Marijuana Sex Lube
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Posted:Aug 26, 2014 10:36 pm
Last Updated:May 14, 2024 9:58 am
3291 Views
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from the internet:
A couple months ago we brought you the extraordinary story of vaginal lube that could get you high. Science, what a goddamn miracle. Cures disease, gets your genitals blazed. This is the kinda stuff they should be teaching in schools. Anyway, someone's finally tried it and reported back. That someone, unsurprisingly, is very cool Canadian punk Mish Way. For VICE.
And daaaang does that shit work. But first, here's what Foria - the name of the weed lube - reckons it can do for you:
Women report a sense of embodiment, a sense of dropping into a more full relationship to sexual sensations, and sensations around the body. As you can imagine, as that builds up to orgasm, if orgasm is a part of your experience, then that can lead to intensification and a more full body experience."
So Mish starts by talking to Matthew Gerson, the creator of Foria, and he says a bunch of extremely dubious sounding stuff about how the marijuana plant and the human vagina evolved together, or something. Blah blah science, then Gerson takes a hike like "I'm going on vacation, good luck!" and we get to the actual test phase. Bing bang boom:
"Every morning I gave it four sprays and again in the mid afternoon. My boyfriend and I had a lot of sex and monitored how things were changing, if they even were. Sex was intense. I noticed certain things felt different and orgasms were longer, way crazier, and felt enhanced. When we were just banging the old-fashioned way, I felt it all over in a more focused sense, like everything was working outwards from my stoned little cunt. I mean, without sounding too granola here, it was pretty good, and I don’t know whether that was the mixture of the Foria between my legs and my mouth."
Mish also says that spraying it into her mouth made her feel all the #posi effects associated with weed smoking, which she found actual weed too strong to enjoy. As someone who has ruined way too many nights by greening out, I'm probably gonna try getting my hands on this weed lube to find out why everyone likes weed so much. And also to get my dick stoned because, y'know, why not?
You can read Mish Way's full account at VICE and then listen to some of the very good music she makes in the band White Lung below. And like, buy a record or something. They're great.
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the penis museum
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Posted:Apr 10, 2011 6:44 pm
Last Updated:Aug 26, 2014 10:31 pm
6236 Views
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from the internet:
In a world arguably obsessed with the penis, Iceland's Sigurdur Hjartarson could quite possibly be the most obsessed. A self-proclaimed "phallologist," he has been chasing after penises in his home country for over 25 years. He owns more than 100 penises, and he likely knows more about penile parts and penile behavior than any other living human. He is, in "phallological" circles, the Man.
If you visit him in Reykjavík, the capital of Iceland, and ask him to explain the differences between the penile parts of, say, a polar bear and a bearded seal, he will almost certainly respond helpfully, and in great detail. If you show proper respect for the science of phallology and ask him about his favorite penis, he will almost certainly demur and say something polite like "I like them all" or "I always like the last one the best." But if you dare to ask the world's only curator of a phallological museum about "that American reporter, the one who tried to write a feature story about you," he will almost certainly cringe.
That American reporter is, of course, me.
Though I am persona non grata with Hjartarson today, our relationship started on a friendly enough note nearly three years ago.
Near the end of my monthlong trip through Iceland, after seemingly visiting every major tourist attraction in the 110,000-population capital city, good fortune struck. On a street just off Laugevegur, the main drag of the old section of town, I spotted the Icelandic Phallological Museum. More good fortune: The curiously named museum, open just three hours a day, was open. The place was tiny (convenience store size) and the price was high (300 Icelandic krónur, or $4), but hell, I knew I'd never find a cheaper penis museum.
Inside, I was surrounded by more penises than at any point since high school gym classes. They were hanging on the walls, stuffed in jars, displayed with curatorial love -- dried penises, penises embalmed in formaldehyde, massive penises displayed like hunting trophies. A tanned bull's penis, a smoked 's penis. There were runty, shriveled penises of reindeer, foxes, minks and rats. There were seal and walrus penises with stiff penis bones -- ensuring a perpetually erect state. There was the Big Penis -- a 3-foot-long blue whale penis (which could have been an oar for a canoe). There was even a picture of an eagerly anticipated addition to the collection, the Homo sapiens penis. (Icelander Pall Arason, born in 1915, signed an official document willing his penis to the museum.)
Overseeing this vast collection of penises was an unassuming white guy, probably in his 50s, who told me he believed it to be the only collection of its kind in the world. I revealed my fascination and my reporter identity, and said that I would, perhaps, like to contact him in the future about a story. He smiled, and gave me a business card: "Sigurdur Hjartarson, Director." He was happy to help.
I then purchased a few postcards of whale penises from his museum shop, I sent one to a friend with a guyish remark and that was it.
Until last spring. I had developed a terrible desire to return to Iceland for another summer trek. I started trolling around the Internet one day, just sentimentally keyword-searching for Icelandic things, when I remembered the penis collector.
A Web search soon revealed that the Icelandic Phallological Museum was not some kitschy, wax museum thing. Hjartarson, a schoolteacher and published author who wrote an Icelandic-to-Spanish textbook, was very serious about the science of phallology. He was expanding his collection. Two more humans had agreed to will their family jewels to Hjartarson. Foreign specimens, such as the phallic bone of an Ohio skunk and the testicles of a Danish red fox, were being added. Most significantly, though, after 25 years, Hjartarson was inching closer to his goal of collecting the penis of every mammalian species native to Iceland. (He had 40 of 42 penises.)
I started wondering: What possibly could have triggered his quest to collect every penis native to Iceland? And what would Hjartarson do once the 42nd Icelandic penis was obtained?
None of the pieces I read about the Phallological Museum sufficiently answered my questions. They were jokey news items, like a blurb from Philadelphia radio station Y100's "bizarro" file. And there was a short, double-entendre-laced wire piece: "Members Only at Iceland Phallological Museum." And Chuck Shepherd, of "News of the Weird," supposed connoisseur of the eccentric, devoted a mere paragraph to Hjartarson, with the dismissive headline "Too Much Time on Their Hands." None of the reporting on the penis museum answered my burning question: What did neighbors think when they saw the guy across the street lugging whale penises into his garage?
A void existed. A great story was still untold.
Last fall I e-mailed Hjartarson, proposing my story. I made it clear from the outset that this would be unlike earlier stories about him. This was not just about the museum -- this was about him, how he developed his phallological interest, how others perceived his phallological interest. As a feature, this process would take some time, I explained. I would begin the interview with sets of e-mailed questions and then, if questions lingered, I would call him. I warned, in no uncertain terms, that "the number of questions, and the detail of the questions, may be greater than you're accustomed to."
When Hjartarson got back to me, he seemed enthused. He apologized for his tardy response, saying he had been very busy recently. He asked me to resend my questions, and he promised to answer promptly.
And he did. On Sunday, Oct. 29, I got Part 1 of his story:
The first penis. It was 1946 or 1947. Just after the end of the Great War, Hjartarson is working in the countryside in northern Iceland when a friend gives him four bull's penises. Hjartarson dries the penises, and gives three of them to friends as Christmas gifts.
The idea. In 1974, nearly 30 years after that Christmas, he's working as a headmaster at a secondary school. Some of his teachers worked at a whaling station during summer vacation. (This was, of course, before the International Whaling Commission banned commercial whaling.) These teachers started bringing him penises from the station. Then the idea for the museum was born. The museum would profile penises from all the mammal species in and around Iceland. And so the quest began.
Hjartarson also shed light on other aspects of the penis-collecting process. Domestic animals, such as sheep and horses, come from slaughterhouses. Seals and small whales are mostly caught in fishermen's nets. As for the whale penises in his collection, many originally came from commercial whaling stations. But even after the 1986 ban, whale penis collecting continues. Each year, Hjartarson estimated, 12 to 16 whales get stranded in Iceland. And in Iceland, he wrote, when a whale gets stranded, it's immediately on the television news. So when Hjartarson learns of a beached whale, he will travel to the spot to see if he can get the penis.
Wow. Hjartarson was a model source, giving me detailed answers to my questions. I was envisioning great things -- a gripping narrative about the life of a penis chaser, like some Indiana Jones of penises. I wanted to re-create that moment when Hjartarson sits down to dinner, only to spot an Icelandic news reporter on the evening news, standing in front of a beached sperm whale. What happens? Does he jump into a battered Volvo and race through a blinding snowstorm to an isolated beach, where he emasculates the monster with an ax?
I was also dying to know what happened on Christmas Day 1946 or 1947 in northern Iceland. What were the expressions on the faces of Hjartarson's friends as he unwrapped their gift ... it could be cologne ... it could be a tie ... no -- it's a tanned bull's penis.
Writing just days after he had obtained the well-preserved penis of a white-beaked dolphin ("the limb was whole, pelvic bones, and both testicles"), Hjartarson sounded like he was ready for more questions. He concluded his e-mail with an encouraging invite. A teachers strike was possible in Iceland and, after Nov. 7, "being a full-time teacher I may have plenty of time after that date."
Great: I was in for unprecedented access. I seized the opportunity, firing off Round 2 of the interview with 10 more questions. Some were follow-ups -- asking for more details (such as "tell me about Christmas Day 1946"). Others were of a more personal nature. (Remember, this was to be a profile.) I prefaced my personal questions with the assumption that some folks think penis collecting is unusual. I had, in fact, read that the government of Iceland rejected Hjartarson's request for arts funding. I asked him about this. I asked him about what friends, neighbors and family members thought of his hobby. I wanted to hear about both "positive and negative" perceptions of penis collecting. I also revealed that whenever I told friends that I was writing a story about a penis collector, their instinctive reaction was "Is he gay?" I continued: "I've read, to the contrary, that you're a heterosexual man, married with . Is this true???"
That second message was not well received.
"Judging from your questions, you must be an American," he wrote. Hjartarson was evidently suspicious of me. I had introduced myself (name, publication, background) in my initial e-mail. But now, strangely, he was asking for this same information again. He didn't like some of my questions, and wouldn't proceed until he "knew how the information would be used."
OK. I wrote back immediately, hoping to allay any fears that I was some chump reporter looking for penis jokes. I listed publications (New York Times, Washington Post) that I had written for in the past. I told him about my Icelandic experience and referenced a friend in Iceland. I reiterated that this was a feature story, so the reporting was inherently more detailed than that for a regular news piece. And I even attempted to justify what I feared was my most controversial question, writing, "If I was writing a story about a woman who collected sex organs, I would ask about her sexual orientation, too." Readers, I explained, will want to know.
