Chokehold: Breath Play in the Bedroom

 

[dropcap]When[/dropcap] the lovely Skye over at the amazing MetAnotherFrog came to me and asked if I’d be interested in writing on breath play my immediate response was yes. And not just a regular yes. But a yes with enthusiasm and gusto. A ‘Hell Yes!’ if you will. And I know what you’re thinking. Is SSD an erotic asphyxiation aficionado? Well, not quite kids.

My enthusiasm stems less from a knowledgeable, expertise, (what’s the opposite of vanilla) standpoint than it does from a recent awesome experience. A recent awesome experience that taught me about how and why I like those man hands around my neck. But I should tell you now. I’m only barely out of vanilla territory. Actually I’m still possibly in vanilla territory but maybe with some sprinkles or something.

Breath is very important. It keeps you alive, that much is obvious. Take a breath. A breath of fresh air. I can’t catch my breath. Under your breath. Your breath is on fire. I just want to breathe him in. A gasp. A sigh. Hot and heavy. Slow and steady. Breathing is everywhere. It’s generally how I indicate to a fella that I’m having a good time if ya know what I mean. So it seems to follow then that as a woman who likes to give up control in the bedroom…I might want to let someone else take control of one of my most important bodily functions.

When I was in my early twenties, I had a friend. And you could say we were partners in crime. Our “crimes” generally consisted of boys and shenanigans. So clearly story swaps and technique talks were a regular occurrence. During one of our many booty banter sessions. She told me the following.

“Yeah ya know…like…I just whip off the pillowcase and throw it around my neck…and he just kind of holds it…like reigns…while he hits it from the back.”

I thought this to be very interesting. And not one to shy away from something new. I gave it a shot. Honestly, it didn’t do that much for me. At the time I didn’t really get it. Later I’d start to understand that everybody needs something different and while the decrease in oxygen may have been enough for her. I required more. I require a story. A fantasy. A reason for the lack of flowing breath into my lungs. A reason for the tension around my neck.

Now before you start picturing me in one of those Law and Order scenes (I may watch too much TV) with extreme asphyxia gone awry. I assure you. I’m still far more of a novice at the sport and my participation is way less dangerous. See for me. It’s more mentally kinky. Than physically. Which, anyone who reads my blog and knows my keen appreciation for science and logic, will know is just about right. Spot on really. Because for me. It’s the why more than the how that’s important.

Now I’m not really going to get into the why (me personally) of the why (the fantasy) that this gets some of us ladies off (and a warning for all you gentlemen out there, because the line is so fragile and not all women even want you anywhere near it, you better ask your lady what she wants before you get your hands all around her neck). But I will just say this. For me. The story line. Is only a fantasy. It’s only fun and hot as long as it remains a fantasy. If you tried to dominate me in everyday life per say, I’d likely tell you to fuck off or simply kick you in the nuts. But in the bedroom. When I’m ready for you to put your hands on me. I want to be dominated. I want to be manhandled. I want to be tossed about. I want to be viewed as so hot that you simply cannot control yourself and must take it all from me. And most importantly (as is the topic of this post). I want it rough. I want your big strong hands around my neck. And I certainly don’t want to have to ask you to do it (that kind of ruins it). I want you controlling my breath (in fantasy). I want you in control completely.

So I say one more time. Before you choke her….talk it out. Because it’s all fun and games until it’s not fun and games. And while Cindy wants a Chokehold, Melanie-Lee may just want to Make-Love. So you better find that shit out first. And even once you’re there. I suggest you take it a little slow and steady at first. Because nothing turns kink into konk (aka FAIL) faster than a bad experience.

Vancouver Dating Blog: Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

I’m a Man Eater, Not a Praying Mantis

 

NB:  This post has me longing for the hot sweaty balls of boys…er…I mean days of summer.  Is it Summer Vacation yet?

I want to clear something up, be a little more precise, about Man-Eaters, about who I am, about chicks just like me.   Because there’s this notion that Man-Eaters are Man Haters (A notion proliferated by young buckettes who don’t yet know themselves).  And it’s really just the opposite.  Grown Up Man-Eaters are Man Lovers.  We love ‘em.  Can hardly contain ourselves.  Gotta have ‘em.

[one_half last=”no”][colored_box color=”light blue”]

Friend:  Man-Eater!! 

Me:  What?

Friend:  *raises eyebrows*

Me:  Oh, okay fine. That’s about right
[/colored_box][/one_half]

 

I’ll admit it.   I.   Am.   A.   Man.   Eater.

Back in the days of my early twenties, I had a rep. Slutterific?  Sure enough.   Awesomtacious.  True Story.  But at the heart (pun intended) of my fun  was my lack thereof. Tin Man, the nickname speaks for itself. I was a Man-Eater. I had a bed post and an abacus. A belt and a list. I had a ledger. The boys were a tally. I was like Columbus, conquering the natives. I was just a kid. I may have been one of the minions proliferating the notion that Man-Eaters were Man Haters. I was young, I didn’t know any better.

But I never asked anybody to do anything.  Boys did things of their own volition.  For their Goddess, Man-Eater.  One boy quit a job just to see more of me (he also proposed within 4 months).  One boy stayed home on Saturday nights, in case I called late night.  Boys set up bar tabs and announced our arrival in nightclubs.  Boys made offerings.  Boys left their chicks.  And at dawn I left my socks (and ran).  I hunted.  I prowled.  And the boys came out of the forest, hands raised in cheerful submission happy to be my dinner.  I ate boys like chocolate, and they were delicious.  I didn’t care.  They seemed not to care.  But I don’t really know.  Because I never asked.  Because I definitely didn’t care.  Carve notch.  Move bead left.  Punch hole.  Add name and date.  *hunger pains* and prowl again.  I was a bit of a dick.

