Guest Post: Treasure Down Under

The parade of awesome female guest bloggers continues. This week, it's the scintillating and verbally dextrous Zia, who turned down my every request that she use my face as her personal sofa, but did offer up the following post. After reading it, I want her even more.

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When you think about all the things we name, you start to wonder: why do we do it? We name pets, cars, GPS systems (mine is Betty), and tons of other inanimate objects. Why? It shows ownership, pride, and a connection. So naming your “family jewels” or “lady business” should not be any different. You own it, it’s definitely connected to you, and even though it is usually inanimate, it has moments of animation which you take pride in and, in turn, want to show off its talents.

In general, you may have a codename for how you address all people’s parts. For example, the grandmother of a girl I knew in high school addressed the female southern region as a twidgette. I personally use hoo-ha. A college friend of mine refers to the male southern region as accessories. But when it comes to naming your own, there are a few different approaches.

Some people like to go with a one-name approach. My dear friend, Mama J, addresses hers by Flower—a name that’s simple, clean, and implies that it smells nice. Her husband, Hubby J, on the other hand, prefers the two-name tactic and calls his member Papa Rocks. Papa gives a, how shall we say, “grandness” or “commanding” presence, while Rocks, in the vernacular, implies that it is a good time.

In my naming research, I found that some people like to use the word “ the” to help clarify their name. Normally, we use the word “ the” for specification. So in translation, when Sarcastic Bride calls her area The Zone, it makes it sound like it’s the one and only place to be.

A few people choose to add the honorific Mr., Ms., or Miss, giving a more professional attitude to their bits. However, I found many of my female friends prefer the possessive “honorific” - My. I have heard My Valentine, My Christmas, and My Princess.

The most unappealing use of “my” was my former college roommate – My Stuff. Really? Stuff is defined as an unspecified material substance. Unspecified? What’s the use of using an honorific if you are showing no honor to your hoo-ha?

Living with her got me to thinking and that is when I came up with my name. Well, names actually. I use a multi-name method. How could I choose just one name when this area has many different moods, emotions, and situations? Think about it: if your significant others’ name is William, you may call him William (professional), Bill (casual), Billy (youthful), or scrap them all and call him Sweetheart or Honey (endearing).

So, with this in mind, I came up with My Happy, in general or after a good roll in the hay. If the roll in the hay was exceptional, My Dopey pays a visit. When I find myself in a position where the guy has no clue what he’ s doing down there and I need to give directions (a.k.a. a prescription to make things better), My Doc is in the house. My Bashful walks into the gynecologist and My Grumpy walks out. My Sleepy appears when I’m in between “ action” (current status), but if it ever becomes My Sneezy, I’m seeing a specialist.

Speechless

Someone sent me a link to this video:



That person is the greatest human who ever lived.

Even if you're a heterosexual woman, how could you NOT want to be under that ass? Straight girls, help me out here.

Everything I Know About Love & Sex I Learned From Pop Culture

Last month, with the help of the glorious and all-too sexy Skye from Met Another Frog, I recruited a number of impossibly cool female bloggers to help balance out the massive amounts of testosterone flowing through this place since Ginger left. This week, I'm happy to present a post from the brain behind No One Reads the Copy. I have dubbed her The Greek Goddess of Awesome, because she is hot, funny, well-read in all areas of pop culture, and also because I desperately want to eat ice cream off her ass.

So here we go.

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I know a lot of things.

Admittedly the things I know are stupid inconsequential things mostly related to pop culture. The only time this ever proves to be actually useful and not just something I can secretly gloat or feel superior about is when I’m trying to win a free round of drinks at Trivia Night in a bar.

When girls my age were turning to Cosmopolitan to learn the feminine art of “pleasing your man” and reading guides to giving the perfect blow job, to make the all-important pubescent transition to womanhood easier, I regarded another publication as the holiest of sources for all the information I needed: Entertainment Weekly.

So as I sit here, a mild to moderately attractive (depending on how much junk you like in a lady’s trunk) perpetually single female in my late 20’s, who knows a whole heck of a lot about The Bachelor (even though I’ve never watch it – I SWEAR) and can speak eloquently about the metaphysics in LOST, I can’t help but wonder:

How did the nerdy 14 year-old who translated Shakespearean English into contemporary English for, you know, FUN, end up having every romantic situation of her adult life feeling doomed from the start? Relationships that are the source of lots of tears and self-doubt and self-loathing, and on occasion, a shoe thrown dramatically across a room? And of course, a ton of emotional and/or passive aggressive texts and emails?