There was no response from Iceland.
A few days later, I tried again, with a simple "just checking to see if you received my e-mail" message. A week passed with no response.
My third e-mail injected some urgency into the plea: "This is going to be a great story. I'd really love to wrap this up. So please ..."
Nada.
Of course, by this point, I feared the worst. But I also considered other factors. Maybe he's not receiving my messages. Maybe he's mired in some teacher-strike negotiations. Maybe another white-beaked dolphin got caught in a net.
Enough speculation. It was time for us to talk.
On the morning of Dec 6, at 9:02 a.m. Central, 3:02 p.m., Reykjavík time, I called the world's foremost penis collector.
After hearing my name and my attempted chumminess -- "I'm the American reporter, just followin' up" -- Hjartarson stopped me. "I'm not answering your questions. I do not want to have anything to do with this anymore."
Sensing the intense anger in his voice, sensing that there was little hope for persuading him to proceed, I said, "OK. Just answer this: Why? Why don't you want to participate anymore?"
He responded, without pause: "You insulted me."
Before I had a chance to say anything more, he hung up.
In my short journalism career, this was a first. There were people who wouldn't -- or couldn't -- answer my questions. There was once a woman in Queens who barked out answers to my questions, then told me to "get the hell out." But never before had a source accused me of insulting him or her.
I contacted a friend in Iceland for counsel. Was the sexual-orientation question that big of a deal? Absolutely, he advised. Iceland, a country whose most famous citizen is avant-garde songstress Björk, is not the Bible Belt. In fact, on the global scale, it's a sexually progressive place -- Reykjavík has a lively gay scene. But Hjartarson is an oldster, in his late 50s, from rural northern Iceland, who worked as a cowboy in his youth. He may, my friend noted, have taken unkindly to a question about his sexual preference.
I felt bad. I remembered our first encounter and his friendly smile. I remembered those lighthearted cheery answers to my questions. (About his 85-year-old human penis donor, he joked: "He's said to be active 'both vertically and horizontally.'")
I meditated briefly on Hjartarson's perspective. There he was, a married father, a grandfather, working away, teaching classes by day, curing and drying the penises of Iceland in his free time. Enter my e-mail. He's thinking, "No big deal. A few questions, a few answers, a few more visitors to my museum." But this time, the reporter is a nosy, sex-obsessed American who has the gall to wonder if his pursuit of Icelandic penises means he's a fag.
I sent off one final e-mail, an attempt at peace, a quest for closure. "What did I ask that you felt was insulting?"
- - - - - - - - - - - -
It's late January, nearly two months after my last contact. There is still no word from Reykjavík.
I have accepted that I will not know what happened that Christmas in 1946 or 1947. I know that when I visit Iceland next, and when I inevitably visit the museum, I will not declare, "Hey, I'm that American reporter who e-mailed you." (Instead, I will browse the penises incognito.)
But I do maintain my journalistic innocence. I was pleading my case to a friend last week, a former reporter and newspaper editor, who I think is fairly representative of conservative American attitudes. The friend, an obsessively ethical, righteous guy, initially scoffed and said, "You just don't ask people about their sex life."
I persisted. C'mon. Is it wildly inappropriate to ask a man who has spent much of the past 25 years chasing after -- and collecting -- penises about "perceptions of his sexual orientation"?
My friend softened. "Yeah, a guy who collects penises shouldn't be homophobic."
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are you a sex maniac ?
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Posted:Apr 10, 2011 6:40 pm
Last Updated:May 14, 2024 9:58 am
5873 Views
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from the internet:
Once, admitting to being a sex maniac meant a sojourn at a psychiatric hospital where the only things guaranteed to brighten up your day were bromide enemas. Sex maniacs, often dressed in raincoats, ravished unsuspecting women on country paths or flashed at them on secluded side streets. They lured from swing parks with promises of sweets. They lurked in dark alleys and hung about at bus stations.
Now, confessing to being a sex maniac is greeted with whoops of delight. Sex mania is the new chastity. If you are not a sex maniac, there is something suspect about you. In fact, you might as well be Ann Widdecombe because if you don't start going at it, you are going to start looking like her. Then no one will want you and you will have to take refuge in a bottle of gin with only a house full of cats and towers of newspapers for company. Not liking sex is akin to not liking chips or Harry Potter. In short, it is wrong.
Hence, Stuart and Emma admit with great glee to being "self-confessed sex maniacs". The couple, who have only been married six months after a three year relationship, have agreed to take part in Can You Live Without... Sex? (Channel 4) to ascertain whether they rely too much on sex within their relationship. So a film crew move in, set up CCTV cameras in their boudoir, build them single beds just far enough apart to prevent midnight fumbling (unless Stuart is secretly Inspector Gadget) and film the results. In the end we watched cheap voyeurism masquerading as a social experiment. They are pretty predictable, though not without some jollity.
With no physical contact allowed, the couple resort to age-old coping mechanisms. Stuart spends a lot of time with his male friends playing snooker and on an exercise bike talking about sex, while Emma eats lots of chocolate and stops brushing her hair (thus proving the Ann Widdecombe thesis). While Emma becomes snappish and sullen, Stuart shows his male fear of growing old. He does this, rather strangely, by holding a winceyette nightie up to himself. We can only assume he is also frightened of becoming a transvestite in later life.
While Can You Live Without... is mildly diverting as a series, there were a number of problems with this episode. Firstly, the whole premise of the format is to see whether individuals can do without something they view as essential. With sex, this premise is undermined when you realise that in another 12 months the pair will stop having sex - with each other, at least - entirely of their own volition because they will have been married for 18 months. The people who tried to live without their secretaries or their make-up will still be employing them.
Secondly, who would agree to participate in such a programme? Sure, Stuart is a mobile phone salesman but he can't be completely devoid of shame. Emma looks like a nice girl, albeit one with dodgy tastes in decor. What possible motive could you have for going on television to proclaim you are not having sex (other than to maintain that you had loads of sex before)? Could it be that the pair will go to any lengths to get on the telly? Will they do anything for their 22 minutes of fame? One thing is certain - if either of them ever pops up on Michael Barrymore's My Kind of Music, we will know it was all a scam.
But lastly, the biggest flaw of all with Can You Live Without... Sex? is this: Stuart and Emma say they spend around 25 hours a month having sex. Does that really qualify as sex mania? Young people today - no stamina.
Cheaper voyeurism masquerading as investigative documentary, Lesbians Behaving Badly (Sky One) was a hoot and tried not too hard to prove its serious credentials. Nell McAndrew narrated from the back of a moped in her best 0898 voice, but the "red-hot lipstick lesbian action" (pole dancing, snogging, wearing not very much and posing on a motorbike) was as appealing as sticking pins in your eyes. Surely there can't be anyone who seriously gets their kicks from stuff like this? For goodness' sake, buy yourself some proper porn.
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Asian sex survey - results
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Posted:Apr 10, 2011 6:38 pm
Last Updated:Aug 26, 2014 10:32 pm
6082 Views
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from the internet:
Thai one on
A sex survey in several Asian countries reveals a special love of spanking in one nation.
Along with the beautiful scenery and relaxed attitude you'll find in Thailand, you might see Thai couples spanking one another's bottoms until they turn bright pink, cheered on by gays waiting in line for seconds. According to a new sex survey in Asian countries, people in Thailand seem to enjoy getting their butts spanked, and have no problem with homosexuality.
According to the Bangkok Post, the survey conducted by Time Asia magazine questioned men and women in Hong Kong, Thailand, South Korea, Singapore and the Philippines. Respondents indicated that they all liked the missionary position best for intercourse -- apparently it's good to always keep an eye on things -- but from there on out results differed widely.
Koreans, for instance, are apparently the biggest consumers of pornography, especially among women: Nearly a third of Korean females admitted to watching porn, with 28 percent saying they had hunted for it online in the past three months. But the nation with the most eager women seems to be Singapore, where 18 percent of females say they initiate sex -- the most of any country. This statistic may shed light on the fact that Singapore also boasts the most faithful couples, with two-thirds of the men bragging that they have never strayed outside their relationships.
But it is Thailand that offers the most sexual freedom. In the spanking department, 37 percent of Thai men and 34 percent of women gave a thumbs up to the bottom swat (a reassuring figure, especially for those in the paddle business). Thai men were also the most accepting of gays, with 47 percent saying they have no problems with homosexuality. (Compare this with South Korea, where only 23 percent reported a positive attitude toward gays.)
Among all the countries surveyed, Hong Kong consistently ranked at the bottom in sexiness. Only 2 percent of men there reported enjoying getting their ass smacked, and a mere 5 percent of men and 16 percent of women said they consider themselves sexy.
Residents of Hong Kong are encouraged to quit their jobs and head to the Philippines, where 68 percent of women and 55 percent of men think they've got it going on sexually. Or, if they're feeling especially liberated, perhaps they should go to Bangkok for a good spanking.
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good news - frequent sex 3x a week helps you look younger
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Posted:Apr 10, 2011 6:35 pm
Last Updated:May 14, 2024 9:58 am
5811 Views
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from the internet:
Frequent Sex May Help You Look Younger
(HealthScout) -- Troubled by wrinkles around your eyes? Worried that your skin is sagging, or those gray hairs are making you look your age?
So have sex.
Making love three times a week can make you look 10 years younger, claims a Scottish researcher. "It's good for you to have good sex," says David Weeks, a clinical neuropsychologist at the Royal Edinburgh Hospital, whose study on the effects of sex on aging appears in his book, Secrets of the Superyoung.
Over the last 10 years, Weeks and his colleagues interviewed 3,500 European and American men and women on a variety of lifestyle topics. Participants ranged in age from 20 to 104, but most were 45 to 55 years old.
The thing they had in common: They looked young for their age. That's what a six-judge panel decided after watching the interviewees through a one-way mirror. The volunteer judges guessed the participants' ages from seven to 12 years younger than their actual ages, Weeks says.
Interview topics ranged from how they deal with stress within relationships, how they get along with their parents and high and low points of their lives, to prior sexual experiences, how often they had sex and whether they enjoyed it.
A vigorous sex life, Weeks says, was the second-most important determinant of how young a person looked. Only physical activity proved more important than sex in keeping aging at bay, he says.
Other major influences on keeping a person young-looking included socializing with people of all ages, being married to or in a relationship with someone younger and, for women, taking hormone replacement therapy during menopause, Weeks says.