But that was then and this is now.  Here I am, in my Summer of Boys and it has me thinking a lot about what’s different (if anything) between then and now. Have I learned anything? Have I just gotten older? Has there been any kind of development? And I can without a glimmer of doubt answer yes. I am very obviously a Man-Eater but I am no Man Hater. Let me say it again. Loud and proud.

I am a Man-Eater but I am no Man Hater.

The boys of now, well, they’re in the know.  Whether they listen or pay attention to what I say is on them, but I do indeed tell them.  I say it.  I will be kind and gentle.  But you are a meal for the summer.  I plan to eat you.  It is no reflection on you as a person.  I’m sure you’re awesome.  And if you can handle it.  I promise not to go prey mantis on your ass.

I heart boys.  Really.  Let me say that again.  I.  Heart.  Boys.  Just because I don’t want to be your girlfriend, your mom, your babysitter, your secretary, your teacher or your savior, doesn’t mean I don’t want to be your friend, your favorite summer memory, the reason you’ll forever laugh at the word “lozenge”, the person who challenged you to grow and know yourself, your smoking hot booty call, the memory that will always make you hard.  Boys, I think you’re amazing.

So boys, I’m telling you now.  And I’ll tell you again if I have to.  You are the candy of my summer.  You are the giggles by a campfire and the sexy innuendo in a game of pool.  You are the butter on my movie popcorn and the breathless scream on a rollercoaster.  You are the magic in a first kiss and the impossibility of anything more.  You are the steam on the car windows and the writing on the bathroom mirror (cum back to bed).

Boys I heart you.  I want you.  I need you.  This summer.  I’m hungry.  And I’m going to eat you.  But I won’t be mean about it.  Because even though I’m a Man-Eater, I’m not a Man Hater.  I’m a Man Lover.  And the moments that we have together, though fleeting, will be awesome.  I’ll make sure of it.  Because I want your world to be as full of rainbows and magic as mine is.

Now grab your balls and ask me out. I’m sitting right there. Two tables away at Starbucks.  Shiny and happy in all my SLUTmazing glory.  Ask my name.  Ask my number.  Show me your balls.  And I just might put them in my mouth. But I promise not to bite.  Unless you’re into that sort of thing.

 

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Fuck Me Till I’m Thesaurus.

Eating cotton candy

 

[dropcap]He tastes[/dropcap] like a conversation. Candy coated cadence and tempting temporary tempo swirl somewhere in between our tongues touching like torches. Ablaze. That bend and blend like lexicons likened to a river and its trial by tributaries. He stands trial before me. He stands there. Not here but there. Where. In a moment long before I forget him. A mouth full of what I have to offer and vocabularies rubbing up against my memories mammaries momentary majesty he dips and bows in front me. My eyes roll back and I wonder how I’ve managed to last this long without his Dictionary inside me.

Roll my hand across the spine. Fiddle fingers across ink and paper and the words someone somewhere wrote for a somebody something like me. Me. Standing. Here. Try to flip to the last page, find out what happens before we’ve even begun till a hand something like his stops mine. Bookmark this moment he says. Take this hand. Take his hand. Trust in these fingers that paint passion onto me. Hush. Paint and stroke me to the core and then brush color across my lip. Kisses hard and fast. Wet and warm. Tastes something like cinnamon. Synonym. Ache like antonyms stretching to be more than the promise of an opposite stance. Legs spread wide to encapsulate a hope for something bigger. Something bare. Bear with me he says.

Pause. Paws. Silence. Take a breath. There is a break. Here. This spot. This tic. This toc. The very moment. And we break apart. Look each other in the eyes. Long like Johns. Buzzing like summer nights when there’s trouble between the fireflies. Slow like trepidation and school zones, the rate at which I fall in love. He is. Empathetic. Pause. Silence. A moment. And when it’s ready. When we’ve stewed. In the wanton wanting. I hold what’s akin to arms wrapped in armour. Out to him. stripped bare. Next to naked. Stand patient and waiting. Bear with me he says.

And I am his bear. He is my bear. Fish for fun to feed him. Grow strong on gulps of giggles and the laughter is the love that sustains us. Our love is a cyclone. Cylindrical. Circular. Cyclical. Our love is an Encyclopaedia. Write entries for days solely on the way he touches me long past late and well before the early hours. Spreads apart the folds of my blankets. Flaps sheets to fluster the flutter of eyelids just awake enough to open up my wallet. Finds my library card with ease and borrows more books than his arms can hold. Book after book he reads the stories onto my skin pours them into my mouth just to smell a hint of happiness on my breath. Fresh and sweet. Fun and simple. Find and set free. He is my hero. My soldier. My Professor. Professing hot panting playfully provoking a pinnacle. Partners. Patterns. Palpable. Our love is palpable. Our love is passion. Our love is the sex he spreads across my toast. Jam type love. Breakfast nook type love. Who wants to lick the spoon type love.

