All posts in Sex

Stupid Chain Letter

Someone I once went to school with in Dallas sent a bulletin around that can only be recognised as one of those stupid chain letters.

You know the things… if you don’t repost it in however long minutes, you’ll lose the girl or guy of your dreams and be forced to endure Yanni cd’s for the rest of your life.

Well, the chain letter was entitled “WHAT M0ST GUYS W0NT D0” and basically had a list of things that apparently most guys won’t do spelled out in CAPS with the occasional odd “o” replaced by a zero (0).

0h yeah. We’re mature.

[b]Anyway[/b], this was my response:

In this case, “HER” could only be one of my hands… probably my left hand… but let’s see how much I love my left hand.

My left hand doesn’t wear t-shirts. Occasionally it gets jealous of the other hands in the world that have bling on them, but most of the time it’s content in making the right hand jealous because it gets to wear a watch.

I write cute text messages with my left hand and my right hand. To who? People cuter than myself.

I imagine that if I kissed my hand in front of my friends, I’d be more of a wanker than anyone else I’d previously met.

Especially if I tongue kissed my hand. That would just be wrong.

Especially if I’d just been cleaning a toilet a few minutes prior.

I always trust my hands, except when I need to trust my feet. I’ve learned to never trust my dick, mostly because it always feels the need to be in small holes that are warm and cozy, and quite often, it’s been known to mistake my hand for one of those cozy holes.

I would, but I’d be lying. My hand is ugly. Useful, but ugly.

My hand has no eyes. It’s curious. You might ask why I choose to go out and have sex with such an amputee freak of nature that my hand is… I mean, it had five arms protruding form its torso, but no eyes or ears or a mouth or nose to speak of.
You might ask, but then you’d be ignoring the reason why I go out with such a freak of a hand: no girl will go out with me so I have to deal the err… hand… I’m given.

Oh, my hand does this all the time. The little hair I have left, my hand is always running through it. Probably taking the remainder of my hair with it as it goes.

My hand has little hair follicles on the back of its torso and digits. Surprisingly, when I try pulling on the hairs, I feel pain.

I imagine that’s what marriage is like.

I walk around with my hand so much that I can’t seem to get rid of her. It’s there… everywhere.

Her mistakes seem to be my mistakes, mostly because I always feel like she is attached to me and everything she’s done wrong she’s done wrong because of me.

I imagine that’s what divorce is like.

I can’t do that. Not to my hand. I see so many girls that cheating on my hand is the first thing I think of when I pretty much see another girl. That and waffles.

My hand just slaps me when I tickle it. It tells me that I’m sexually harassing it and if I don’t stop, she’s going to convince my right hand that they should act paralysed and then I’ll never be able to type again.

This one is a bit confusing. She is a hand, which makes holding her hand a bit odd. I know that when we have sex (it’s hardly making love, is it?), I’m holding her… or rather, another part of me is holding her, so to speak.

I imagine that’s what sex is supposed to be like.

My hand has the benefit of not speaking.
When something doesn’t speak, they can’t swear at you.

They can, however, throw things at you.

I imagine that’s what the last Madonna film was like.

Well, she’s attached to an arm, so no matter what… she’s always going to fall asleep in close proximity to one of my arms.

I already don’t plan on kissing my hand, and I’m not entirely sure how I’m supposed to go about making her mad.

Maybe if I took away her watch, she’d get mad.
She’d probably lose all track of time and go numb, though.

Yes, she does this already. Teases me in so many ways, promises to get me off… doesn’t… goes back to typing or playing Nintendo…

I have no doubt that marriage is definitely twanged with something like this.

She’s not very sick all that often, though.
But I’ll tell you what… she’ll always keep me up. Except when I’m down.

But when I’m up, and I can be up, she’ll be up trying to pull me down.

I’ve never asked her what her favourite movie is. It’s probably something like “Edward Scissorhands”… oh yes, I can just see her ditching me to run off with Johnny Depp. Who wouldn’t.

Her forehead is probably her backside.
That might be construed as sexual harassment in some places, but it would definitely look like I’m a stupid vane wanker to everyone else.

If I gave her the world, I’d be no better than another dictator. No, better to give her a rose or a puppy.

