X S E X


DEVIANTS: Half-Elves and Helicopters

 

Reay Tannahill—in her interesting and informative book Sex in History—gives readers an overview of human sexuality from our primitive prehistory paternity, down through the rise of the first great ancient societies to modern gender roles and pornography. But, as with all histories that attempt to cover countless generations of human society, Tannahill couldn’t (and didn’t) detail every dot, dash, footnote and freak. But reading between the lines, the oddities of the past make sweet love to the present…and approximately 9 months into the future you get a brand-spanking new generation of strange bedfellows.

In other words, there is nothing new under the sun. No new perversion, sexual deviance, sex position or fetish is likely to be much of a surprise when you consider the length of a man’s…history.

Take, for instance, Edward Smith of Yelm, Washington.

Eddie owns a 1974 Volkswagen Beetle. But it’s not for transportation. Oh, no. “Vanilla” (as Ed calls her) is his girlfriend. And this is definitely a friendship with benefits.

“[Vanilla] is a sexy, sensuous name,” Ed tells a documentary filmmaker. “Almost every inch of her body is a thing of beauty.”

And though I should be asking WHY and HOW (exactly) this man makes sweet love to his Volkswagen, the thought that keeps interrupting these more practical questions is: what part of “her” body isn’t a thing of beauty..?

My best guess is the license plate. I try to picture this gnome-like man getting it on with Vanilla’s chrome-plated tailpipe. Then he looks down, maybe gives Vanilla’s German rump a playful slap, and sees…the tag. It expired last month! And maybe—just maybe—that realization would intrude on Ed’s fantasy enough so that reality hits him in the face like a squirt of 40-weight motor oil:

“What am I doing?” I imagine Ed asking himself, suddenly ashamed. “I’m sticking my dingus into my car. I think I may need professional advice—and not from a mechanic.”

But the truth is, Ed doesn’t see anything wrong with the love he feels for Vanilla.

“She’s my lover,” he says, proudly. “And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

Ed even writes love poems to his car:

Vanilla Beetle of 74

Your creamy body I adore

Flesh and metal, overwhelm

Man and Car become one

(…)

Where my sun sets, freed

From the light of day and dark

I leave my loving seed.

 

The documentary then shows Ed walking his dog, and you can see the relief in the dog’s eyes. It doesn’t take a K9 psychologist to figure out what Ed’s dog is thinking:

“Thank God he doesn’t like Schnauzers.”

The same documentary interviews another man who has an even weirder sexual fetish—if you can believe that. This guy has an obsessive sexual desire for the souped-up helicopter of the 80’s TV show Airwolf.

He followed air shows like hippies followed the Grateful Dead, going anywhere the object of his desire was on display. Apparently he managed a few moments of alone-time with Airwolf at one of these shows:

“I just couldn’t hold back,” he admits.

When he heard that Airwolf suffered severe injuries in a crash, his grief was nearly overwhelming. Just talking about it to the documentary filmmaker (presumably years later) was enough to make him emotional all over again.

The 2013 movie “The Counselor”  [Directed by Ridley Scott / Screenplay by Cormac McCarthy]

features a hot-and-bothered Cameron Diaz having sex with Javier Bardem’s yellow convertible Ferrari.  He describes the event as resembling a catfish—an animal I personally find repulsive.  Then again, I can put it out of my mind for Cameron Diaz.

It’s a little easier to understand when the object of obsession is a human being, however. But what if it’s a half-elf like Bjork? Her stalker, who painted his face up like Mel Gibson in Braveheart and recorded a strange, rambling video diary before committing suicide, left some clues about his odd desires:

“Today I searched the Internet for obsessive details on Bjork. I want to fuck her. Which I suppose means that I’m some kind of Neanderthal. I’m not supposed to admit infatuation (lust) when it’s attached to someone as “vital” an artist as she is. But I can’t help it. Like all geeks, my darkest fantasy (besides jackbooted world domination) is sexual relations with an elf. And Bjork, despite that horrid song “Human Behavior” is quite obviously not human. I will leave the exact nomenclature of her fey race to the type of experts who speak Klingon and write poems in Tolkien’s Quenya.”

Now, this guy is FUNNY.

Err…WAS funny.

