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First Porn Experience

Jul 10th, 2007 by

For most guys porn has been a part of his life since his first adorable little ejaculation.  It’s been a good friend, right there all along, assisting in quickie wanks, long drawn-out Saturday afternoon sessions, and walk-by chubbies at the office (pre-firewall days).  It’s helped to raise our standards of what we expect in bed from the women we date (another reason why women are getting sluttier.)  Recently, I found myself reminiscing about my first exposure to porn.

joyofsex.jpg

It was at my grandparents’ house.  I was exploring the basement when I came across a copy of The Joy of Sex in an old beige filing cabinet.  What a find!  The rush of excitement was instantaneous.  The pencil sketch drawings were thin gruel compared to today’s high res video on demand, but I was 14 and just saying the word “boobie” was enough to give me blue balls.  I pored over every single picture.  Eventually I got around to reading the words.

I don’t know what was skeevier — getting off to porn with my grandparent’s watching Jeopardy in the next room, or finding porn in their home, a place I used to think was holier than a confessional.  I’m pretty sure the book smelled like old people.  That didn’t stop me.

From then on I was a perverted pirate on a porn treasure hunt, always looking for my next fix.  Like women, the chase was almost as much fun as the viewing.  With each score I ratcheted up my demands for stronger, purer stuff.

My next big find was my parent’s underwear drawer.  Big honking VHS tapes with colorful scenes all over the sleeve.  I later learned that most of my friends found their parents’ porn in the underwear drawer as well.  I wondered if our parents got together on bridge night to discuss the best places to hide the porn from the kids.  In their infinite wisdom they decided under the granny panties.  Come on, that’s the first place a kid is gonna look knowing that’s exactly where his dopey parents will think he won’t look.  It wasn’t long before I found the vibrators and devices I still can’t identify to this day.

Porn is so ubiquitous now that the thrill of the chase is gone.  Kids these days have no idea what it was like back when we had to walk 5 miles through the snow, uphill both ways, dodging suicide bombers, to get to number 2 pencil sketches of vaj.  Today it’s log on, rub one out, get back to whatever you were doing.  There’s no anticipation.  It’s not Christmas morning anymore, it’s a typical Tuesday afternoon.

In the distant past when men had nothing but glimpses of ankle to masturbate to, actual sex must have been an earthshaking experience.  It must have been the kind of thing that men died for… and created civilization for.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Culture, Ridiculousness | Comments Off

Dear Diary

Jul 9th, 2007 by

I was never one to keep a diary.  Nor did I ever keep a diary but call it a journal.  Yet a casual glance shows that 99% of blogs are basically diaries of the minutiae of people’s lives and their overheated ruminations about said minutiae.  Since I mostly write about abstract stuff I kind of feel like I’m missing out by not blessing the reading audience with the all-important trivialities of my daily life.  So here’s a glimpse into my mental world from this past weekend:

At the pool there was an unfortunate couple with a kid.  The woman suffered from advanced stages of what looked like multiple sclerosis or some similar gift from god, her back grotesquely misshapen and her arms bent in awkward positions.  The man, husband I presumed, was inflated like a hot air balloon, at least 400 pounds.  I thought, That guy is damned lucky she’s deformed or he’d get no pussy at all.  Then I wondered if I was the only one thinking that.  I pondered a bit more that he could lose his weight while she could do nothing about her affliction.  In this way I was comfortable mentally blaming fatso for ruining my visual environment.  Most of the time you don’t see people like this, the walking wretched, out in public.  They generally stay holed up indoors with delivery services providing their needs.  I think most people are happy with this arrangement, even if they would never admit it.

It was blazingly hot, so I went to Cold Stone Creamery for a delicious ice cream.  The semi-retarded looking kid behind the counter took my order.  When I got outside to sit and enjoy my hard-won kill, I realized the kid gave me not just the wrong ice cream flavor (cinnamon instead of coffee), but the wrong mix-in (butterfinger instead of heath bar), and the wrong size (small, not medium).  So the semi-retarded look was more than just a look.  I marveled how an order could be so magnificently fucked up — a trifecta! — when it was just me and my friend in the shop and no one else to create undue stress on the employees.  I decided it must be an omen, so I didn’t bother returning it for the correct order.

