Sex Tips From Men

The following email comes from Marie. For some reason, I got really into this (I have no idea why). She writes:

In the August issue of Cosmo they have an interesting article about "Sex Tips from Men". As a man with many words, views and comments, I am interested on your take…I didn't notice anyone of them mentioning BBQ, hot dogs or sundae smothered on the ladies’ bodies so I was safe to assume that you were not one of those surveyed.

Excellent topic for discussion. Like I said, I got way too into this. Below I’ve taken the sex tip given by a man to Cosmo, and given my take on it.

Here goes:

“I love when you are cuddling next to me, completely nude, and I feel the softness of your pubic hair on my hip.”
- Oh jesus – a little graphic, eh? So that’s what kinda party this is? Alright, bring it on.

“If you're totally turned on, but not sure I am, let me know you're ready for sex by taking my hand and leading me into the bedroom without a word.”
- I’m probably already turned on. If you’re in the same room with me and have a vagina and at least one good eye, I’m ready whenever you are.

“If I'm sitting in a chair and zoning out, come on over and straddle me. Your body in my lap will perk me right up.”
- Really? You're kidding me! A woman sitting on my lap is a good thing? Is that why I spend 18% of my yearly income at titty bars? Quick, call CNN!

“I love when a girl gives me that God-I-want-you gaze, especially if she shifts her eyes downward after a few seconds, then glances back up one more time.”
- Douchebag. What, are we in the movies or something? (Maybe this is jealousy, as any “I want you” gaze directed at me has come from blood-shot cracked out/drunken eyes of a hobo).

“When you give me a hello kiss after a long day at work, don't hesitate to grab my package. It's like Hel-lo...”
- Ok, that works.

“Be playfully aggressive. Throw me against the wall and go at it -- like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct.”
- Again, another good one. You’d better be strong though, because I am pretty fat.

“Wear a thin silk shirt with no bra so that your nipples stand at attention, then rub your chest against mine.”
- Yes, we can compare who has bigger boobs. Unless you’re really stacked, my man-boobs will put your woman-boobs to shame. So bring it.

“Help me button my shirt or adjust my tie in the mirror. When you dress me, I just want to get undressed again.”
- I don’t care about getting undressed; I just need help buttoning the shirt, since it’s super fucking tight (curse you guacamole doritos!). You might want to enlist the help of a strong friend as well.

“When you grab my arms, hold 'em over my head and lick around my armpits. I'm putty.”
- I think I just threw up.

“Instead of just diving right into sex, spread a bedsheet between us and grind over me. The heat from your body and the softness of the fabric feels incredible.”
- Dude, are you gay?

“Licking behind my ears is a nice addition to traditional ear kissing.”
- Oh, I wouldn’t go behind my ears, since, to be honest, I don’t clean that area much. Three weeks ago I found some confetti back there from last New Year’s Eve. So best stay away.

“Dribble some sparkling wine over my nipples and lick it off slowly.”
- Or I could just drink it. And I wouldn't lick it off my chest unless you want a mouthful of hair with that sparkling wine. Just an FYI.

“Have me close my eyes and trace the outline of my lips with your finger.”
- Then slowly insert a huge piece of pie into my mouth…

(So hot)

“Press and rub the back of my neck. Then run your hands around my shoulders and across my chest. It's as if I'm being enveloped by you.”
- Yeah, good luck trying to envelope me. Have you seen me? I’m gigantic. You’d better have a fucking tarp or something.

“Run your tongue around the perimeter of my belly button. The fact that you're just inches from my most sensitive spot has me drooling with anticipation.”
- I'm not “drooling with anticipation” when a woman does this. I'm thinking, “This poor girl. God, she is really fucked up. How many cosmos did she have?”

“Lightly caress the sensitive webbing between my thumb and forefinger. It's a lusty pressure point.”
- Yeah…um, I'd rather take a blow job personally, but whatever works for you.

“Getting naked with the lights on is underrated. A big thrill of sex is fully exposing ourselves to each other.”
- I guess this depends on who you are having sex with. I usually keep the lights off, and keep my partner blindfolded. Just to be safe.

“Grab or pat my butt. It's like you're telling me it's okay to go for it.”
- Go for what? Sex? Good luck, because the “she patted my ass so I thought it was ok for me to stick my finger in her butt” excuse will not hold up in a court of law. Trust me.

“Tugging on my earlobe just a bit with your teeth makes me lose all sense of the English language.”
- Eh, the women I have sex with usually don’t have much sense of the English language themselves, what with one growing up in that small fishing village in Honduras or one having escaped the oppressive Cambodian government or that mute one I bang every Christmas Eve.

“Finger sucking is almost as good as sucking me down below. And here you can use your teeth.”
- I respectfully disagree. Asshole.

“When we're just lying on the couch and watching TV, let your feet wander in my lap and start exploring.”
- This depends on what we’re watching on TV. If it’s anything sports-related or that Denny’s commercial I really like, get your fucking feet out of my lap.

“I love it when you run your fingers through my chest hair or leg hair. All those follicles stand up and notice.”
- We are talking a LOT of follicles here. Does back hair count too?

“Whisper how much you want me and where you want me. It sounds great, and your breath on my ear is so hot.”
- This is even hotter if your breath has just a hint of Nachos Bell Grande to it.

“Read from a sexy novel and make eye contact with me when you hit a dirty word.”
- Fuck a novel – read me the menu from Burger Heaven. When you get to the Monster Burger (“8 oz. of prime and choice chuck grilled to your taste and smothered in chili, topped with Cheddar cheese and four strips of bacon with a dollop of sour cream”), I may have multiple orgasms.

[Excuse me, I need a minute here.]

[Ok.]

“Spell out naughty messages across my entire body...my legs, arms, chest. If I guess right, you act out the message.”
- Doesn't that seem like a lot of work? When I'm having sex, I'm usually so drunk I can barely work a toilet, let alone guess dirty messages written on my body. Also, whatever a woman would spell out I'd guess the same thing: "anal."