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Lawyers and Nazis
March 24, 2014, 8:38 pm
Filed under: Let's Play Dress-up! | Tags: , , ,

220px-Alfred_Jodl_USA-E-Ardennes-2Megacon in Orlando was this past weekend, and it’s been all over the local media. I recall the good old days when us geeks were left to moulder in the corner with the goths (who in my opinion are all hypocritical dicks, because they bitch about how alone and hated they are by the popular kids, but they are just as exclusive and unfriendly to others as the aforementioned “in-crowd”). WHAT HAPPENED? All of a sudden everyone thinks its cool to play D&D and read comic books. Not only was every news station and radio station running live feeds or stories about the Con, but the prices had gone sky-high. So I stayed home, by my cantankerous old-man self.

I was thinking of old friends (being alone), and I remembered something an old girl friend of mine told me about dating a lawyer in the small town where we went to high school. This guy used to brag to the local legal community how he was so much superior because he had gone to Harvard Law School. Wow. I’m so impressed. This basically just means he comes from money (don’t argue; he didn’t “earn his way in by his grades”, this isn’t ‘Good Will Hunting’, just shut up–he’s a rich boy asshole, okay?), and that doesn’t impress me. My family came from money, too. They spent it all and I don’t have shit. So Hahvaad doesn’t mean much to me. Apparently she was fascinated with him, though. Probably because he WAS intelligent, and so is she. We were all kind of a mix of geeks, heavy-metalheads, and punks (in a town of 14,000 or so), so I suppose it was only natural for her to look for someone with more to talk about than pot and the new Butthole Surfers record.

But, being our friend, she let us know after the relationship soured what a true freak lawyers are. Apparently his thang was to dress in an (apparently authentic) SS officers uniform. Now, being a punk/electronic thrash/weirdo raised in the 80’s, I went through a stage where a friend of mine and me shaved our heads and wore white-shirts with our Kool 100’s rolled up in the sleeves and Doc Martins. We were skin heads for a week or three–but not the Nazi variety. Just the “no hair” variety. I’m giving this lawyer the benefit of the doubt, and assuming the uniform was just his “dress-up rebellion” uniform. Well, actually, it was his sexual uniform, according to my friend.

I think I’ve written about this before, not that I’m typing but I don’t care because I hate lawyers and the legal system in general. And who knows? Maybe he watched films of Hitler making speeches in Nuremberg like Klaus Kinski in that freaky movie ‘Crawlspace’ and jacked off.

Whether he did or didn’t, I’m wondering how far dress-up sexual games are cool to get into..? I mean, is it REALLY just cosplay if you are a mixed-racial couple and you secretly play “slave in the Big House”? Or you are a lawyer who has an authentic black SS uniform and you are playing “Himmler’s Ho”?
What is crossing the line?
Ah, he was a Nazi anyway. He had a law degree.



HOSPITAL SEX

…which is, honestly, a bit misleading as a title. Because I got none. In 12 long days of hospitalization, I received no erotic sponge baths or chronic priapism treatment (supposedly a nurse-provided hand-job to relieve the “intense pain” of a chronic erect penis…if you believe the novel “Descent from Xanadu” by Harold Robbins that is) from scantily-clad (or otherwise) nurses.

But it wasn’t from lack of trying. Now, I’m not going to try and convince you that I was at my sexiest during these 12 days. I mean, with an IV and miscellaneous wires and other medical technology constantly connected to my svelte frame, it was hard to do any grooming. So I’m sure my hospital breath (made all the more potent from the nasty food they force on invalids), combined with my scraggly appearance and the doubtful fashion sense of the partially-ripped hospital johnny they forced me to wear, made me pretty damn irresistible…but obviously SOMETHING was up, as I was NOT on my game. How can they resist a guy like me? I wondered, calling for another complimentary Vicodin.

The weird thing was, ALL of my nurses during those 12 days were incredibly hot, with one exception. Think about how rare that must be: we’re talking 12 days–thats 24 12-hour shifts. And during all that time and all those nurses, ALL but ONE of them was fodder for my sick-bed sex fantasies! How can this be, you ask?