There is only one public humiliation worse for a man than licking the sweaty balls of a tranny on the 50 yard line at halftime of the Superbowl on national TV, and that is having the barbell fall on him in the middle of a bench press rep — during the warm-up set.  My buddy had walked away since I informed him it was my warm-up and I wouldn’t need him to spot yet.  At rep number 9 (we guys remember the rep numbers like you girls remember anniversaries), I felt a sharp pain in my right shoulder and the bar started going backwards until it was sitting on my chest.  A helpful gym rat lifted it up off me.  I couldn’t look anyone in the eye after that.  Luckily, it was uncrowded, so I think I’ll be safe to come back in a year or two.

My friend’s wife hates me.  Oh yes, it’s so obvious.  At the BBQ they threw on Saturday she exchanged a total of two words with me:  Hi.  Bye.  And she was facing away from me when she spoke them.  This is understandable.  Every time I’ve been to their place, I’ve either gone swinging single or with a girl she hasn’t met before.  I’ve known her husband much longer than she has.  He and I have the OLD DAYS.  The OLD DAYS are not to be trifled with.  Things happen in the OLD DAYS, like late night carousing, lapdances, and alibi duty.  A wife knows deep down that whatever memories she’s building with her husband pale in comparison to the knee deep in the mud memories he has with his lifelong buddies before mortgages and kids civilized him.  So I’m that no-good reminder of his wild days, and my mere presence gets under her skin.  Wives put a lot of effort into breaking the spirit of their husbands; the last thing they want is for that free-wheeling, carefree SOB to show up and piss all over their hard work in a single afternoon.  The icing on the cake is that I suggested the bar for their first date which eventually led to marriage.  She should be naming her next kid after me.

I hope this journey through the pages of my life was as good for you as it wasn’t for me.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Ridiculousness, Self-aggrandizement, Tool Time | Comments Off

Love

Jul 6th, 2007 by

No one goes on vacation thinking of the long ride home.

What is unique about love is that it alone among all the human desires defines by its absence the utterly meaningless life.  With love, the poor person can feel rich as if the struggles of his survival were minor inconveniences.  With love, the old person forgets his age.  With love, the young person sheds his angst.  A man can amass a kingdom’s fortune and an emperor’s power but without love his worldly successes stand like hollow totems to unhappiness.  What good is anything if it doesn’t ultimately reach a conclusion in love?  The wealthy businessman who spends all his hours in his office and wastes his years whistling past the grave being too busy for love is a loser no less than the unloved degenerate street bum.  Sushi tastes better than a 20 dollar bill.

The mischievous thing about love is that as vital as it is to a fulfilling stint in consciousness, it mocks its own importance with reminders that it rests precariously on a foundation of some very banal preconditions.  People fall out of love and it is rarely for lofty reasons.  A man loves a woman until she gains 50 pounds.  A woman loves a man until he loses his job and goes unemployed for months on end.  And when that pretty face turns ashen and carved with the years will it really be love anymore?  Those crass attraction buttons still have to be pressed for love to appear and then to sustain itself.  Self-delusion about the dirty business behind love is not only required, it’s inevitable.  Why ruin the fun by obsessing over the dull ride home?

A lot of seducers mistakenly think that love is a garnish to the main course of pursuing and winning the hearts of women.  They compartmentalize — it’s a bonus to feel love, but damned if they’ll let that get in the way of the good times.  The worst thing to happen to a guy who gets ass regularly is not rejection (after all, rejection is the badge of honor worn by womanizers) but falling in one-sided love.  Or, similarly, falling in love only to have his woman dump him.  Getting dumped is part of the game, and can be expertly handled, especially if there are fallback options.  But the alpha who succumbs to the folly of love opens himself up so completely that state control is no longer his prerogative.  He risks everything, including his most cherished asset… his trust.

