Total Pageviews

Thursday, August 27, 2009

A Dick in the Ass Sure Beats a Knee to the Groin (Unless You Like that Sort of Thing)

So, I was talking to this naked man the other day. We were out at the prairie, sunning ourselves. No one else was around. He was tucked away safe in his grassy enclave, lying nude on a blanket. I was standing, wearing a pair of running shorts, at the mouth of said enclave – kind of keeping watch, but mostly watching him. He was a good looking man, in a Fred Durst meets middle-aged John McCain kind of way. He possessed a quick smile and an even quicker wit. We were discussing several things – theatre, pop music, my rampant insecurities – when the subject suddenly veered toward sex (as such conversations usually do).

He was telling me about his previous Sunday evening. He had attended a beer bust (his second one that weekend) at the Eagle, where he caught the eye of an out-of-towner. The out-of-towner had had a few and was very flirty, if a bit sloppy. When the OOT (Out-Of-Towner) then attempted a kiss, my now nude friend (let’s call him Dale), Dale got all weirded out, because apparently public displays of affection tend to do that to him. This did not seem to deter the drunken OOT. He invited Dale to his hotel room, as in – let’s leave the bar and go back to my room and fuck. Dale thought, what the hell, and off they went.

Once in the hotel room the OOT became rather shy. It seems his body was hyper-sensitive. Each time Dale would move in and tweak a nipple or squeeze the guy’s package, the OOT would protest, moving away and claiming the contact too intense.

I laughed because; I think we’ve all been there. You know, that guy who gets all skittish about you touching his body? He gets sort of feminine and all ‘stop’ and ‘don’t’ in that whiney, annoying fey way. It makes for a very tedious session, not much of a turn on at all.

When in a similar situation I always want to punch them in the arm and tell them to man up.

My naked friend, Dale? He had a different approach.

He kneed him in the groin. Not once, but several times. He then removed the guys pants and began twisting and squeezing his balls really hard.

I was aghast, to say the least. Really? Cock and Ball Torture (CBT)? Unsolicited? On a first date?

If Dale doubted his choice, it was hard to tell. The mirrored sunglasses he wore robbed his pleasant, masculine face of any sort of emotion. I did notice that he was playing with his nipples a lot. Was he coming on to me? I checked his still-limp dick and ample nut sack for an indication of interest. Nope. Nothing.

So Dale went on with his story, as if kneeing a complete stranger in the balls was an acceptable form of foreplay. After the OOT was stripped, Dale proceeded to eat his ass big time and while the OOT claimed he had never had his ass eaten before, Dale doubted it, because he seemed to ooo and ahh at all the right moments. We have to take Dale’s word for this, because apparently only those who have experience having their ass eaten know when to ooo and ahh in all the right places. Butt munching is as far as they got. The OOT suddenly wanted to return to the bar and find his friends. Once back at the bar, the OOT continued to flirt and try to mack on Dale, but, for Dale, the moment had passed and a return to the hotel room was not in the cards.

Now, I am not a big sissy when it comes to ball play. I like my balls yanked on a bit. And I love it when a trick wraps their thumb and index finger around the top of my ball sack, forcing my balls down, effectively filling up the bottom of my sack making my balls fit nice and tight. Maybe a little squeeze. Certainly some tongue and lip action (makes me rock hard). But the thought of being kneed repeatedly in the groin as an opening act? Well, it just sends my boys right back to their origins; into the safety of my body cavity.

I do get the whole pleasure/pain principal - especially where the scrotum is concerned. It’s like some kind of electrical thrill – you know, like chewing on tin foil.

I have this little leather studded device – a sort of ball wrap / cock ring combination. I have jerked off while wearing it, but never worn it in front of anybody. The mechanics and machinations involved in putting the contraption on prohibits me from wearing it in front of others, as I have a general rule against props and gimmicks in the bedroom (or the forest, or the restroom, or…). The sensation of my balls being forcibly held down, with the pressure and tension building all the while my dick is getting rock hard is an incredible feeling. And not being one of those blessed with low hangers, I kind of like the false sense of length that this device gives my ball sack. I like to take them and bang them about, as if I did have low hangers. It makes me feel like a big, big man.

