Monthly Archives: August 2014

Someday, you’ll meet a nice girl…

Every time I simper over failing to have found a long-term, committed relationship, something invades my space to keep my idealistic daydreaming in check — this time, quite literally.

Having just begun cramming homemade fajitas into my face with an entirely platonic girlfriend in my second-story corner apartment, while sending obscene Snapchat messages and discussing our recent sexual failures, I notice a bedraggled child’s jumprope swinging ominously outside the window. Feeling a touch ornery, on one particularly-perilous swing (accompanied by the exclamation from the below sidewalk “Be careful, you’re going to break that window!”) I darted my hand out the window and snatched the end, evoking a plea of “Um…nice lady? Could you let go of the jumprope? Pleeeeeease?” Leaning Juliet-style out the window, I find a charmingly un-Romeo-like woman staring irritatedly up at the tangled tree outside my glass and the rope-on-a-stick that is impotently flailing around in its branches. She explains that her Wife, who is in the flat two floors up from me, is attempting to retrieve Romeo’s pants, which Wife pitched into the tree. Since, surprisingly, neither of these women strike me as unbalanced (although in Portland, home of the Darth-Vader-costumed-fiery-bagpiping-unicyclist this is a higher bar than elsewhere), we invite Wife to come on down with her pokin’ stick and retrieve them easily from my window (which is about a four-foot straight shot from the coveted legwear). 

Wife and her escort arrive moments later (disappointingly, everyone seems to have put on pants), and after knocking over an already-doomed plant (I don’t have even a green-tinged thumb, and my roommate’s plants are merely hanging on for dear life as it is, so no big deal), Wife wheedles the tangled jeggings free and drops them into Romeo’s waiting arms, thanking me profusely. All I want is an explanation of why the sam hell there are pants in our plants, despite the fact that these two women look like entirely sane humans. 

What were you fighting about, Romeo? … “You know, I can’t even remember!” Huh. I bet that pants-thrower has a much more crisp recollection of the details…

Ah, there it comes:  because as Romeo pointed out about 16 minutes ago, the big-family-celebration-wedding is in six weeks and there are invitations and table assignments and uncle Jeb can’t sit next to aunt Selma she is Jewish and he was in the Hitler Youth and ohmygodwhatarewegoingtodo there are more people on your side of the hall and ARE YOU WEARING MY PANTS!??!?!?!? TAKE OFF MY PANTS!!! … and glory be, there we are: Wife yanks off the offending pants and chucks them directly into the tree. 

I’m not quite sure what it is about planning weddings that make everyone lose their mental faculties, their self-control and their dignity — maybe it’s spread Joker-scheme-style through a combination of bridal magazine perfume samples + frosting smears + flower petals. Perhaps it’s just because I plan events for a living that I can’t understand how planning one short, fairly low-key party can evoke this kind of extrasensory emotions… it’s not like you’ve arranged for the-artist-formerly-known-as-Prince to play the recessional music (complete with 20-page rider and obligatory dove release) or are having Gordon Ramsey prepare the hors d’oeuvres (if you have, best to make sure he keeps distance from your mother-in-law lest he find out the real-life location of Hell’s Kitchen). So your Absolut-ly smashed brother’s wife smears cupcake on the bridesmaid’s breasts and licks it off lasciviously in the center of the dance floor, interrupting your Republican grandfather’s best rendition of the Lindy hop? Your nephew tries to drown the swans in the decorative glen? Your sister didn’t realize that the Étouffée contained shellfish and had to be speared with an Epi-pen between the appetizers and the entree? That kind of entertainment can’t be purchased for any money and hopefully, in the days and months following the wedding, will help you resist the urge to run screaming from the individual to whom you are now legally bound but suddenly terrified of being stuck with in the zombie apocalypse.

Despite the fact that I do completely subscribe to planning an entire event around a worship-worthy cake, in the same way that every time I spend a transcontinental flight with a screeching infant I childlessly feel both pity and a sense of sanctimonious superiority, when we latched the bolt behind the departing Wife I smugly tucked back in to my cold tortillas with a warm sense of satisfaction for my single status, hoping never to find a fiance/e hellbent on engraved invitations.

 

 

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Calling all cunning linguists

In the wake of the post noting how many incredibly awful fellators are walking around looking just like normal women, there was a hue and cry to call out the extremely poor cunnilingus-performers for their failings. Since it was accompanied by some reasonably decent stories, it seemed like the need is definitely there.

First, as an aside, I read an extremely disheartening blog today about a woman who left her (man) fiance for a woman and then spent “two years learning how to have sex [better-than-just-competently, I assume] with a woman.” Under no circumstances, unless you have some kind of Memento-style aphasia or total loss of motor control, should learning to eat pussy decently take you two fucking years… so take heart!