This is the wrong way of approaching relationships.  It’s fine to be calculating about the pick up, and the dating, and even the relationship management, but attempting to corral as thermonuclear an emotion as love is only going to light the fuse on the bomb.  I’ve seen many players sabotage their relationships with really great girls who had captured their hearts because they feared losing control under the chaos of being in love.  They put all this effort into bedding her and making her fall for them that they lost sight of the main objective.  A man can be all alpha but if he doesn’t cash it in for the ultimate prize he’s revealed the beta at his core.

I once lost a girl I loved.  The rush of pain was so intense even a fight club pummeling couldn’t have distracted me from it.  But I didn’t stoically shrug it off.  I threw glasses at the wall.  I broke things.  I smashed up my apartment.

If you aren’t smashing stuff after losing a lover you don’t know the pleasure of relinquishing everything for love.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Inner Beauty, Love, Relationships, The Good Life | Comments Off

Blue State Euphemism Day

Jun 29th, 2007 by

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Posted in Uncategorized | Comments Off

The Pump

Jun 28th, 2007 by

“The pump is better than coming in a woman.”*

It’s been a long while.  Some nagging injuries and laziness have kept me out of the gym (I mean the real gym with plates of iron, not the one you froo froos go to for your spin classes and low impact hiney-toning spazrobics), but I’ve returned. After only a couple of months the strength and the feeling of being able to take on anything that comes my way is back.  And there’s no going back to being a couch potato; weight training is just too beneficial not to make it a lifelong commitment.  Ferchrissakes, it actually reverses the aging process!

Gaining new strength and mass has always been an uphill battle for me.  I’m a natural ectomorph, which means women who like barrel-chested stocky men should look elsewhere.  If I were playing for the other team, I’d never be invited to any “bear” parties.  Getting older also means muscle gains come slower and recovery times between workouts get longer.  Injuries happen easier as well, which explains why the older guys in the gym are so focused on proper lifting form.  Going to failure on the warm-up set and crashing the bar into your chest on every rep is a fool’s game played by the wet behind the ears.

A few things I’ve noticed about gym culture:

It’s not hard to spot the roid muscle from the natural stuff.  Guys who juice have a weird inflated look to the muscles, and their skin seems paper thin.  Plus, they have the tell-tale “roid gut” which looks like they swallowed a ripped keg.  Good for impressing other guys; not so good for impressing girls.

Girls using the hip adductor machine are placing towels over the pelvis.  Sweet Jesus, is nothing free anymore?  Your privates are already clothed, it’s not like we guys are getting a zoomed porno shot of your goods. Taking recreational glimpses in between our sets of girls on this exercise machine, legs spread as wide as they’ll go, gives us masturbation material for at least a couple nights.  Don’t reduce the joy in the world.

Creatine, BCAAs, and whey protein are your best (legal) friends.

The gym pickup is totally possible.  Yeah, we’ve all heard how women don’t like to be hit on at the gym where they are “under construction” and not fully prepped to be approached by guys, but nevermind that.  I find a spot next to a cutie to do my bike or treadmill warmup, preferably one not wearing headphones, though if she is a light tap on her arm, smiling, and a motion to take off her headphones works well.  Here’s where I come in with the fun stuff.  Never be serious in a gym pickup.  That’s a killer.  Usually there’s a TV set nearby so I’ll say something like “I can’t believe what’s on this TV.  Sports again!  And golf no less.  What’s a guy gotta do to watch a little Desperate Housewives in the gym?  Is that too much to ask?” Anything to get her laughing and smiling, because if you look around that’s the last thing girls are doing in the gym.  Get her attention, open with a situational observation, then playfully flirt.  That’s the basic formula.  Once I’m in, I start vibing.  Running the treadmill is fucking boring so most girls I’ve successfully opened would welcome a 10 minute conversation.  I wait for her to start asking me questions, then move into my close.  I tell her I have to get back to my real workout but that I liked talking with her and we should hang out.  Then I suggest a date to meet, usually one not too far in the future.  I don’t have a phone with me, so I say “Just give me your number.  Don’t worry, I have a feeling I won’t forget it.” Then I get back to working out so it doesn’t look like I’m at the gym to pickup chicks.