“Let me know you're in the mood by picking up my palm and darting your tongue against it. It's an unusual move, but it's so erotic at the same time.”
- This serves two purposes: 1) getting me hot; 2) cleaning off the BBQ sauce that is covering my hand.

“Surprise me with a ‘bubble-bath night.’ When I get to your place, I'll be panting when I find you waiting all sudsy.”
- But there’s no way I’m going to fit in the tub with you. You and I both know it’s not going to happen, so get out of the goddamn tub already. Also, I hoped you cleaned the tub before your bath, because I masturbate in the shower at least twice a day, so you’re probably pregnant if you didn’t.

“Leave something behind after a romantic romp. I love it when you leave your lacy panties in the sheets after you visit me. It makes me crazy thinking about you while we're apart.”
- Take your panties home with you, but leave me your doggy bag from dinner. So much better.

“I love it when you gently tug on my nipples. It sends chills up my spine.”
- Replace “nipples” with “penis” and “gently tug on” with “try to rip off” and then we’ll talk.

“I want a woman who won't freak out if I flip her over, suggest doing it in an elevator or ask her to leave her panties off.”
- I just want a woman who has all her chromosomes. Why don’t you aim a little lower buddy? Next you’re going to say it’s important for your woman to be able to read and not be addicted to narcotics. Asshole.

“I love feeling your thighs tremble and tasting your excitement, but I can be shy about making the move. So gently nudge my head downward. I'll happily get the hint.”
- Does anyone know what this is about? “Tasting your excitement”? What the fuck does that mean?

“’Feather touch’ my entire body, never staying on one spot too long.”
- My entire body? Good luck – see you in three hours.

“As we're fooling around, slowly lift my arms over my head, then glide your hands along their undersides, all the way back down to my chest.”
- Isn’t that the move Patrick Swayze did to Jennifer Grey in “Dirty Dancing”? What the fuck?

(And yes, I am straight. I swear.)

“Give me little butterfly kisses down the hairline between my belly button and my lower abs. Torture.”
- Yeah, for you.

“Don't throw your head back and close your eyes while you're getting off. If you watch me going down on you, you're going to enjoy it twice as much.”
- Eye contact is no good, because then I feel the need to make conversation (“So um, do you believe in god?” or “So um, who’s your favorite Golden Girl? I like Rose, but that Sophia sure is feisty.”)

“Pull my hair. It's so primal.”
- But if you hurt me, I will punch you.

“Please do not be afraid to touch yourself in front of me. It's about the most exciting thing.”
- I can think of more exciting things. You touching me, for example.

“Leave some clothes on. The feel of your bra or panties on my skin while we're going at it is incredible.”
- Because I am definitely keeping my shirt and socks on, and, if possible, I’d like to wear a ski mask (long story).

“Initiate a really wet kiss, then take one of my fingers and place it inside you so I get lost in the sensation of your two types of wetness.”
- “Lost in the sensation of your two types of wetness”? Does anyone else want to kick this dude’s ass?

“Lie on top of me and swing your breasts along my mouth. Graze your nipples against my lips so I have to reach up to kiss them.”
- C’mon, don’t do that to me. You know I’m not very agile or good at moving, especially when I’m that drunk.

“Don't forget to nip at my bottom lip every now and then. It's a bit of S&M mixed into an innocent make-out session.”
- Again, that’s alright, but if you’re hurt me, I’m going to punch you.

“Lick and gently rub the small of my back. There must be a million nerve endings there that crave attention.”
- Unfortunately, those nerve endings on my back are covered in a thick, lustrous hair. So I don’t blame you if you want to stay away from that area. I try to whenever possible.

“I love an errant bite on my inner thighs, the sides of my abs and my back.”
- I don’t want any biting on the inner thighs. What if someone says, “Hey, they’re giving away free hot dogs!” and I suddenly jolt upright in excitement. Boom – you lop off a ball, and I cry in front of you. So it’s not good.

“My favorite foreplay trick is to have you give me a foot massage that eventually turns into a thigh massage, eventually hitting the money spot.”
- I’ll save us both a lot of time and ask for a handjob at the bar. You’ll respect my straight-forwardness and acquiesce, but will be weirded out when as I near climax I take a picture of Charlie Sheen out of my wallet to speed up the process. After we’re finished, we will never speak again.

“I love it when you tease my ‘cut lines,’ the vertical creases that separate my torso and thighs. When your hands finally dip down to my inner thighs, I'm out of my mind.”
- Stay away from that area. It smells like Canadian bacon left out in the sun for a week. Not good. Trust me.

“Danger and surprise are huge turn-ons. Doing it with the curtains open or the lights on may not seem like much, but it's really exciting if I'm used to doing it cloistered in the dark.”
- I agree with this – danger is hot. Stab me once in the arm, and then let’s do it doggy-style. So, so hot.

“Spend a serious amount of time checking out each other's bodies -- discovering new freckles, tracing the shapes of curves and muscles. It's sexy to know each other so well.”
- Look, I’ve seen myself naked. There is nothing sexy about this. There is nothing you can discover on my body that you will find sexy (“Did you know you even have hair on the soles of your feet?” or “Why is one of your balls the size of a nectarine when the other is the size of a niblet of corn?”).

“Watching you play with your body is like looking through a peephole and catching a sneak peek at your most intimate moments. It's even hotter if you know I'm watching.”
- I have a lot of experience with this, and I agree, watching a woman play with her body is hot. However, I must say that in my experience once the woman (or high school sophomore) realizes I’m standing outside her bedroom window eating a Big Mac and rubbing myself, she is not exactly “turned on.” Quite the opposite really.

“After sex, trace your nails over my inner thigh. You have no idea how much it preps me for round two.”
- By “round two” I’m assuming we mean “turkey sandwich, heavy on the mayo” right?