And he is my reference text. Indexing the moments I can’t decide. He is my anchor. Sailor’s hands. Rough and sea worthy of my every inch. I slip the cacophony of his nation deep inside my voice. Sounding vowels to find guidance. Breaking rules to form poetry. I leave verbs like fingerprints across his fur marking my territory like over entitled opulence and empiric entanglements. Sticky ridges of pronouncements and I’m turning his similes into smiles. He parades parables down my throat. Panting. Panting. Panting. Hold close in sweat and pheromones. Fall prey to moments I can’t control, for him. Let him hold me for a second something like vulnerable.

Want to be his diatribe, want to write his soliloquy. Hold words like babies until they stop crying. A life of possibility. Hold his breath for a moment while he pictures it. 3am feedings from fountains of feelings. Roadmaps of resentments and regulations to relegate our senses of selves in singularity. Syllable. Sellable. Seeable. See me able. To breathe. Just this once. Bearable. Bear with me he says. Take this moment and bear it. Exposed like the letter y in a sometimes-y kind of way. And that’s when it happens. Reads my words aloud like rivers flowing out his mouth, over his teeth. Wrapped in the taste buds of his tongue, my words like sugar and lemons on Saturdays when the housework isn’t going to get done and nobody but the fireflies and the porch swing care.

Euphony he says. What? I giggle wrapped in arms hulky with Hercules. You funny he says and kisses my cheek we were always here you know. Long before the first taste. And we fall asleep. Exhausted from our education emboldened by bodies that bathed in the broken beauty of each other. Fed one another till being starved was a memory so long forgotten it fell away from context. I kiss him once more. And fall asleep with the blaze of conversation on my tongue.

I’m Not Clingy, I’m Just Smarter Than You

*Disclaimer.  There are clingy chicks in the world. There are clingy boys in the world.  This is about the rest of us.   Who get a bad rep.
I’m a planner.  Some people think that’s a flaw.  Personally, I think it’s brilliant (and FYI: Planning and spontaneity are not mutually exclusive).  My passport is always up to date.  I’m ready for a summer road trip at a moment’s notice.  Camping?  Sure!  House-party in Kelowna tonight?  Fuck yeah…I’ll get gas, you get snacks and we can be there in five hours!  I’m basically up for anything at anytime.  Party at the moon tower? and I’m rounding up money for kegs (for you guys of course, I’ll drink diet coke) and Mathew McConaughey.  But essentially I’m looking for fun fun fun all the time time time.
Now while I may spend the majority of my days egotistically thinking I’m super awesome and RARE, I would hedge my bets that there are lots of lovely ladies out there just like me.  Ladies who have careers.  Ladies who have friends.  Ladies who have goals, dreams and priorities.  Frankly, Ladies who have shit to do.  And yet.  Ladies who have time to date.  Like I have time to date.  Ladies like me, who are available.  And not because we’re clingy.  Or desperate.  Or insecure.  Weak or sad.  Losers or duds.
We’re just simply not retarded.  Allow me to elaborate.
The biggest complaint I hear from men (trying to date me, trying to date others, floundering about) is that they’re busy.  They’re tired.  They’ve just got so much going on *stifles eye roll*   But here’s the thing of the thing.  There are a lot of hours in the day.  There are a lot of days in a week and weeks in a month.  Our lives are fucking filled with time.  So why can’t these men find any of it.
They’re retarded?  They’re confused?  Something in their DNA?  Momma didn’t teach ‘em right?  They’re really just big babies?  They can’t see a big picture?  I honestly couldn’t tell you.  It baffles me to no end.
Logic tells me that fun…uh…ya know…is fun.  Experience tells me that fun is…awesome.  And since you can never have too much awesome in your life, logic tells me that I would want to squeeze every drop I can of it into my life.  I mean honestly.
Therefore, I like to make plans in advance.  Why?  Because then I can fit more in.  I don’t wait till the weekend to make weekend plans.  Why?  Because when three people call Saturday afternoon to kick it Saturday night…I have to pick one.  Only one plan gets made.  I only get 1/3 of the fun.  However, if those same three people call by Wednesday, it’s likely that I can make plans with one on Friday night, one on Saturday night, and possibly one even Sunday afternoon.  Three out of three.  That’s one whole cup of fun. Fucking Awesome.  Now sometimes shit doesn’t work out and schedules collide and other times there simply aren’t plans to be made.  And that leaves all that lovely room for spontaneity.
And I know that often guy’s want to leave their options open.  They don’t want to commit to a plan, a girl, an idea for the weekend.  And that’s fine.  Go ahead and wrap yourself up in your issues.  It could very well work out awesomely for you.  I’m not saying I have all the answers.  I’m just offering an alternative perspective.  A reason she doesn’t answer your weekend texts.  A reason she cuts ties after three weeks without connecting for a date.  So like I said, I don’t know all the answers.  Not by a long shot.  But I do know about smart chicks.  And I know about awesomeness, lol.  And I know about planning.  And I know about having the most fun possible.  So with all that said, I leave you with this:
Boys, I beg you.  Next time you meet a girl who only wants to make advance plans with you.  Or calls you on Tuesday to make plans for the weekend.  Try to remember.  While it is possible she’s clingy or high maintenance.  It’s just as likely that she’s awesome…and quite simply smarter than you.  So do a cross-word or brush your teeth with the other hand and get that brain power up.  Step it up a notch, get your shit together and get the most out of your life.  Or don’t.  I mean do what you want.  But don’t be shocked when you call on Saturday and she’s busy.  And the best thing that might have ever come into your life is booked solid.
Class dismissed.