The standard failings are generally classified into “I just don’t want to be here” and “I’m happy to try, but I have just no idea how this machine works.” Dismissing the first category (which is exactly what you should do with them, too), the second category fails in a number of usual ways. There’s Licky the Lap dog, whose mission appears to bathe the entire area in saliva and then burrow his nose/mouth/jowls in, exploratorily and completely at random, until it appears there is ample garden space to bury his bone. (One fantastic aside noted that the performer in question then took his limited oral skills to the receiver’s face, covering it in saliva with remarkable fortitude.) With alarming frequency, this one is accompanied my the labial-motorboat (universally snickered at as utterly ineffective, although quite humerous). Licky is the most pitable offender, since he clearly just has no working idea of what his goals are or what he could do to achieve them.* Usually, this one is grabbed by the hair and put out of his misery.

In contrast, there’s The Snake, who jabs his pointy little tongue at random points of topographical interest, again in a arbitrarily exploratory kind of way, before eventually flicking it maddeningly on the correct bits, like whack-a-mole, clitoral edition. For this offender I largely blame porn and have less empathy. I can’t tell you the number of adult-entertainment cunnilingus scenes I’ve seen which feature something being jammed dryly and repeatedly into hooch (fingers, toys, vegetables, etc.) accompanied by a random and infrequent dart of the tongue to the clit, but I can tell  you the number of women in real life who find this method to be the most effective: zero. (It does achieve its actual porn purpose, however, which is to provide ample opportunity for the busty lady executing such a poor performance to look up at the camera lustily, flip her hair, and lick her own bee-stung lips.) Snake tends to also follow some sort of randomly-appropriated script: lick, lick, jam, spank, lick, stuff, tug… lick, lick, twist… OW!…lick, bite, lose-interest-and-shove-in-penis. If Snake was to pay attention at all, the grimaces and uncomfortable shifts of his hapless prey should provide clues that he could be doing this so much better. As one exasperated lover of oral stimulation exclaimed, “It’s not that hard! Find my clit! Hang on to it! Until I come!” (A note about taking this literally: just like nipples, twisting it between your thumb and forefinger is not usually advisable… you’re going to want to “hang on to it” with your tongue and lips, if that’s not immediately apparent.)

EDIT: It’s been brought to my attention that I’ve overlooked calling out the alphabet tracers: while tracing the shapes of the letters of the alphabet is fantastic rehab for a sprained ankle, doing it with your tongue in the vicinity of a woman’s vagina is both laughable and tremendously irritating. It feels remarkably akin to having a hornet trapped in your bloomers (without the imminent danger). I don’t know where men have picked up the idea that this is somehow desirable, and I hope that a good dose of antibiotics will chase it right out of their systems.

Just like a good blow job, there should be a mix of oral and manual effort, with the ratio being one, generally, of personal preference, with some women welcoming your arm up to the elbow and some being quite content with one wee finger. DON’T confuse these two women, and for the love of god use some judgment (and perhaps use your mouth for, you know, actual communication) before shoving either of the aforementioned in her ass.

It should be noted that about 99.9% of women have a love-hate relationship with their lady garden, and it’s a tenuous balance. The number of ways in which it can demonstrate its reluctance to be open to the public is almost infinite and can change in a hot-mess-second. Your desire to sweeten the honey pot or be all cutesy and nibble off a whipped-cream bikini is going to ensure that the pool will be closed for cleaning for the next 6 days, so leave the damn condiments in the kitchen and take a lovely shower before your muff diving excursion if you’ve got sensitive olfactory glands. Similarly, your two-day beard stubble, ground into our most delicate tissue, will ensure that we don’t take pleasure in sitting for days. And for chrissakes don’t take it personally when we don’t want you to wander through the shrubbery, which might currently be more suited to baking some lovely buns than serving lunch at the Y.

In fact, this might be the number one takeaway from the piles of hostile missives I’ve accumulated, regarding both fellatio and cunnilingus: the goal of giving head is to make the receiver the happy one (and, by extension, you, hopefully for the sheer joy it will give you to actually make your partner happy). No one is going to be pissed if you’re trying your best, taking good direction, and being genuinely enthusiastic about the process. Most humans are eager to share such an experience which involves such genuine trust with a lover (don’t think of it that way? Perhaps googling “bite your dick off” will help…).

It’s not about you, dude. If you’re doing it wrong, try, try again. And listen…particularly if she’s got you by the ears. I hear they come off with seven pounds of pressure.

*For purposes of our discussion, the pronoun “he” will be generically used unless otherwise noted, as the most reported offenders were men…we assume because statistically more of them are dining on pink tacos, but also perhaps because the women performers were on average much higher rated. It should be noted, however, that all reported offending women fell into this category: trying hard, but administering more of a cat-bath than a good pussy-licking.