Kiss and Blog

Crazy Motherfucking Bitch

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 16:54:00 +0000

There is no pleasing this woman.* She looks at you and observes potential unfulfilled, possibilities unattained. There's no way around it - she sees you as a compromise, a worthy non-profit cause goofy enough to love, not smart enough to admire. We muddle through, chatting up an acceptance storm, nibbling on settling-brand cheese, drinking best-I-can-get wine. Who cares, it's approximately where everyone else is at, right?

It's a downer scenario. There are plenty around like it; indeed, I've been in at least one affair like this. But I'd like to offer some optimism. There is hope if we recognize the following:

1. Love is waking up every morning wanting nothing more than to make the other person's day better.

The difference between dalliance and to-die-for is motivation.

*Obviously I am not impugning the fetching Miss W, shown. She's a paragon of selflessness.

Bottoms Up, Upward Managers.

The Dating Distribution Curve - Wombatgram #22

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 14:09:00 +0000

Click on Wombatgram to enlarge.

How to interpret the Dating Distribution Curve:

* Sequential date number shown on x-axis
* Total number of daters shown on y-axis
* Three peaks represent peaks of dating numbers
* Two troughs represent dips in dating numbers
* Successful negotiation of dips becomes progressively more difficult
* After date #10 you're beyond dating and onto some other status

Obviously, most people know by date #2 or #3 if there's a future with this person.

The dips exist to test whether you really should be together. Read more about The Dip here.

Other Wombatgrams here.

Bottoms Up, Long Lasters.

Expecting the Unexpected

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 10:38:00 +0000

Eliza Dushku

Meeting and dating someone in quick succession can be one of the funnest things in the universe. If you feel you have something with this new person the exhilaration of discovery is like a drug. Gimme more!

The downside of that is if it doesn't work out, you end up in a relationship with some sketchy dude who sells you low-grade shit at street-plus prices. Wait. That's another kind of drug, although the analogy holds pretty well.

We singles are all looking for that starburst of wonder and goodwill, elusive as it might be. There's no way to pre-figure the feeling, the chemistry follows no particular rules. Encounters with this drug are not restricted to singles either - I can think of at least three married women with whom I've shared that moment of singularity, of knowing. Fortunately, my better nature prevented anything more happening. There are quite a few what-ifs hanging out there in the universe.

Like any drug, mutual discovery is best enjoyed in the right environment. Bathrooms and cars are fun, but more appropriate when you're both on a slightly more solid footing. Passion can overwhelm common sense, so at least in the beginning some dating structure is good.

That's an old-fashioned view, I understand. Trouble is that heightened emotions - all I can think about is HER - leave no room for circumspection. It's all about wondering what she's doing, whether I need a haircut and how her pussy might taste.

Bottoms Up, Newly Acquainted.

Regrets, Imagination and Missed Connections

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 21:05:00 +0000

They first caught my eye years ago in The Stranger, Seattle's free leftie weekly, but I note that Craigslist has them too. "They" are the wee Missed Connections classifieds, posted by those poor souls who think they've spied someone special in public but botched the opportunity to introduce themselves.

This is representative:

You are a petite blonde hair, blue eyed woman with an amazing athletic build. Wow, you are so fit and attractive, I just can't take my eyes off of you.

Honestly, you're the highlight of my workout and the conclusion of my day.

Note the slightly stalkerish POV and continued unwillingness to engage IRL.

This is more calculating:

You were at the Costco at _________ on Friday around 4:00PM . You had blue jeans tucked in your tall boots and you were with a bald older man. We exchanged multiple looks and smiles....me dark hair, light eyes, goatee, tall, handsome. I was smitten with you like no woman I have seen in years. Would love to show you the nicest of discreet times. No strings, no drama just fun excitement and passion.

And this guy almost got it right:

We were chatting at Gin Mill, and I got your number but then i did not save it. You were a math teacher.

A tone of wistfulness inhabits these pieces. The unspoken question is "...what if..." which is clearly a product of imagination. The answer will remain in there too, unless these people DO SOMETHING about it, which is why I think this is so awesome. * snaps gum *

Check this out: MeSayingHi. SFW. The concept is simple. You store your online profile with the MeSayingHi folks. You buy introductory cards that allow access to that profile. When you have one of those potential missed opportunities, whip out the card, hand it to the person with as big smile as you can muster, and go about your day. (Then hope like hell they get back to you.)

