The rational middle ground between self-denial and self-indulgence.

Monday, February 27, 2006

Penile Code

Yesterday, Pisser sent me an e-mail about this web page (orignially blogged about by Alex&Suze) that lists the gay hanky code, which exists as
...a traditional form of signaling to others what your sexual preferences and interests are. Gay men used this code to communicate with each other in the noisy and distracting environment of gay bars. Although not as widely used these days, it is still a worthwhile resource and is, among those who know, a great conversation starter.
To sum it up, the handkerchiefs worn in the back pocket of one's jeans are a no-miss way of advertising what you've done and/or are willing to do sexually. The code serves to eliminate confusion by pointing out exactly what the bearer's preferences are, with little to no miscommunication to be had. I think the idea is brilliant. And I think something similar should be applied to heterosexual men. These signs would have the communicational effects of the hanky code, but would serve as sexual beacons much like the hobo code: warning likeminded wanderers away, or recommending ideal situations. In a nod to our legislators and to "Kentucky Fried Movie", I would call it the Penile Code.

Similar to the coal markings and wood carvings of the hobo code, it would be applied in a manner that is permanently etched on the naked body. Might I suggest branding? Metal shapes are heated up to scalding levels and pressed into the man's skin by his lover post-coitus, such that the resultant scar serves to give his next tumble in the sheets an idea of what he's good at, what he's bad at, what to avoid him because of, and what his depraved little mind desires but he can't quite bring himself to say.

Here's a rudimentary mock-up of the key I would use:

[click to enlarge and read]

The idea is beneficial to both parties: by branding the warnings and/or recommendations onto the male genitals, any subsequent partner will have a first-hand (no pun intended) account of his past activities, and for the guys? Lots more surprise oral. Everybody wins!

All possible brands would be made of surgical-grade stainless steel, in a neatly assembled and very portable kit, each of which would come with its own butane torch and tongs for heating purposes. It's a capital idea, I tell you! Now whom do I pitch it to?

Update: You HAVE to take a look at Pisser's version. Fucking HILARIOUS! I hate to admit it, but she did it better than me.


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Wednesday, February 22, 2006

C*ckblogging Wednesday


[click for uncensored NSFW version]

Description & Storage of "Bananas":
  • Long, thick-skinned edible [hell yes!] fruit that is yellow when ripe. [only if he's been jerking off while eating Cheetos]
  • Keep "banana" on a fruit dish in the living room at room temperature. [I'd like to see anyone try that]
  • If you want the "banana" to "ripen" faster, place it in the sun [or a wet pair of lips].
  • Never store "banana" in the refrigerator [no shit].
  • Below 8 degrees Celsius, the fruit will decay from the inside [in other words, go soft and possibly shrink].
  • "Banana" will turn black in the refrigerator. [this I gotta see!]
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Monday, February 20, 2006

What Your Skivvies Say About You

...or, "What The Underwear He Sports The First Time You Have Sex Proclaims About His Personality".


Manties: I don't have any taste in underwear whatsoever. To me, animal prints, earth tones and muted pastels on males are the hallmarks of fashion; clearly, I haven't a clue. I like my balls gripped in a sweat-inducing vise all day, and I misguidedly wear my VML (Visible Manty Lines) with pride. Also, based on my fondness for the low-slung plum-smugglers, I think I'm European.


Boxers: I'm a classic kinda guy; I believe in flexibility, comfort, and freedom. I am able to express myself freely: stars-and-bars one day, prints of tiny little underpants the next. I'm easy-going, not too vain, and pretty much just your plain, ordinary Average Joe. I'm generally likeable, but in unfavorable situations, I can be a royal pain in the ass.


Boxer-Briefs: I am walking sex, and I know it. I relish the best of both worlds, and I like attention. I spend a lot of time cultivating my physique, and I want you to appreciate it as much as I do. I like freedom of movement with just enough security, and I'm all about form and functionality when it comes to my choices. Also, when it comes to matters of sex, I'm only as faithful as my options.


Tighty-Whities: As far as maturity and mental development go, I peaked in the second grade. My idea of accomplishment is winning an internet flamewar. I can't cook, and there's a good chance my mother still does my laundry. Also, I couldn't get laid if I walked into a whorehouse wrapped in treasury bills.


