…" Wren joins in. both Alisson and i just feel to ourselves she’s going to kiss the closest one of us when ‘the ball drops’.
"6…" pushing and shoving ensues as we try to get closer to her.
"5…" i try to restrain her hands…
"4…" she grunts and knees me in the crotch. i keel over for a moment…
"3…" well i thought it would be a moment but DAMN! THAT REALLY HURT! i thought it was only painful in the movies, but she must have gotten her knee all the way into my stomach.
"2…" she turns her back on me and quickly fixes her hair. she drapes her arm around Wren’s shoulder and joins in with her at the last second…
"1… HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!" everyone erupts. the crowd throws their empty cups and confetti into the air and the music changes to a techno-inspired ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

as expected Wren turns to Alisson and plants a long drawn out kiss on her lips. fireworks going off in the background, it looked like Alisson won. was there tongue in there? Alisson flips me ‘the bird’ while they’re doing it. she’s working extra-hard to get on my nerves. i totally missed the boat. they break, Wren turns and sees me rising to my feet and plants a long drawn out kiss on my lips. yep, there was totally tongue. i return Alisson the favour of a one fingered salute times 2 as i flip both fingers in her direction. she grabs her crotch and mouths ‘eat me’.

she kissed us both… Alisson still hates me… my balls still haven’t come down out of my torso…

this year is going to be even more interesting…

the salty air – WIP…

spoon.

that’s how this one starts… spooning this gorgeous olive-skinned beauty, my left arm pinned under her slender neck. an ornate glyph-like tattoo on the back of her neck (a bridal tattoo?)… i’m facing the back of her head and she’s fast asleep, tired from an exciting night out. the details are fuzzy (was i drunk?) but i know i had fun too. that ache in my crotch… yeah, i definitely had fun. my stomach grumbles and i’m inspired to leave the bed and fix some grub. my arm is completely asleep too; i can move my fingers but i can’t quite feel them. i slip my arm from under her, careful not to wake her, while simultaneously easing my pillow to take its place.

finally free, i roll out of the bed and stretch; there’s a warm golden light pouring through an enormous ceiling to floor sliding glass door. beyond the wooden deck and railing past it, a vast expanse of water. the sun reflects harshly off the surface and hurts my eyes, but it’s hard to turn away from the spectacle. then it hits me: this isn’t the rising sun, this sun is setting! have we been asleep the entire day? massaging the blood back into my arm i walk out the door and breathe in deep… salty air fills my lungs. this isn’t my place; i couldn’t afford a house like this. it seems as though the house is actually in the middle of the ocean. what a ridiculous thought. a house in the middle of the ocean… houses don’t sit motionless on water…

i step back inside and take another look at her: long, straight, black hair, thick eyebrows and dark skin. she seems to glow a glorious golden colour in the evening sun. full lips just slightly parted, i can barely make out her front teeth. tracing her length with my eyes, i follow her form down. sleeveless white vest. she doesn’t wear a bra and i can make out the details of her bosom through the fabric. she’s not terribly stacked. her breasts are modest. she has strange crisscrossed glyphs tattooed on her upper arms, and silver and gold rings on her fingers. i check for the most important one… a naked finger… i sigh with relief inside my head. her mid-section is covered by the bed sheets, but not too much for me to notice she’s wearing white cotton boyshorts… they enhance the appearance of her stem-like legs. tiny toes (very edible) ‘decorated’ with silver rings complete the tour of her form. what’s this goddess’s name? something with a N, or L… or maybe an A… i can’t remember. maybe i should find a wallet so i kno….. my stomach grumbles again… i’ll play detective later.

there’s a door to my right and i head for it on tip-toes… i step out of the bedroom into a very dark hallway. it seems that all that light in the room came from the open door. light at the end of the ‘tunnel’… i follow with my arms akimbo. the wall feels textured, but i can’t quite make out the details. it feels like papyrus or something similar… on the way i meet a door on my right. i fish for a handle and try it. it opens to a bathroom with a toilet and bidet. it’s all porcelain-like. the room is clinically white but at the same time very inviting. stepping in further i notice that golden glow again to my right. the bathroom is connected to the bedroom. i peer in to see her still asleep. she’s barely moved a muscle. must have indeed been a great night. i relieve myself, wash up and head out again, continuing down the corridor towards the source of the light.