By the way – I didn’t buy this device. I found it. In a porta-potty in a park I like to cruise in on occasion. It was just sitting on top of the toilet paper dispenser, so I figured – hey – this must be for me. It took me a while to figure out what it was, because the cock ring itself was missing. At first glance it seemed to be several straps of leather with snaps. But somehow I figured it out and for a couple of weeks it amused me to no end.

But that is the extent of my experience with CBT. Some of the stuff I have seen on the internet (mainly in still photos) does not seem to be my cup of tea. I get the pleasure/pain thing, but I don’t think the pain should ever cloud the pleasure. So extreme CBT, or even mild CBT, is not for me.

Dale and I continued to talk about other things. I must have stood there for an hour and a half. The sun was blazing hot and Dale remained naked, lying on his back, tweaking his own nipples, with his eyes hidden behind those mirrored sun glasses the entire time. Finally, my fatigue overcame my shyness. I told him I was tired of standing and moved to lie next to his naked body. As I did, I asked him, politely, “Just don’t knee me in the groin, okay?”

He didn’t. Nor did he protest when I upped the ante by taking one of his erect nipples into my mouth. I alternated between Hoover suction mode and nipping them gently and not-so-gently with my teeth. This did get a response from him and his dick immediately sprang to attention.

We got sweaty. We kissed. He climbed on top of me. I climbed on top of him. I sucked his dick while he moaned and forced my face deep into his crotch. Then we did sort of a 69, with me sucking his dick and him eating my ass. The late day sun beat down upon us and it was pretty hot in all manners of the word.

He then pushed me forward and made it clear that he had every intention of fucking me, which I had prepared for, so I was good to go. Dale was really very masculine, something I failed to pick up on while talking to him, not because his voice was not one that you would associate with masculinity, but because I am never good at gauging the whole top/bottom thing. Dale turned out to be a great top. I’d let him fuck me in the outdoors anytime. We both shot our loads and he laughed when I pulled out my usual supply of wet wipes and Listerine.

He complimented me on my nipple hovering skills and told me he was thinking that we’d never get around to playing with all the yaketty-yak that had preceded our physical tryst. I was going to point out that bringing up CBT as a practiced means of foreplay probably had a lot to do with my reluctance to get down and dirty, but I let it pass.

For the record? The way into a guy’s pants is probably not via a knee to his groin.

At least not my pants.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

When in Doubt Look to the Silver Screen

Hi. Until I locate my personality or develop a new one, I thought I would try my hand at critiquing movies! Here are a few features I stumbled into.

Julie & Julia

Dear Nora Ephron: Please stop making movies. You are not good at it. You take wonderful ideas and run them through some kind of vanilla pudding-nator until they are rendered so bland and meaningless that whatever kernel of originality that once existed and prompted the filming of said material in the first place ends up airing its tepid undies on the silver screen with all the grace of a lobotomized Sunday school teacher on valium. Julie & Julia is no exception to this rule. My suggestion? Retire. Take up badminton or the shoeing of horses. Invite people over to your mansion and play let’s pretend. Or, if you insist on pretending for real that you are a movie director, please take a course in screen writing, basic story-telling or the folk tales of the Appalachian Mountain People. At least then, during that time, you will not be able to market another atrocity at my local Cineplex. Next. Dear Meryl Streep: You are a talented actress. Please stop doing movies with Nora Ephron and people of her ilk. They are going to kill your soul (not to mention your career). While your performance in Julie & Julia is quite lovely (as always) it is a waste of your energy and time (not to mention mine and the rest of your audience). Meryl, you are getting older and only have thirty to forty years left to make films. Do the world a favor and don’t waste any of that time (or mine) by making films like Julie & Julia. Something tells me your pap smear tests are more interesting that the pap you are forced to spout as dialogue during this wholly unremarkable film. P.S. If Nora Ephron invites you over to play let’s pretend, make up an excuse - any excuse - (it can be totally implausible and she will except it because plausibility is not one of Nora's strong suits) and do not go. Next. Dear Amy Adams: Are you an elf? Should you be up at the North Pole making toys for Santa? Is there a glee club in Iowa that is missing one of its members? Because I think Iowa might be where you belong. Up on the big screen? Not so much. Perhaps there is a cult somewhere that your incredibly annoying self could go and populate. I bet you look good in a jump suit. My advice to you? Drink the Kool Aid. Watching your performance in this film? I feel like I did.