Alright, back to throwing iron.  Here’s motivation to set an example for all those pasty-assed nerdos hiding under their mama’s beds:

*Arnold later retracted this statement

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Alpha, Rules of Manhood, The Good Life | Comments Off

An Open Letter to My Hypothetical Future Kids

Jun 27th, 2007 by

Dear fruit of my loins, 

You’re not getting any inheritance.  I plan to blow the whole wad on booze, traveling, and Ukrainian hookers.  I’m going out with a smile on my face.  So prepare for your future.

Forget about a college fund.  You think I want to sock away a hefty percentage of my take-home so I can put your ungrateful ass through an overpriced IQ-notarizing ivory tower for the benefit of corporate human resources departments?  Fuck you.  Save up yourself, get a loan, or learn a trade.  The library is free.

Don’t come to me for a self-esteem boost.  That’s your mother’s job.  I’ll tell it like it is.  You’re getting fat?  I’ll let you know.  You throw like a girl?  I’ve got the video to prove it.  That’s a father’s job; to give you a taste of reality that’ll either motivate you to improve or divert your energies into more productive pursuits.  Fuck this kumbaya cooperative superfeminized dreamworld shit that’s killed the American spirit.  I’ll give it straight up.

If I catch you masturbating do not look me in the eye.  We are never to speak of it.  We will act as if nothing ever happened.

On a related note, you are not to disturb me while I am in my masturbatorium.

I will have mistresses because it is the French thing to do.  Get used to it.

I will flirt with your unbelievably luscious, hot teenage female friends no matter how old I get.  Get used to it.

I will never hit you.  Instead, I will mindfuck you until you are hitting yourself for your foolish behavior.

I will love you very much… unless you do things that will make me not love you.  Nothing is unconditional in this world.  Learn that lesson well.

If someone is causing you undeserved trouble or heartache in your life, you will have no more powerful ally than me.  Do not abuse this privilege.

To my daughter:  Disownable offenses include stripping, whoring, getting your vag tattooed or pierced, sex with losers, bukkake, home made porn vids, and majoring in womyn’s studies at a 36K/year no-name liberal arts college.  Choose wisely.  If necessary, I will spring for plastic surgery to improve your looks.  Trust me, it’ll be the best investment a father could possibly make in his daughter.

To my son:  You will learn how to say Hi to girls before the age of 16 if it kills you.  There will be no Star Trek or Lord of the Rings posters in your room.  You will instead have Helmut Newton photographs hanging on your walls and a copy of Mystery Method.  I will treat the family dog better than you if you major in anything that doesn’t ensure a salary high enough to keep you from grubbing off me.  Learn how to throw a punch.  If you turn out gay, don’t ever bring your “boyfriend” around me.  Certain things are best left in the realm of the abstract.

Finally…

if I find out your mother was a two-timing whore and you are not my kid, you will never hear from me again.  Kindly direct all your rage her way.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Alpha, Culture, Rules of Manhood, Ugly Truths | Comments Off

Hey Sexy Baby Is That Pepper Spray?

Jun 26th, 2007 by

The Washington City Paper has an article about DC’s eligible bachelors — the guys who catcall women on the street.