Where did I go wrong?

My therapist and I sit together pondering that very question every week, and we’ve concluded that it’s because everything I know about love and sex I learned from pop culture.

And besides I’m a writer. Drama is kind of my thing.

Here is the number one (just the top one really. There are a lot more examples. But save something for the book, right?) thing that I believe has shaped my love life and ultimately made me a very frustrated person.

It’s not real love if it’s not very, very, VERY dramatic.

If your current love interest is not:

-- exorcising a demon/the Devil out of your body - Days of our Lives;
-- running dramatically across a field with his hair waving in the wind as he offers his life for yours to a Indian chief - The Last of the Mohicans;
-- plotting to steal your virginity but then falling in love with you and appearing mostly-non-creepily at the top of an escalator - Cruel Intentions;
-- defying the laws of nature itself and traveling through time to leave you love letters in a mailbox that should not in actuality exist - The Lake House (I don’t have to actually enjoy a movie like The Lake House to have it affect my psyche and expectations of a man).

Well then... I guess he’s just not that into you.

Honestly though, I still think it’s gonna happen for me one day.

She's the Boss.

My name is Ken. I work smackdab in downtown Boston. And I totally want to have sex with my boss. Good morning.

My boss is about 56 years old. Blonde, roughly 5'3". Prolly 100 pounds soaking wet and holding a sack of potatoes. She is a mother of four from one of the city's affluent suburbs. And, holy mother of god, I want to bury my face between her legs with an intensity that only guys who've been in prison for twenty years can appreciate.

Why do I wanna bone a woman who is roughly ten years younger than my mother? Because she's my boss. Sure, she's also an incredibly hot 56-year-old professional who has her hair done on Newbury Street and depends on a team of twenty five Vietnamese women in Newton to keep her nails appropriately chiseled. But, dude, fucking the boss? That's gotta be bonus points the likes of which my feeble mind could never comprehend.

It's also never going to happen. Because she's the boss. And she didn't get to be the boss by throwing herself at goofy, pale, nerdy subordinates.

Not that there isn't something there. We've been on countless business trips together, during which jokes about sex and making out and getting fingered fly fast and furious [that last one being a story she told me about her high school prom that had me up all night in my hotel room jerking off to the dulcet tones of CNN]. Once, while we were setting up our company's booth at a trade show, she bent over and inadvertently backed up squarely against my crotch, then stood there for a beat, noting, "Hey, I hope you at least buy me dinner after this." And, voila, I had enough masturbatory fuel for, oh, ten months.

But, again, I can fantasize all I want; I ain't gettin' in the boss' three-hundred dollar pants. Although I would like to assure her that letting me bone her in the Executive Conference Room wouldn't shift the balance of power. In fact, it would probably make me an even better employee, as I see it.

Perhaps, in the dark recesses of her mind, she's thought of this as well. And is even considering throwing me a bang before her retirement. In any event, I'll be here, waiting for the Boss to come to her senses and swoop me up in her streamlined Mercedes for a night of passionate snogging and backseat screwing.

In the meantime, I may try my luck with the 62-year old Haitian cleaning woman. I see the way she looks at me...

Guest Post: I Still Got It

As you may or may not have noticed, the lovely Ginger has been absent from these pages for some time now, as she pursues other ventures. For fear that this blog may start bursting at the seams from all the testosterone I'm pumping into it, I reached out to the lovely Skye at Met Another Frog, who helped me recruit a dazzling array of fine female bloggers who have agreed to contribute some guest posts, provided I cease and desist with my constant begging for them to sit on my face. With that, I give you the first of these guest posts, from Lucky Girl of the blog How Very Lucky:

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There’d been too much disappointment. Heartbreak. And far too many 60-something comb-overs wearing mom-jeans trying to enter my digital domicile in the online mating marketplace.

No, sir. You do not look young. You look exactly your age. Maybe even older. The fact that your ex-wife and last girlfriend were both 30 years your junior doesn’t at all make you more marketable in my eyes. It makes you creepy.

When I find it rising in me, that cynicism, like a pot of rolling milk, rising, erupting into to an overflowing boil, it’s time to remove the pot from the stove. I needed a break. To reconnect with myself, to restore my faith and optimism. To remember that I am not a magnet for losers. But that the interweb sometimes is. Right?

So began my dating vacation.

My allergies were bad that Friday. I decided, impulsively and impetuously as I am wont to do, that a major spring cleaning was the solution. I put on the 30-something girl’s equivalent to my grandmother’s housedress. Minus the dress part. The point is, it wasn’t meant to be seen by anything other than the tile floor I was scrubbing.