So, how often should you do it?
The young-looking participants had sex an average of three times a week, Weeks says. By comparison, a group of men and women in the same age bracket and from similar neighborhoods reported having sex an average of twice a week, he says.
More frequent sex -- more than three times a week -- didn't seem to produce any added benefits, Weeks says.
Casual sex doesn't count
And casual sex with different partners, or cheating, did not slow the aging process, the researchers say. In fact, Weeks says, it may cause premature aging from worry and stress.
"The sex doesn't work without a good relationship," Weeks says. "It works via a relationship that is very supportive and emphatic, in which both people are physically and emotionally compatible."
Others agree that sex can be good for your health.
"It's extremely important to your health," says Dr. Barbara Bartlik, a clinical professor of psychiatry at Weill Medical College of Cornell University in New York City. "It promotes marital harmony. The stresses and strains become more manageable when a couple is having sex regularly."
And Carol Ellison, a California psychologist and author of Generations of Women Share: Intimate Secrets of Sexual Self-Acceptance, says previous research has shown other physiological benefits to sex as well.
Sex can burn fat and cause the brain to release endorphins, naturally occurring chemicals that act as painkillers and reduce anxiety, she says. In men, sex seems to stimulate the release of growth hormones and testosterone, which strengthens bones and muscles. In both men and women, research has shown, sex also seems to prompt the release of substances that bolster the immune system.
And people who have lots of sex, Ellison says, tend to eat better and exercise more.
But three times a week may not be optimal for everyone, she says. People who are healthier and feel younger, for instance, may want more frequent sex.
Plus, she adds, sex means different things to different people.
To Weeks, sex and orgasms are one and the same. In his study, the researchers assumed that people who said they had sex three times a week also had orgasms three times a week.
"Sex is the most pleasurable activity people take part in, and because the orgasm is the most pleasurable of that, it's hard to separate it out," Weeks says. "It's hard to say if it accounts for 50 percent or 75 percent" of the beneficial effects.
Does sex = orgasm?
But Ellison believes good sex can take many forms.
"We're caught up in this idea that sex equals orgasm," Ellison says. "You don't have to put on a performance when you have sex. You don't even have to have intercourse."
Preoccupation with orgasm, especially among women, can make them feel like a failure in bed when it doesn't happen, she says.
"The key is not, 'How am I doing? Am I getting turned on fast enough? Is this going to happen?' " she says. "The key is, 'Am I enjoying what is happening at this moment?' "
How often those moments occur seems to depend on where in the world you live.
Americans had the most sex in 1999, according to a recent survey of 18,000 men and women between 16 and 25 years of age conducted by SSL International, the British manufacturer of Durex condoms.
The worldwide average was 96 times a year, but Americans claimed to have had sex 132 times a year, followed by the Russians (122), French (121) and Greeks (115). Young Japanese made love the least often (32 times a year), the survey says.
Americans also seem to be getting a head start on people from other countries, reporting the earliest average age at which they started having sex. Americans lost their virginity at an average age of 16.4 years, followed by Brazilians at age 16.5 and the French at 16.8, the survey says.
The French had the most sexual partners, claiming an average of 16.7 each. Greeks were second with 15 partners each, followed by Brazilians with 12.5 and Americans with 11.8. Residents of India were the most faithful to their partners, with 82 percent saying they had sex with just one person.
But Bartlik says it's best to take the survey with a grain of salt. Researching sexual behavior is difficult, she says, because it's hard to get truthful answers. Some people inflate their answers on purpose, and for many questions it's difficult to give precise responses unless you've kept a weekly chart of sexual activity, she says.
"Perception is everything," Bartlik says. "Just look at the Woody Allen movie [Annie Hall]. He says, 'We never have sex.' She says, 'We're having sex all the time.' "
For information on other recent studies on sexuality, check out the Web site of the Kinsey Institute, or to read more about the global survey, visit the Durex Web site.
Reference Source 101
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women - do you like sex-only relationships ?
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Posted:Apr 10, 2011 6:33 pm
Last Updated:May 14, 2024 9:58 am
5956 Views
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from the internet:
No strings attached
What do women want from a man? Not too much, it seems - sex, the odd bit of DIY. But increasingly they can do without cohabitation
A friend in her late thirties confides that she intends to end a four-month relationship with a man who initially came round to plaster her living room ceiling. 'We have nothing to talk about,' she announces. 'No common ground. We do have very good sex - and I'll miss that - but I would like to have very good sex with someone I can talk to afterwards.'
Sounds reasonable. I wonder when she intends to inform him that his services are no longer required. 'In three or four weeks.' Three or four weeks having sex - even very good sex - with someone with whom you cannot communicate sounds like stretching it a bit. I suggest she deals with it sooner (these things are never easy, but cruel to be kind and all that). She explains: 'He's putting up shelves. I'll wait until he's done the bedroom because it's driving me nuts, having nowhere to put my magazines.' How we howl. I am reminded of my three-year stint as editor of more! magazine in the mid-Nineties, largely spent inventing features along the lines of 'Useful jobs for a boyfriend to have' and jacking up sales with supplements with titles such as 'Men: A User's Guide'. The whole premise was that men were to tease, have fun and frolic with; not 'please' or 'turn on' or crowbar into commitment as the previous generation of women's magazines had kindly instructed us. The editorial team - in their early twenties, like our readers - dreamed up 'features'; games involving the staff consuming enormous quantities of alcohol and pouncing on men enjoying quiet after-work drinks. On one occasion, the sole male staffer was 'auctioned off' and dispatched on a trip to the States with a young female reader who yelped with delight at having 'won' him. Which is precisely how young women are supposed to behave. We were raised on Just Seventeen - all cockiness and no-messing sex advice - not Jackie, in which agony aunts Cathie and Claire would sternly warn readers not to 'go too far' or 'let' boys fiddle with the clasps of their bras. The remainder of the magazine consisted of tips on ïgetting him to notice you', implying an awful lot of time dawdling about on drizzly football pitches, batting eyelashes hopefully.
In the Corinthian, a vast, ornate bar off George Square in Glasgow, there is major hair, make-up and flirtation going on. I meet a lively group of women. 'The older I get, the more picky I'm becoming,' says Jill Riddiford, a 36-year-old actress. 'The other night, a gay male friend and I were discussing how intolerant we'd become: how we ruled out men who were rude to waitresses or bank clerks, who were badly dressed, or too well-dressed' Jill has been single for three years and says: 'If you're not interested in marriage or - and I'm not - you don't have that pressure to do the expected thing. The beginnings of relationships are great, that heady rapture, all that adrenaline flying around, but it's not a state that lasts. You can derive that excitement from other places like landing a great job.' Her friend Adele, 39, who works in market research, is on the verge of moving in with her partner of eight months. She is pragmatic about the arrangement: 'We met, like each other and I was looking for a flat - I feel OK about it. But I've been married before and am more cynical, less naive.' Comparing her current attitude to her younger self, she reasons: 'Now, I look for certain qualities - intelligence, humour - rather than just putting up with stuff. I think, does he make me laugh or bore me to death?' Adele admits that, if a relationship is not working, she is 'completely honest' and ended one liaison with a quick call to his mobile. She says: 'If I don't have it's not the end of the world. I wouldn't feel out of the norm. And I wouldn't rule out bringing up a on my own, if that's how things work out; a baby would have a good life with me.' In the next booth, a cluster of women in their late twenties swivel round in unison when a waiter brings a note from a group of men at the bar. Watching, amused, is Mags, a 29-year-old full-time mother whose 10-year-marriage ended at Christmas. 'Do women use men? Of course. They want to have their wicked way exactly in the way that men do,' she says. Mags concedes that she might 'catch someone's eye and get talking Ü if it happens, it happens. I don't want to get married again and I have two so I could just do with a laugh, to be honest'.
Joan Smith, author of Moralities: Sex, Money & Power in the 21st Century believes that, rather than 'using' men, women are simply having lots of different types of relationships. 'When I was growing up, there was a clear template: date boys, get engaged, get married, have - and a relationship for life. It was how life worked. It doesn't any more. Women don't necessarily want men as partners in rearing. Some like going out with lots of men; others want a passionate engagement with one person. There is no one pattern. It's a fantastically fluid situation.' In researching her book, Single and Loving It, author Wendy Bristow encountered two distinct attitudes: 'The man-obsessed 'he hasn't phoned" type and the phenomenally sussed woman who wants sex on a first date because, if the sex isn't good, she doesn't want to know.' One woman in her thirties told Bristow: 'Frankly I'd rather find out at the beginning than mess about and shilly-shally and be let down in the end. I've slept with 10 men and half of them have been bad in bed. That's 50 per cent of men. They were all lovely men, but no use in bed.' Bristow believes that the latter group of women 'aren't sex mad - just practical. We're seeing it across all ages. Women in their forties have had the big relationship, and look what happened. They love sex and miss it when they donÍt have it but don't necessarily want to live with a partner.' She reports that the late twenties/early thirties bracket appears to be 'the vulnerable group - more concerned with finding 'the one'. Increasing divorce rates affect the expectations of young, single women. 'The splitting-up of your parents inevitably brings down your own expectations of marriage,' says Bristow. 'We are seeing less of a desire to have a man at all costs. Most of the women I met in their twenties appeared fantastically confident, and many are not interested in a relationship. They just want lots of nice sex.' No-strings sex is a viable option. I left home at 17 to live in Dundee and hooked up with a gang of women who had arrived from various corners of England and Scotland. It was a heady, busy time; more scribbled on hands than peering hopefully into jewellers' shops. A colleague from that time points out: 'We had absolutely no one to please but ourselves. The fact that we had escaped our parents' clutches meant there were no real restrictions on our behaviour. You wouldn't have been quite so eager to have a man in your flat if your mother was likely to turn up next day, banging on your door with a casserole.' We are more mobile, and richer than ever before. Between 1986 and 1998, an extra 15 per cent of women joined the workplace. We are choosing to have fewer , later in life Ü if we have them at all. A report by the Henley Centre on behalf of the Salvation Army predicts that, of all women born in 1972, just under 25 per cent will remain childless at 45 by the year 2017 (compared with 16 per cent in 1997). David Weeks, neuropsychologist at Royal Edinburgh Hospital and author of Superyoung, points out that both genders are ageing more slowly. 'We are seeing an extension of adolescence - physically and emotionally - and postponement of emotional development.' According to Weeks, there is a marked increase in the number of sexual partners and range of sexual experimentation during the 10 years after puberty. The 2001 Durex report reveals that 16 to 20-year-olds were 15 on average when they first had sex; over-45s were 18. 'Morality is not perceived in the same way as in previous generations,' says Weeks. 'The parents of women in their twenties and thirties - post-war baby-boomers - had comparatively easy lives and a desire to protect and do whatever they could for their . Smaller families meant that those could be indulged. We moved into a more permissive society.' Weeks believes that women still want emotional security, ïbut are less concerned with formalising it and more likely to formulate their own ideas of trust and responsibility. Women are taking advantage of freedom that, until now, they have never had in such abundance'. Back in the Corinthian, Julie, a 25-year-old law student, has had 'serious' relationships since she was 15. She and her partner of three years split up recently and she is badgering her friend Elise to leave the bar and go dancing. 'I can't stand a night in. I'm out, flirting with millions of men, ripping the piss out of them Ü being a total bitch really.' To boost her ego? 'No.' For sex? She looks aghast. 'I don't do that. Some women do. I just lead men on. Tease them a bit. They should be able to take it.'