“When we're having sex, firmly hold the base of my penis while I'm thrusting in and out. It increases friction.”
- Um, if you do this, you’re only going to have about an inch and a half to work with. Not that I really care, but still.

“I really like to concentrate on the act of sex and save the intense kissing for before and even after.”
- Here's what I am concentrating on: 1) “I can't believe I'm having sex right now!” and 2) “I'd really like some lo mein after this.”

“If you're riding me, rub your lower abs and feel me inside you.”
- Lower abs? Good lord! I don’t think this really applies to me, as on a good day my dick is the size of a wine cork.

“When we're changing positions, give me an oral sex break. It lasts mere seconds, but it's unbelievable.”
- There we go - finally another good one.

“When I'm thrusting, yell, ‘More, More!’ It's such an ego stroke.”
- I also like when women yell, “I know you're just on a gaining cycle right now!” or “Take me now, you internet quasi-celebrity!”

“When we're in the missionary position, grab your legs and spread them even further apart. It feels so incredibly deep for me.”
- Shit, I can’t feel anything. Neither would you if you had drank 40 Bud Lights.

“I love to have really loud sex in the afternoon. Just the idea that the neighbors might hear all the dirty things you're saying drives me wild.”
- As long as you don’t ruin our plan by yelling out, “I can’t wait until the neighbors go on vacation next week and we break into their apartment to steal money for our expensive heroin habits”, then this is cool.

“When I'm about to reach the brink, tell me to pull out. Then bring me to release in your mouth.”
- Good lord I am blushing right now.

“Run the condom packet down the trail between my stomach and privates. It's a terrible tease that feels great.”
- Condoms? Who said anything about condoms? What the fuck?

“Even the most self-assured man craves some carnal kudos. So during the bump and grind, explicitly vocalize just how good I feel inside you.”
- Since I have especially low self-esteem, tell me how good my grammar is and how my family and friends really are proud of me.

“Squeeze my biceps and triceps while we're doing it missionary-style. It makes me feel like a strong, macho man.”
- Don't do this to me. I'd probably say, “Um, yeah, I'm going to start going to the gym again next week.”

“Who says that men don't like after-play? Once I've come, run your hands over my body lightly…definitely lightly.”
- Then go get me a pizza.

“Multitask during sex. When you're on top, massage my chest to the rhythm of your grinding.”
- And clean the toilet while I pay some bills.

“Try biting my shoulder whenever you're about to have an orgasm during missionary sex. Very hot.”
- How many times do I have to tell you that women can’t have orgasms – it’s just a myth. And I know this because I’ve been with a lot of women and none have ever had ever had an orgasm. Therefore, it’s not possible.

“Moaning is great, but when you talk dirty and really let me know what I'm doing to turn you on, that really turns me on. It not only fills me in on what you love most, but it also just sounds so damn hot.”
- Talking dirty is hard. My steez:

Girl: “Tell me what you like.”
Me: “Um, everything? You know, whatever really. It all works for me.”

or

Girl: “I really want to fuck you.”
Me: “Um, I believe the feeling is mutual. Meaning, I really want to have sex with you as well.”

[Editor's Note: These exchanges are fictional. Obviously.]

“The next time you're going down, go way down. Suck my toes and massage the soles of my feet.”
- I can't express the horror I'm feeling right now.

“Explore the ‘tain't,’ which is slang for that little patch of skin below my testicles. You know, ‘tain't his arse, tain't his balls.’ Apply pressure there with your fingers, and I'll be eternally grateful.”
- Alternatively known as the grundel or choat (also spelled choata, choad, or choada), this deserves its own post. This is like the male g-spot. Unreal.

“Go down on me in the shower. There's nothing like the feeling of a warm mouth around me while the warm water's rushing down.”
- Oh yeah? Ever drink fifty Miller Lites and have a good bowl of French Onion soup? It's comparable.

“Use your scrunchie as a ring around my member.”
- Some questions: 1) Who wears a scrunchie anymore? 2) Who’s getting a beejer from someone wearing a scrunchie? 3) How good could a scrunchie around your dick possibly feel?

“With one hand on each side of my penis, pretend you're spinning a stick of wood to make a fire -- but a little more gently than you learned in Girl Scouts, please.”
- Using two hands to twist my bird? No thanks. This is the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard in my life.

“Try sticking my penis through the hole of a glazed doughnut. Then nibble around it, stopping to suck me once in a while. The sugar beads from your mouth will tingle on my tip.”
- Wait a minute - did I write this one? On second thought, I wouldn't have written this, since I think it's a bad idea, as I would most certainly steal the doughnut and eat it myself. Then, I'd probably like it so much that I'd abandon the sex altogether to go get some more.

God I fucking love doughnuts.

“Sip champagne, then take each of my testicles into your mouth. Makes me tingle like crazy!”
- I wonder if the same applies to Budweiser…

“A sexual act is 10 times hotter when we're watching porn, and they're doing the same thing onscreen.”
- The last three tips have involved booze, doughnuts, and porn. Now we're getting somewhere.

“Jump me anyplace other than the bedroom. It introduces new sensations.”
- Not when I’m pooping though. I’m not into that anymore.

“On your birthday, smear cake all over your body and invite me to help myself.”
- Just make sure you leave some cake for me for breakfast tomorrow.

“Take your panties off, throw them in the freezer, then caress my body with them. Don't laugh. It's actually awesome.”
- But please, keep them away from my ice cream and vodka. Please.

“In a cab, climb onto my lap (facing me), then stick your left leg over my shoulder and your right leg out the window. It's a little awkward, but it feels so good, we won't care.”
- Your girlfriend is a whore.

Does she have a sister with low self-esteem?