the kitchen, finally. i stumble while entering the sunken room. more white walls and porcelain accents. she has all her pots hanging overhead. counter-top stove, dishwasher (is she lazy?), tall but skinny refrigerator… i head to that first. let’s see here: chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, chèvre cheese, liverwurst, yogurt, foreign beer, sauvignon blanc (remember for later), something that looks like game hen, wine with a name probably no one can pronounce, and a door littered with jars of random condiments. this girl has expensive taste. hmm, creamed honey. i could do something with that. grab the heavy cream for tea, maybe the palm sugar. i dump them on the counter and examine the counters. a loaf of bread, a healthy looking orange, a lemon to wedge for the tea, a jar of ground coffee… guess the tea plan is off… ah! tea. Yellow Label, she’s into classics. alright, let’s get this going.

the mechanics of romance?

i can’t for the life of me figure out why anyone would want to define the act of intercourse as "making love". i find it to be quite a retarded way of thinking. the linking of one’s emotional state with a physical activity is strange at best, though not exclusively incorrect.

i enjoy hugs. i’d go as far as to say that hugs ROCK! i’m not sure how many people ever noticed it, but everytime i hug someone, anyone, regardless of gender, i close my eyes and soak it in.  automatically. it’s my vice, if one can call hugging a vice. i take them every chance i get. just ask Ana-Lucia how annoying my need to maul her for hugs is. she always tries to flee but i get my squeeze-time in. always.

it may sound creepy to you but i just really love hugging. i love it more than kissing and ‘making-out’ (what is making-out really?), and hugging often gets more points than say having sex. squeeze me while you’re hugging me, and i’ll be trying to find all means of getting back in your arms.

which brings me to the topic at hand, sex and romance. many people can tell you all sorts of things on the subject of romance and what romance entails, and what constitutes being romantic or a romantic. many people will also tell you that romance has absolutely nothing to do with sex, and that the two are mutually exclusive.

[rant]
i honestly don’t see what the problem is here, and why the two do in fact have to be separate activities. why can’t i be romantic with my face between her legs, or why can’t a woman be romantic with a cock in her mouth? are handjobs not romantic? how about fisting? can’t one be romantic while defiling their lover and talking dirty in the bedroom? and who’s to say that a hardcore alley-fuck creampie isn’t the most romantic thing on the planet?

and on that subject, sex in my book really isn’t the same as fucking. sex is that thing that married people do once a week, usually on Fridays. you schedule time to make it happen and you usually have to butter-up your spouse with food and alcoholic beverages to make it happen. it’s the reason wine coolers were invented i believe, as i am yet to hear of any unmarried woman claim to enjoy the occasional wine cooler the way one may enjoy the occasional scotch or glass of brandy or even a beer. in this context, they aren’t really "making love", the husband wants to "bust a nut" and the wife figures if she doesn’t facilitate she’d be deemed a bad wife. if the reverse ever happens, the wife has and itch and the husband is always glad to scratch it, mainly because he’s a man. pathetic.

fucking, however, is that thing you do when you just want to get off; fucking is when you pretty much find the nearest warm body to act as substitute for your fingers/hand/fist/sex-toy/etc. the saying does go "Mom I’d Love to Fuck" and not "Mom I’d Love to Have Sex With".
[/rant]

but i digress. the true purpose of the question mark in the subject of this entry is the fact that people seem to think that you need to be in love to have sex, and that the purpose of romance is to make someone fall in love with you. after re-analyzing the act of sexual intercourse, i’m still confused as to why anyone would find it remotely romantic. honestly now, achieving and erection so you can shove-n-retract it repeatedly until orgasm… please point out the part where your emotions come into play. i know right now you’re thinking that orgasm is supposed to be a deeply emotional experience but so should be peeing or making poop, not ‘making woopie’.