Of course, it’s not the catcalling (or the flirting or the leering or whatever) that’s the problem; it’s who’s doing it.  If [insert favorite male actor/rockstar] were to Ay, Mami! women in the bar or on the street, they’d shoot out of their capris like a Slip ‘n Slide.  Verbal harassment is a subjective experience, even if you have to go way out to the margins to find the subjectivity.  The same thing happens to men, too, although to a much smaller degree since men are inherently less protective of their sexual dignity.  It gets annoying real fast for a guy when the drunk fat chick starts pawing his chest and thigh and whispering in his ear what she’d do to him with her crisco and dildo machine.  Substitute “fat chick” with “random hot chick” or, hell, “average chick without leprosy”, and he’d welcome the harassment.

Given that most guys (especially the ones in Mount Pleasant) don’t possess the sexual capital of movie stars to pick up girls with primitive catcalling, it’s a wonder why guys even bother trying it.  Of all the pick up methods, I can’t think of any worse than blurting out Hey hey sexy baby! at a passing woman.  It’s right up there with flashing, anonymous love letters, and CL missed connections.  Since the women in the article hint that the majority of catcallers are non-white I can only assume that these guys get more positive reactions from non-white women, which encourages them to try it on everyone.  They soon learn what they’re up against.  Like this professional catcaller, Rudy Contreras, says:

“It’s tough in D.C.,” he says. “Especially with white girls. They are stuck up, man. Bitches.”

It is tough in DC, Rudy, it is.  But you’re going to have to bring sharper skills than that if you want to bag a trophy prey.  A part of me welcomes these stupidly crass comeons because they make me look so much better in comparison, but it’s a double edged sword.  Women who are frequent recipients of catcalls will harden themselves with 24/7 bitch shields at maximum deflection power, so when a genuine guy like myself comes along who only wants to jizz all over them get to know the real person inside my job is that much more difficult.

With the 40 year old feminist and sexual revolutions now metastasized into every fiber of the culture, women have to realize that they have sacrificed some privileges that are never returning without a rollback of their liberation ideology.  Chivalry really is dead.  Men see no reason to extend themselves for self-sufficient, egotistical women they aren’t fucking, and those few male holdouts who do make a stand for the old ways soon learn to their dismay that chivalry won’t earn them the modern woman’s sexual attraction — in fact, just the opposite.  Chivalry is the unsexy handmaiden of the perpetual loser in love.  And so the gollums of the street feel free to harass at will, knowing that Sir Lancelots are few and far between these days.

The flock of young women to the atomized urban jungle practically made harassment a foregone conclusion.  In smaller communities where everyone knows each other’s business and social connections are less tenuous than in the fractured social scene of the city a woman’s father, brothers, male cousins, and uncles would corner the perp with a warning first, a silverback beatdown next.  Who’ll speak for her in DC?  Her male “friends”?  Ha.  All those guys are angling to get in her pants.  They’re just less obvious about it than the catcallers.

Reading some of the quotes from the women complaining about street harassment is illuminating, in ways I’m sure they didn’t intend.  At least half of the women saw fit to mention what they were wearing when they got verbally accosted:

Late night, walking from car to apartment: From across street, from a guy getting out of his car, hear grunts, kissy noise, and the popular low-pitched “beauuuutiful.” I have on jeans, sneaks, puffy winter coat. Puffy winter coat.

These women are revealing a deep-seated understanding that, yes, what they wear will have some impact on how men react to them.  She is surprised a “puffy winter coat” didn’t stop a guy from whistling at her.  I doubt she’ll ever contemplate the direction her logic necessarily takes her — that revealing clothing will attract more unwanted male attention.

My suggestion for the omegas:  Deliver your catcalling in Italian, the language of love.  You can say just about anything in Italian and make her feel like the most special woman in the world.

[Italian]Let us make beautiful anal music together, and with my hot seed injection you will bring forth a buttbaby.[/Italian]

Spend some time crafting the perfect pitch.  She’ll appreciate the effort.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Culture, The Big City Life | Comments Off

An Emotionally Charged Story in 50 Words

Jun 25th, 2007 by

I’ve been reading this book which claims that the workplace future belongs to right-brain thinkers.  I don’t entirely buy the author’s argument (can the U.S. really run on nothing but humanities majors?), but he does include some interesting “creativity enhancing” exercises in the back of the book, one of which is to write a mini-narrative exactly 50 words long, including a beginning, middle, and end.