Lazy Summer Days

"The world is like a ride in an amusement park. And when you choose to go on it you think it's real because that's how powerful our minds are. And the ride goes up and down and round and round. It has thrills and chills and it's very brightly coloured and it's very loud and it's fun, for a while. Some people have been on the ride for a long time and they begin to question: "Is this real, or is this just a ride?" And other people have remembered, and they come back to us, they say, 'Hey, don't worry, don't be afraid, ever, because this is just a ride.' And we kill those people."-Bill Hicks

Dear Summer,

As you pack your bags and gather up all your personal belongings into that great seasonal Hefty bag in search of better times and nicer weather, remember this, my beautiful mistress of suntan lotion soaked frivolity:

You'll be back, bitch.

Just like always, you'll come crawling back, and just like a lonely socially inept man in love with a prostitute, I shall forgive you for all your past sins and treachery for just one shot at three more months of carefree buffoonery and sweatsoaked debauchery with you. Like a good woman and an even worse friend, you've taught me things about myself no other season has had the gall to.

And for that, Summer...

...for that, I am still in love with you.

You've shown me the joy of wandering through a state park, sunburnt fields littered with plastic relics of the modern consumer age, the smell of the highway's exhaust saturating the crisp hot humid air, only to stumble across a large group of filthy hippies kicking around a rice filled hemp sack, welcoming my wit and cash with open arms and unshaven armpits.

From there, sweating in my black Slayer t-shirt, a foolish and carefree dreadlocked gypsy would offer me an uncut ten-strip of LSD soaked construction paper, or a delicious little sugar cube double dipped with that fiendish mind replacer Aldous Huxley so brazenly explored reality with. A budding youth barely old enough to buy cigarettes, I handed the patchouli-soaked heathen two twenty American dollars and bounded away. Away from the hippy stench. Away from your unbearable afternoon heat. Away from the carefully constructed veneer of wilderness located alongside a stretch of busy highway. Away.

You whispered in my ear that it WAS ok to chemically poison my brain and deepfry my synapses, just so long as I was willing to face the consequences of forever walking around on this Earth with the knowledge that things aren't always what they seem to be. Especially not this reality, this waking life. Jaw clenched tight and that copper taste of chemical infused saliva, pupils gaping open like some poor Californian teenageer after her first try at double anal, spine vibrating with Kundalini like a massive tiger-striped Balinese serpent-beast, you took my hand and held on tightly right before you kicked me in the ass and shoved me into the abyss. You taught me that it was ok to be insane, if just for 8 hours, depending on the dosage ingested. It's ok to see right through people as if suddenly I had stumbled upon the only pair of actual working X-ray goggles, not made of cheap paper and googly eyed lenses, but constructed out of the splintered remains of the doors of perception, long kicked in and broken down by mad savage psychonauts.

No matter what the reasoning by any action was, you showed me the truth, Summer. You showed me that the slick and glistening skin of a beautiful woman laying out on a car hood, cigarette in her lips, acid in her mind, and my name on her tongue is truly a wondrous thing indeed.

You showed me the many faces hidden behind my own friends' ego, and never stopped or pulled any punches when I could look no further, for I had seen the demon, the Fear, inside of them. And you left me wanting more. More, before the cold winds and the dying leaves swept in. No other season could attest to that, Summer. For you are the great glowing lioness breastfeeding us all upon the throne of carnal delights. You are the lover we mere mortals break our backs for, while forcing ourselves to deal with the other seasons, in an effort to afford ourselves your burning embrace.

And now, now you're leaving us. You're leaving me.

So in conclusion, I want to thank you, Summer. I want to thank you for introducing me at the age of 14 to the wonderment of hallucinogenic pharmacopeia, and showing me that it's perfectly acceptable to lose one's mind for half a day, just so long as I had you by my side, carefree and lazy in our conquests. Because without you, Summer, I would not be the man I am today.

Waiting for that whore of a season, Winter, to come and go,
John

Don't Look Back

There is nothing funny about guilt.

That dirty little bitch that always tries to harsh your mellow and kill your buzz. She scolds you for your erratic behavior and looks down on you sharply over her horn-rimmed glasses. I always enjoy the look on her face after I ignore her attempts to point out my mistakes, and meet her squarely with a raised "Fuck off" finger. She can't be all that tough, or she would be reigning victorious over the desire to sin by now. Punk assed hooker.

You tards have ALL done it.

Wanted something that you know is in all likelihood not good for you. Discussed the options rationally in your head. Sometimes pondered longer than necessary before brushing that irritating angelic voice of reason from your shoulder. Ignored your own good advice and dove head first into the shallow end anyway. Self harm is a wonderful avenue to saunter down, and I encourage you all to build vast cities of wrongness and party like staffers in the street. It's humbling, and above all it's fucking fun. This boy tends to agree with whatever bright mind that uttered the words, "That which doesn't kill you only makes you stronger", as failure is the only opportunity to begin again, this time more wisely.

What's really stopping you from bending your boss over the desk and cramming a greasy one into his rectum? How about reintroducing yourself to the chemical man on the corner? You know you want to. How much longer can you prolong revealing to your significant other your secret desire to dress in ladies undergarments and join a Broadway cast? More importantly, how significant is your other if they don't already know and accept these things about you? Get fucking real. All theories and warnings aside, it's time to raise the chaos flag and do whatever the fuck you want to do for the time being. Kick a small dog, flip off an innocent child, expose your junk to your probation officer, or key the front panel of your ex's new Beemer. Drink copious amounts of moonshine, burn the green, cook the rock, sniff the white, and sink the pink. Morals and ethics are all relative, and no one is born good, so quit fucking pretending and embrace the joker that you keep locked up in the closet.

Do it without consideration of the consequences, and revel in the pleasure of selfishness, 'cause it won't last long. And after the smoke clears, the cough has diminished, the rash faded and the wounds scabbed over, wear your scars proudly and hail the next cab back to reality. You won't get battle wounds like these from sitting there watching life pass you by. Don't regret the marks, don't repent, and don't look back.