Ben Renshaw, author of Success But Something Missing, believes that women want what they have seen men having in the past. 'Given the fact that women are more emotionally mature than men of a similar age, they are perhaps better equipped at playing the dating game and handling it well.' Renshaw adds that women's increased earning power and associated work commitments mean that 'time is at a premium. Women are less prepared to put up with relationships that are clearly not working - and freedom is a highly prized commodity'. Hardly surprising, then, that we are seeing a decline in agony aunts' advice on snaring a man and hauling him, yelping for mummy, to choose flowers and agree on the order of service. I ask Karen McKee, a single 30-year-old advertising assistant at Radio Clyde, how she would react if a partner appeared to be steering her towards marriage and Mothercare. 'Panic. Friends used to say, 'Wait until you're 30 and you'll change your mind"; here I am, 30, and I haven't.' She has been the one to end most of her relationships: 'I always seem to do the splitting-up. I'm straightforward about it; I don't believe in playing games. I'm not willing to put up with nonsense.' Karen acknowledges that she and her peers have a different - though not necessarily easier - agenda than that of their parents: 'My mother was married at 21 and had me at 24. That's what you did then. Divorce no longer has a stigma attached; friends are more likely to say, 'You've done the right thing. Good on you.' Single for three years, she says: 'Meeting a man is not top priority right now. I'm doing an OU degree and have dance classes and I'm learning piano. I don't need a man to boost my ego. My family, my sister, and two or three close friends do that.' While women's magazines such as Cosmopolitan still regularly include features such as 'Power Flirting' - including the tip 'squeeze gently with both hands while gently shaking it', which as it turns out is advice on giving a good handshake Ü they also advise on landing a job, friends and party invitations as well as (naturally) a man. Rita Lewis, publishing director of Marie Claire, says: 'Emotional features are more of a feel-good read than a real guide as to how to cope. They are needed less as women are open to more ways of living than the traditional baby-boomer fantasy. Marie Claire assumes the reader is more in control and less often in victim mode. A good example is 'All the men I slept with' [February 2001].Í In the feature, 20-year-old Yolanda, reunited with six ex-lovers, says, 'I do feel like a slapper seeing all my exes together, but I also like the idea that I've had them all.' But certain comments from her sexual partners - 'Yolanda is up for anything: I can see that by looking at the other blokes she's slept with (Mark, 35)' and 'My mum wouldn't like Yolanda: she's way too forward (Carl, 25)' - imply that even the men with whom she has had sex do not wholly approve of her behaviour. At my secondary school, in the late Seventies/early Eighties, a more terrifying prospect than developing a throbbing spot on school disco night was gaining a reputation. Sex felt dark and scary Ü the prospect of all that fun and fumbling marred by rumours that you could get pregnant by having a bath after your brother and, weirdly, passing a boy on the stairs. Good girl didn't, and bad girl Ü well, we knew what she'd been up to with that blob of toothpaste on her neck, ïhealing' a lovebite. From meeting readers of more!, I know that today's young women are less hung up about supposed good/bad behaviour. The Durex Report 2000 reveals that 40 per cent of women using condoms take the responsibility for buying the condoms themselves. I witnessed a fantastically direct pick-up recently. A (single) male friend and I were having drinks when an attractive woman in her late thirties glided up to him, as if on casters. 'Your boyfriend?' she asked me courteously, before charming him with enviable speed and efficiency and swiftly steering him into a taxi. The following morning I conjured up some creaky excuse to call him. 'I feel used,' he complained. 'She didn't even ask for my phone number.' From where I was standing it sounded ideal; convenient sex with no 'I'll call you' and subsequent call-screening endeavours. 'It's nice to meet a woman who knows her onions, but she was so macho,' he finished, lamely. Leading sex therapist Martin Cole acknowledges that the female sex drive equals a man's, eventually exceeding it: 'The male libido kicks in at around 14, rising rapidly to 18. ThereÍs a plateau throughout his twenties, then - as he calms down and becomes more discerning - a gradual decline.' Women, on the other hand, rev up with age: 'As a woman grows older, she generally finds it easier to orgasm, so sex becomes more fulfilling.' Yet, according to Joan Smith, casual sex - at least women enjoying casual sex Ü is still frowned upon. 'Our culture undervalues women. There is a tendency to look at men kindly - at a man in his fifties being still sexually attractive - yet a woman who is single and having fun in her forties shouldn't be doing this. It's an inhibiting factor.' In my close circle of half a dozen friends, all admit that casual sex can be a useful exercise in itself and less hassle than going to the gym. 'It's an ego boost,' says one. 'A nice opportunity to show off,' adds another. One friend keeps an ex-partner 'in reserve for when I haven't had sex in maybe a month and it's becoming a bit dull going home on my own. We meet for drinks and I'll go back to his place. The first couple of times after we'd split up he'd go through the motions of making up the spare bed for me. Now we just sleep together. There's no bashing around with spare duvets. I've been emotionally involved with him and don't want that again, but the sex is kind of cosy and familiar.' Another long-term single friend confesses, 'I'm a great believer in the 'barrier bonk'. When you've come out of a long relationship, and you're not too confident about yourself sexually, a barrier bonk starts everything up and working again, helping you get a bit of practice in.' Interestingly, in the changing behaviour of women, culture and biology might clash, since biologically, it seems, we are not programmed to behave in this manner. Dr Weeks says the hormone oxytocin is released in women during sex: 'While it is usually linked with breastfeeding - and the suppression of sexual desire - in small quantities it creates feelings of warmth and intimacy, reinforcing a woman's feelings for her partner by association.' The ratio of women joining internet dating agencies is growing. However, Danny Smith at www.midsummerseve.com, says, 'You will find fewer women attaching photos to their profiles than men. Women seem to prefer to look out for a chap they like the look of and then make the first move - rather than allowing any number of strange men contact them.' Mary Balfour, at the introduction agency Drawing Down the Moon, has launched a new dating service, Only Lunch, 'for those who want to meet casually, perhaps just for an hour. You're not giving up an evening'. There is mileage inthe 'low-pressure package', Balfour believes. 'It is becoming increasingly difficult to find a mate; the old matchmaking routes - extended family, factory floor - have long gone. Women do not necessarily want to meet a man to live with; we saw the big cohabitation boom through the Sixties, Seventies and Eighties - a rebellion against the old ideals. Now there is nothing to rebel against.' According to Balfour, women are also becoming more picky: ïWomen want men who are sorted emotionally and have worked a bit on themselves. Both sexes tend to look for a partner who is on a higher level of attraction. We call it FSI - faulty self-image. That is, believing that you are more attractive than you actually are.' I met Toni (not her real name), at a Christmas party. Two years previously, she had responded to a personal ad 'initially for sex because I had been single for four years and it just wasn't happening through the usual channels like work or in bars'. She embarked on a relationship with one man. Keen to have a , she plotted her fertile days with Persona and became pregnant within three months. When we spoke, the was nearing her first birthday and Toni was contemplating separating from the father. 'There is fondness there but we are utterly different in our interests and aspirations. I have my . I can support her without my partner's help. I am just a little put off at the thought of lurching into that going out and meeting men thing all over again. It's a lot of effort.' Dating is becoming trickier. Status is harder to define. Joan Smith toys with the following labels, 'technically single - as I live alone but have boyfriends; single not celibate - it hardly fits on a census form'. Our mother and grandmothers simply had their pick of single, married, divorced, spinster. 'Now we have partners who are not boyfriends but whom we like or even love,' she adds.
It is 1.30am in the Corinthian. A woman from the table who received the mysterious note repeatedly bounds towards the men at the bar, whispering in ears and patting thighs until a waiter requests - with extreme courtesy - that she leaves them alone. Elise, 26, watches and laughs. Meanwhile, Julie is growing impatient. She wants to move on and for Elise to accompany her. I wonder if Julie's night has been successful so far. I remember her vow to flirt with 'millions' of men. She shrugs and touches up make-up. Evidently, the night is young. She leads Elise to the door, announcing: 'We're going dancing.'
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sex in public?
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Posted:Apr 10, 2011 6:30 pm
Last Updated:May 14, 2024 9:58 am
5452 Views
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from the internet:
Cambodia cracks down on public sex
Phnom Penh Governor Chea Sophara said that sex in public was a disgrace and those detained would be "educated" about correct morals and made to sign statements promising not to do it again.
"It is an immoral act, especially embracing each other and having sex in public," he told the English-language Cambodia Daily.
"We only round them up to educate them not to conduct immoral activities ... If we don't crack down, in time it will get worse."
'Eyesore'
Police detained 37 teenage boys and 48 sex workers sleeping in public parks in the city last Thursday night, the newspaper reported.
Most of the boys said they had been out drinking late and had slept in the park because they were afraid to go home and face their parents, the Daily said.
But Chea Sophara called the practice an "eyesore" and said it was a threat to public order.
He vowed to continue rounding up the teenagers until they got the message.
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how do other people do it ?
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Posted:Apr 10, 2011 6:28 pm
Last Updated:May 14, 2024 9:58 am
5738 Views
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from the internet, about the book "doing it"
I'll admit it: I'm something of a voyeur. Now before you get all excited, let me clarify that to say that I'm a voyeur mainly through the written word. I like to read about other people's sex lives. I want to know when, where, how much, how often, with what, and if they moan or groan or squeal.