[EDIT]
hey. so after thinking about this a little more, i think that "making love" is in fact some activity that people the world over have for some reason associated with the act of sexual intercourse, which i still believe is just plain fucking (regardless of one’s emotional connection with the other).

perhaps the connection was made back when sexual intercourse was still considered a deeply personal activity that required a level of intimacy for it to actually happen. i believe that whatever this ‘activity’ is, one can most likely ‘make love’ without having sexual relations of any kind. i could be as simple as a tender touch or maybe the sweet nothings couples exchange.

don’t beat yourself up over it. like the quote above says, don’t expect love to enhance sex. it may seem like a bonus to some but in the end, it’s just a physical activity, with foreplay being pretty much fluffing your partner.

it just seems to me to be a very irresponsible practice to program people into thinking that sex is enhanced somehow by love or the state of being in love. it’s like telling little children that Santa Claus is real, or the tooth fairy is coming to give you coin for teeth.
[/EDIT]

my official stance on the soulmate thingee…

"i know there’s someone out there for me, i just don’t think she’s hanging at the places i hang. she’s probably been temporarily distracted by some other guy/girl who she presently thinks is ‘the one’.

i just wish she’d hurry up already. i haven’t seen her or met her yet but i know she’s out there. for now, i’ll just have to keep playin the field till we meet up on the same playground.

i know it sounds kinda foolish, and maybe hopeless romantic-like, but i do believe there’s someone out there for each of us, and we just haven’t had the fortune of meeting up with them just yet. everyone we end up with before meeting our ‘other halves’ are preparation for the ultimate union orchestrated by wiser and much more benevolent individuals than ourselves."

so my one and only honey-bunches-of-oats, if you’re out there and you think i’m your ‘other-you’, drop me a line and let’s quit fooling ourselves. we both know we belong together so let’s make it happen. i’m getting tired of waiting for you, hun.

but since what we have will be nothing short of epic, i’m contented to wait just a lil bit longer for you to grace me with your ever-present presence…

the evanescence of dreams…

so in the wee hours of thursday morning, after the pee-pee break (yes i wake up at least once every  night in total darkness with the tremendous need to take a whiz; maybe it’s the fact that i sleep with the fan trained hard on me :P)…

so anyway, in the wee hours…. ah hell! i have this dream that i’m in a room with Evangeline Lilly and some other dude (i can’t remember his face, but come to think of it he probably had a hood on or something because most of the time they don’t have faces) and we’re playing that flirting game where you ‘dance’ around each other in a confined space and act like you’re horny. you know, that game where you get SOOOOOO close to each other that you can catch the other person’s scent but you don’t actually touch each other, and the first one to use their hands loses?

c’mon! we’ve all played that game!

yeah, so, we end up sitting at opposite ends of a oddly small and freakishly hot room staring into each other’s eyes as flirtatiously as possible and she decides to up the ante. she gets up, walks across the room taking her time (and it feels like forever!) and starts walking circles around me, every so often leaning in to blow cool air on me, but i know she just wants me to smell her. she smells like sweat and cinnamon, like a perfume you swear you know but can’t place (i love the smell she’s got; it’s YUMMY!). then she sits on the very edge of my knee, her back is to me… the sensation is warm and i fight the urge to grab her hips and drag her close to me (i don’t know how we came to this point anyway).

not a word is exchanged between us. she turns to look over her shoulder… mischief and malice reflected in the glint of her eye. through this reflection i could see more of the room. there are no windows here but there is some kind of fire going… the only source of the light here or so i guess from the bright-orange-yellow flickers in those pale-green-yellow mirror-pools of deviance.

she gets up and i almost protests at the sudden loss of warmth… my skin feels cheated that it is being denied her presence. i can’t say this of course; it would mean forfeit for me to say anything to that effect… the game has now turned into "Resist Evangeline Lilly". this game i feel i will definitely lose, but i figure she expects this so i fight harder.

it’s quite pointless because my higher brain functions begin to give way to my feral instincts… and co-incidentally so does the fabric of my boxer-briefs. i can feel myself rage against the tight confines and try to force it’s way free of my jeans (when did i start wearing denim again?). it begins to hurt as my skin is "frictioned" more and more with every pulse that leaves my heart and travels to my extremities… i start to enjoy this self-induced torture, and she can tell she has me where she wants me. i can tell this is what she wanted.