I'm in favour of anything that eases the first awkward stranger-to-stranger encounter. Nothing will replace the actual act of walking up to someone, looking them in the eye and introducing yourself. But. Not everyone has that confidence. For those who do not, this will help.

Bravo Andrew at MeSayingHi, I'm a convert. *

Bottoms Up, Brave Knights and Knightettes.

*[BTW, in case you think I'm being paid for this: nope. I just think it's an excellent idea.]

Life's A Beach.

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 02:23:00 +0000

As a first date venue, the beach is a mixed bag. A walk along the beach as a part of a first date works well in my experience, mostly because the surrounds de-focus first-date nerves.

It needn't be a beach, of course. A park or even a stroll on a nice street will work in the same fashion, but the beach has a few advantages.

I like the beach because the palette is clear-cut. The colours are those of sea, sky and sand. The textures are air, land and water. And the sun might be shining, or not, and it's either windy or not. Elemental is probably the best way to describe being on the inside of one of nature's low-key highlights.

Think of it this way: On a first date, you are trying to find a way into your co-dater's head. You've already decided if you're physically attracted, and the permutations of how you imagine them fitting into your life have already played out. What remains is to figure out if the reality of this person can squeeze into your mental relationship-sardine-can.

Which is why a few subtle walk-along-the-beach qualities are important.

+ You both are likely to be barefoot. (Implied nakedness.)

+ You are not facing each other whilst walking. (Helps reduce the intensity.)

+ You're both breathing. (Great for clear thinking and positivity.)

I wrote that beach dates are a mixed bag, so here's the downside. If you have a swim-date at the beach, you raise all kinds of questions regarding body-image and self-confidence. Unless you're galaxy-grade sure this isn't a problem for your date - OMG a first date, gulp! - settle for a walk. If that works, there's plenty of time for bikinis later.

Bottoms Up, Bikini Bottoms.

May I Have This Dance?

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 22:28:00 +0000

Pic credit.

I prefer earlier composers - the Baroque suits me better. But in Salzburg, Mozart's home town, they have a wonderful tradition of re-enacting all things Mozartish. His music is everywhere and so is the sensibility. People dress as they did in the late eighteenth century and dance to the music of the time. It's wonderful to see.

The dancing's where I'm getting to. Mozart wrote a lot of dance music, and was no mean dancer himself. He wrote for the popular styles of the time, meaning popular with the kind of people who held and attended balls, not street riff-raff. He was passionate about writing and participating, especially the minuet.

There was nothing stuffy about the music:

They are exasperating to listen to in large quantity, but they are full of lively, even zany details, and serve as a reminder that eighteenth-century composers were expected to be adept at producing both 'popular' and 'serious' music, and that there was no categorical difference between the two.

The vision in my head is of a ballroom of finely dressed Austrians. People of all ages are in attendance, good dancers and bad, friends and strangers. There's chatter and laughter between dances, smiles and storytelling, like at any good party.

The music begins, and men and women partner up - sometimes wives and husbands, sometimes friends, oftentimes singles. Steps and moves are formalized and everyone knows the rules, although not everyone can keep time. The fun, as with all good dancing, lies in the shared grace and closeness. The movements are contrived and formulated, but that is the point. Anyone can dance with anyone else precisely because the rules are clear and understood.

One other surviving period detail is that men always ask for the woman to join him in a dance. That seems to work best.

Bottoms Up Salzburgers.

Relationship Mash-Upship

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 22:00:00 +0000

Sophie Marceau pic credit.

Beautifully matched couples are boring. Kens and Barbies together are meant to be seen as a pair, batteries sold separately. Surely they have their tiffs and differences like any other be-coupled life forms, but it's less dramatic when you know there'll always be someone else. The drama of a bust-up barely registers when the danger is only of when they'll find another one just like the last. Answer: It won't take long.

Couples who are clearly different in appearance raise interesting questions. Do they know they look mismatched? What is it they have in common? Which one of them has the most devious motivation? Are they together out of spite? Which of them is desperate?

[You'll note that I attribute less than honourable motives here. That speaks to my mind, not to our theoretical odd pair.]

In my experience, there are a few broad categories where couples look noticeable. There's the big age difference, the big looks- or body-style difference, and the style difference. A style difference would be, say, someone fully tatted-up with a cleanskin. Cheatin' Jesse James and Sandra Bullock is one example. Less obvious mismatches are those involving social ability, wealth and intelligence. Intelligence is a tricky one, because measurement is so subjective.