Now I'm sure, that since you're reading this review on an erotic website, you have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about. But if you do, then you'll know how...interesting...it can be to learn about other people's habits in the bedroom.
In Isadora Alman's book, Doing It: Real People Having Really Good Sex, she not only opens the bedroom door, but she invites us all in for a closer view of how real people are having sex. Alman, a licensed therapist and certified sexologist, is the author of Ask Isadora, an advice column that runs in the San Francisco Bay Guardian. In Doing It, Alman has collected the thoughts, experiences, stories and advice that she has received in response to her column over the years.
"You will not be reading in this book the voice of one sex expert with whom you can agree or not and whose life experiences you may not share," Alman writes. "Instead men and women of all ages and persuasions let you in on what they think are the important details of sexual happiness."
Organized into sections such as Solo Sex, Anal Play, Coupling and The Single State, Doing It offers a look at the sex lives and loves of a huge cross-culture of individuals. From the man who found that a using a penis pump really did increase his size, to the woman who masturbates in the kitchen, this book is a voyeur's delight. And, despite the fact that I've been having sex for years, and have been reading about sex for nearly as long, this book made me realize that I still have much to learn and try.
Whether you are an old hand at sex, or just starting out, there is much to learn within the pages, where contributors offer advice on everything from dealing with being single to keeping everything lubed up. One writer gives men a list of things NOT to do if they are in the process of trying to find a mate.
"Men who reek of cheap cologne and use lame lines to hit on women. Men whose eyes undress every other woman in the vicinity as he's talking to me. Men who talk to my breasts (although if I'm married to that man this is perfectly acceptable, especially if he says, 'And are you two happy today?' . And yes, of course, men who run down their last partner."
And, until I read this book, I had no idea there were so many wonderful ways to deal with that age-old sexual problem of the dreaded Wet Spot. Diaper wipes, dirty sheets, warm washcloths -- one writer even offered a cross-cultural wet spot solution.
"In England, it's part of the post-sex ritual for many guys that they have to clean everything up for the lady, using tissue in the operational areas. Seems to be accepted that it's his responsibility. Kind of a nice, loving touch, I think."
But, don't believe everything you read; there are some stories in Doing It that are so funny or bizarre that it's impossible not to question their truth. Even Alman admits that some of the entries are so outrageous that they may be put-ons. Still others have a ring of honesty that makes you want to believe. (And by the way, if the author of this passage would like to contact me privately, I'd be more than happy to help prove its validity. For the readers' peace of mind only, of course).
"My boyfriend told me he could suck himself off. The idea was both fascinating and arousing to me. I convinced him to do it while I watched. He can, indeed, at thirty-eight and not in very good physical shape, manage to give himself head. He positioned himself on the bed with his back against the headboard and brought his feet over his head to the bed. In this position, it was possible for him to take the head of the penis in his mouth and suck and stimulate it enough to reach orgasm....
Because this book is laid out in bite-sized chunks, it is the perfect read for the bathroom or standing in line. It is also the perfect gift for any (or older) who is asking that eternal question of "am I sexually normal?" After reading the responses in this book, they will have no doubt that sexual normalcy needs a much broader definition than the one which is currently bandied about in today's society.
From circumcision to cross-dressing, Doing It touches on nearly every sexual question that has ever been asked. Does penis size matter? What do rose pruners have to do with sex? Does the fact that I drive like an idiot really turn women off?
The answers in Doing It will surprise you, delight you, and, if you're at all voyeuristic like me, I guarantee they'll excite you as well.
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have you dated a stripper ?
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Posted:Apr 10, 2011 6:24 pm
Last Updated:May 14, 2024 9:58 am
5782 Views
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from the internet:
Not too long ago, my then-girlfriend leaned into me and huskily whispered in my ear those most tender, loving words every man longs to hear -- the words we go to sleep at night dreaming she'll one day utter: "I want to bring home another girl and watch you fuck her. Then I want to join in."
I had found the Holy Grail of sex. I was about to join a select group of crusaders who had conquered the noblest aspiration of Man: two women. But this was not the guilt-tainted pleasure of an adolescent, basement wank. It was the real thing, freely offered. And not by some girl whose face would turn your penis to parsley. My girlfriend (let's call her Stacy) was a stripper -- a beautiful stripper who worked one of Los Angeles' most upscale clubs. She had bronzed skin, a smattering of Middle Eastern genes, muscular arms that could throw you onto the bed and effortlessly pin you down while she did all the work and the best breasts money could buy. They weren't the spine-bending, gargantuan tumors featured in the pages of low-end skin mags, but the well-crafted art of a modern-day Rodin who could use his scalpel to reify the divine. They were the kind of tits you want to stick your head in between and shake it from side to side while saying "Brrrrruuuummpppkys!"
And I could be assured that whoever she brought home would be similarly astounding. When I met Stacy I had been in Los Angeles for six months, a 30-year-old English professor overwhelmed by the city's generous bounty of beautiful babes. As those months went by, I began to see that L.A. really does deliver on its clichés: 1) In Los Angeles, if you're old, short, balding and look like you're suffering from a flesh-eating virus but drive a Mercedes convertible, you're sexy; 2) if you're a tall, young, good-looking professor with a full head of hair but you drive a Honda Civic, forget it.
After kissing a doorman's ass for half an hour to win the privilege of bribing him to let you then pay again to actually get into the hip bar of the week, I would suddenly feel like a pimply 15-year-old nerd in a room crowded with nubile young cheerleaders. These girls' handbags cost more than I made in a month. I felt like they could smell my negative net worth.
It seemed to be a world I could never be a part of. So what's a guy to do when he's new to a big city and having trouble meeting girls? I tried the personals. One woman was real cute -- until she smiled and I saw her teeth were so yellow they looked gangrenous. Another spent the entire night complaining about her alcoholic ex-husband who still dropped by every now and then to sleep off his load on her couch.
I tried online dating. Don't trust the photos. One of my dates had looked reasonably attractive in her digitized picture, but when I met her she turned out to be shaped like a mango from the neck down. We passed away a couple of hours at the bar. She babbled interminably about crap in her life. She spent half the time telling me about her goal to become a real estate agent. She seemed to believe that this "ambition" was as noteworthy as if she were making a run for president. I tried a couple of times to interject a comment or anecdote of my own. She didn't even register the fact that I had said anything. As soon as I'd finish, she would pick up where she had left off: "Anyway, as soon as I get my real estate license I'm going to ..."
I giggled softly to myself as I sucked down my drink a bit faster.
Another girl I met online seemed promising -- until I discovered that she had long, dark hairs lining the perimeters of her nipples.
So when I met Stacy, a gorgeous graduate student, at a party and she showed an interest in me, I thought, this is more my speed. The next night I took her out. She had shed her body-concealing sweater and baggy pants -- a uniform she wore whenever she was at school or around other students -- for knee-high leather boots, a short skirt and a low-cut contour-clinging blouse. I wasn't sure it was the same girl.
About three minutes after I picked her up, she told me that, in addition to working on her Ph.D. in comparative literature, she was a stripper, had appeared in the pages of several men's magazines and had been in a few porn flicks. I thought I had somehow stumbled into an X-rated Twilight Zone where every adolescent fantasy I had ever had comes true. In her resided the mythical triumvirate of male fantasy: beauty, brains and bisexuality.
And she liked me. No, she was crazy about me. She made loads of money. I mean shitloads. A more generous girl you can't imagine. Within weeks I had a whole new, L.A.-chic wardrobe. We went to the best restaurants and most exclusive clubs. It was like having a sugar mommy. Only mine was 28 and had double-D tits. The seemingly impenetrable world of L.A. glitz now opened its doors: Her body bought us instant entry wherever we went. I soared with confidence; I could talk to the highest-paid models in the city as if they were no big deal.
And the sex. We did it everywhere, every how, in every position and with every toy there is. Her vagina worked like the Energizer bunny on Viagra (it kept coming and coming and coming ...). No sooner would one orgasm fade than another, more intense one was building. It was like nothing I had ever experienced or even heard about. We're not talking two or three or even a dozen orgasms in a single session. This is not an exaggeration: In an hour of fondling, sucking and fucking, she would come close to 100 times. Not little baby orgasms either. They ranged from breath-holding back-benders to wailing, biting, blood-drawing, wake-everyone-on-the-block screamers. It was simply inconceivable, but true despite my continuing disbelief.
I know -- it sounds like bullshit. There's nothing I can do to support my claim. I certainly can't ask her to confirm its veracity. I suppose I could ask my neighbors to sign an affidavit, but that would be getting carried away. What can I say? It's like getting a hole in one in golf only no one's around to see it. You'll just have to take my word for it.
When she told me she wanted to bring another girl home, I didn't want to let on how the adolescent inside me was jumping up and down like a ... well, like an adolescent who'd walked into a girl-girl pictorial. Oh, yeah, baby! Break out the pipe and pajamas -- there's a new Hugh Hefner in town. Yippee-ki-yi-yay! echoed through my mind, but I tried to be as cool as possible.
"Cool," I said, dropping my voice an octave for maximum coolness. It was the beginning of the end. Not because I was into it. She was completely serious and apparently as turned on by the idea as I was. But somewhere along the line I apparently lost my cool and was too into it -- at least, according to her.
It would be an exaggeration to say that I took her offer of a three-way as a license to lust after each of her girlfriends. But between the three-way and her frequent remarks about women she found attractive and unattractive, I felt I had a certain freedom to be appreciative of other women. We went to a Valentine's Day party. The directions were to come wearing something appropriate to be spanked in. I wore a monk's robe and slung a sign around my neck that read, oh so cleverly, I thought: "Spank the Monk." She went dressed like ... well, like she was going to work: skintight PVC, plunging neckline, metal studs and stilettoed throw-me-down-and-fuck-me boots. Guys gave themselves whiplash when she strolled by. And she had invited several of her co-workers who, much to my pleasure, heeded my advertisement and whacked me smartly whenever they had a chance.
You might think having a houseful of guys drooling over your half-naked girlfriend would make you uncomfortable.
Bollocks. It was great. I felt totally secure because these guys could look, but only I could touch. Stacy and I had not yet gone through with the ménage thing. Tonight, I thought, was the night to pick candidates. She was being flighty, though, and she is no dumb chick. She is disconcertingly smart: the Ph.D. she is working on is just something she's doing for "fun"; she plans to go to an Ivy League law school when she finishes -- and I believe she will.