but what does this goddess really want?

i start to lean forward to get up but she charges in the blink of an eye and mounts me like a cat. i’m startled by her weightlessness and her speed. my heart stops beating for maybe two seconds and i gasp. she continues to lean in on me, bracing her non-weight on the arms of my chair… her wildly frizzy hair brushes against my upper-arms and shoulders and my pores raise. a chill races down my arms and my back then through my legs. i shiver and my jaw drops as she brings her face within mere millimeters of mine. i drill into her eyes and i swear for an instant, i can see god in there. sweat beads on the tip of her chin and falls onto my now exposed tongue… i taste her bittersweetness and my will is broken.

i grab her hips and draw her forcefully towards my agonized ecstacy. there is a fire raging within the space between our bodies. the temperature is tremedous and unbearable but the distance remaining between our torsos annoys me. i close it with haste; she grunts and digs her nails into my forearms. her flesh yeilds to the presence of my palms… it is the most tender thing i have ever "experienced".

the game is tied now… we’ve both done some touching, and event though i touched first, her nails seem like punishment for not lasting longer. i grind my hands across her buttocks and lift her upwards till her lifeline is inline with my mouth. it glistens with sweat and my exhalations make her pores raise. the sight alone is all the inspiration i need to taste her flesh… my favorite part of the body, and i waste no time slipping my tongue into it… i feel her weight shift as she arches her head backwards in approval…

 

there’s more to this dream that i choose not to share. the embarrassment of what eventually occurs would be wasted on anyone but myself and the lady of my dream.

 

alarm on my phone blares and steals my bliss. dammit! is it 5:45 already? the dream stays with me all day. i mull over it. who was the man with no face and why did neither of us care he was there?

more importantly, how is it that i "experienced" this entire dream? i can still remember the smells, the sensations, the heat in that room… i can even remember how tender she felt in my hands. the only thing that did fit was her weightlessness. she didn’t really exist there, in that room of fire, with a man who had no face (or at least i didn’t recognise).

usually my dreams evanesce as soon as i wake up, but the vividity of this one… it lingers. i’m not complaining, but really just a bit unhappy it was just a dream.

waiting for technology nirvana…

these guys copy those guy… those guys copied these guys…

i’ll admit, i used to sling along with everybody else, but lately i’m getting tired of the slinging.
it’s repetitive and yawn-inducing, because while slinging is a bit self destructive it should at least be entertaining and slinging has lost its flavour.

i pledge alliegence to the windows flag because all my apps run on it. if i could get the exact same apps to run on a mac (sans emu/virtualization) then i’d switch back.
(yes you read that right; i switched AWAY from the macintosh for that exact same reason)

so today i’m formally climbing over from the flag-side of the fence to sit in the middle with what i assume is a very limited number of techies like myself, and wait for nirvana:

 

i just plugged my brother’s iPod into my windows box and synced all my opeth, metallica and nevermore to it using the apple ipod plugin for windows media player.

after that, i plugged my zune into kofster’s powerbook to grab his india.arie albums using iTunes 8 (with its support for MTP), and also got the latest trailers he downloaded from apple’s trailer site.
the h.264 trailers looked just as good on my zune as they do on his video iPod.

we talked for a while about a local photographer’s limited imagination with his shot choices (:P) and bad colour management, while monkeying with our own photos… both of us using apple’s aperture 3.x.

kofster traps xalahudynn’s latest crazy riff in garageband and sends it from his powerbook to my 9805 via wifi and i import it into windows movie maker 4 (without conversion). xalahudynn is psyched when he sees the final result uploaded to the band’s website.

cereal killer tt IMs me to join the latest F.E.A.R. fragfest starting in a few minutes. he, reddo and myself linkup and shoot each other in the face a couple times… killer on his Linux box, reddo on his windows box, and me loosing horribly playing on a xbox360! should’ve used kofster’s mac; might have sucked less with his razer mouse and keyboard!