Donkeys and Virgins, It’s All Working Out

Head Desk

 

[dropcap]T[/dropcap]o say that POF has been a wasteland as of late is not even the half of it.  It’s not so much a lack of messages as it is messages of the wrong kind.  Messages from  guys who’s usernames are enough to scare away even the gentlest and most understanding of creatures.  Which I think we can all agree I am not.  So you know they have me running for the hills.

I’ve always say that a username isn’t that important.  Unless of course if it’s super stupid.  Like ShotGunBigDickJohnny or TittyTittyIWannaBangBang or Pickles.  I mean Pickles?!?!  Seriously?!?!  What the fuck.  How on earth can I fathom having a conversation about the logic of a particular argument or a debate about social responsilibity with a dude who calls himself Pickles.  Pickles is the name of a dog.  Or a 6 year old, in an ABC summertime movie who’s only friend is a golden lab and has to solve the town’s biggest crisis with opening a lemonade stand.  Or a hicktown stripper.  Either way.  Not. Fucking. Acceptable.

And I mean I know it’s tough picking a user name.  You don’t want to give away anything recognizable about you (lest someone from work or highschool or your mom’s friend from book club should be cruising by).  And you don’t want it to be cheesy.  Or ridiculous.  Or boring.  But I urge you…boys…don’t go for sexy.  NEVER go for sexy.  No girl EVER read a username like KingAdonis and thought Oh no…you’re not an idiot.  We’ve already figured you are.  Boring always trumps stupid.  But if you really just can’t bring yourself to be boring, then go with attributes that girls might brag to their friends about.  I know you think we sit around talking dick size and pussy-licking ability…which…we…might…with our closest friends.  But the real things we tell our friends???  Smart.  Funny.  Career.  So note that down.  The same way you don’t come up to a girl and tell her she’s got nice tits…you don’t want a username that is the verbal equivalent of walking towards a girl with your palms out in the I’m about to honk your breasts gesture movement.  Just Sayin’.

And for FUCK’s SAKES! DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES EVER, LIKE I MEAN EVER USE THE WORD DONKEY IN ANY CONTEXT.  AT ALL.  EVER.  NEVER.  JUST DON’T.  STOP. NO.

And thus I bring you my prince charming.  My dreamboat.  My super hero.  The man Mr. Sandman brought me.  And I’m definitely playing it fast and lose with the term man here.  At first I felt like the universe was punishing me by sending me this guy.  But when you consider how many laughs I got, you really have to see it as a reward.  A job well done I’d say.  Somebody was bringing some hilarious joy into my life.  And his name was…

 

Workdonkeydude*

*name changed slightly to protect the don’t-know-any-better-type-innocent

And I know what you’re thinking.  SSDated, you want to say, don’t be so judgmental…give the poor boy a chance.  And obviously I did.  By opening the message.  To which I was pleasantly surprised.  I mean, here was a man who saw right through me…right down…to my inner…innocence…and…uh…virginity?

 

im a virgin too and like to saty that way love to go motorboatin hahahaaha

I’m mean holy-fucking-shit.  I was practically pissing myself with laughter.  After I got over the whole virgin bit…eventually figuring he probably meant to say virgo  VIRGO! I read the rest of the sentence.  And by read I mean tried to read because I’m all for forgiving typos and stuff but  what.  the.  fuck.  Is way supposed to say we?  In which case who exactly is this we that loves to go motorboatin.  Also…really dude…hahahaaha?  That’s some soft comedy there and not even worth an lol let alone that excess of ha’s Just Sayin’.  But nonetheless my virgin lover had clearly left out all the best stuff.  Which I then found.  On his profile.

Three photos.  Two in a car.  The first tag-line says “getting dark already”.  Um.  What?!!?  The next one makes more sense with “just showin you my teeth”.  Which is fine in a here’s my nice smile kind of way but this was much more my what sharp teeth you have grandma…the better to eat you with my child.  And then finally the third.  Is not bizarre in and of itself.  It’s a dude.  Using an iPhone.  To take a photo in the mirror.  The problem however is the lack of smile (when will boys learn this makes you look like a serial killer) and the best part?!?!  The tagline.  It reads “saw a girls boob and paid 60 bucks for this shirt”  I mean swoon right!?!?!  Hands off ladies…this dude is mine…once I show him a boob and buy that shirt off of him of course.

But there was more.  Apparently the longest relationship he had been in was over 8 years long.  And I kept help but thinking of that poor girl kept locked up in his basement for that long.  Because there is NO FUCKING WAY this dude managed to get a girl to spend that amount of time with him of her own free will.

Though I myself did swoon some more when I read his interests

 

porn porn porn porn workout porn sleep porn wake up porn

I mean Jesus Christ!!!  I’m sold!  With poetry like that I had to put another belt on just to make sure I kept my pants on long enough to message this guy back.  So if you guys don’t hear from me for awhile.  It’s because I’ve gone and run away with Mr. WorkDonkey…who apparently is unemployed at the moment Guess we’ll have to find another use for donkey.  That or he’s locked me up in his basement.  Either or.

Looks a Bit Jizzy If You Ask Me or The New Thing I Learned.

Beat Your Meat

[dropcap]The title[/dropcap] of this post is mostly just for jokes.  I mean certainly I’m about to talk about Jizz.  And specifically I plan to share with you what I learned about it.  But the first bit.  That’s really just something I said once.  To a friend.  When she asked me about a dish of food.  And I told her the truth.  Because that’s how I roll.  Looks a bit jizzy if you ask me.  And in all honesty it did.  And yes, in fact it was delicious.  This is yet another reason you should want to hang out with me.  I say things like this.  A lot.  And maybe you don’t find that funny.  Not everybody does.  But then you probably also wouldn’t think it was that funny that after eating we went for a walk.  And I saw a kebab shop.  With a row of rotisseries spinning up some good schwarma.  And of course I said…Look at all that meat to which she responded in correct fashion with That’s what she said.  I’m fairly certain I would’ve given up a nice little #Heyyooo and we would’ve carried on our merry way.  But not before adding Halal this.