Without my left hand, I couldn’t write letters. I need her to write letters. She gets to be included in the best part of the writing of the letters… the forming of the letters by writing them on the page.

As a photographer, I’m entirely aware that without my left hand, I wouldn’t be able to take pictures.
But to take pictures of me, she’d have to negotiate and work out a joint effort between my right hand and my arms and a way for them to work together to get the camera a far enough distance to take a decent shot of me. Then she’d have to get my eyes to approve it.

That’s more negotiations than Bush has going for him in Iraq at the moment.

But I don’t love her. I love real girls.

I will… when I find someone to love.
For the moment, I have a hand.

It’s not desperation, but it’s all I have.

Counterfeit Orgasms

People always talk about fake orgasms.

[i]Oh your girl is faking it? How can you tell? She’s not even sitting on your cock… well… she might be sitting on a citrus juicer or something.[/i]

I wouldn’t want to see what that juice looked like right now, I’ll tell you that.

Still, no one’s talking about these counterfeit orgasms which I’ve just seen.

We see…
[b]Counterfeit watches:[/b] No! It’s a [i]real[/i] Rolex! Only one tenth the price!
[b]Counterfeit jeans:[/b] Now why is it my ass looks bigger in counterfeit jeans than in regular jeans? Maybe it’s just my imagination (and that I have a huge ass…)
[b]Counterfeit pills:[/b] Oh yeah, people are getting high off of sugar tablets. I told you they were smart, boy!!! (BYO sarcasm)
[b]Counterfeit Supercards:[/b] These help my Nintendo run comics and homebrew application and what not… and people counterfeit them.
[b]Counterfeit politicians:[/b] Like George Bush. Wait– wha-?!?! He’s a [i]real[/i] politician? What about Arnie–?! No shit. Damn. That’s one fucked up government.

But no one ever talks about the counterfeit orgasms.

Well I had a counterfeit orgasm.

It was… disturbing… to say the least.

So disturbing that I recorded it (wait till the end to hear how fake it gets)…

“Made In Taiwan”.

What the hell? Is this some sort of STD or virus I’ve caught from somewhere… my computer… a girl with an intact hymen… someone?!– where I now randomly fake orgasms?!

I could be making coffee for my grandmother and all of a sudden from the kitchen, an outburst of “Oh! Oaahh! OHHHHH!!!!” rings from the coffee maker. I’d hear “What was that?” and I’d say “Nothing! It’s ok! The coffee maker just orgasmed! Do you want cream?”

Satin Masturbation

What better way to start a post than with the word “masturbation”. Oh, I love the word.

Actually, I don’t really love the word. I love the action of performing [url=]the definition[/url]. Ooo baby, I can be a manipulative little bastard… daily [b]and[/b] nightly!

But let me tell you of an experience in my masturbatory life from today.

I was just waking up and I felt the need to… let go… shall we say… so I put my hands down there as usual and… hmm… I’m wearing my satin boxers.

Now, I only have one pair of your standard boxers. I’m not actually a fan of standard boxers. They’re too loose around my groin and I just don’t feel comfy in them. I’m a brief and boxer-brief person (they’re like boxers, but cling to the skin; there’s probably an actual name, but I don’t know what it is… Fred. We’ll call them Fred). I wear my briefs and Freds and am entirely comfortable, but I do have one pair of boxers ([url=×768.jpg]like I have one pair of a g-string[/url]) and it’s satin… and I wear it pretty much when I’ve run out of other things to wear to bed or don’t want to go to bed naked (yes, charming image I know, but this entire post is like this so if you can’t cop it now, scroll down to a different post).

So I was beating off in my usual fashion, which is actually quite different from what I imagine most guys will do, and I’ll get into it here one day if someone wants me to as it is… odd. Seriously, what the hell did you expect from a guy who looks like a South Park character and wears a hat with the word “FREAK” on it?!

Anyway, I was beating off and by the time I was about to come I was like “but I’m wearing satin– what will happen?!”
It was a very science-experiment sort of mood for me, I’ll tell you that.

[i]Wait… you want me to stop? You want me to explain why I’m just going to come in my boxers? Well, okay then.[/i]

Most guys seem to have this need or obligation to come into a sock or a tissue.