But in donning her stripper clothes she seemed to have taken a long dive off the IQ cliff. That night she was about as mature and sophisticated as Miss Hawaii. She had invited many of the guests and had taken on the responsibilities of hostess so she'd appear for one second and be gone the next. I would grab her, ask her to introduce me to her friends, get a quick intro and zoom -- she'd be off again to bring cheer and cleavage into the lives of other partygoers.
OK, I'm at a party crowded with beautiful strippers who are getting drunk and flashing their tits left and right. Am I going to stand in a corner and yawn, or am I going to think I've died and gone to the giant Playboy mansion in the sky? Hell yeah, I was excited.
Too excited, I would later learn.
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have you dated a stripper ?
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Posted:Apr 10, 2011 6:23 pm
Last Updated:May 14, 2024 9:58 am
5668 Views
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from the internet:
Not too long ago, my then-girlfriend leaned into me and huskily whispered in my ear those most tender, loving words every man longs to hear -- the words we go to sleep at night dreaming she'll one day utter: "I want to bring home another girl and watch you fuck her. Then I want to join in."
I had found the Holy Grail of sex. I was about to join a select group of crusaders who had conquered the noblest aspiration of Man: two women. But this was not the guilt-tainted pleasure of an adolescent, basement wank. It was the real thing, freely offered. And not by some girl whose face would turn your penis to parsley. My girlfriend (let's call her Stacy) was a stripper -- a beautiful stripper who worked one of Los Angeles' most upscale clubs. She had bronzed skin, a smattering of Middle Eastern genes, muscular arms that could throw you onto the bed and effortlessly pin you down while she did all the work and the best breasts money could buy. They weren't the spine-bending, gargantuan tumors featured in the pages of low-end skin mags, but the well-crafted art of a modern-day Rodin who could use his scalpel to reify the divine. They were the kind of tits you want to stick your head in between and shake it from side to side while saying "Brrrrruuuummpppkys!"
And I could be assured that whoever she brought home would be similarly astounding. When I met Stacy I had been in Los Angeles for six months, a 30-year-old English professor overwhelmed by the city's generous bounty of beautiful babes. As those months went by, I began to see that L.A. really does deliver on its clichés: 1) In Los Angeles, if you're old, short, balding and look like you're suffering from a flesh-eating virus but drive a Mercedes convertible, you're sexy; 2) if you're a tall, young, good-looking professor with a full head of hair but you drive a Honda Civic, forget it.
After kissing a doorman's ass for half an hour to win the privilege of bribing him to let you then pay again to actually get into the hip bar of the week, I would suddenly feel like a pimply 15-year-old nerd in a room crowded with nubile young cheerleaders. These girls' handbags cost more than I made in a month. I felt like they could smell my negative net worth.
It seemed to be a world I could never be a part of. So what's a guy to do when he's new to a big city and having trouble meeting girls? I tried the personals. One woman was real cute -- until she smiled and I saw her teeth were so yellow they looked gangrenous. Another spent the entire night complaining about her alcoholic ex-husband who still dropped by every now and then to sleep off his load on her couch.
I tried online dating. Don't trust the photos. One of my dates had looked reasonably attractive in her digitized picture, but when I met her she turned out to be shaped like a mango from the neck down. We passed away a couple of hours at the bar. She babbled interminably about crap in her life. She spent half the time telling me about her goal to become a real estate agent. She seemed to believe that this "ambition" was as noteworthy as if she were making a run for president. I tried a couple of times to interject a comment or anecdote of my own. She didn't even register the fact that I had said anything. As soon as I'd finish, she would pick up where she had left off: "Anyway, as soon as I get my real estate license I'm going to ..."
I giggled softly to myself as I sucked down my drink a bit faster.
Another girl I met online seemed promising -- until I discovered that she had long, dark hairs lining the perimeters of her nipples.
So when I met Stacy, a gorgeous graduate student, at a party and she showed an interest in me, I thought, this is more my speed. The next night I took her out. She had shed her body-concealing sweater and baggy pants -- a uniform she wore whenever she was at school or around other students -- for knee-high leather boots, a short skirt and a low-cut contour-clinging blouse. I wasn't sure it was the same girl.
About three minutes after I picked her up, she told me that, in addition to working on her Ph.D. in comparative literature, she was a stripper, had appeared in the pages of several men's magazines and had been in a few porn flicks. I thought I had somehow stumbled into an X-rated Twilight Zone where every adolescent fantasy I had ever had comes true. In her resided the mythical triumvirate of male fantasy: beauty, brains and bisexuality.
And she liked me. No, she was crazy about me. She made loads of money. I mean shitloads. A more generous girl you can't imagine. Within weeks I had a whole new, L.A.-chic wardrobe. We went to the best restaurants and most exclusive clubs. It was like having a sugar mommy. Only mine was 28 and had double-D tits. The seemingly impenetrable world of L.A. glitz now opened its doors: Her body bought us instant entry wherever we went. I soared with confidence; I could talk to the highest-paid models in the city as if they were no big deal.
And the sex. We did it everywhere, every how, in every position and with every toy there is. Her vagina worked like the Energizer bunny on Viagra (it kept coming and coming and coming ...). No sooner would one orgasm fade than another, more intense one was building. It was like nothing I had ever experienced or even heard about. We're not talking two or three or even a dozen orgasms in a single session. This is not an exaggeration: In an hour of fondling, sucking and fucking, she would come close to 100 times. Not little baby orgasms either. They ranged from breath-holding back-benders to wailing, biting, blood-drawing, wake-everyone-on-the-block screamers. It was simply inconceivable, but true despite my continuing disbelief.
I know -- it sounds like bullshit. There's nothing I can do to support my claim. I certainly can't ask her to confirm its veracity. I suppose I could ask my neighbors to sign an affidavit, but that would be getting carried away. What can I say? It's like getting a hole in one in golf only no one's around to see it. You'll just have to take my word for it.
When she told me she wanted to bring another girl home, I didn't want to let on how the adolescent inside me was jumping up and down like a ... well, like an adolescent who'd walked into a girl-girl pictorial. Oh, yeah, baby! Break out the pipe and pajamas -- there's a new Hugh Hefner in town. Yippee-ki-yi-yay! echoed through my mind, but I tried to be as cool as possible.
"Cool," I said, dropping my voice an octave for maximum coolness. It was the beginning of the end. Not because I was into it. She was completely serious and apparently as turned on by the idea as I was. But somewhere along the line I apparently lost my cool and was too into it -- at least, according to her.
It would be an exaggeration to say that I took her offer of a three-way as a license to lust after each of her girlfriends. But between the three-way and her frequent remarks about women she found attractive and unattractive, I felt I had a certain freedom to be appreciative of other women. We went to a Valentine's Day party. The directions were to come wearing something appropriate to be spanked in. I wore a monk's robe and slung a sign around my neck that read, oh so cleverly, I thought: "Spank the Monk." She went dressed like ... well, like she was going to work: skintight PVC, plunging neckline, metal studs and stilettoed throw-me-down-and-fuck-me boots. Guys gave themselves whiplash when she strolled by. And she had invited several of her co-workers who, much to my pleasure, heeded my advertisement and whacked me smartly whenever they had a chance.
You might think having a houseful of guys drooling over your half-naked girlfriend would make you uncomfortable.
Bollocks. It was great. I felt totally secure because these guys could look, but only I could touch. Stacy and I had not yet gone through with the ménage thing. Tonight, I thought, was the night to pick candidates. She was being flighty, though, and she is no dumb chick. She is disconcertingly smart: the Ph.D. she is working on is just something she's doing for "fun"; she plans to go to an Ivy League law school when she finishes -- and I believe she will.
But in donning her stripper clothes she seemed to have taken a long dive off the IQ cliff. That night she was about as mature and sophisticated as Miss Hawaii. She had invited many of the guests and had taken on the responsibilities of hostess so she'd appear for one second and be gone the next. I would grab her, ask her to introduce me to her friends, get a quick intro and zoom -- she'd be off again to bring cheer and cleavage into the lives of other partygoers.
OK, I'm at a party crowded with beautiful strippers who are getting drunk and flashing their tits left and right. Am I going to stand in a corner and yawn, or am I going to think I've died and gone to the giant Playboy mansion in the sky? Hell yeah, I was excited.
Too excited, I would later learn.
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|
0
Comments
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|
have you dated a stripper ?
|
Posted:Apr 10, 2011 6:22 pm
Last Updated:May 14, 2024 9:58 am
5680 Views
|
from the internet:
Not too long ago, my then-girlfriend leaned into me and huskily whispered in my ear those most tender, loving words every man longs to hear -- the words we go to sleep at night dreaming she'll one day utter: "I want to bring home another girl and watch you fuck her. Then I want to join in."
I had found the Holy Grail of sex. I was about to join a select group of crusaders who had conquered the noblest aspiration of Man: two women. But this was not the guilt-tainted pleasure of an adolescent, basement wank. It was the real thing, freely offered. And not by some girl whose face would turn your penis to parsley. My girlfriend (let's call her Stacy) was a stripper -- a beautiful stripper who worked one of Los Angeles' most upscale clubs. She had bronzed skin, a smattering of Middle Eastern genes, muscular arms that could throw you onto the bed and effortlessly pin you down while she did all the work and the best breasts money could buy. They weren't the spine-bending, gargantuan tumors featured in the pages of low-end skin mags, but the well-crafted art of a modern-day Rodin who could use his scalpel to reify the divine. They were the kind of tits you want to stick your head in between and shake it from side to side while saying "Brrrrruuuummpppkys!"
And I could be assured that whoever she brought home would be similarly astounding. When I met Stacy I had been in Los Angeles for six months, a 30-year-old English professor overwhelmed by the city's generous bounty of beautiful babes. As those months went by, I began to see that L.A. really does deliver on its clichés: 1) In Los Angeles, if you're old, short, balding and look like you're suffering from a flesh-eating virus but drive a Mercedes convertible, you're sexy; 2) if you're a tall, young, good-looking professor with a full head of hair but you drive a Honda Civic, forget it.
After kissing a doorman's ass for half an hour to win the privilege of bribing him to let you then pay again to actually get into the hip bar of the week, I would suddenly feel like a pimply 15-year-old nerd in a room crowded with nubile young cheerleaders. These girls' handbags cost more than I made in a month. I felt like they could smell my negative net worth.