The Collector

I like a good horror movie. For torture porn, this was fairly gripping. I left the theatre assaulted and a bit puzzled. There are a lot of unanswered questions, but realism is not something one expects while viewing a movie about an omnipotent killer who can out think their prey at every twist and turn. Very little of the plot makes sense. However, your eyes, ears and sense of the appropriate are so overwhelmed by the sound and editing technique employed - you don't have time to ponder much. It's on the ride home that you begin to ask yourself... what about...? And why did he.....? And how did they…? And by that point it's a little late. This is by no means a classic, but it sure killed an hour and a half of my life at lightening speed.

District 9

Something is really wrong with action-oriented films. Once again, I left the theatre feeling bludgeoned to death and a bit starved for a story. The action, once it started, was eardrum-splitting and constant, while the story itself seemed to be based solely on the girth of the special effects budget. The love story between the transforming government worker and his wife was never believable for a moment. It was dull and listless. Also, the end shot of the fully transformed government worker making metal posies to leave on the doorstep of his wife was positively vomit-inducing. The villainy of the father-in-law also strained the realms of credibility. (Really? Not a shred of conflict working within while you sit next to your daughter and lie like a bureaucrat?) I did buy the moment the one government official gave his approval to the mad scientist to start hacking up the transforming government worker - that rang with great clarity. I only wish the mad scientist had gotten to complete the task. That would have been much more interesting than having to endure anymore acting on the part of the man playing the transforming government worker. Speaking of the lead - I kept thinking he thought he was in a Monty Python sketch during the first 15 minutes of the film. After that? His character made absolutely no sense. His loyalty and motivation were all over the road and I just felt sorry for the actor who was trying to pull it all together. Maybe that was the film maker's intent. It certainly was the only truly human conflict taking place on the screen - that of the actor, not the character. Maybe this movie was directed by one of the alien creatures. That would help explain the lack of common sense, human behavior as understood by anyone except alien invaders and credibility on the screen. Overall, the human relations in this movie were not-so-much one dimensional as they were gaseous. On the other hand, the relationship between the father and son aliens scored with me. In fact, if it were not for the child alien, this film would have been unwatchable. I loved the premise. Ideologically there was so much to work with, so much to ponder and explore. Unfortunately, with all those guns going off, who had time to think? Obviously not the screen writers. The back-story was far more interesting than the plotted present. They should have filmed the back-story. For a comic book? This one was sure poorly illustrated.

Drag Me to Hell

This movie is a great horror comic book. Looking for reality? Don't look here. Looking for cheap thrills, broadly drawn scenes and eye-popping guffaws? Yep, this is the place. The acting is as shallow as the writing and both work about 80% of the time. I couldn't help but wonder what the film might have been like had they taken the story seriously by casting age appropriate actors in the leads, and substituting the crayons they wrote the script with for mechanical pencils. This is tasty stuff - fluff, but not your usual horror film. Sam Raimi’s sense of terror is an acquired taste, owing a great deal of debt to the films of Wes Craven and (more accurately) Roger Corman’s classic Vincent Price movies. Oh, and I really think that I-Mac guy is kind of cute / kind of lame.