Thong: I'm cheesier than a rainforest snatch. And I'm a reluctant (or not) 3 on the Kinsey scale. I think very highly of myself. People call me narcissistic and egotistical, I call myself "awesome" because I know they're just jealous. I spend my disposable income trying to enhance my physical self because there is nothing more for me to offer. I tend to cultivate eccentricities and brag about my dubious achievements in order to distract people from the fact that I am completely deviod of personality.


Low-rise animal-print briefs: I'm an old, rich playboy, with leathery skin and hairplugs, several million in offshore accounts, a serious drinking problem, and a briefcase full of cocaine. I desperately cling to the wild habits and fast women of my youth, not realizing that the nubile young gold-diggers tanning their fake tits (which I paid for) on my yacht giggle cruelly at my saggy ass cheeks whenever I turn my back.


Squarecuts: I'm gay. Abercrombie/frat-boy, but gay nevertheless. I'm unbelievably hot, endearingly amicable, and women love me.


French-cut briefs: Gay or not, I'm exceptionally flamboyant. I gesticulate wildly and spout witty catch-phrases. And I wear these 'cause they make me look fabulous!


Jock-strap: I ran out of clean underwear, and I hate doing laundry. Also, the cup makes my junk look bigger. Plus, hey... no skidmarks! That's a positive, isn't it?


Silk boxers: I aspire to be the next Hugh Hefner. Or Evander Holyfield. I'm not sure which. Either way, I'm incredibly scattered and just don't grasp the practicality of breathable unmentionables.


See-through / fishnet nut-huggers: I'm a chorus line member of Chippendale's. I spend my lapdance income on coke, pills, and anabolic steroids. I'm not gay, but I have been known to fuck several of the dancers I work with. I pass my downtime in seedy scene bars with dodgy people, and I have been known to blow patrons in the restroom if I get enough booze and/or crystal meth in me.

Edited for you underpants-shunning types:


Commando: The good news is, what you see is what you get. The bad news is, what you see is what you get.


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Wednesday, February 15, 2006

C*ckblogging Wednesday


[click for uncensored NSFW version]

Good stuff, Jeff (link NSFW). Very good. And thank you for sharing it with the rest of us!

And for those whose idea of fine dining is eating at the "Y", here's a ridiculously NSFW link to yet another vulva-appreciation site. Now stop bitching about all the cock.

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Monday, February 13, 2006

Lies of Omission, or Just Lies?



"How long since your divorce, again?" I asked.

"Over a year. Why?" he responded.

"Nothing... just forgot there for a moment."

"I haven't. Now I get to plow a woman 16 years my junior!" His eyes twinkled as he grinned from ear to ear.

"Charming. Very charming. What happened?"

"We haven't been intimate since the kids were born. We grew apart. I don't love her any more."

"I see."

Something still didn't sit well with me, though. He still paid the mortgage on his family house, his ex-wife didn't work, and he paid all the bills. "For the kids' sake", he explained. He claimed he rented a room in Garden Grove, but always slept over at my place. We went out to eat, saw live shows, took in indie films, and spent long weekend nights in bed together. He told me about his ex-wife, and his days as a studio tech for some pretty cool bands from the past. He told me about his start-up business. He was amused that I insisted on paying my share whenever we went out together. He'd lay on the far side of the bed, stroking my cheek and telling me how gorgeous I look lying there next to him. I still couldn't shake that feeling in the back of my mind that something-- something-- wasn't quite right.

Early one morning, he called me. "I'm heading out of town for that trade show, and I wanted to call you from the airport just to hear your voice."

"Aw... I'll miss you, too! How long will you be gone?"

"A week. I'll call you first thing when I get back into town, I promise."

"OK, looking forward to it."

"You have my work number. Speaking of which, why haven't you ever used it?"

"I don't know... seems a tad presumtuous, I guess. Plus, I wouldn't want anyone I was romantically involved in calling me at work, ya know? Unless it was an emergency."

"Fair enough. I wouldn't mind, though... I like to hear your voice. Damn. I have to run... my flight's boarding. I'll call you when I get back into town. Miss you already."

"Have a great time! Talk to you soon. Take care of yourself."

Mimed kisses.