It seemed to be a world I could never be a part of. So what's a guy to do when he's new to a big city and having trouble meeting girls? I tried the personals. One woman was real cute -- until she smiled and I saw her teeth were so yellow they looked gangrenous. Another spent the entire night complaining about her alcoholic ex-husband who still dropped by every now and then to sleep off his load on her couch.
I tried online dating. Don't trust the photos. One of my dates had looked reasonably attractive in her digitized picture, but when I met her she turned out to be shaped like a mango from the neck down. We passed away a couple of hours at the bar. She babbled interminably about crap in her life. She spent half the time telling me about her goal to become a real estate agent. She seemed to believe that this "ambition" was as noteworthy as if she were making a run for president. I tried a couple of times to interject a comment or anecdote of my own. She didn't even register the fact that I had said anything. As soon as I'd finish, she would pick up where she had left off: "Anyway, as soon as I get my real estate license I'm going to ..."
I giggled softly to myself as I sucked down my drink a bit faster.
Another girl I met online seemed promising -- until I discovered that she had long, dark hairs lining the perimeters of her nipples.
So when I met Stacy, a gorgeous graduate student, at a party and she showed an interest in me, I thought, this is more my speed. The next night I took her out. She had shed her body-concealing sweater and baggy pants -- a uniform she wore whenever she was at school or around other students -- for knee-high leather boots, a short skirt and a low-cut contour-clinging blouse. I wasn't sure it was the same girl.
About three minutes after I picked her up, she told me that, in addition to working on her Ph.D. in comparative literature, she was a stripper, had appeared in the pages of several men's magazines and had been in a few porn flicks. I thought I had somehow stumbled into an X-rated Twilight Zone where every adolescent fantasy I had ever had comes true. In her resided the mythical triumvirate of male fantasy: beauty, brains and bisexuality.
And she liked me. No, she was crazy about me. She made loads of money. I mean shitloads. A more generous girl you can't imagine. Within weeks I had a whole new, L.A.-chic wardrobe. We went to the best restaurants and most exclusive clubs. It was like having a sugar mommy. Only mine was 28 and had double-D tits. The seemingly impenetrable world of L.A. glitz now opened its doors: Her body bought us instant entry wherever we went. I soared with confidence; I could talk to the highest-paid models in the city as if they were no big deal.
And the sex. We did it everywhere, every how, in every position and with every toy there is. Her vagina worked like the Energizer bunny on Viagra (it kept coming and coming and coming ...). No sooner would one orgasm fade than another, more intense one was building. It was like nothing I had ever experienced or even heard about. We're not talking two or three or even a dozen orgasms in a single session. This is not an exaggeration: In an hour of fondling, sucking and fucking, she would come close to 100 times. Not little baby orgasms either. They ranged from breath-holding back-benders to wailing, biting, blood-drawing, wake-everyone-on-the-block screamers. It was simply inconceivable, but true despite my continuing disbelief.
I know -- it sounds like bullshit. There's nothing I can do to support my claim. I certainly can't ask her to confirm its veracity. I suppose I could ask my neighbors to sign an affidavit, but that would be getting carried away. What can I say? It's like getting a hole in one in golf only no one's around to see it. You'll just have to take my word for it.
When she told me she wanted to bring another girl home, I didn't want to let on how the adolescent inside me was jumping up and down like a ... well, like an adolescent who'd walked into a girl-girl pictorial. Oh, yeah, baby! Break out the pipe and pajamas -- there's a new Hugh Hefner in town. Yippee-ki-yi-yay! echoed through my mind, but I tried to be as cool as possible.
"Cool," I said, dropping my voice an octave for maximum coolness. It was the beginning of the end. Not because I was into it. She was completely serious and apparently as turned on by the idea as I was. But somewhere along the line I apparently lost my cool and was too into it -- at least, according to her.
It would be an exaggeration to say that I took her offer of a three-way as a license to lust after each of her girlfriends. But between the three-way and her frequent remarks about women she found attractive and unattractive, I felt I had a certain freedom to be appreciative of other women. We went to a Valentine's Day party. The directions were to come wearing something appropriate to be spanked in. I wore a monk's robe and slung a sign around my neck that read, oh so cleverly, I thought: "Spank the Monk." She went dressed like ... well, like she was going to work: skintight PVC, plunging neckline, metal studs and stilettoed throw-me-down-and-fuck-me boots. Guys gave themselves whiplash when she strolled by. And she had invited several of her co-workers who, much to my pleasure, heeded my advertisement and whacked me smartly whenever they had a chance.
You might think having a houseful of guys drooling over your half-naked girlfriend would make you uncomfortable.
Bollocks. It was great. I felt totally secure because these guys could look, but only I could touch. Stacy and I had not yet gone through with the ménage thing. Tonight, I thought, was the night to pick candidates. She was being flighty, though, and she is no dumb chick. She is disconcertingly smart: the Ph.D. she is working on is just something she's doing for "fun"; she plans to go to an Ivy League law school when she finishes -- and I believe she will.
But in donning her stripper clothes she seemed to have taken a long dive off the IQ cliff. That night she was about as mature and sophisticated as Miss Hawaii. She had invited many of the guests and had taken on the responsibilities of hostess so she'd appear for one second and be gone the next. I would grab her, ask her to introduce me to her friends, get a quick intro and zoom -- she'd be off again to bring cheer and cleavage into the lives of other partygoers.
OK, I'm at a party crowded with beautiful strippers who are getting drunk and flashing their tits left and right. Am I going to stand in a corner and yawn, or am I going to think I've died and gone to the giant Playboy mansion in the sky? Hell yeah, I was excited.
Too excited, I would later learn.
|
|
|
0
Comments
|
|
have you dated a stripper ?
|
Posted:Apr 10, 2011 6:22 pm
Last Updated:May 14, 2024 9:58 am
5692 Views
|
from the internet:
Not too long ago, my then-girlfriend leaned into me and huskily whispered in my ear those most tender, loving words every man longs to hear -- the words we go to sleep at night dreaming she'll one day utter: "I want to bring home another girl and watch you fuck her. Then I want to join in."
I had found the Holy Grail of sex. I was about to join a select group of crusaders who had conquered the noblest aspiration of Man: two women. But this was not the guilt-tainted pleasure of an adolescent, basement wank. It was the real thing, freely offered. And not by some girl whose face would turn your penis to parsley. My girlfriend (let's call her Stacy) was a stripper -- a beautiful stripper who worked one of Los Angeles' most upscale clubs. She had bronzed skin, a smattering of Middle Eastern genes, muscular arms that could throw you onto the bed and effortlessly pin you down while she did all the work and the best breasts money could buy. They weren't the spine-bending, gargantuan tumors featured in the pages of low-end skin mags, but the well-crafted art of a modern-day Rodin who could use his scalpel to reify the divine. They were the kind of tits you want to stick your head in between and shake it from side to side while saying "Brrrrruuuummpppkys!"
And I could be assured that whoever she brought home would be similarly astounding. When I met Stacy I had been in Los Angeles for six months, a 30-year-old English professor overwhelmed by the city's generous bounty of beautiful babes. As those months went by, I began to see that L.A. really does deliver on its clichés: 1) In Los Angeles, if you're old, short, balding and look like you're suffering from a flesh-eating virus but drive a Mercedes convertible, you're sexy; 2) if you're a tall, young, good-looking professor with a full head of hair but you drive a Honda Civic, forget it.
After kissing a doorman's ass for half an hour to win the privilege of bribing him to let you then pay again to actually get into the hip bar of the week, I would suddenly feel like a pimply 15-year-old nerd in a room crowded with nubile young cheerleaders. These girls' handbags cost more than I made in a month. I felt like they could smell my negative net worth.
It seemed to be a world I could never be a part of. So what's a guy to do when he's new to a big city and having trouble meeting girls? I tried the personals. One woman was real cute -- until she smiled and I saw her teeth were so yellow they looked gangrenous. Another spent the entire night complaining about her alcoholic ex-husband who still dropped by every now and then to sleep off his load on her couch.
I tried online dating. Don't trust the photos. One of my dates had looked reasonably attractive in her digitized picture, but when I met her she turned out to be shaped like a mango from the neck down. We passed away a couple of hours at the bar. She babbled interminably about crap in her life. She spent half the time telling me about her goal to become a real estate agent. She seemed to believe that this "ambition" was as noteworthy as if she were making a run for president. I tried a couple of times to interject a comment or anecdote of my own. She didn't even register the fact that I had said anything. As soon as I'd finish, she would pick up where she had left off: "Anyway, as soon as I get my real estate license I'm going to ..."
I giggled softly to myself as I sucked down my drink a bit faster.
Another girl I met online seemed promising -- until I discovered that she had long, dark hairs lining the perimeters of her nipples.
So when I met Stacy, a gorgeous graduate student, at a party and she showed an interest in me, I thought, this is more my speed. The next night I took her out. She had shed her body-concealing sweater and baggy pants -- a uniform she wore whenever she was at school or around other students -- for knee-high leather boots, a short skirt and a low-cut contour-clinging blouse. I wasn't sure it was the same girl.
About three minutes after I picked her up, she told me that, in addition to working on her Ph.D. in comparative literature, she was a stripper, had appeared in the pages of several men's magazines and had been in a few porn flicks. I thought I had somehow stumbled into an X-rated Twilight Zone where every adolescent fantasy I had ever had comes true. In her resided the mythical triumvirate of male fantasy: beauty, brains and bisexuality.
And she liked me. No, she was crazy about me. She made loads of money. I mean shitloads. A more generous girl you can't imagine. Within weeks I had a whole new, L.A.-chic wardrobe. We went to the best restaurants and most exclusive clubs. It was like having a sugar mommy. Only mine was 28 and had double-D tits. The seemingly impenetrable world of L.A. glitz now opened its doors: Her body bought us instant entry wherever we went. I soared with confidence; I could talk to the highest-paid models in the city as if they were no big deal.
And the sex. We did it everywhere, every how, in every position and with every toy there is. Her vagina worked like the Energizer bunny on Viagra (it kept coming and coming and coming ...). No sooner would one orgasm fade than another, more intense one was building. It was like nothing I had ever experienced or even heard about. We're not talking two or three or even a dozen orgasms in a single session. This is not an exaggeration: In an hour of fondling, sucking and fucking, she would come close to 100 times. Not little baby orgasms either. They ranged from breath-holding back-benders to wailing, biting, blood-drawing, wake-everyone-on-the-block screamers. It was simply inconceivable, but true despite my continuing disbelief.