Looking around, it's clear that we tend to meld with those who more-or-less look like they belong to us. That might simply be because all we want in a partner is the opposite-sex version of our favourite person. Us.

Bottoms Up, Self-Esteemers.

Being In The Moment, Until the End.

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 22:07:00 +0000

Morgane Slemp pic credit.

Is dating an extended job interview or an end unto itself? If it's an interview, what is the job? And if dating's the thing, why is it so fraught?

~/\~

In my experience, whenever people talk about their dating lives, there's a whisper of unfulfillment in the air. They drift off into an unspoken wistfulness, eg:

Oh, we're dating. Nothing serious... or

Yep, been dating a year or so now....

It's never (apart from initially)

OMG! I love it! We're dating!*

~/\~

Mismatched intentions doom many budding romances. It's the question everyone loathes, viz:

Where are we going with this?

If either dater feels the need to ask this question, it's over. If he or she doesn't communicate clearly some kind of goal that's vaguely related to yours, without prompting, asking the question merely emphasizes likely relationship termination.

~/\~

It's possible that I, like many others, am brainwashed into thinking that dating is only ever a road to somewhere else. Dating as its own reward can work, but requires the kind of communication rarely seen when people first meet and want to make matters more formal.

Kate, I want to spend more time with you, to date you. However, at this point I have no interest nor plans beyond that. All good with you?

Doug, just date me. That's all I want.

~/\~

* Granted, beyond a certain age, this might be the case.

Bottoms Up, Existentialists.

Tell Him He's Dreaming

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 11:24:00 +0000

Zarah Pacheco pic credit.

I do it all the time - I get stuck in my head, thinking about meeting the perfect gal, how it would all be so neat and clean and happy ever after. Living like this courts trouble, especially when we're talking the sex and so on, because the mind doesn't own a watch. Time has no meaning in daydream fantasy land, so that when a real life prospect comes along in actual real life, time actually applies and I crash to earth.

Time's important because there's really no fast-forwarding through the getting-to-know-you period. We're not like automobiles; there's no plugging in a computer to check the status and history of all the machine's systems, as fun as it is to imagine doing that with a person.

Okay, Bud, whattawe got here? Alrighty, looks like her history's pretty clean. Body's straight. Transmission's been replaced, looks like it was a warranty job, so that's good. Fluids all clean and changed regularly. Tyres are getting close to the limit, but will do for now. She needs to go for a long ride, I'd say she only does short trips around town, so she needs a good blow-out. Apart from that, I'd say you've got a solid prospect here.

Wouldn't it be neat to know precisely what you're in for when you meet someone? Of course, there'd be no discovery, but really, revelation's over-rated. History's chock-full of dead explorers.

But back to this planet. We're all PDG at masking stuff we think needs hiding - but not forever. Some kind of universal consensus hovers around the eighteen month mark as about the period required to uncover your sweetie's suitability. That's about the time Magellan took to get half-way around the world.

Just for the record, he died there.

Bottoms Up, Relationship Mechanics.

Necking, Making Out and Just the Right Seasoning

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 00:26:00 +0000

Alena Seredova pic credit.

What ever happened to making out? I wonder if people still sit together on a couch or in the car and fool around with their clothes on, or whether we're all so sophisticated thesedays we go straight for the bonking.

Good make-out is more than just kissing, because kissing by itself is like food without seasoning. The salt and pepper of a smooch session are the little things, like some nibbling, a little hair-pulling, deep eye contact and so on. A skilled make-out artist knows the value of piano and forte, of innocence and raunch, and of fast and slow.

As any professional lady will tell you, kissing is more sensual and personal than mere fucking, which confirms my thinking - that we communicate more with a long kissing session than in a straightforward shag. Okay, maybe not, but it's certainly more subtle than all the reproductive stuff. Let's face it, all shagging is variations of thrusting and grinding, but kissing is infinitely more nuanced.

At least half of the make-out experience is smell and feel. The smell of a woman is an enormous turn-on, something that we all know but seem to think pertains only to her juicy parts. I, for instance, love the smell and feel of a woman's neck. The right neck - attached to the right woman - is a thing of beauty. Necks have heavenly curves that no mathematical formula can describe, and if they're touched in the right way, moaning results.