But then I decided to wash the rugs and curtains. At the laundromat.

I walked out of my apartment. An unkempt, caramel-skinned man stood on the corner, singing. I smiled. He shifted to Sam Cooke’s “Cupid”, and followed me on my journey to the laundromat. I felt like the Pied Piper.

It was a moment that I should have appreciated. Normally would have appreciated. But instead I was annoyed. Who follows a girl that looks like she should be cleaning your toilet singing “Cupid”? Apparently, this guy does.

I quickened my gait and turned the corner nearing the laundromat. But not before a man sitting on a stoop, smoking a cigarette and talking to his friend stopped me.

"Excuse me. Miss?"

Ugh. What does he want?

He rose. What I’d hoped to be “Can you tell me the time?” or “Do you know how to get to _____” turned out the be this man’s poor attempt at a pick-up.

"So. Um. Yeah. Um."

He was a close talker.

"Yeah. Um. I just wanna talk to you. You know? Um. Yeah. Do you have a quarter?"

Wow. I’m standing there holding a huge bottle of Tide, two rather large and heavy rugs wrapped in a pair of brown silk dupioni curtains (which, incidentally and much to my dismay, later proved their dry cleaning tags correct), and a couple rolls of quarters in plain site. This sucked. But giving him one would be easier than saying no.

I couldn’t quite see over the heaping pile of laundry in my arms, but managed to free a quarter from the roll and hand it to him. And that’s when I saw it. He was holding his penis in his hands, smiling.

"You know what? A simple thank you woulda done it."

Unbelievable. In broad daylight! Jesus.

I duck into the laundromat. I drop the motherload in my arms onto the floor with relief and proceed to pack the rugs and curtains into three super-sized machines, plugging each of them full of the 22-quarters they required. I added detergent and grabbed the small bag I’d brought along. There were three empty seats along the east wall. I chose the middle seat. I reached into my bag, placed a ball of yarn on the seat next to me and started to knit. Yeah, so I’m that lady now. Single. No prospects. Proud cat owner. Proud cat owner who knits.

I know what you’re thinking. Prize. Clearly.

Anyway, I’m minding my own business when a man walks in. There are other seats surrounding the laundromat. All of which are empty. But he has to have the one next to me. The one with my knitting supplies. Damn it.

I begrudgingly move them and slide down to the next chair.

"Excuse me. Miss?"

Jesus, really? Can’t a girl just do her laundry and knit in peace? Did I really just think that? God. I did. This is why I’m on vacation.

I look at him. With attitude.

"Yes?"

"I just want to talk to you. You’re a really beautiful woman."

Oh god. I ignore him. Slip. Slip. Knit. Yarn Over.

"Miss? I said you look beautiful."

Seriously? Pony-tailed, no make-up, dirty yoga pants and a gray t-shirt with a stain looks beautiful? Well, I did get a serenade and a strip tease...

"Thank you."

He goes on. I’m trying to count. I’ve already fucked up this baby blanket three times and had to start over.

I look at him. I look annoyed.

"Please. Just stop…"

But before I can finish, two cops enter. My wishful boyfriend jumps up. He walks coolly around the folding table to the other side of the room, clutching a large gym bag. The officers approach slowly, taking position on opposite sides of the folding table. My laundromat libertine is cornered. He pauses for a moment and then takes off in a tornado, running full-speed into a woman in his path who is slowly sorting whites from colors. She wobbles like a Weeble but thankfully is left standing, terrified and stunned. The cops sway side to side like linemen ready for a tackle. One goes for the bag, the other for him. The Don Juan of Detergent gets away. They get the bag.

I return to my knitting. I guess I can add petty thief to today’s list of Lotharios.

So in summary. I still got it. I don’t need the interwebs. I can attract losers everywhere.

Sometimes You Just Have to Come Right Out and Ask Them

In my never-ending quest to convince women to sit on my face, I've employed many tactics: buying dinner and drinks, laying on the compliments, bragging about how I've spent most of my adult life hunting the killer whale that devoured my uncle. And so on.

Never, ever had it occurred to me to walk up to 'em in a public square, lie down on the concrete, and simply ask 'em, point blank, to use my mug like a sofa.

But that's exactly what this guy did:



I can't imagine the guy didn't get his ass whipped at some point during the proceedings. But the fact that he somehow talked two rather attractive and well-arsed lasses into sitting on his face instantly makes him my write-in candidate for mayor.