I know -- it sounds like bullshit. There's nothing I can do to support my claim. I certainly can't ask her to confirm its veracity. I suppose I could ask my neighbors to sign an affidavit, but that would be getting carried away. What can I say? It's like getting a hole in one in golf only no one's around to see it. You'll just have to take my word for it.
When she told me she wanted to bring another girl home, I didn't want to let on how the adolescent inside me was jumping up and down like a ... well, like an adolescent who'd walked into a girl-girl pictorial. Oh, yeah, baby! Break out the pipe and pajamas -- there's a new Hugh Hefner in town. Yippee-ki-yi-yay! echoed through my mind, but I tried to be as cool as possible.
"Cool," I said, dropping my voice an octave for maximum coolness. It was the beginning of the end. Not because I was into it. She was completely serious and apparently as turned on by the idea as I was. But somewhere along the line I apparently lost my cool and was too into it -- at least, according to her.
It would be an exaggeration to say that I took her offer of a three-way as a license to lust after each of her girlfriends. But between the three-way and her frequent remarks about women she found attractive and unattractive, I felt I had a certain freedom to be appreciative of other women. We went to a Valentine's Day party. The directions were to come wearing something appropriate to be spanked in. I wore a monk's robe and slung a sign around my neck that read, oh so cleverly, I thought: "Spank the Monk." She went dressed like ... well, like she was going to work: skintight PVC, plunging neckline, metal studs and stilettoed throw-me-down-and-fuck-me boots. Guys gave themselves whiplash when she strolled by. And she had invited several of her co-workers who, much to my pleasure, heeded my advertisement and whacked me smartly whenever they had a chance.
You might think having a houseful of guys drooling over your half-naked girlfriend would make you uncomfortable.
Bollocks. It was great. I felt totally secure because these guys could look, but only I could touch. Stacy and I had not yet gone through with the ménage thing. Tonight, I thought, was the night to pick candidates. She was being flighty, though, and she is no dumb chick. She is disconcertingly smart: the Ph.D. she is working on is just something she's doing for "fun"; she plans to go to an Ivy League law school when she finishes -- and I believe she will.
But in donning her stripper clothes she seemed to have taken a long dive off the IQ cliff. That night she was about as mature and sophisticated as Miss Hawaii. She had invited many of the guests and had taken on the responsibilities of hostess so she'd appear for one second and be gone the next. I would grab her, ask her to introduce me to her friends, get a quick intro and zoom -- she'd be off again to bring cheer and cleavage into the lives of other partygoers.
OK, I'm at a party crowded with beautiful strippers who are getting drunk and flashing their tits left and right. Am I going to stand in a corner and yawn, or am I going to think I've died and gone to the giant Playboy mansion in the sky? Hell yeah, I was excited.
Too excited, I would later learn.
|
|
|
0
Comments
|
|
have you dated a stripper ?
|
Posted:Apr 10, 2011 6:21 pm
Last Updated:May 14, 2024 9:58 am
5711 Views
|
from the internet:
Not too long ago, my then-girlfriend leaned into me and huskily whispered in my ear those most tender, loving words every man longs to hear -- the words we go to sleep at night dreaming she'll one day utter: "I want to bring home another girl and watch you fuck her. Then I want to join in."
I had found the Holy Grail of sex. I was about to join a select group of crusaders who had conquered the noblest aspiration of Man: two women. But this was not the guilt-tainted pleasure of an adolescent, basement wank. It was the real thing, freely offered. And not by some girl whose face would turn your penis to parsley. My girlfriend (let's call her Stacy) was a stripper -- a beautiful stripper who worked one of Los Angeles' most upscale clubs. She had bronzed skin, a smattering of Middle Eastern genes, muscular arms that could throw you onto the bed and effortlessly pin you down while she did all the work and the best breasts money could buy. They weren't the spine-bending, gargantuan tumors featured in the pages of low-end skin mags, but the well-crafted art of a modern-day Rodin who could use his scalpel to reify the divine. They were the kind of tits you want to stick your head in between and shake it from side to side while saying "Brrrrruuuummpppkys!"
And I could be assured that whoever she brought home would be similarly astounding. When I met Stacy I had been in Los Angeles for six months, a 30-year-old English professor overwhelmed by the city's generous bounty of beautiful babes. As those months went by, I began to see that L.A. really does deliver on its clichés: 1) In Los Angeles, if you're old, short, balding and look like you're suffering from a flesh-eating virus but drive a Mercedes convertible, you're sexy; 2) if you're a tall, young, good-looking professor with a full head of hair but you drive a Honda Civic, forget it.
After kissing a doorman's ass for half an hour to win the privilege of bribing him to let you then pay again to actually get into the hip bar of the week, I would suddenly feel like a pimply 15-year-old nerd in a room crowded with nubile young cheerleaders. These girls' handbags cost more than I made in a month. I felt like they could smell my negative net worth.
It seemed to be a world I could never be a part of. So what's a guy to do when he's new to a big city and having trouble meeting girls? I tried the personals. One woman was real cute -- until she smiled and I saw her teeth were so yellow they looked gangrenous. Another spent the entire night complaining about her alcoholic ex-husband who still dropped by every now and then to sleep off his load on her couch.
I tried online dating. Don't trust the photos. One of my dates had looked reasonably attractive in her digitized picture, but when I met her she turned out to be shaped like a mango from the neck down. We passed away a couple of hours at the bar. She babbled interminably about crap in her life. She spent half the time telling me about her goal to become a real estate agent. She seemed to believe that this "ambition" was as noteworthy as if she were making a run for president. I tried a couple of times to interject a comment or anecdote of my own. She didn't even register the fact that I had said anything. As soon as I'd finish, she would pick up where she had left off: "Anyway, as soon as I get my real estate license I'm going to ..."
I giggled softly to myself as I sucked down my drink a bit faster.
Another girl I met online seemed promising -- until I discovered that she had long, dark hairs lining the perimeters of her nipples.
So when I met Stacy, a gorgeous graduate student, at a party and she showed an interest in me, I thought, this is more my speed. The next night I took her out. She had shed her body-concealing sweater and baggy pants -- a uniform she wore whenever she was at school or around other students -- for knee-high leather boots, a short skirt and a low-cut contour-clinging blouse. I wasn't sure it was the same girl.
About three minutes after I picked her up, she told me that, in addition to working on her Ph.D. in comparative literature, she was a stripper, had appeared in the pages of several men's magazines and had been in a few porn flicks. I thought I had somehow stumbled into an X-rated Twilight Zone where every adolescent fantasy I had ever had comes true. In her resided the mythical triumvirate of male fantasy: beauty, brains and bisexuality.
And she liked me. No, she was crazy about me. She made loads of money. I mean shitloads. A more generous girl you can't imagine. Within weeks I had a whole new, L.A.-chic wardrobe. We went to the best restaurants and most exclusive clubs. It was like having a sugar mommy. Only mine was 28 and had double-D tits. The seemingly impenetrable world of L.A. glitz now opened its doors: Her body bought us instant entry wherever we went. I soared with confidence; I could talk to the highest-paid models in the city as if they were no big deal.
And the sex. We did it everywhere, every how, in every position and with every toy there is. Her vagina worked like the Energizer bunny on Viagra (it kept coming and coming and coming ...). No sooner would one orgasm fade than another, more intense one was building. It was like nothing I had ever experienced or even heard about. We're not talking two or three or even a dozen orgasms in a single session. This is not an exaggeration: In an hour of fondling, sucking and fucking, she would come close to 100 times. Not little baby orgasms either. They ranged from breath-holding back-benders to wailing, biting, blood-drawing, wake-everyone-on-the-block screamers. It was simply inconceivable, but true despite my continuing disbelief.
I know -- it sounds like bullshit. There's nothing I can do to support my claim. I certainly can't ask her to confirm its veracity. I suppose I could ask my neighbors to sign an affidavit, but that would be getting carried away. What can I say? It's like getting a hole in one in golf only no one's around to see it. You'll just have to take my word for it.
When she told me she wanted to bring another girl home, I didn't want to let on how the adolescent inside me was jumping up and down like a ... well, like an adolescent who'd walked into a girl-girl pictorial. Oh, yeah, baby! Break out the pipe and pajamas -- there's a new Hugh Hefner in town. Yippee-ki-yi-yay! echoed through my mind, but I tried to be as cool as possible.
"Cool," I said, dropping my voice an octave for maximum coolness. It was the beginning of the end. Not because I was into it. She was completely serious and apparently as turned on by the idea as I was. But somewhere along the line I apparently lost my cool and was too into it -- at least, according to her.
It would be an exaggeration to say that I took her offer of a three-way as a license to lust after each of her girlfriends. But between the three-way and her frequent remarks about women she found attractive and unattractive, I felt I had a certain freedom to be appreciative of other women. We went to a Valentine's Day party. The directions were to come wearing something appropriate to be spanked in. I wore a monk's robe and slung a sign around my neck that read, oh so cleverly, I thought: "Spank the Monk." She went dressed like ... well, like she was going to work: skintight PVC, plunging neckline, metal studs and stilettoed throw-me-down-and-fuck-me boots. Guys gave themselves whiplash when she strolled by. And she had invited several of her co-workers who, much to my pleasure, heeded my advertisement and whacked me smartly whenever they had a chance.
You might think having a houseful of guys drooling over your half-naked girlfriend would make you uncomfortable.
Bollocks. It was great. I felt totally secure because these guys could look, but only I could touch. Stacy and I had not yet gone through with the ménage thing. Tonight, I thought, was the night to pick candidates. She was being flighty, though, and she is no dumb chick. She is disconcertingly smart: the Ph.D. she is working on is just something she's doing for "fun"; she plans to go to an Ivy League law school when she finishes -- and I believe she will.
But in donning her stripper clothes she seemed to have taken a long dive off the IQ cliff. That night she was about as mature and sophisticated as Miss Hawaii. She had invited many of the guests and had taken on the responsibilities of hostess so she'd appear for one second and be gone the next. I would grab her, ask her to introduce me to her friends, get a quick intro and zoom -- she'd be off again to bring cheer and cleavage into the lives of other partygoers.
OK, I'm at a party crowded with beautiful strippers who are getting drunk and flashing their tits left and right. Am I going to stand in a corner and yawn, or am I going to think I've died and gone to the giant Playboy mansion in the sky? Hell yeah, I was excited.
Too excited, I would later learn.
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