But I digress.  What was I talking about?  Uh yes.  Jizz.  Cum.  Spunk.  Spooge.  Joy Juice.  Boy Batter.  Baby Butter.  Man Mustard.  Badger Milk.  Mouthwash #Heyoooo.  Well.  I think you get the idea.  See the thing of the thing is that I recently found out some very valuable information.  Information that affects everyone.  Okay well specifically it affects the boys that are privileged enough to wrap themselves in my cotton candy coated lips but more generally speaking it affects the whole world.  Because after all.  I’m never as big of an enigma as I’d like to think and surely if knowing this information affects how I get down…er…go down…well I wouldn’t doubt it having an effect on others too.  Just sayin’.  So yeah.  Back to the matter at hand….er…mouth.

I was at my friend’s house.  We were watching Jersey Shore (don’t judge).  And the question came up.  Spit or Swallow?  And while I know a lot of people’s answers vary based upon whether they’re talking about “in a relationship” or not.  But to be totally honest, that’s not a deciding factor for me.  Now obviously I’m not just slurping it down with every dude who looks my way on the street.  But what I’m saying is that if I’m giving you head, it’s pretty certain that we’re already at whatever point I needed to be to feel comfortable with you.  And Sidebar.  Yes.  Different boys come with different points of comfortability (it’s a word…ok no it’s not).  So what is the deciding factor you say?

Consistency.

That’s right I said it.  It’s not the taste.  Not the flavor.  Not the temperature.  It’s not an aroma or a stinging in your eye (ok technically that’s never happened to me but my friend says it hurts like hell lol).  It’s not a mental thing or a how he treats me thing.  It’s not a safety thing or a power thing.  It’s a fucking consistency thing.  And up to this point I always thought you were born with what you got.  Some guys are thick and gooey.  Some guys are thin and watery.  I thought it was a DNA thing.  So to speak. 😉

But that’s when my deliciously gay friend chimed in with some of the most valuable information I’ve ever been offered.  It has to do with how many times they jacked off that day.  Wait.  What!?!  I mean like What The Fuck.  My world imploded.  In an awesome kind of way.

And to be clear.  Here’s the thing.  I want to swallow like a champ.  Slurp my man down with the best of my abilities.  Work my magic and then reap the rewards.  I want to be his whore his pornstar his special baby…doing all the special things my man likes.  But the thing of the thing is.  I have a gag reflex.  And sometimes there’s only so much a girl can do.  Now getting all up on his man privates.  That’s no prob.  Lickin’ and dipping like I was drinking a cup of tea.  Well shit, son…I love that.  No prob.  But if you ask me to swallow something that looks like I could use it to attach a poster to my wall.  Well fuck me.  I’ll swing and swing like Mighty Casey but the sad fact is I might strike out.

Detour.  Now to be fair.  And TMIesque.  This isn’t to say I get you off and that spit it all over you.  Or that it becomes a scene like a horror film that contains the murder of several ghosts.  I mean.  I know how to keep it sexy.  Keep it good.  Keep my baby happy.  Get my man where he needs to go without causing a side show production.  I always clean up aisle number 7.  Just Sayin’.

Back on Track.  So while I may struggle with swallowing down that wall tacky.  That man taffy.  If you’ve got jizz like I’m drinking at a water fountain.  Well jesus.  Let’s make this happen yo.  Because I’m drinking your Hawiian punch.  No prob.  SO you can see.  That knowing this vital information.  Can be incredibly useful.  For the men of my future.  And for men everywhere.

Now bear in mind every girl is different.  So it’s always possible this isn’t their issue.  Or if you’re like what my sexy Gay told me…sometimes the boys like you to store it up.  Stickify that sucker.  Because it means more.  Like you saved it for him.  But that’s not me.  Not me at all bubba.  You beat that bad boy.  Several times if necessary.  Because while if you’re my dude a beej is always on the table.  If you want me to swallow it like a porn star champ.  Drink at your fountain of youth.  Suck it down like a lonely drop of water in your delicious man desert.  The likelihood of it going down smooth…rests in your hands.  See what I did there 😉  


Oh and also.  The more you come to me with buckets of water.  The likelihood that I’ll get thirsty for, or at least not have a problem with, some thicky thick protein pudding increases.  Because after all.  Every time Mighty Casey connects with the ball, he’s that much more likely to get a home run.  But once you fuck with his confidence, you’ve basically boiled his bunny.

 

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Dear Boys, 90% Curious

How to have a conversation

 

[dropcap]T[/dropcap]here’s an old adage that we all know.  Curiosity killed the cat.  But men would be well served to ignore this advice when it comes to dating.  Because in fact.  Curiosity slays the pussy.  Seriously.  Fucking slays it.  And the thing that frustrates me most.  Is that this seems pretty simple.  I mean like square-block-goes-into-square-hole simple.  Like basic-social-protocol simple.  Like how-the-fuck-do-these-boys-function-in-everyday-life kind of simple.  And yet somehow they do.  They’re out there.  Working.  And boring me to tears.