Seriously, the sock I don’t get. Sure, it’s a sleeve for your cock and it hides it, but other than that, say you forgot to wash it, you’d have semen swirling around your toes if you put it on quickly, and dried cum knocking on ball of your feet if you didn’t. Doesn’t sound that charming, although I imagine there’s a time you could use it in a sentence:

[b]Girlfriend: Hey babe! How are you? *kiss*[/b]
[i]Boyfriend: Not too bad. What’s up?[/i]
[b]Girlfriend: I got a new pair of shoes! It only took me 3 days and 60 assistants to find the one I like![/b]
[i]Boyfriend: That’s great. Speaking of shoes, I’ve got semen swirling around my toes right now and it’s making me very horny. [/i]

Yeah… moving on…

The tissue makes a lot of sense. It’s about cleaning up, and all guys like to clean up nice (surely… no… maybe… ok, yeah right).
I mean, yeah, they want to come all over [b]your[/b] tits, all over [b]your[/b] face, and into [b]your[/b] mouth, but heaven forbid they get a speck on their blue shirt, shit man… it’s all over!

Well, I don’t exactly see the big deal in the tissue (or sock) thing. I mean, I’m wearing an article of clothing that’s going to go into the wash (or at the very least, the laundry basket) the moment I get up and take my clothes off for a shower so it’s quite disposable.
And it’s even going to be washed, so there’s no residue, except in the case of a CSI coming over to my place and [url=]using a black-light system[/url] to track down if my sperm jumped out of my body to kill a man…

So there’s my reasoning and logic for beating off into my undies. I imagine when girls masturbate while they’re still wearing clothes, it’s considered sexy and nasty, but if I — a guy — does it while I’m lying back in bed, it’s considered sick and wrong.

Well I am sick… and anyone perpetuating that form of logic is acting within the realm of a double standard and needs to grow the fuck up.

Anyway, this is where you’d think the ending of this post might go, but no, it is not for I still haven’t told you what happened when I came into my satin boxers…

I came and it soaked into the satin weave a bit, but it also seemed to bounce back onto my pubes and left more slimy entrails on my groin and and other area.

So, if you’re looking for a very wet and slimy after-thought to your climax AND you’re an explosive orgasmer (I’m not saying I am. I could’ve just been lucky… without the “luck” bit), then buy yourself some satin boxers today!!!

[i]I foresee satin boxer companies losing stock very quickly at people being overcome with mass vomiting and hysteria after reading this blog…[/i]

The anatomy of a girl

I was looking at one of my MySpace Friends’ blogs (MySpace Friend is a stupid term… I’d take “blog buddy” over it) and she was talking about Beyonce and how good of a singer and actress and how hot she was. So one of [url=]her blog buddies said “She has a body like a melted down snickers”[/url] which prompts my brain to come up with the following:

If a woman is just a melted down chocolate bar, then that explains the lumps on her chest!

The lumps are actually just bits of chocolate, nuts, caramel, or nougat, depending on what chocolate bar you’re eating.

It also explains why I have a burning desire to nibble on breasts. It isn’t the intimacy that’s making me want to devour them, but rather that my Spidey sense is tingling to tell me where the closest amount of chewy and chocolatey globule of sheer delight is waiting for me to jump right in!

It is, however, a curious thing that without this knowledge that a girls breasts might actually contain nuts in it because it is usually only a man’s fantasy to get nuts anywhere near a girl’s pair of breasts. It would be, in that case, his nuts… but it’s still a nut-ologist’s dream regardless of the nut in question.

Unless of course it’s The Nutjob of Gauge.

Okay, we’ve been through this, I know. The Nutjob of Gauge is little more than a fantasy, much like most men bringing their nuts anywhere in close proximity to a girl’s breasts.

Still, a combination of The Nutjob of Gauge and a melted down Sexy Snickers Shag Slut might be just the thing that the doctor ordered.

This doctor would then lose his job for even advocating such a bizarre measure for getting rid of the cold. I must get their number!

Perusing posts profuse with P

I was originally going to wait to post as we’re currently backing up the site to another server, but if I keep as much random crap that sits simmering in my head any longer, I fear they’ll be serving McBrain at a McDonalds and I won’t be paid any royalties for it.