It would absolutely blow chunks through a straw to be sorry, remorseful and full of self loathing, spending hours upon days reflecting and trying to make it all right again only to find Peter laughing and pointing at you from the golden gates, shouting "Too late fucker, your game was over at GO!". That, young grasshoppers, would be a fate worse than the stoked pits of everburning hell. All that time wasted on useless wholesome ventures, when it could have been spent much more ceremoniously swimming in the glory of hedonistic pleasures. There is no right and wrong here, folks, only fun and boring. Quit sitting there whining about how lame and dull your life is, envying those who have the courage to walk the narrow path. Join in the crusade, and fear judgment not. The only true judges are out pounding the sidewalk alongside you. Eventually, if you allow yourself to, you'll come to a crossing, to a place that is always fun, where fantasy and reality blend inconspicuously into our drab society and where you can be who you really are. The journey will be a twisted, amusing pain in the ass, but the destination, should you arrive, is worth it's weight in gold. Besides that, we all know that the real fun is in getting there.

Get on the fun bus.

Westbound

We've all bought shit we regret, like that apple peeler/corer/juicer combination thing that somehow winds up in the toolbox. Our doom is usually charted around the intersection of late night infomercials and Jim Beam. My friend Mark was particularly renowned for drunk dialing with his credit card, and the string of odd-shaped boxes and strange sounds that flowed into and seeped out of his house. Drinking with him one night I spotted a Total Gym in the corner. Sadly, Christie Brinkley was nowhere to be found, but we had a helluva time drinking and doing 45 degree pull-ups. Well, a helluva five minutes anyway, then he got a finger stuck in a pulley (remember kids, alcohol and machinery don't mix). That brought about the violent end of the Total Gym. Apparently they can stand up to Chuck Norris, but not a 160 pound drunk white kid from suburbia. That's not saying much about something...

The Girl's Gone Wild DVD set showed up one disk at a time in his mailbox, though he had no recollection of placing the order. It took about ten minutes for that to get old. So, too, came a set of Ginsu knives, some spray-on chrome, a rubber broom - not the kind of shit you want to arm a mischievous drunk with.

For my part I bought an Egg Wave. Remember that trash from about six years ago? They were big egg-shaped, white and yellow vessels for the microwaving of eggs - nearly as useful as tits on a fish. About the time my king hell hangover abated my "super happy economy rush package" arrived directly from some sweatshop in Taiwan, and there they were: four plastic eggs. For the microwaving of eggs. Redundancy three times, and an ugly charge on the credit card. So I did what any one else would do: I threw one across the room, kicked another, and filled a third with Gummi Bears. I melted that shit into a volcanic sludge of boiling sugar - it was pretty cool. Pour that into an ice cube tray and freeze it, and you get ginormous gummi cubes. I called up a girl I knew, exploited her sweet tooth, and we spent about a week having sex and melting shit. Good times.

But through all the drunk dialing misadventures that aren't noteworthy, the Egg Wave and trash I don't recall, it wasn't until just the other day that I upped the ante and crossed a line. Drunk and bored, all the impressionable women hiding behind deadbolts and Mace cans, I jumped on the internet and clicked aimlessly. Then I landed on Orbitz. Don't do that. Not while you're drunk, anyway, and I doubt it's advisable in any other chemically enhanced condition.
I have a friend in Seattle. She's really hot, and at last check, single. Now to be fair, she has a great personality and advanced science degrees from an Ivy League institution...and also to be fair, she has ginormous boobs. So I sat there, bobbing and weaving though sitting still, staring at roundtrip coast-to-coast flights to Seattle and back. The screen flashed a few times, and I passed out on my desk. When I woke up an hour later with a crease in my forehead and a crick in my neck I moved the mouse and the screen popped back to life: "Order Confirmed."

So, apparently, I'm going to Seattle. This week. That Eggwave has nothing on a $300 set of plane tickets bought at 2am.

Anyone know of a good place for a sick fuck and a classy lady to get a beer? Or a nice bomb shelter I can hide out in if the shit hits the fan when I...uh...just show up?

Westward, hoe!

Here's To The Man

"Men are nicotine soaked, beer besmirched, whiskey greased, red-eyed devils..."- Carry Nation

Or so sayeth that long dead pug-faced lesbian in training, so famous for bringing her crusade of morality and forced prohibition straight into the whiskey stained bars of Kansas, one hand wielding a hatchet and the other a Bible. Personally, I think she just needed a slap in the mouth, a cold pint of Newcastle, and good hard ramrodding up her snooter cooter. But that's the problem with women who don't drink these days, isn't it? Perhaps if they just shut up for two seconds and enjoyed a shot or two with us, life wouldn't seem so serious now would it?

But that's because I'm a man, and I think like a man. So here's to being a man, in all our chest thumping, knuckledragging, ass farting glory. Here's to the guy's guy, the misogynist, the drunkard, the consummate chauvinist pig, the blue collar farmer's tan, the ass grabbing tit-slapping slackjawed yokel, the soccer hooligan, the drunken Little League coach, the pool hustler, the card shark, and the pimp.

But I digress, and for fear of sounding too much like a homosexual, this article is a celebration of all things Man, and by delving deeper into those who personify that quality, perhaps the one true reason we do the things we do shall come to light. So grab your filthiest highball glass, pour yourself a shot of the cheapest shelf whiskey you can find, light up a Lucky Strike, slap your woman in the mouth, and scratch your balls in celebration of those who should be celebrated.

Here's to the Rat Pack, and by the Rat Pack I only mean the Holy Trinity...Frankie, Sammy, and Deano. Fuck Peter Lawford and Joey Bishop. No, much like Judeo-Christian folklore, the three shining members of the Rat Pack embodied the characteristics that every man in the 21st century SHOULD follow, but few rarely do. They carried on their backs a cross that few other men could bear, but they did it with gusto and a drunken machismo few have dared to attempt since. Count the fact that they hung around with the hippest black Jew to ever bang a hot Swedish broad, and baby...you've got a walking, talking, living, breathing example of how a man should act. Their code of ethos was quite simple really: Drink like a man, and that means plenty of hard liquor on the rocks. Broads may come and go, but your pals? Your pals are forever. When in doubt, swing...in both senses of the word. Regret is a dangerous enemy to have watching your back, so never ever regret anything you've done, just make sure you've had a damned good time doing it. And perhaps the most important creed of all to follow: Pray silence. Oh, pray silence, because we're all in this shady enterprise together, so who's going to point fingers. Don't rat on your friends, fellow readers, or what the fuck's the point of calling them your friend in the first place? So raise your glass high to the Rat Pack, because we'll never see their kind again.