I recently asked my followers on Twitter, how or where people felt they had learned the art of conversation.  And the 2 responses I got (clearly 930 followers means absolutely nothing) said essentially the same thing.  They learned it by mimesis.  Basically they saw other people doing it well and copied it.  Which seems about right when you consider that this is exactly how babies learn to speak.  And yet there are boys.  Tons and tons of boys (I have the stats to prove it).  Who don’t understand how a conversation works.  Online or offline.  It makes no difference.  And I just don’t fucking get it.

Are they lazy?  Retarded?  Misinformed?  Lazy?  Uninformed?  Just being dicks?  Self-saboteurs?  Lazy?  Are they the children left behind?  Repetition should be showing I think it’s mostly laziness.  Because I just can’t believe that people can be so fucking idiotic.  So glaringly clueless.  What do you mean people don’t all follow social protocol like I follow social protocol?  Fucking hippies.  But seriously.  Why?  How? Why? Why don’t they know?  Seriously.

But until I can figure out which parents dropped the motherfucking ball.  And which cracks of what school system these boys all fell through.  Or why so many damn legs are open to such inane retardation in this fair city of mine…that is thus training these boys to develop Pavlovian-induced idiocy.  I will simply offer up some advice.  Some simple fucking guidelines for all the boys of online dating.

Dear Boys,

The art of conversation is mandatory.  It is part of social protocol.  It is too ridiculously easy to be fucking up.  Get your shit together.  Step your fucking game up.  And  I assure you it is mind-numbingly simple.  There are only two simple rules to remember.

1.  Ebb and Flow
2.  Be 90% Curious.

Ebb and Flow.  It’s like a dance.  Or the tide.  Or even simpler and in your wheelhouse.  Imagine it is sex.  In and out.  It doesn’t get any easier.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.  She asks a question.  You (answer and) ask a question.  She (answers and) asks a question.  You (answer and) ask a question.  In.  Out.  Ebb.  Flow.  She steps.  You step.  She steps.  You step.  Everybody gets laid.  Or something like that.  And before your head explodes thinking of new questions.  It doesn’t always have to be new.  Sometimes you can just ask it right back.  She says tell me about your job.  You tell her.  And then say.  Tell me about your job.  Fucking child’s play.

90% Curious.  For the love of dating!  This should NOT be a shocker.  But here’s one thing that might be.  You can fake it.  It doesn’t matter if you’re faking.  At first.  See the thing is.  I don’t always give a shit what your favorite movie is.  Honestly I’m probably too nervous to even remember it by the end of our date.  And your favorite song.  The last place you traveled.  Reasons your brother took the job he did.  Why your friend’s call you Jimbo when your name is Frank.  Sure I care in a roundabout way.  I’m getting to know you.  But the details aren’t always what’s important.  It’s that I’m curious.  That I’m asking.  Because that’s fucking social protocol.  Dates wouldn’t go anywhere if no one ever asked a question.  So whether you’re actually curious about the details or just the overall sharing process.  You have to act it.  You have to be 90% curious.  Because nothing drops panties faster than a boy who is interested in (or feigns interest in) hearing about my schoolwork.  Or my writing.  Or my softball team.  Or the reason I wear a lot of aqua colored things.

So the next time I stop responding to your messages on POF.  The first thing you should look at.  Is whether you were all Ebb.  And no Flow.  Because you might be blowing it.  And it’s the same offline too.  If I look awkward and uncomfortable.  If I ever find myself being forced to say So…is there anything else you want to know about me?  You’re ebbing out of control.  You ebbing bastard!  You have to have the flow my friend.  You have to have the flow.

Yours Truly,
Judgey Wudgey
aka Something She Dated
aka Your favorite cat in the hat
aka Miss Social Protocol 2011
aka The Flow to your Ebb
aka Helping you get laid (and not labelled retarded) one question at a time
aka Dating Vancouver a better place one “something” at a time

Vancouver Dating Blog: Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Nothing Like Work.

Nothing Like Work

[dropcap]I want[/dropcap] to just stand there kissing you forever.  Or at least until you no longer look like sex and happiness.  You break us apart only for a second.  Offer whispers cross cheeks fall into my ears…something about how do you want me…to touch you?  And so I tell you.  Soft and slow.  Work me up.  Work me down.  Work me over.  Work me out.  And you say this is nothing like work.  And you’ve sold me.  Sold like houses without escrow.  Houses bought with cash.  Houses bought with sweat.  You sold me without a sign.  Your hand.  Big like safety and potential.  Big like control and freedom.  Your hand that pulses with testosterone holds mine like baby fingers.  Excited, clasping, soft and you push it behind me.  Palm across the back pocket of my jeans and you manage to hold my ass and my hand at the same time.  Like popcorn snacks salty and sweet you make butter taste like chocolate and honey taste like lemons.  Everything you do sweeps me off my feet but your hand holds strong to support me.  Clings without crushing.  Grasps without breaking.  You stand there and you’ve got me.  Like really got me.  Another hand pulls me closer arm up and through mine round the back like a dance step and you twirl me.  We don’t move but my head is spinning butterflies swirling and you twirl me.  Kiss me again you say like somehow my kisses are favors.  Like you’re the luckiest boy in the world to be breathing upon my soft lips that you swear taste like cotton candy though you want to eat me like steak.  You make meat talk sexy.  You woo me with jokes.  You make laughter burn.  Hotter than Vegas.  You light me up like fireworks and hotel room sex in the middle of the night and then later again that night and than again in the morning just before the sun rises.  And afterwards.  You play with my hair just long enough to keep me awake.  Watch it arrive through our window.  Because you just knew how it would flicker off my eyes and spread apart my heart.  Like somehow my rise, my sway, my lift was all you needed to feel a beat in your chest.  You swoon for me.  I’m man enough to say swoon you tell me.  And as I watch the hair on your chest curl like wood shavings from a carpenter’s plane I wholeheartedly believe you.  You rock me.  Like world championship fights.  Like quotes repeated 50 years later.  Sting like a bee.  And you move me.  Push me pull me make me want to break into two just so you could put me back together again.  Glue me with your hopes, ply me with your dreams and smoosh us together with questions that have answers we can only get to if we work together.  Nothing like work you say again and kiss me.  Those lips you say and I blush because I can’t explain what you mean but I know that you mean it.  Absorb you in their softness cool you in their breeze and then burn you up whole.  You pull back again.  Only for a second but this time you don’t say anything.  I hear everything.  In your panting.  In your smile.  In the way you look into my eyes with the kind of confident hope that swears the blue pools might just save you if you let them but you don’t need it.  Like somehow your eyes and your grasp give me the freedom to love you as much or as little as I need and that exact amount will be all you ever wanted.  Like our love would never be a burden I would buckle under.  Like every moment would be like this one.  This very moment.  Where your kisses only ever give more.  More more more.  And Nothing feels like work.