I like it when women moan and I'm pretty sure they do too.

Bottoms Up Make-Out Bandits.

Friday Fluffer - It's Just A Weird Situation All Round

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 20:47:00 +0000

Elle Macpherson pic credit.

Not that Elle would ever be a fluffer. Although who knows what floats her 155' boat?

For the last Friday Fluffer of 2011, I give you the BEST way yet discovered to create pet names. Actually, I'm serious. This works, if only for a laugh. SFW.

Bottoms Up Sexy Candy Pandas.

Love Matador

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 11:05:00 +0000

Paz Vega photo credit.

The PUA community is fully aware of the value of dressing to impress. Overdressing, actually, with the aim of making themselves the centre of attention. Peacocking they call it.

Grabbing and maintaining a woman's eye is the aim, and a quirky or bright outfit will help. The theory is that once you set yourself apart from the shlubs in flops and cargo pants, bedding a woman is then a matter of time.

The lads are probably right.

In Florida, where I live, a man in a long-sleeved shirt creates a stir. If he's in a business suit with necktie and polished shoes, the local television news sends an outside broadcast unit. Of course the climate mitigates against much more than shorts and a flamingo-print shirt, but still; we're a state of slobs.

So I have a vision, thanks to Katherina. The most colourful and distinctive male outfit I can think of is that of the matador. I'm SO tempted to dress myself as a torero - accessorized with hat and blood-red cape - and go about my day. In the morning I'd take my espresso, go to the bank and pump some gas. In the afternoon, naturally, a siesta. And then at then at cocktail hour I'd head to my favourite bar trailing a line of swooning females.

I'd be like a Bullfighting Pied Piper.

Bottoms Up, Picadors.

You're Such a Dirty Bitch

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 10:53:00 +0000

Manuela Arcuri photo credit.

You're such a dirty bitch.

God you're so wet, I love it.

Oooh, yeah, that feels great.

Your pussy feels so tight.

Mmmmm, I could do this forever.

Guess what we're doing here? Yes, I'm talking during sex, and now that it's written down, it's kinda lame - unimaginative, even. But when I start thinking about improving my sex-talk repertoire, the right words elude me.

My working theory is this: If a woman is sharing her mind and body with me in heavenly congress, she wants me to be as close to her ideal lover as possible. I guess women have the two extremes of men in mind - the worst possible and the best. The worst kind of lover sticks it in, wiggles it around for a bit, ejaculates and remains silent throughout. (Although under some circumstances I can see some women wanting precisely that. Tricky creatures.)

The ideal lover is skilled at making her feel beautiful and sexy; understands just how to help her mind and body stay horny; exerts the right amount of authority; talks eloquently and sexily; and fucks her long and often.

Frankly, that doesn't seem like such a big ask, especially in a loving marriage or committed LTR. Still, the right kind of talking during sex looks to be the most elusive element. From personal experience, men should avoid:

~ laughter. Women seem to take this personally, rather than as an expression of joy.

~ filth-talk if she's not in the mood. Best to discuss this beforehand.

~ comparison to other women, even if positively. Duh.

~ explicit functional chat if she's not prepared for it. Body parts have distinctly unsexy names.

~ anything that makes her feel self-conscious. Until she's comfortable with admiring honesty.

That's a start. As with much surrounding sexual preferences, it's best discussed away from the heat of the moment. Start when fully-clothed, and over dinner, ask:

Darling, when we're making love, do you like it when I tell you how hot you are in Latin?

With luck you'll be able to capitalize on the feeling and try your sex-talk immediately. Practice makes perfect.

Bottoms Up, Woman-Whisperers.

The Marriage Spider: Wombatgram #21

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 19:15:00 +0000

Try as you might, there's no killing the Marriage Spider.

Click on Wombatgram for all the hairy details.

Bottoms Up, Arachnophobes.

For all previous Wombatgrams, try the Wombatgram home page, above.

But Then Again, Too Few to Mention

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 01:52:00 +0000

Maria Grazia Cucinotta pic.

Choosing the right partner.

I don't know, if there is some secret to making this happen, it's surely not in my possession. The answer is tantalizingly close, like she's so almost there...but she's not.

Or is she?

I am unmarried because I have yet to meet the right person. Well, maybe I've met her, but all the folderol surrounding dating is a barrier. Some people are ready, some people are not, and so the world turns.