Here is my Saturday mini-narrative:

Bright sunshine beckoned me and a female companion to the vineyards of Virginia.  We arrived with hot afternoon drunkenness in mind.  No spitting for us; we swallowed every swig.  “Please don’t embarrass me,” pleaded my companion.  Cue embarrassment.  I yanked a grape cluster from a vine.  We fled, sexually aroused.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in The Good Life | Comments Off

The Class Clown Puts Her in the Mood

Jun 22nd, 2007 by

…for laughing. 

I’m not a fan of goofball humor to attract girls.   She’ll laugh her way straight into a platonic friendship with you.  This is especially true during the critical first few minutes of meeting her when you are trying to get her to ponder the possibility of sleeping with you.  Droll, clever humor, dispensed sparingly, is more effective.  Playful humor, or teasing, turns girls on as well.  Acting like a clown and constantly joking sends a subliminal message to the sex centers of her brain — He’s trying too hard.  He must be desperate for female attention.

Self-deprecating humor is the worst kind.  Only men possessing the traits that women love can afford to knock themselves down in a humorous fashion.  It’s similar to the way wealthy men make sure their philanthropy is reported in the press; it’s a status display that is very attractive to women because it shows he is financially secure enough to absorb a hit to his resources.  For most men, though, self-deprecation is beta.

Cheesy humor has its place.  It can often work quite well as an opener under the right circumstances.  It won’t work in clubs, where loud music and physical jostling compete for a girl’s attention, and where she is already smiling and expecting to be hit on.  There, your humor will strike her as a lame come-on.  But out on the street, or in a store, during the daytime, weird humor can win you an audition with her.  She’s not expecting to be approached, she’s probably in a hurry somewhere, so an offbeat line will put a smile on her face.  Distracting a girl from her orderly existence is the first step to fornication.  Some lines I have used:

I *love* the way you pour ice cubes into a glass.  [spoken to a female bartender]

You jaywalk with a certain grace.  [girl had crossed intersection and was standing next to me]

Is there a groom magazine?  I can’t get enough of weddings!  [to girl reading Bridal Magazine in bookstore.  she was single]

Did you just undress me with your eyes?  I feel violated.  [to seamstress measuring a suit for me]

My puppy ran away with the poolboy.  Will you give me a new one?  You don’t want to see me cry.  [to Adopt-A-Pet girl showing shelter animals on sidewalk]

Rearrange these five straws into something round.  [straws are lined up side by side]  But you can only move two of them.  [waitress makes attempt and fails]  Here, let me show you.  [I move two straws and make the word TIT]

Slow down!  You deserve a chance to check me out.  [to girl walking quickly towards me]

I know the girls reading this right now are thinking “if a guy said that to me, I would laugh at him, not with him” but reading about pick up lines on a blog is not the same as hearing it in real time when it’s totally unexpected.  Nevertheless, you don’t want to be a stand-up comedian.  Those guys are entertainers, not seducers.  I wouldn’t use dorky humor as a general purpose opener.  It has limited application.  The classic openers — asking for her opinion on female-friendly topics, situational observations, flirty cockiness — are staples.  They’ll work in almost any scenario.

If you are a woman with a great sense of humor (you do exist, somewhere) I suggest you hide it during the first few dates with a guy.  Most men are intimidated by women they’re dating who are funnier than them.  And intimidated guys don’t satisfy sexually.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Funny/Lolblogs, Game | Comments Off

Every BJ Begins with De Beers

Jun 21st, 2007 by

In this era of financially independent women and easy no fault divorce, it’s time to retire the cultural appendage of johns paying to marry their whores. Since men give up more when they marry, the women oughta be paying them.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Alpha, Culture, Funny/Lolblogs, Ugly Truths | Comments Off

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