Well, quite probably you think that my standards are either always or were temporarily lowered, due to sickness. Wrong on both counts, my friends. I have incredibly high standards for erotic nurse fantasies. During this period there were no male nurses. There were no short, dumpy perpetually pissed-off divorced nurses whose jobs had become so tedious and unrewarding that they actually looked forward to going home to a gaggle of snot-nosed rug monsters at the end of 12 hours of wiping asses, cleaning pus from wounds, and handing out the aforementioned complimentary Vicodin. There were no pregnant nurses, either–to my knowledge. MY nurses were young, tan, well-built and well-proportioned. Actually, the sexiest nurse wasn’t a nurse at all but the girl who came in once-a-day to empty the garbage cans and clean the bathroom. The medical maid, or whatever you call them. She was 23, blonde, and beautiful.

I chatted them up. They were (for the most part) kind. I offered to share my Vicodin with several, but they declined. Sigh. No party girls. Nice to look at, but I wasn’t going to be able to start my own little throw-down while hooked-up to all this medical technology.

Oh, I said “all but one”, didn’t I? Don’t get me wrong. The “one” I refer to was an attractive cougar. But she was a little slow with my 3 A.M. Vicodin (hey, I stayed UP for those!), and when she DID arrive she was a little bitchy. So you can’t win em all over to the Dark Side, I guess. Still, all-in-all, I’d have to say my hospital stay was visually stimulating but physically depressing. I’ll blame it on the johnny. It didn’t do much for my figure.



Anotha Sucka
June 20, 2010, 7:40 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

Anotha Sucka Sucks Down Monogamy

Guys…love is DEAD. It’s a myth your mommy told you, along with Santa Claus and the fucking Easter Bunny. Don’t believe the hype! Love is a chemical reaction that occurs in your brain and between your legs. Nothing more. And now, one more of my friends has bought the bullshit, hook, line, and sinker.

Anotha sucka is born.

Now he too has disappeared from our social circle of enlightened (read: free) men and women. He is already talking about her being “the one” as if the truth weren’t staring him in the face every time he looked in a mirror. Come on, man! Pull yourself together! Your divorce left you angry, bitter and lonely. Now the first thing that comes along, and a few weeks later you are “in love”?? COME ON. FIGHT THE POWER!

Sigh. So now, whenever we call? “Oh, uhm, well Suzie wants to go shopping for tampons and I’m going along to offer my support. Maybe next time.” And again and again, ad naseum ad infinitum.

Another one sucked down by the lie of love.



Okay Fine I WAS Stalking Her

I’ve just returned from Florida. It was a wonderful and much-needed time for relaxing, being with my loving, supportive family, introspection…okay, fine. I was stalking her.

I don’t know WHY I thought that following a beautiful young woman through a theme park was going to turn out positively for anyone involved, but apparently I must have…I mean, why else would I have done it, right? I’ll admit that it is not natural and certainly not acceptable for a 40-year old man to follow an incredibly attractive, vivacious, and seemingly intelligent, cultured, and witty young lady (especially one with gorgeous waves of black hair, cafe-au lait skin, full red lips and black Wayfarers that made her look like a European supermodel…a young woman speaking Portugeuse with a raspy, melodic voice that the weirdo-in-question [me] first glimpsed while riding “Splash Mountain”–alone, I might add) through that fantasyland of good, clean American fun. We are talking about Disney World: America’s premier family-friendly vacation wonderland, packed to the gills with tourists for the Mother’s Day weekend. In fact, I was there ON Mother’s Day, WITH my mother (and father), who raised me not to do things like this. Or, at the very least, not to talk about them. All of which adds greatly to my shame, I assure you.

For–doubt me as you might–I am not a person who makes stalking foreign visitors to Central Florida theme parks a regular part of my life. In fact, I’ve never done anything like this before.