Maturity matters. Some people I know married early in life, but they had it together enough to make it work. On the other hand, there are perpetually lagging souls who only present as decent prospects after a few years in oak barrels. Everyone's mileage varies.

If there is magic to be learned, maybe it is just that - that we're all different, and you knowing when you're ready for decanting is paramount.

Bottoms Up, Vignerons.

Wedding Night Sex

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 12:54:00 +0000

Photo hat-tip: Miss Licious.

Somewhere, in blogland or a trashy newspaper, I read that fewer than fifty percent of couples have sex on their wedding night. That seems about right. Conventional weddings are awful, stressful things, non-conducive to relaxed (or even frenzied) lovemaking. Emotional and physical exhaustion ruin desire.

But let's say you've practised abstinence. It's your wedding night, and high time for a thorough seeing-too. For God knows how long you've both restricted yourselves, and now your rules allow for...well, anything, I guess. Where do you start?

Where would you start? It must be like being locked overnight in your favourite store, able to take anything you want. Presumably masturbation is allowed if you're pre-maritally abstinent towards your beloved, so holding back the reservoir wouldn't be too overwhelming. I guess the whole point is having penis in vagina, so the quickest way to make that happen would be the first order of business.

I wonder how many folks are disappointed at that first time? Wouldn't that be a sinking feeling, discovering that after all that delayed gratification, you'd hitched yourself to a dud bash?

Still, it must be quite a moment, that first time, outcome notwithstanding.

Miss Miz's favourite link. SFW

Bottoms Up, Newlyweds.

Digital Love Analogue

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 10:38:00 +0000

Stephanie Gateshet.

We're clearly moving from centuries of an analogue world to lives defined digitally. The changes are easy to see - we no longer measure, we count; infinite shading is now thin slicing; perhaps is either on/off.

If this isn't the revolution of all revolutions, I don't know what is.

But, like, whatever. My interest lies in whether we're changing the nature of love. Is love analogue or digital? Do we look at love like a Caravaggio or a PDF file? Is the answer as obvious as it seems?

Digital love sounds awful. A bunch of ones and zeros on a wafer of silicon won't get anyone's heart racing, let alone inspire them to write a song or pen poetry. However, those ones and zeros are canny things; they understand that they're neither warm nor sexy, so they present us with a more lovable facade. The photo above, for instance. Or blogs. Or iTunes. Somewhere along the line, the digital gods found themselves a first-rate PR firm, and followed its advice.

The problem is that all their solutions are good at describing love but hopeless at actually being it. The look that melts your heart, the feeling of her touch, the invisible communication of minds in synch - I guess a robot will eventually simulate these things, but it will still be reproduction of love, not the core.

So I think we're safe for now. Love will be analogue for a long time, probably until your DNA has sex with an iPad, at which point we're all screwed. Or apped. But at that point it won't matter: we'll all be too busy shopping at Amazon for a lover to notice.

Bottoms Up, Microprocessors.

Busting a Move

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 14:04:00 +0000

Maureen O'Hara pic credit.

Patpong 1 and 2 are the best known streets for titty- and fuck-bars in Bangkok. They're hot, steamy and stinky streets, which is remarkably appropriate for a sex-based precinct. Bonking is on sale here: girls are the medium and the only barrier to negotiate is the price.

Hanging around in a club, one often finds oneself on the receiving end of a paper dart or a ping-pong ball. Innocently sipping a Mekong whiskey and ice, you notice a slightly soggy projectile hitting you on the head. Nothing odd about this, apart from the launching device - a vagina. Don't be fooled. Experienced bar-girls have aim worthy of the best sniper, and delight in wowing patrons - both men and women - with their version of target practice. Hey, don't blame me. It's a cultural thing.

One night, in a fairly decent club, the usual all-girl pelvic olympics was interrupted by a sex show. A guy and girl arrived on the elevated stage, the lighting dimmed, and their "lovemaking" began. A few details linger:

+ she was stunningly beautiful

+ I felt bad that he had some difficulty attaining wood

+ I felt better when she fellated him to solidity

+ the performance had the aura of them actually being a couple

+ I felt the music was inappropriate. Was it Shostakovitch?

+ the entire menagerie (bar, naked women, gawping tourists, shagging on stage) didn't feel odd, given the location

And, most relevant to this post:

+ I was in awe of the way they moved so gracefully from one position to another.