xalahudynn stops by to find out how the fragging went; i tell him i sucked and he laughs. he mentions yet another wicked riff and wifis it to my desktop computer from his <insert cellphone here> mobile.

father pulls up in the garage with the groceries; i help unload the trunk while my 7370 syncs pics to kofster’s mac via Bluetooth; kofi-porn slips by (oops!) and i yell about being blinded… though my vision comes back just in time to see the hot piece of ass he bagged in the next picture!

blah… blah… blah…

 

i can’t wait…

Your Best Friend’s Girlfriend – What’s a guy to do?

so bear with me here as i ramble in a very crude and questionable manner, about things that i had in an old OneNote archive…

The other day, while sitting in the toilet — where I admittedly do my best thinking, and hatch some of my best ideas (just look at my programming project) — I got to thinking about this topic. How? Well, I like to read in the john, and there was a Glamour magazine nearby… One of the articles was really a small collection of responses from guys who have this fckd-up situation: their best friend has the hot girlfriend they never got the chance to meet first.

There are very few things worse than this, one of them being the hot best friend of your girlfriend/boyfriend. I can tell you from personal experience that you never ever EVER want to end up there. It can only lead to trouble, especially if the girlfriend in question is “jonesing” for the boyfriend’s best friend. It’s a tragic story, and probably recurs more frequently than we think. This story starts off really great… under the guise of your average run-of-the-mill love story, where boy finds girl, boy falls in love with girl, boy’s friends and family approve of girl… that sort of thing. Then everything takes a nose dive as the story progresses into forbidden territory, appropriately labeled ‘Forbidden Love’.

One of two things usually happens at this point.

One of them (Scenario 1) is the scenario where the boyfriend’s best friend – who is either a real sweetheart or a kind and gentle brooder/hopeless romantic – spends oodles of time with the hot girlfriend. Being the eternal sucker for hopeless romantics, she develops super-mushy feelings for the boyfriend’s best friend and they eventually share a passionate kiss or maybe a bed, which BTW they swear is a one time occurrence and pledge to never let it happen again because she really loves the boyfriend. The boyfriend eventually finds out because they can’t stick to the pledge and are caught in a compromising position, soon after which the story ends with several broken bones, a wrecked friendship and a trashed budding romance, because the hot girlfriend can’t stand to see either of the guys because it hurts too much. Great ending, huh?

The other (Scenario 2) involves the best friend falling in love with the hot girlfriend because he swears to himself – and in some cases, a bartender as well – that the hot girlfriend is the one and only love of his life and eternally promised soul mate. He then sets out on a mission to woo her, most of the time saying exactly what she wants to hear… or at least what he thinks women want to hear. Then finally plants a sloppy wet one on her and hopes for sparks. The rest of the story usually ends a lot like the first scenario does, with a lot of pain and remorse.

Of course in a perfect world, where God actually likes you, she sucks down the guilt and stays with the boyfriend’s best friend because it is in him, she finds herself reflected so perfectly.

In reality though, God probably doesn’t like you, and in all likelihood, God hates you.

After studying the topic enough, I’ve come to the conclusion that the best friend must sever all ties with his best bud so that he can keep all his limbs in one piece. Why? Well I thought that maybe getting a WAY hotter girlfriend would only serve to attract the attention of the best friend’s hot girlfriend, thus resulting in an equally cataclysmic variation of Scenario 1.

Alternately, you could make an offering to some dark and twisted underground god to have the hot girlfriend die so you and your best friend can mourn her together and not have to worry about any of the above scenarios coming to life. That wasn’t a suggestion though, because that would be really sick… particularly in the head… brain-wise… and geez! think about the ehtics of such a thing!

What’s a guy to do?

The Importance of Male Sexual Prowess in Our Society.

so bear with me here as i ramble in a very crude and questionable manner, about things that i had in an old OneNote archive…

Crippled from the neck down but you can still get it up?