Here's to Hemingway, a man most alcohol fueled writers such as myself can only aspire to be, yet always fall so drastically short. Let's face it, folks...the man lived like a fucking man. Traveling around the world in a drunken whirlwind of bullfights, barroom brawls, and deep sea fishing, daiquiris, shots of tequila, and the hunting of wild defenseless animals, this man puts most our lives to shame. Sure, the self-loathing and the inevitable double barrel full of buckshot puts a depressing footnote on the story of his life, but all great men in this world know instinctively when last call is about to be called. I don't blame him, though. In the last days of his life, he found his memory was completely shot, and he couldn't write anymore. I'd kill myself too, IF I was even a good writer and had 1/10 the literary skill that man possessed. Plus I hear he possessed QUITE the pimp hand, and layed it down strong. Word. So raise your shot of tequila high to dear old Ernest, and go forth and shoot an endangered animal or two or three in his name, because guns are loud and noisy and stink...much like most of us men.

Here's to that one guy who, while trapped under a boulder, sawed through his own arm with a Swiss army knife. I bet that guy has to walk around with his balls in a wheelbarrow, THAT'S how big those fuckers must be. I'd shake his hand if ever met him, but I'm right handed, so it would just be awkward. So raise your prosthetic arms and hook hands and show your fucking respect to this guy, even if I can't remember his name.

And to keep this crappy editorial short, here's to those who do things most people would just consider fool-hardy. I'm talking about the pirates, the cowboys, the alligator wrestlers, the titty bar DJ's, the pimps, the hitmen, the hobos, the soldiers, the firemen, the drug dealers, the prize fighters, and the drunken editorialists of the world who day by day risk their lives because doing what they do can only be summed up in one sentence: It's fucking cool. And quite frankly, when it all comes down to it and the campfire has been smothered, the reason we men act like men?

Because chicks dig it. Period.

A Few End O'Summer Party Tips

It may seem like it's been a while since I've busted vile verbal vomit for you. You will have to excuse me; I've been very busy clouding my peanut-sized brain with copious doses of drugs and liquor. My busy one-man party schedule may have slowed my writing down some, but I have picked up some great tips that may help spice up the doldrums of your summer's dog daze.

For a bender, you need a crew. Most of your working friends know better than to hang out with you on a Tuesday night. They already know this from waking up the last eight Wednesdays morning's "worst hangover ever" and are not about to do it again. It is helpful to create some helpful euphemisms based abound the "let's go out for one drink" lie.

When I write "John's Big Book of Lies" these will be the three biggest lies of all time:

1. "The check is in the mail."
2. "No, I won't cum in your mouth."
3. "Let's go out for a (singular) drink.

People are immune to #3 by now. That is why I find it helpful to suggest "a light evening of {insert activity here}. For this ambiguous "activity" you need to make sure that it's the one thing your friend is least able to turn down, but not be done in excess. For example: "Let's go out for a light evening of {whoring}."

It works every time; it's just a little food and drink - nothing to fancy, but once you've you are out - you must begin:

RAISING THE ODDS: When "raising the odds" you take whatever poison you picked and pump it up a notch. Not enough sluts around? Raise the odds. Only mildly drunk? Raise the odds. On drugs yet? Raise the fuckin' odds! At first you accomplice will resist your attempt to "raise the odds", but as an experienced "odds raiser" him or herself, said accomplice will know that resistance is futile and nothing but a ruse. I myself am an admitted odds raiser; so raise the fucking odds -- you only live once, but then you are faced with another big decision: Whether to GO BIG?

GOING BIG: Nothing good ever happens when you "go big". However, it can be a hell a lot of fun. Usually it is best to plan to "go big" in advance - have prearranged bail money, the next day free to extend the bender into, keep 400 Advil on hand to deal with your hangover, and a lawyer or two can be handy - but often you might "raise the odds" and accidentally "go big"! If you want to have fun, sometimes, you've got to pay. It is helpful to have some "big boy" apparel (aviator glasses, fur coats, etc) to signify to those known to you that you are "going big" and they can distance themselves appropriately. A large group will often impede "going big" in which as you will find it helpful to have an ASPARAGUS PLAN.

OPERATION ASPARAGUS: During an "Asparagus Operation" you and your coolest friend ditch whatever large group of lame guys you are currently with to hopefully "raise the odds" and "go big". When one of you says the word "asparagus" you quietly break off from the pack unnoticed and hopefully move on to raise some real hell - as will be identified by the color coded threat level of your gums:

THE THREAT LEVEL OF YOUR GUMS: Oftentimes, the process of "going big" can be a treacherous one; it is helpful to remind your peers of just what level you are on by giving periodic updates on the exact status of your gums:

"My gums are a fine shade of cobalt blue." = Early stages of beer intoxication (6-8 beers) perhaps mixed in with some marijuana.

"My gums are a deep hue of alabaster." = Liquor intake accelerating -- Jagermeister has definitely kicked in at this point. It won't be long until…

"My gums are indeed a fine shade of chartreuse." = Over fifteen beers, perhaps some martinis, definite Jagermeister intake, cocaine has now entered the equation.

"My gums are a fine efervescent shade of bright magenta." = A rare and glorious time. Psychedelics are at play here. Gums do not turn bright magenta until at least the twelfth hour of a good stretch. Indeed, ones brain may be a fine effervescent shade of bright magenta to boot.