It’s always seemed a little sad to me, these wandering hordes of tourists at theme parks. As the introverted son of a raging extrovert (and a walking repository of 67 years of Trivial Pursuit answers and esoterica gleaned from the History Channel and Reader’s Digest), I’ve had to put up with my dad engaging strangers in small talk pretty much all of my life. Now that he’s retired, he’s just gotten worse. He’ll chat up the bag boy in the grocery store (treating him to the history of the paper bag), the bitchy woman in the DMV (who smacks her gum and glares at him with her dead weasel eyes but never interrupts his diatribe on the failure of the American infrastructure), or a family from Indiana in front of us in the line for “Space Mountain”. Weird as this might be, I used to find it terribly depressing–even as a very young child–to get into these kinds of conversations with people while waiting in line. I remember once–waiting in line for an hour to ride “Pirates of the Caribbean”–my dad and mom both were chatting up a young couple with kids about the same age as my brother and I. They got so friendly with this family of strangers that we all ended up not only riding in the same boat through “Pirates”, but walking en masse to “The Country Bear Jamboree” and sitting together through that horrid spectacle as well. I believe we saw them again, an hour or so later, at the aptly-named (and horribly saccharine) “It’s a Small World”, and once I came out of the dark with that satanic song tra-la-laing around in my head, I was almost in tears. After that, my dad shook hands with the other dad, my mom made some kind of womanspeak with the other mom, and we went our seperate ways. I remember having this crushing feeling of depression and loss, though I’m not sure I ever even said much to the kids. It was the knowledge that I was never going to see them again.

Yeah, well, wipe your eyes. I’m confident that this sad tale has made you pretty sure that I’m EXACTLY the sort of person that stalks pretty South American tourists through the well-manicured paths of Disney World. Maybe you’re right. Whatever the case, I was still lucid enough to realize that the likelihood of me getting it on with this woman was somewhat less than zero.

But, let me tell you, she had stung me GOOD and DEEP. I felt like a 14-year old again: all sweaty and tongue-tied. The thing was, she wasn’t a supermodel (despite the Wayfarers and little white summer dress). She was incredibly beautiful in that way that makes us Americans feel dowdy and ham-fisted by comparison. Her words were like musical laughter, like lyrics in a language you can’t speak…but, somehow, you can understand the nature of the song perfectly. Her skin was flawless and golden, and i knew–knew absolutely–that if I touched her, she’d be more than just warm, she’d be feverish. She took off her sunglasses to dry them after we got splashed on the ride, and for just an instant we made eye contact. She had those big brown eyes that are so dark you can’t really see the irises, and for the first time in my life I knew what all those poets I used to think were overly-romantic and silly meant when they spoke of “drowning” in someone’s eyes. I felt a moment of vertigo, and then she smiled. Maybe some little kid was behind me, waving at her, maybe it was for me. I’ll never know, I guess. Dimly, I was aware of some hulking guy with her, but he was like a pesky mosquito. Whatever he said (or didn’t say) was just an inconsequential whine. Background noise. Muzak.

I knew what I was doing was insane. I got out my cell phone, turned on the video record feature.

And I followed her.

I guess I followed her AND her guy-friend (I’m still trying to decide if I prefer to think of him as her brother or a gay friend from college), technically–but, like I said, he was background. Dimly, I was aware that this was not only foolish and somewhat disturbing, but also likely to end badly. The guy-friend (gay brother, maybe) could turn around and catch me, red-handed. He would see the truth in my eyes and beat the snot out of me while she stood behind him, looking at me like I was communicable. Which, of course, I suppose I wanted to be.

Or maybe the Disney security goons would notice what was going on from their hidden underground control center deep below the smiley, sugar-coated streets of the Magic Kingdom. My family and I happened to be at Disney World one day when the late Princess Diana was visiting the park with the royal princes. We read later that the royal party was whisked around underground, emerging from secret entrances to move to the front of the line so they could enjoy “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride” without paparazzi harrassment. Or having to talk to “the Commons”. Then again, maybe Princess Di found meeting strangers that she would likely never see again a little sad, too.

If the Disney goons noticed me stalking this beautiful woman (and her gay brother), they would surround me, carry me off to the Disney underworld, and I might never be seen again. (Or maybe I’d emerge several days later from one of those secret entrances, with a nice clean haircut, a Disney t-shirt and nametag on, wearing a pair of mouse ears, ready to smile at the tourists and direct them to “Please step off to the left, onto the moving platform”).

As it turned out, my mother called me on my cell phone.

When I got back to wear she and my father were waiting, he was deep in conversation with an older Canadian couple and my mother said she had a headache and wanted to leave.

P.S. I know what I did was wrong. I guess. Sorta. Or at least weird. And I know that I will never see that beautiful young woman again. But that’s okay. I’ve got the video.



Giggling Teen Girls Aren’t All That
May 1, 2010, 2:20 am
Filed under: Love Letters | Tags: , , ,

3Jane here, hiya.