Figures right?

Still, might not be as bad as [url=]this poor sod[/url]. I wonder how many confused old ladies called the ABC station claiming their anchorman was a rapist.

What’s new with you? No, seriously, I want to know.

Ok. Fine then. Don’t tell me.

Geeze, I give you two and a half seconds and you can’t even tell me how you are.

As long as you haven’t been spewing out stupid shit [url=]like this guy[/url], you’re probably all right. Of course, that’s probably being really unfair. He’s an idiot, and the entire gaming world seems to have it in for him because of the trash he makes out of otherwise good games. I personally am more annoyed at the stupid producers who fund his shit. Have they ever seen his movies? It’s usually a good sign if a critic hates a gaming movie: it means that the critic isn’t a gamer and has been looking for a film in a game film. It is, however, an absolute awful sign when gamers don’t like the movie made out of a game.

So go Mr. Boll! Go you star, you!

I personally couldn’t care. It’s just something I’ve had floating around in my head. It’d be nice if my head had a flush like a toilet… I could flush all that nasty shit I think about down into the dark depths of my soul.

I would probably keep some of the nasty shit, especially if I’d [url=]found a way to get a girlfriend[/url]. On that off-chance, perhaps some of the nasty shit might be nasty enough to entice her and my imaginations for at least ten minutes.

Optimistic, I know, but I have no idea how early girls will give out. I could be pounding and pounding away… yes, I know that’s not exactly the most romantic thing to say…
[b]”Honey, I plan to make you dinner… then I will bathe you by hand in rose scented water with the finest of natural soaps… and then we will make our way to your bed… WHERE I WILL POUND THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF YOUR PUSSY! And when your pulsing woman-hood has taken the perfect pulpy pounding primarily provided pristinely by my princely postal pumped penis, I’ll pound it some more until it becomes a plainly plastered plateau of a pink and purple puddle polluted and perplexed with plight and predicament.”[/b]

Anyway, I could be pounding and pounding away with “p”-obsessed poetry and prose and then ten minutes later, while I’m still working out how to operate the bloody thing, I’d hear “whew, I’m done” at which point she’d kiss me and then roll over and fall asleep.

And I’d wonder… should I fake it next time?

It’s not real, but one has to contemplate shit like this. What if it happens?

If it did, I’d have to go into another room and hit the new [url=]Dead Or Alive Xtreme 2 trailer[/url] (or just look at the countless amount of porn on my computer).

Seriously, this is a game. I honestly cannot find the game content in this trailer. I am amazed, however, of how much attention to detail they’ve provided in making women’s breasts flop and giggle completely inaccurately. I can only assume that the team of developers in Japan at Team Ninja have never seen an actual woman’s breasts and are praying that the video gaming public who’d play this too haven’t either. They’re probably not wrong, sadly.

Still, from watching the five minute video completely, the visuals are eye-popping, as are the CGI women… but seriously… where the fuck is the game?

So far, I’ve got the following games out of it:
Beach volleyball, rolling around in the sand [i](oh yeah, the kids are really having fun these days rolling around in the sand)[/i], crab tossing [i](and now the next olympic sport… crab tossing!!!– actually, I’ve got a comic I’m preparing which should be up in a few days based off of DOA’s Crab Tossing)[/i], riding in a pool on an inflatable [url=]Shamu[/url] [i](amazingly, the inflatable Shamu looks incredible and yet the shadows are pixelated to all buggery)[/i], and sitting on the bum or back of another buxom babe and rubbing sun screen or sun tan lotion into her delicate digital derriere.
Seriously… this is a game?

When this gets released, they should interface this shit [url=]with a Fleshlight[/url]… every straight guy would buy an Xbox 360 and this game, Microsoft stocks would go through the roof, another pointless Dead Or Alive Xtreme game would be commissioned (now with bouncier boobs!), and women everywhere would be dumped for a system that gives men exactly what they want: crab tossing without crabs and sexual gratification without the need to gratify someone else.

Why it’s a match made in heaven!

And then when they’re all dumped, the smart ones like me can go out and console those girls who were dumped by their dumbass boyfriends who play with digital chicks with eyes bigger than their balls.