A week went by. No call.
8 days. Still nothing.
I call on day 9. Left a message.
Day 10, no response.
Day 11, I leave another message.
Days 12, 13, and 14 crawl by.
On day 15, I leave an angry message. "If you want to break it off with me, this is a pretty cruel fucking way to do it."

I never heard a word from him. A few months later, as I cleared a stack of papers from my desk, I found the number scribbled on an envelope. My curiosity piqued, I call. The operator answers, and I ask for him.

"May I ask who's calling please?" asks the operator.

I panic for a nanosecond and then blurt out my long-dormant suspicions: "Uh... his wife."

"Oh, sure, Mrs. ____. How are you? You're calling pretty early, huh?"

"Fine. Yes... I , uh... I am. Yes." I stutter.

He picks up the phone. "Hey, honey! Have you picked the kids up from practice yet?"

A moment of silence passes. I silently hang up the phone.

I've finally gotten my answer.


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Wednesday, February 08, 2006

People Will Only Disappoint You

To the Marketing Director Bitch who hired me as a temp, blew smoke up my ass about how great a job I was doing in the 3 days since I'd been there, told me to be sure to apply for the permanent position, then suddenly issued a directive to the HR lady to have me replaced by my temp agency due to "unimpressive quality of work and lax project turnover" hours later, and who-- as I left, confused, timesheet in hand-- didn't even have the backbone to look me in the face, I shoot an emphatic, bellowing "FUCK YOU, YOU LYING, BACKSTABBING, POWER-TRIPPING CUNT!!!"

Anyone want to help pay my rent, since no-one will hire me? At the rate at which I'm going, me and the cat will be out on our asses in no time with no money coming in.

Today has been a very bad day. Awful.

I swear, every time I sit quietly in the dark with warm tears streaming down my cheeks, sending out a silent plea to the benevolent fates and higher powers to quell my personal and financial suffering, all it gets me is a brief respite followed by even more crashing disappointment. I'm as strong as the next woman with a well-defined sense of self, but damned if there isn't only so much personal and career setbacks one woman can take.

Edit: For those who asked about Paypal, please e-mail me for information.
(...and don't forget to fix the address before clicking "send".)


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Tuesday, February 07, 2006

C*ckblogging Wednesday


[click for uncensored NSFW version]

Wakey-wakey! Pop quiz: before or after?

Also, apropos of nothing in particular, when a man-- after ravenously going down on you four times in the space of two hours-- surfaces not only to get air but to blurt out the words, "If you had a cock, I'd suck it in a heartbeat", what does that mean?

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Monday, February 06, 2006

Mood Killers

Things that either scream "Don't fuck me!", or make your vagina lips slam shut with a resounding "CLANG!!!!":
  • Craigslist's 'Casual Encounters' ads.
  • Sex in dirty, uncomfortable places like public restrooms and airplane bathrooms.
  • Manties, tighty-whities, or any similar legless skivvies no man past puberty should be seen wearing.
  • Any mention of Anne Coulter, Rush Limbaugh, or Tom Leykis.
  • Trucker hats.
  • Acid-wash jeans. Or worse, tapered jeans. Or chaps. With fringes.
  • Myspace.com.
  • Whickey Whiskey dick.
  • Your 'World of Warcraft', 'Everquest', 'City of Heroes' or other online RPG addictions
  • Socks on a naked guy.
  • Grey hairs on balls.
  • Genital piercings. You have to wonder about the mental state of a man who will a) manually get hard at a piercing studio and b) sit still and quiet while a tweaked-out skinhead shoves a sharp length of metal through his goodies.
  • Flat-top haircuts, man-perms, and mullets.
  • Yellow toenails.


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Thursday, February 02, 2006

$40 Worth Of Cat Beds...

... and this is where she sleeps:



Yes, that is, in fact, a shoe box. A discarded shoebox. These meagre accomodations happen to suit the prissy tastes of a 9lb ball of fur who pisses on the sheets if I dare to buy cheap litter for her to take her delicate little doots on.

Furry little pissant.


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Wednesday, February 01, 2006

C*ckblogging Wednesday

EDIT 3/6/06: Image removed.
[click for uncensored NSFW version]
EDIT 3/6/06: TO "ed"and "photo_girl", please stop harassing my readers via IM.

Mmm, jeans... I'm a sucker for a man in jeans. The weird thing is, in this picture, what I want to stroke more is the arm, not the cock.

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