So I’m reading Greg’s last post and I’m absolutely amazed at what he doesn’t say. I’m assuming because–as I mentioned the other day–our menfolk have become little whiny scaredy-cats, he just won’t say what he means. So I will.

Every swingin dick over 29 that I know wants to bang a hott young thang. Why do you think Chris Hanson’s “To Catch A Predator” series keeps getting plenty of takers? Now, I’m not equating the guys on Hanson’s sexploitation series with your average swingin dick. Obviously the guys that Hanson gets to play his reindeer games aren’t just playing out a Hanna Montana fantasy in their heads. They take it to the next level. Now, the reason I can’t stand this series is simple: these guys AREN’T being arrested for committing any REAL crime. The girls they engage in cybersex with are adults who PRETEND to be teen girls. Now, I’m not saying it isn’t creepy that these dudes show up at Hanson’s sting ready to party with who they THINK is a teen girl (or boy). But they are chasing an illusion. We’ve gotten to the point in this country where we’re arresting people for showing up at a HOUSE?? Come on! I mean, as Greg pointed out in his post, quite a large percentage of people online aren’t who they seem. I mean, take me for example. You prolly think I’m a loud mouthed fat chick who is pissed because I can’t get a date. Well, you’d be wrong. I’m a hott, 30 year old who’s pissed because she’s 30. If we start persecuting people for TYPING…well, maybe its time I become a revolutionary or something.

Let’s face it, folks…guys ALL want to bang hott teen girls. They’re mad because they didn’t do this in high school when they were practically SWIMMING in teen poon. And many of these guys are having a mid-life crisis. Why do you think you see these balding 45-year old tax attorneys with two kids and a mortgage driving around in a Trans Am blasting White Snake and trying to pick up girls on the high school volley ball team..? Oh, wait…that sounds like my dad.

But as a confirmed bi-sexsual, I can tell ya, people: giggling teen girls aren’t all that. For the very reasons Greg pointed out in his post. I’ve shagged a few in my day, and, believe me, I’d rather have a 25-year old dental hygiene tech ANY DAY. After all, teen girls aren’t in their prime, as his post suggests. Supposedly that comes later for us chicks. I dunno about that, but I can honestly say, I’d rather leave the teens to their algebra tests, dermatologist appointments, and BFF-texting.



I Wanna Be A Giggling Teenage Girl

Okay, so I don’t really want to be a giggling teenage girl. At least, not for any meaningful amount of time. But imagine a time in the not-too-distant future when science might let us “try on” different bodies. Is it so hard to believe? Making spare parts to order is still in its infancy, but it IS possible. And we already try on different personas for recreational (even therapeutic) reasons. Millions of people waste (or invest, depending on your point-of-view) much of their real life pretending to be someone else, online. Probably 75% of the “teenage girls” in chat rooms are bored, middle-aged guys. And there are even virtual spaces–like Second Life–where you can interact with other people doing the same exact thing. Who knows? You might even meet your soul mate, fall in love, and live happily ever after. Blah blah blah. Of course, creating an online avatar is a LOOOOOONNNNGGGG way from slipping on somebody else’s body or controlling another human being like a puppet. Plus, even if you could do this, there would be all kinds of legal and ethical arguments. I mean, what if you killed someone or robbed a bank while using another person’s body? I suppose the way to go would be to make up a body using your own genetic material as raw materials. In the wild, weird world of science fiction, both of these examples are well-used ideas. Cyberpunk demigod William Gibson envisioned a dystopian future where men and women rented out their flesh while their minds wandered through a fantasyland of simulated stimuli (Simstim for short). This sort of prostitution–where your body became a “meat puppet” for the sexual entertainment of others–was the background Gibson invented for his most sensual (and strong) female character: Molly Millions (aka Sally Shears). [If you want to get an idea of what this compelling character looked like (at least in my mind’s eye), think of Daryl Hannah’s Pris in the seminal cyberpunk film Blade Runner.] 

So if you COULD…would you? Just to see what it’s like. Nobody’s saying you have to have sex using your temporary flesh playpen–though I’m sure 99.997% of sexual tourists renting another person’s body would be doing so for this specific reason. But it might be fun just to check things out from a different perspective. It’s a question I’ve asked myself on more than one occasion.