They Blew My Mind. Twice.

Dating
[dropcap]There[/dropcap] we were.  Having ladies night.  A night filled with boy chatter.  My boys.  Their boys.  Boys in general.  Boys in specific.  Boys doing stupid boy things.  Boys and their special boy ways.  Boys we were swooning over.  Boys making us want to tear our hair out.  Boys to laugh with.  Laugh at.  Loathe.  Love.  Boys Boys Boys.

And I can’t even tell you exactly how we got there.  To that point in the conversation.  But there it was.  Dropped like a bomb.  This thing I couldn’t comprehend.  Not in the sense I didn’t believe it to be true.  But that I couldn’t…Empathize?  Associate?  Relate?  I literally couldn’t imagine life as such.  No judgment.  And it really was like dropping bombs.  They fucking blew my mind.  The first one.

I’ve only slept with 2 people.  In my life.


Kaapppuuussshhhhhkkkk!  Mind blown.  And then the other.
I’ve only slept with 3.  Ever.
Kaapppuuussshhhhhkkkk!  Mind blown.  I was speechless.  



Okay that’s not totally true.  There were a lot of Oh My Gods and I can’t…how…I can’t…how is that even possible…I can’t even fathom.  And then Seriously?!?!?!  Seriously?  And then of course the statement that characterized the night.  You two just blew my mind.  My mind is fucking blown.  *hand gestures to indicate head being blown*  BLOWN!  And for reference yes.  I believe the table of 10 guys sitting right next to us.  May have gotten a kick out of this whole scenario.  BLOWN!!!!


Because the thing of the thing is.  It’s not something I can even imagine.  I can’t even fathom what life is like having slept with less than a handful of people.  And there’s no judgment on them.  And no judgment back at me.  But I will admit that it made a ton more sense now.  You see I had spent the evening advising one of them on her booty-callesque situation.  And now it all made sense.  For christsakes.  It all made sense now.  Because throughout the night I had been undecided.  I’d been trying to suss it out.  Figure out whether or not she was the kind of chick who could separate from the sex.  A girl who could have sex with a boy and have that be just it.  See…we’ve known each other less than a year.  A year in which there haven’t been any drunken nights at the bar.  I haven’t seen her work magic on the boys.  She hasn’t seen me work mine (well the magic I used to have when drunk).

And while I had an inkling that she was a cutie pie who could not handle it.  A sweetheart who would get crushed by this dude (who btw probably also didn’t know this valuable info).  Because it had never even occurred to me that this was the situation.  I’d been leaning towards go ahead.  Do it.  Sure I’d tried to arm her with advice.  What to expect from him.  Very little.  From the sex.  Better be good.  When to call.  Only late at night.  What to talk about.  Nothing really, the less chatter the better, he’s not trying to be your friend.  The dude, truthfully, was a bit of a dick.  And as we all know, I’m experienced with those.  Well technically I think it’s becoming clear I’m experience with a lot of things.  But I digress.  So when they hit me with the bombs.  When she hit me with the bomb.  I knew the right answer.  Right away.

You can’t do it.  I said.  Nope.  Not at all.  Don’t do it.  Get out.  Get out now.  Delete his number.  Out Out Out.  Because see the thing is.  I had been uncertain whether or not she could handle the situation as he was offering it when I assumed she’d slept with at least half the amount of people I had.  But 3.  Just 3.  Ever?!?!  No fucking way.  She was not the kind of girl that could handle the terms his actions made clear.  So that was that.  Case closed.  Answer given.  The Guru has spoken.

But that night got me thinking.  Were they the aberration?  Or was I?  There isn’t really a clear answer.  I’ve read the average number of guys a chick has slept with by the age of 30 is 9.  I’ve also read 11.  There was this survey by YourTango.  And the Kinsey Institute had some numbers based on lifetime partners that frankly, I just can’t believe.  Plus there’s the old adage that men lie-up and women lie-down.  Haha just realized my inadvertent pun there.  Awesome Sauce.  So basically what I’m saying is I have no idea.  But if I had to guess.  If I really had to guess.