Regardless of the threat level of your gums, weather you're raising the odds, or if want to go big -- remember this as you are in mid-asparagus: Everything that I have mentioned leads but one direction: DOWN. Indeed, the situation will continue to deteriorate till you will find yourself where I've found myself on numerous occasions throughout this summer -- no fancy color coding, just a state of general depravity.

Write The Lightning

"Tell me," the interviewer asks across a mahogany table, "how do you write? What is your process?"

The interview was for a teaching position I really wanted, so the answer was something plausible sounding that would make Hemingway, Thompson, and Fitzgerald hang their proud heads in shame. But what I wanted was to explain, was what really goes on in this den of hyperbole from whence the mad rants emanate. The process starts with Inspiration, which comes from something so many of "them" haven't seen in decades:

Real Life.

You know what I mean: the experiences that reach around from behind and hold a knife to your throat, forcing you to look at the car wreck and think that could have been me. Or force you to stare down the old man gazing vacantly past the bus stop, knowing that will be me. Real Life has those moments when you find a fiver on the ground and for ten minutes you are the king of the world, those days when the boss threatens your life and your dog spits blood on the couch and no matter what you try, there's no escaping that this life is real.

I don't remember exactly what happens - no one does - I remember what I perceive, what I feel, the way the breaking glass sounds like a splash or how The Fear made that cop seven feet tall with a badge that shone like a spotlight. These swirl together like Neapolitan ice cream in midsummer, and no matter what I try they leak through until I have to put pen to paper and clean the mess in my mind.

Ah, the mess. The mess of thoughts and feelings, my background and research mix like sharks and eels in the dark waters just outside of consciousness. I approach writing like swimming: by swallowing a huge gulp of life and jumping in headfirst. The second sentence follows the first, and somehow the chaos is ordered automatically so what comes out on paper flows somewhat intuitively. There are times, too frequent in a life lived past the deadline and over budget, that this isn't good enough. Then comes Intervention.

Intervention comes with the staccato clink of ice cubes in a tumbler, then the swoosh of Grand Marnier. Some nights the prescription is for Jagermeister, served at 31 degrees, others it's Rogue, but the concept is the same: Intervention cuts the clutter of life, dulling the nag of distraction and wayward impulses. When words get in the way of meaning, Intervention dilates the aperture and the flood is unstoppable. Maybe that's why the greats were known for drinking, or drugs, or other ways of stripping away consciousness to expose the dark hearts in their minds. There must be more to it than that, or bathroom stall poetry at the soup kitchen would be high art, but perhaps it's a start.

Rapture. Like hitting the magic mile in the marathon, once you get to a certain point everything just clicks in place. My fingers fly over the paper, or the keys, and my eyes just watch in astonishment as the page fills with characters and symbols, strange words I don't immediately recognize but know must be my own. The freedom of art and abandon of Grand Marnier combine, cutting my ties to body and world as everything in my brain floods out. I lighten, lifting, floating somewhere above and watching now my whole body type like one of infinite monkeys chained to infinite typewriters trying to stumble by designed accident into producing the complete works of William Shakespeare.

Then comes Editing, the artistic hangover that matches the faded buzz and low-grade headache of the morning after. Was it the alcohol? Was it the release? Did something sweep in like a wraith to fill my depleted mind when my defenses were down? Something, evil? Editing your own writing is like a baby playing with its shit: first it made it, then it shapes it, and when it grows up to be a misanthropic sociopath it plays with clay and steel and is called "artist" and other dirty slurs.

I do have my own shitty-ass blog, afterall.

We hope to make something more than ourselves - something that will outlive us, or, something that freezes one day in our past like a photograph or a memento. We can be a scared kid freshly landed on the front steps of Life again if we read our writing from Back Then, or we can show the world just what it's like on the other side of society. Perhaps, we write to make the distance between two barstools meld into brotherhood, or showcase a new discovery in the world. Whatever the result, the process is long and magical, taxing, and one of the greatest trips you can take.

That's what I wanted to say, but there's something unsettling in the image of a hack writer pounding rounds of Jagermeister, ejaculating warped perspective into a laptop... and the thought of him inspiring the next generation of writers.

Write away, future Hemmingways

The Sound Of One Cock Flapping

Kenny came by yesterday, newly single and armed with a raging hard on. I miss those days. And as I sit here pounding away at the keyboard, I can only reminisce. My nicotine stained fingers vomiting forth as my brain reels from post-celebratory bruises given to me from a long night ransacking my favorite pub, and generally making a buffoon of myself, an odd yet familiar scent wafts through my senses. I am suddenly and utterly regressing back to a time when that scent of perfume was grinded into my face, along with the stench of her piss flaps and her vulva nectar. How could it be, that strange mix of lavender and honeysuckle, that NOW would be the time for phantom smells and remembrance of such an intense sexual being she was when we first fucked liked the last two AIDS victims on Earth? I know no such answers. But I do know one thing, though. Lonely, depressed, and completely stricken with a raging case of "I wanna fuck", I can't get the faces of the women I've banged like a hammer out of my mind. So with out further ado, these are some of the types of women I've stuck my purple headed warrior into...

The Drama Queen:
It takes me forever to get you into my bed, and when it is all said and done, and I stand over you as I wipe your cunny juice off my cock with your t-shirt, you still won't shut up. Months of planning, months of listening to your inane anecdotes about the fucked up happenings and people in your life, months of nodding my head in agreement to your false plights, months of hugs and sly kisses, months of spending my hard earned money in an effort to get you drunk enough to shut the fuck up for just three seconds. Three precious seconds is all I would need, long enough for me to realize that you just ain't worth it. But no. You keep running your mouth just hear yourself talk and all those months wasted on you amount to the only conclusion that could have possibly came from such wasted effort: You stink in bed, both literally and figuratively.

Thank God for premature ejaculation.