Well, that’s all for now. Until next time… keep your eyes on the screen and your hands out of my popcorn. (Hey! Why is there a hole cut in the bottom of this tub of popcorn?)

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Between Sleeping and Waking Lies Heartache

Sex has become boring. Or maybe I’ve become a bad lay. Or maybe I’m hooking up with people that just aren’t doing it for me. It all seems labored and empty.

I think it’s in his kiss.

The lack of kissing is probably the problem. I know it’s better when there is kissing involved. I also need to knock off this wearing a blindfold shit. I think I might be an intimacy junkie.

I had a recent revelation. I used to do a lot of theatre, moving from show to show to show as quickly as possible. As soon as I was cast in one, I was looking for my next fix. I’ve come to the conclusion that I behaved this way because to stop or have a pause, I might have to examine some of my behaviors and failures. I have stopped. I no longer do theatre. Now, in the wee hours of the morning, between waking and sleeping, or just as I am about to drop off to sleep at night – I am pestered by those failures of yesterday. Situations where I failed to make good choices, behaved badly or was subject to bad behavior on the part of others. I beat myself up with these moments from the past. They now haunt me because I have nothing to distract me from them. It’s like pausing while running from wolves – you stop and they seize upon you.

I don’t revel in my past successes. I celebrated them when they happened, but they haven’t retained their power; not the way my failures have.

So, am I moving from sexual situation to sexual for the same reason? Is there something that I don’t want to look at too closely.


I can think of several impending responsibilities – inevitabilities built into my future that I don’t want to think about to much in the present. I get overwhelmed by them. I’m much better dealing with a crisis in the moment. The anticipation of potential crisis? Waste of my time and energy. And it eats me up.

And… I miss my best friend. I hate that I even have to write that. I shouldn’t miss him. I think he’s being a dink - but that is his choice.

My best friend of 20 years stopped talking to me five years ago. No explanation. He just stopped answering emails.

Prior to his silence, I had visited him at his new digs in a new city. We had a good time. And we fought. We always fight – like Martha and George in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?. This time it had to do with his former meth addiction and how I felt he was not taking responsibility for his past behavior. I criticized a friend of his, because he was a meth head and put my friend in all sorts of dangerous situations. My friend was in a relationship with a meth head – this meth head via the relationship introduced my friend to meth and that became the basis of their relationship. I may have said something about that not being something to base a relationship on and perhaps that this man was not the love of his life. I accused him of pissing away his parent’s hard earned money, money he had inherited. I might of called him self-absorbed and selfish. I may have also called his years and years and years of therapy as a waste of time and money and another example of how self-absorbed and wasteful he was. It is in a therapists financial interest to keep you coming back for more. So, subconsciously or consciously, they will do what they need to do to keep you coming to their office.

I also may have fucked this guy he had the hots for. My friend had the hots for lots of guys, but rarely acted on it. So it was with this guy. So, during my visit, when this guy hit on me, I asked my friend if it was okay if I fucked around with him. My friend said sure. I think it was a set-up. I think he said yes, but meant no – so that he then had an excuse not to talk to me. He could cast me as the villain. He likes to do that.

So it’s my fault. I was too honest. I said things I shouldn’t have said. I fucked that guy when I should have known better. My friend dumped his last best friend for fucking around with a guy my friend told his former friend that he liked. Any time we talked about his previous best friend, I heard the story. So, subconsciously, did I want to piss my friend off so that he would end our friendship?


I think I’m changing – again. My personality goes through these periods of gestation and then birth some new version of me. This latest version is a lot more grounded, and less likely to make really bad choices. Some would say this latest version is boring and not much fun. Maybe it is age. Maybe it is due to circumstances. Maybe I’m just tired.

I’m in the best shape. Seriously, people comment on my arms and body. Someone told me I was ripped (I’m not, but I am in great shape). I work very hard at it. For various reasons, not the least of which is my overall longevity and health.

But in the meantime… sex is boring me.

Maybe I need a new hobby.