I’d say it’s a little less sparse out here on Sluts Island.  The Gen. Pop. is a bit smaller in Slutstown, West Slutterton.  Mighty Casey doesn’t strike out in Slutsville.  But then again, I’ve heard that the chicks living there make Slutmazing neighbors.  It’s a veritable Slutopia of awesomeness.  You wish you were this slutterrific.

But no.  I’m not going to tell you my number.  Because frankly your math skills have been slipping.  And I think you could use the practice.  So get out your pencil and paper.  An abacus maybe?  Or a calculator for you cheaters.  And get ready to crunch some numbers.  So let’s see.  What’s half of Vancouver.  Plus the majority of Washington.  Plus that one guy in New Orleans.  Oh well.  I’m sure you can figure it out.  Get back to me when  you do.  And I’ll consult my list.  And see if you got the statistics right.  Though I’m going to have to check your work either way.  It’s not just about the answer.  It’s how you got there.

 

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Dear Boys, Blame Your Buddies

 

I just recently read an article about why men today are so angry.  The article had several points so before you go dissecting my argument…I’m mostly focusing on the the argument that men are bitter and angry that women  seem to want equality in all areas of life except dating/sex/relationships.

So there they are.  Angry men.  Trying to figure out why exactly it is that they should pick up the tab, open the door, etc.etc.  And while I’ve covered one of many angles in Dear Boys, Why I Never Pay On Dates?  Here is another angle.  Well more of an exposé.  On who these angry men have to blame.  Because bee tee dub?  It sure as fuck isn’t me.

So here it is.  The answer.  First the why.  And then the who.

So the why…short answer?  Because you still judge us.  Okay sure.  Not all of you.  Of those who read my blog, probably a lot fewer than the general population.  But still a HUGE ass chunk of boys.  So you can just go ahead and blame your bros.  Blame it ALL on them, because they’re ruining it for everybody.

Why you have to do the asking?  Why you have to pick up the tab?  For the same reason I have to pretend I haven’t slept with half of British Columbia and most of Washington.  Just Sayin’  It’s all about the guise and illusion and until you don’t judge me for all the indiscretions that take away from the lady-likeness that is demanded of me.  You better open my goddamn door.  You better pony up with some change for my soda.  You best get to asking me out.  (assuming after articles like this boys still want to lol).

And I know you’re immediate reaction.  You’re thinking.  Oh I don’t judge.  Whatever happened before me doesn’t matter.  Blah blah blah.  While on the one hand I call total bullshit.  On the other hand…I’ll just give it to you (the point I mean, get your mind out of the gutter).  Let’s assume you don’t pre-judge the super slutmazing ways of my late teens and early twenties.

Even then there’s still all the little things.  Like being slutty now.  Kissing too soon.  Fucking too soon.  And getting judged.  Calling too quickly.  And getting judged.  Being the one to do the asking.  And getting judged.  Because I know what it is that you want.  You want the girl that all the other boys can’t get.  You want the prize.  You want the star.  And you want the girl that is recognized for being those things.  By the other primates.  I mean boys.

So the next time you moan and complain about having to make the first move, having to shell out for a date, and having to open a simple little door.  Have some compassion.  Because while all you need is balls.  Chicks have to plan strategy like goddamn army generals.  It’s not so easy being HardToGet when all you want to do is just be fucking normal.  Just to be nice and kind and fun.  Without having to worry about giving it all away (not just sex) too early.  And for reference I’m not talking about emotionally slutty susans here.  That’s a whole other ballgame.  I’m talking about a normal girl.  Who doesn’t want to play games.  But has to.  Like Stratego.  When all she wants to do is tell you where the flag is and go makeout already.  But can’t.  Because you’re judging her.  Or other boys are judging her.  And she doesn’t yet know that you’re not one of the boys judging her.

And you have your judgemental brothers to thank for that.  So think about that.  The next time your buddy rags on a girl being slutty.  Or no longer being interested because she was too interested and though he thought she was rad, he wanted a chase.  Go ahead.  Punch him in the face.  Maybe even knock his balls around a bit.  Because he’s really your worst enemy.  Making you angry.  Keeping you from the things you want (like getting laid).  And making you open doors.  Which is a pretty big hardship I admit.  And while you’re at it.  Maybe it’s time to collect the $500 he owes you for all the dates you’ve had to take out all year.  I know I’d be scrounging through his pockets.

Dear Boys,

My dear, dear boys.  My Angry Andrews.  My Hard done by Henrys.  My Picking up the tab Peters.  It’s time you knew the truth.  Admitted it to yourselves.  Those Bros you’re always keeping before your Hos.  They’re to blame.  For things not being equal.  For the fact that ladies don’t want to do the asking.  They’re the reason that chick is holding out on you.  That is wasting your time being coy when everybody could just be having fun together.  I know it’s hard to hear dude.  But the only person fucking you right now is your homies.  Your DNA twins.  Your buddies, your dudes, your bros.  So don’t tell me dudes.  Because I already know it’s bullshit.  But go ahead and spread the news through the dudework.  Get that message out.  Stop judging the ladies.  And things’ll go your way.  Our way.

Yours Truly,
Judgey Wudgey
aka Something She Dated
aka Your bros favorite ho
aka That girl who wasted your time being coy
aka That girl who hates being HardToGet & says fuck it! every so often
aka Helping boys make changes through admittance, acceptance and change
aka Dating Vancouver a better place one “something” at a time

Vancouver Dating Blog: Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time