The Internet–which is, as everyone knows, mostly porn anyway–is also the home to the world’s greatest treasure trove of freaky-deakyness. A little searching brings up a medical clearinghouse of information on gender reassignment surgery. Now, that’s obviously taking things a bit too far for the casual tourist. I mean, that’s one of those things that can’t exactly be undone. But it is fascinating. So far, male to female reassignment has been the most aesthetically successful. Apparently it’s easier to cut things off than to make up new things using flesh as a kind of play dough. After viewing some examples of the results I was pretty amazed. But not amazed enough to pay tens of thousands of dollars to a surgeon to bobbitt my hobbit, so-to-speak. After all, I don’t want to be a woman. But I’m secure enough in my sexuality to not get all freaked out by thinking about it.

But if I could try on someone elses’s skin (preferrably not in the ancient Aztec manner, where priests would flay sacrificial victims and wear their skin around like a cloak), I’d want it to be either someone famous…or a giggling teenage girl.

As I write this post, using McDonald’s free wi-fi (since apparently Hugh’s Net technicians can’t provide even half-assed customer service), there is a table full of giggling teenage girls sitting across from me. Occasionally, one of them will stare at me, lean down and whisper conspiratorially to her friends, then all of them will break into paroxysms of giggles. Now, if this had happened to me as a teenager (which it did, quite frequently) I would have turned six shades of red. As a “responsible grown-up” (what a clever disguise), I like to try to embarass people who annoy me. It’s a game I rarely get to play with teen girls, because (as are almost all males aged 30-90) I’m invisible to them. I don’t exist (apparently), or maybe I don’t show up on their radar, I don’t really know what the deal is. So, grinning gleefully, I shout (it’s important to do this part as loudly as possible; and sure, people are gonna look at you kinda funny, and the management may ask you to leave. So what?): “Hey, girls!”

When they look up, I see gazelle-like wariness. No more giggles, girls? (“Like, oh my God, Meghan! I think that old man is, like, staring at us, or something. Is he, like, talking to us? Maybe he’s, like, one of those crazy homeless people who talk to themselves…oh MY God…”) 

“Hey! Girls!” I yell in my reddest of redneck voices. “Ya’ll like Iron Maiden? Woo! IRON MAIDEN!! Man, that’s some good jams, right there! Ya’ll ever hear em do “Powerslave”? Now that there is rock! That’s rock and ROLL, the real deal, right there!” Then I air-guitar a few bars of a “Powerslave”/”The Trooper” medley for them. They are mortified. Too scared to move, too confused to remember how to giggle.

The manager, who I notice has both his ears pierced and is wearing what looks like large brass door knobs in them (this is probably not part of the official management dress code), is laughing hysterically, so I don’t have to worry about him calling the cops. I go back to typing on my laptop, feeling refreshed and reinvigorated.

So, I know what you may be thinking (well, besides “that guy is probably a danger to himself and/or others”): WHY would I want to be a giggling teenage girl–even for one minute?

Well, let me stress: it ain’t so I can text my BFF Dakota how much “like, my mom is SUCH a bitch, and you know Austin is maybe, like THE ONE I’d go all the way with, maybe, but I don’t know, because I think I really, really like Tyler, too, except that Mackenzie said SHE likes Tyler, and I’m not really, like, sure if she means MY Tyler–well, you know–or Jaden’s brother Tyler, who works at Baskin Robbins…yeah, the Tyler that we saw last weekend at Aeropostale, you are SUCH a ditz, my GOD…”

I mean, if you are going to try on the opposite sex like a nice pair of jeans, do you REALLY want to try on your mother or your second grade teacher? I figure the way to do it is pick a nice, healthy teenage girl, get in and out quick. No time for mood swings or cramps. Don’t wanna take any algebra test or see what a birth control pill tastes like. Maybe take a cruise around, see what it feels like to be that age again, to be at the height of your physical ripeness, with NO worries or responsibilities AT ALL…before the corruption of age, kids, a loveless marriage, maybe a few years on crystal meth, living in some trailer with a guy (not named Austin or Tyler or Jaden) who has shitty jailhouse tats (maybe “Nookie” or “Tool” across his knuckles) who occasionally passes out in the yard trying to find his keys (they’re in your truck, dipshit).

Ahhh. The springtime of youth.