The Dead Fish aka The Corpse:
You have one thing going for you, honey: At least you aren't a drama queen. But feeling you out in bed is like making love to a corpse...but at least with a corpse there's no fear of commitment, just law enforcement. You're kind is alien to me. During the daylight hours, you're a fiery ball of energy, a delight to be with. Even when the sun sets and drinks are quaffed, you give off the illusion of quite possibly being a fantastic lay in bed. But alas, mine Venus DeNoGo, you make absolutely NO effort when it comes to carnal activities. Hell, you even offer me to sleep beside you in your bed, and when an offer like that is made to a man, our balls drop a little bit more and fill up in anticipation of what's to come. And after the small talk is over and the television is turned off, what comes next? You roll over and turn off the light, pushing my erection away with your snores.

It Came From The Planet Sexitron:
I don't where you came from, or what fiendish design you have planned for my cock and balls, but the second we locked eyes and you licked your lips like the Devil herself, there is no question or doubt about it. We are going to fuck. Long, hard, greasy, animalistic session of sex with no inhibition or moral dilemma. I'm going to penetrate every single orifice of yours with penis, fist, foot, and maybe even head, and you'll still demand more, more, MORE! You'll smell like lavender and honeysuckle, and giggle into my ear the second we meet, one hand on my shoulder, the other snuggling my crotch like a dog's nose. You will drain me of every single drop of sweat, blood, and cum and when I wake up in the morning, you'll have done something even more fantastic for me: You'll be gone to whatever planet you came from. The only problem? I'll never see you again.

The Underage Drunken Innocent:
I...uh...never mind.

The list could go on and on, people, but the Vicodin is kicking in and my headache is slowly drifting away towards nap time for Johnny. But as I sit here, now staring at Asian fisting teens in latex bondage gear pissing on each other, and await the release of la petite mort, her smell wafts away from me and turns back into the familiar stench of a Lucky Strike and my own body odor. The point is, I've loved and lost and regained and lost it all again.

If only Kenny would have stayed home, I wouldn't have been thinking about this...

Damn you Kenny, damn you to hell.

OMG! PMS? WTF? SOS!

All of you dirty, unmatched chromosome yielding fuckers have been there at one point or another. Staring vacantly at the calendar, yet having some inkling of misplaced recognition. You know you put a little red dot on this day in the planner for some reason, but what the fuck for?

Anniversary?
Birthday?
Valentine's Day?

NOOOoooo. If you are even remotely close to being that thoughtful, considerate man that your gal expects you to be, a spark will ignite in the synapses of your aging memory and rev the engine of your "fight or flight" response. PMS week. Welcome to the world of bloating, irritability, resentment and the autogenerated response of: "Fuck you, asshole!". Sit down, get comfy, and prepare for the punishment that you, as a man, rightfully deserve OR get the hell out of dodge. Either way, you'll still be wrong in the eyes of a woman whose uterus is plumping full of the cherry slushie of life and slowly reaching the overflow capacity.

While the tidal wave of period juice is forging forward, there is really not much a fella can do to settle the soul of a bitch temporarily possessed by the PMS demon. The more you try to ease the situation, the worse it will become, but the good news is that I am here to offer some helpful words of wisdom:

FLOWERS - Avoid giving them to your beloved during this week of impending eruption. Your sweet romantic gesture of roses, the silent offering of your total respect will be instantly transformed into a "guilt gift". You've already done something wrong, or plan on it and we are hip to your game motherfucker. The very best case scenerio will leave you with a face full of thorns. Skip it.

A SPA TRIP - Sure, every gal loves to be pampered at the local rub and tug, but rest assured that the gift of a relaxing day of rejuvenation will be twisted into you blurting out something like "You look like hell, go take care of yourself." Our brains are in automatic translation mode during this week, everything you say or do becomes an evil reminder of why we hate you so much.

PERFUME - This one is pretty self explanatory. "What? You don't like the perfume that I normally wear? I bet you stole it off of the nightstand of that skanky little whore that I KNOW you've been fucking! You want me to smell like your $5 hooker? Get the fuck out of my face, jerkoff!" Now you know, save yourself some energy and avoid the verbal handjob. Self preservation is a key factor in ensuring a successful mission through the gauntlet.

AN EVENING ON THE TOWN - Probably the most reckless, idiotic offer of affection that you could bestow upon your brewing belly of blood, for a couple of obvious reasons. Firstly, if you get caught soaking up even the slightest glimpse of any chick other than your Princess you will be called a cheater, and in their hormonal minds, you are not just a cheater, but a womanizing, cock flaunting slut who humps everything including the table leg. Mirrored glasses might be the winning ticket until you make the common mistake of trying to be classy and order for the lady. At this point consider yourself ugly and stupid. Your choice will be too heavy or too light and definitely wrong. The response of "Oh, so now I'm too skinny/fat? Well you didn't seem to think so when you were begging me to ride you with my finger in your ass!" will draw stares from nearby patrons and snickers from the ridiculously hot, gay waiter.

Here is the pot of gold lucky leprechauns. The only way to slide through the murderous spell cast upon your sweetheart by the bitch fairy, without losing your life or your dignity is as simple as dirt, and as reliable as death. The remedy that will have your babycakes swooning over you while she directs all of her incredible PMS hate toward unsuspecting passerbys is easier to be found than one would think. Don't kiss her, hug her, or speak, look, walk, cough or breathe anywhere in her general direction. Just remember to thank ME when she gives it up and blows you like a trumpet after she finds the pretty little box of medicine you left on her pillow.

Marked "Tiffany's"

I'm Hurt, Screw You

As some of you may or may not know...I'm in some pain.

Recently, after an accident or two, I've managed to dislocate my shoulder, herniate some discs and pinch some nerves. This makes any task, including my favorite hobby...brain surgery, almost impossible.

Not only that, but the injury has rendered my right arm useless. Rest assured dear readers, when it comes to everything other than masturbation, I'm right-handed. So, as you can assume I've been taking drugs and painting my walls these past few weeks.

Actually, I've only been taking drugs. I can't get out of my Vicodin/Percoset/Valium high long enough to write anything coherent.

But, I'll be back, soon enough.