The entire (overly long) thing was like someone choreographed every penis/vagina sexual position into one outing. The "Joy of Sex" in 3-D.

Miss Miz reminded me of this night with her musings on side-by-side penetration. I like her thought of "transitioning" from one position to another, to suit the mood and stimulations of one or other sexual partner. Wouldn't it be just awesome to sit down with your beloved and actually pre-plan how you're gonna have sex? I haven't done this, and can't think why not. As a kicker, doing so over email or IM or even Twitter, say, takes social intercourse to a whole new level.

I imagine that most people (like me) just figure stuff out as they go along. We start somewhere along the Fucking Continuum (TM) and move back and forth...somehow. I guess someone takes charge, or there's gentle persuasion, or mutual agreement or out come the handcuffs. All of which sounds like fun. But the ideal of planning a sexual tryst, from position to position, like planning a ten-course meal, appeals muchly.

Bottoms Up, (After Some Reverse Cowgirl.)

Separating Wheat from Chaff

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 06:55:00 +0000

Mary-Louise Parker pic credit.

Grain silos are dangerous. Fall into the top of one and you might end up suffocating as you struggle to escape, buried alive. There are trucks itching to run you over. Augers want to rip your hand off. And an empty silo can be full of explosive dust. No smoking, thankyouverymuch.

I'll resist the (strong) temptation to compare love to grain silos. Of course love doesn't physically injur anyone. But it can feel nearly as rotten then things turn bad.

My first grain silo accident happened when I had to move cities for a job. She was a friend turned lover, IMO still the best way to find the someone. She stayed, I left. We corresponded, I was busy. She found someone else, I discovered heartbreak. Only sleep soothed.

The loss wasn't fatal, however, and hope regenerated. Another crop came in. I know now the poor odds of success if you're in a long distance relationship.

Separating wheat from chaff. As long as it doesn't kill you.

Bottoms Up, Croppers.

I Smell Sex and Candy

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 14:30:00 +0000

Anna Holtblad pic credit.

I imagine that, if pressed to quickly - hurry, hurry! - come up with the name of a sexual position, most people would say "missionary". Okay, men might say "doggy". But both answers are a travesty, because female superior loses out to missionary and rear entry for no good reason.

"Female superior" lacks the snappy nomenclature of the other two, granted. But as an all-around winner, FS takes the Gold Orgasm every time. Thanks to the Dummies Guide people, you can compare missionary v fem sup here. Link.

(Who'd have thought: a Dummies Guide to Fucking?)

However. I have been told by women that female superior makes them feel vulnerable. Vulnerable? Well, sure. I have access to your lips, your breasts, your clitoris, and all the other wonderousness on your front side, which goes a long way to explaining why I like it so much.

Isn't vulnerability (read: unfettered access) the whole point? We're naked and my penis is inside your vagina. So I'd say we're both pretty vulnerable, especially to having a really good time.

Bottoms Up, Or Fronts Up, Whichever.

Kissing Confidential

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 17:11:00 +0000

Gwendolyn Whiteside's photo credit.

I was seven and she was seven. She kissed me once, then she kissed me again. She turned into my first kissing partner, a classroom conspiracy engineered by her. I was a lost but complicit co-conspirator, unsure of what it was all about. Why is she doing this? What part should I be playing here? Why does she taste so good?

Jane Phillips, where are you? Wanna give it another shot?

The kissing faded, as did her ardor for me. Perhaps our mutual lack of make-out skills doomed us from the start, but my suspicion is that I killed it. Too much thinking, not enough action. I should have just rolled with it, especially as Jane not only brought extra lunch to school for me, but went out of her way to walk home with me too. She was the definition of the perfect girlfriend. With memory of the kissing faded, what remained was her smell, which I can conjur to this day.

But Jane wasn't the first person to kiss me. That would, presumably, have been my mother. Right, so they're two completely different kinds of kissing, but they're the same physical action separated only by context. Interesting that at a family function we can kiss a close friend or relative as a sign of connection and fealty, then go on to kiss our wife or husband and communicate something so much more. Kissing is both an instrument of alliance and of overt sexuality.