A while ago, I was lumped together in the backseat of the family-mobile with my sister on our way to school/work/friends’ and we were discussing this very topic. I can’t for the life of me figure out why it is soooo important! When you really think about it, the very men who often if not all the time brag about their "godlike sexual prowess" are completely missing the point. The purpose and originally intended function of the penis and associated hardware was coupling with intent to reproduce. The funny thing though — and not many people realize it yet… well maybe one person out there — is that these ‘men’ are afraid of the idea of pregnancy and the like. They shudder at the sight of a pregnant woman… hell! If it were the same woman they had a grand grind with in a club somewhere 7 months earlier, they wouldn’t give her a second glance.

What the hell is up with that?

Anyway… back to the story…

So we’re talking about men who boast and brag forever about how their 10-foot dicks have touched bottom so many times, and how women automatically get together to make a droll pool in the bar whenever they enter the room, or my personal favorite… the eternal erection! My father brought up one such instance, relating the story of a guy who was crippled and in a wheelchair and still "tapping ass" on a daily basis. I know it sounds silly (as it should) but I swear this guy thinks he’s King Lothario or something! I think it was from the neck down! Every man should aspire to be crippled from the neck down, because it has obviously done wonders for his sex life!!

So it brings me to the question: Why is male sexual prowess so important in today’s society?

I’m going to conduct a survey to see if I can get to the root of the reason for this macabre obsession.

Send your responses to mventour@gmail.com y’all!

The Male Menopause

so bear with me here as i ramble in a very crude and questionable manner, about things that i had in an old OneNote archive…

I’ve heard it said that men over 40 have a banging sex life. Maybe it’s the grey hair or the fact that they’ve been around the block already that seems to attract the attention of women you could only dream would notice you on your best day (another survey perhaps?). I’ve also heard it said that experience is one of the best aphrodisiacs. Maybe that’s the key to getting frequent ass in your 40’s… in which case I can’t wait to get old, grey, wrinkled, and divorced so I can start prowling for pussy. It could be that "my first love is my daddy" thing women seem to have going on in their heads… it seems to roll that way even if their father is/was totally ばか やろう and abused her and the rest of the family for years so that they’re all in joint therapy in desperate hopes to get the bastard to break down and cry or something useless like that.

Don’t get me wrong here… I’m not knocking therapy. I’m sure there are people out there whose lives have changed for the better because of the sympathetic ear therapists have lent to them.

But I digress… again…

Scientists discovered years ago that women stop producing eggs at a certain age and enter the realm of menopause. Menopause is where the hormonal soup women have been dealing with since puberty changes dramatically because a few of the ingredients get dropped from the cookbook. This is what causes the hot flashes, hot flushes, and decreased libido. Scientists also discovered that men don’t have this problem. While ovaries run out of eggs, testes never stop producing sperm… and that’s why there are far more stories of 80 year old grandpas fathering children than there are stories of 75 year old grannies pregnant with their 17th child. We see these stories and smile (I know I do), thinking to ourselves, "they must be soooo happy to be getting a chance to do it all over again!" but we never really stop to analyze the situation very well.

Think about it… a woman in her 70’s being pregnant, going into labour, delivering the baby, breast-feeding… I know some of you shuddered at the breast-feeding thing, but that’s not what matters. Everything I’ve just listed, from pregnancy to delivery and even the breast-feeding make powerful demands of a woman’s body. Imagine a 75 year old woman who probably has trouble putting together a jigsaw puzzle because of her eyesight and arthritis, dealing with the added body weight and hormone soup that results in morning sickness and daily nausea. By the way, the heavier you get, the harder your heart has to work to pump blood to the muscles to handle the new workload. An overworked heart, bad joints, poor eyesight and motor skills… sounds like a nightmare to me. Why would a 75 year old woman want to have kids again is beyond me. Then again, maybe they don’t want to have kids at that age because of the risks involved… or maybe they think they’ve done it all already.

They don’t have to do anything but play bridge and die.

Who the hell really knows?

Now scientists may not think it, but being the layman I am, I believe that men have a different kind of menopause, but instead of losing a few chemicals, they loose something else. I can’t put my finger on it yet, but it’s there (or rather not there?)… that thing that makes a normally rational middle-aged man sell his hatchback and spend ¾ of his pension or retirement fund on a pussy-magnet sports car. Maybe he’s heard the stories about old men getting more ass because they’re old, and now wants to capitalize…