If you're a mechanistic evolutionist you'd look for a reason for the kiss. For kissing to survive as a behaviour it must have some benefit for both parties. Let's see. There is the transfer of germs - good for babies acquiring their parents' immune sophistication. There is the shared smell of swapping skin flakes and saliva - a sort of hazmat solidarity. And there's the busting of the very last ring of personal space - a what's yours is mine suspension of physical defences. Add up these elements and we have that most endearing of human qualities, the ability to give yourself to another, signalled by the pressing of one's mouth onto the body, head or mouth of another.

Evolution is a brutal judge of superfluous behaviour. Kissing survives for only one reason, and that is because it aids species continuation. Kissing is a quick and dirty way of figuring out if you're a sexual match. Bad kisser, bad lover. If she tastes wrong, she probably is wrong. On the other hand, someone who gives good kiss moves a long way up the list of preferred partners, and, speaking personally, a good kisser is a heavenly gift notwithstanding the outcome. A good kisser stands alone as such, or can lead to extra complexity ie: another generation of kissers.

Which brings me to the undeniable fact - that kissing has power beyond simple intimacy. We're social creatures, and we're tactile too. We want to meld with a special other, and the power of this drive appears to go beyond mere reproduction. At a fundamental level, we understand that attachment to another one and then descending levels of closeness to relatives and non-related individuals in concentric circles fulfills us. It's tribalism, the need to belong and know that we belong. Hence the kiss of enormous variation, from the humble kissing of the hand - at your service, Your Majesty - to the unbridled heat of connection during sex.

Kissing sends the universal message - I want to be a part of you.

Bottoms Up, You Big Beautiful Kissers You.

Don't Stop the Dance

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 22:58:00 +0000

Zoe Saldana photo credit.

Nineteen eighty-five just might represent the apogee of the music video. Weak, qualified statements don't make for good arguments, however, so I'll take a deep breath and say it: The Eighties were the Golden Age of Music Video.

There. Solidity. Definition.

I've taken to asking people what one tune they can point to that categorically changed their lives. Music's a universal, so I figure that it's a useful common denominator that written or spoken language isn't. Others, strangers, musicians, express what we feel better than ourselves.

And although this isn't my all-time-change-tune, it's from 1985. The Golden Age. Let's not change the dance, eh?

Bottoms Up, Looking Back In Wisdomers.

All The Power. Women Have All the Power.

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 01:09:00 +0000

Elisabetta Gregoraci photo credit.

I know she was testing me, because no other explanation works.

The casually over-opened blouse, the lingering lean-over, these are the weapons of war. It's not a conventional war - in the parlance, this is an asymmetric battle.

Winning and losing are fuzzily defined. For instance, do I win or lose by giving into temptation, allowing my gaze to drop below her neck? The upside is that I see some bra, definitely, and some portion of breast.
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If I steel myself and exhibit self-restraint by not checking her out, does she notice and figure that she needs more firepower next time? Or is she disgusted by failure to compliment her with a gaze at her goodies?

Either way, I am outgunned and suffer from hopeless intelligence.

Bottoms Up, Wandering Eyes.

I Want to Buy You Shoes. Not Really.

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 09:51:00 +0000

People are such sticklers for what's right and wrong to say on a date. Or what to/not to wear. Enthusiasm for strippers creates contempt. And honesty gets you ejected from the train one stop short of that.

Then again, there might be a reason why women react poorly to all of the above. Plus they hate manboobs.

Worth a read.

Bottoms Up, Over-Reachers.

Groupon

noreply@blogger.com (Wombat) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 20:46:00 +0000

Before too long, we won't refer to people as:

This is Amelia - she's from my book club.

It'll be all:

Let me introduce Suzette - we're members of the same swingers' group.

Which has benefits. Instead of ploughing through insufferable Oprah-approved tomes of PC claptrap, we'll be talking about...how that broad likes being ploughed wheelbarrow-style, how that one likes a little suffocation, and how to deal with The Clap. In a mutually supportive and compassionate way, of course.

Swingers, too, want to make a difference. Or, more accurately, want someone different - a lot of someones different. It's all the same, though, right?

Be careful, however. Not everyone is hip to group sex as the new social networking. Pity Deborah Sherman, who lost her gig with a Denver television station. As the Denver Post delicately asked:

Did her termination have something to do with the story about a prescription-abusing doctor, whom Sherman met on a swinger website?

Titanic. Debster's been unfairly victimized here, but I sense there's more to the story. Work for an investigative journalist perhaps?

Bottoms Up, Bottoms Uppers.