or How I Meth Your Mother
The tiny ziploc bag of meth was sitting on the desk in the open, as it probably shouldn’t have been. It was thrown together with the art supplies, reading glasses, and a guitar pick – the muse and the music reunited in neglect.
I’m not much of a drug person, and this may or may not be a fictional account. A friend came over and we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. After, as we lay side by side catching our breath, the topic of the little white ziploc bag came up.
One of the housemates had moved on, and I had found it among the things he had left behind. I asked him if it was cocaine or salt or dandruff, and he said no, it was meth, purchased on some ill-advised night at an ill-advised place and never used. He did not want it back. Neither did I.
But she did.
She liked to try things, she said, from crack to heroin to one-night stands in Cancun. Nothing really ruffled her. Meth fell somewhere on the scale between not as edgy as heroin, but not as timid as cocaine. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I didn’t have to drive anywhere for at least 14 hours, which is usually my biggest fear when experimenting with unfamiliar human pastimes.
Also, one gram of the stuff, split two ways, would probably not stop traffic.
It tasted sour and salty and a little bit soapy, like some kind of crushed medication on my fingertip. I sat back and took her in as my body digested the drug and my brain the experience. She was semi-clothed and smiling mysteriously, seductively and needily. Suddenly I wanted her again.
She grabbed me and gulped me into her again in a whirlwind of wet, lips, hands, and pussy. There was a kind of urgency scratching at the back of my brain this time, a frantic sort of necessity, like the most sensual of tasks had been assigned to us and must be completed punctually. Her sugary screams harmonized with the hive of honeybees buzzing in my head, and soon we collapsed again.
The lights went out, and we said good night.
And laid there. And laid and laid and laid there, laid awake staring at the boring insides of my eyelids while my fingertips caught fire and silently burned.
I laid awake as the universe seduced me with its molecules; Mother Earth undressed and sat on my face, rubbing her clitoris raw and rosy on my tongue until she exploded in a waterfall of Amazon lightning dripping down my face and neck. Then Mars took a turn, thrusting herself over me, grinding, pounding my body into ruby red dust.
Hours passed, or maybe minutes, of consensual cosmic copulation, and then suddenly I felt warm human hands on me. The goddesses dissipated, making respectful room for the mortal, fragile bodies that they could never be. She, flesh and blood, grabbed my waist and said, “Are you awake?”
She climbed onto me and stuffed me into her greedy mouth again. The sun showed no signs of rising.
I love porn.
I think that making it is a proud profession and watching it a noble pastime. I think that adults should be able to choose their industries and interests as long as these don’t harm themselves or other people. I believe that the sex industry as a commodity has value and worth and can be an admirable and enjoyable enterprise.
So I’m pro-porn (or… pron).
I am also a firm believer in consciously directing your desires. I, for instance, didn’t know I loved skinny girls until I had an emaciated one 6 years ago and she blew my mind. I didn’t know I was also an ass man until a giant one was bouncing over me.
Sometimes, both in your digital sex life as well as your analog one, you can make a rut and then get stuck in it. You can find the thing that works for you and wallow in it. I think convention is an important part of a healthy sex life.
I also think that variety and exploration is another important part.
ThePornDude.com is a journey. Of exploration. Through the sexual appetites that you never knew you had.
Although this is paid content, I had one of the funnest (sic) afternoons of my writing career sifting through their links while researching for this article. I didn’t even know what TGP meant before today. Now I think it’s awesome. Also, I’ve never been a Hentai guy, but how much fun must it be getting all together in a studio to record the voices for those kinky cartoons. Do you think the talent is able to keep its hands off each other?
ThePornDude has a unique categorized layout that is sort of a cross between Tumblr and Pinterest. Like playing on a giant checkerboard of porn categories, you scroll to the headline that piques your interest and feast on the list of sites addressing that topic. One of the things I like best about The Dude is how simple it is to get from A to B. All the info is packed neatly into one page; you see what you like and then click on it. There is literally nothing between A and B (which is how alphabets should be).
The lists (750 sites in total) are “sorted by quality,” which is something I’m not sure I understand. (Why is PornMaki higher than xHamster or PornHub under Top Porn Tube sites?) Maybe quality is in the eye of the beholder. Maybe there could be a customizable interface that allows me to arrange the sites in my own order of quality. Or maybe I’ll soon find out that the wise old PornDude was right all along.
I’m a huge fan of the informal nature of the site. When I’m surfing for porn, I don’t necessarily need full sentences or surnames. Just a Dude will do. It’s also fun to see all the random kinky site names that these porn providers around the world came up with and their crazy videos. I found a video of a blowjob audition where the mom brings her daughter to make sure it’s legit and just sort of sits there in the background with a polite look on her face while her daughter performs (on eFukt under Best Funny Porn Sites).
Take a spin around ThePornDude for yourself. Find a fetish you never knew you fancied.
(Deesplácese hacia abajo para Español)
or The Marriage Ouroboros
I don’t understand marriage.
You have sex with various people until you find one with whom you can also be best friends. Then you get married and your supposed new “best friend” prohibits you from having sex with anyone else ever.
This friend, who is now your marriage partner, doesn’t prohibit you from having other friends, only from having other sex. This is strange because the friendship, not the sex, was what made them special in the first place, and presumably the reason you married them.
You had sex with many other people before and it never sank your friendships. And your friendships never discouraged the people you had sex with. Then all of sudden you find someone with whom you can be friends and have sex, and they have to immediately go and ruin it by prohibiting you from the arbitrary act of having sex with other people instead of prohibiting the meaningful union of being friends with other people (which they still, oddly, allow).
Besides this being a completely incomprehensible restriction, it sounds like a shitty friend to me.
Because now this new best friend / sex partner is doomed to go around with one eye on you all the time, constantly tormented by the possibility that you could dare revert to your nature and transgress against the irrational restriction they’ve put on you. And as we all know, friends who keep their friends in cages don’t stay friends for very long.
And by its very nature, this closed act of marriage has almost immediately turned you into no longer best friends anymore but back to just being sex partners, taking away the very reason for which you wed in the first place.
So you divorce and go back to having sex with various people until you find one with whom you can also be best friends.
I don’t understand marriage.
In this article, by ‘marriage’ i am referring to what is generally understood as the socially acceptable exclusive union of two people in the traditional manner, NOT any of the more practical, modern, open, human, natural types.
No entiendo el matrimonio.
Tienes relaciones sexuales con varias personas hasta que encuentras una con la que también puedes ser mejores amigos. Entonces te casas y tu supuesto nuevo “mejor amigo” te prohibe tener sexo con otras personas.
Este amigo, que ahora es tu esposo/a, no te prohibe tener otros amigos, sólo tener otras relaciones sexuales. Esto es extraño porque la amistad, no el sexo, fue lo que le hizo especial en primer lugar, y presumiblemente la razón por la que te casaste con el / ella.
Has tenido sexo con muchas otras personas antes y eso nunca arruinó tus amistades. Y tus amistades nunca han disuadido a las personas con quien has tenido sexo. Entonces, de repente encuentras a alguien con quien puedas ser amigos y tener sexo, y ellos tienen que arruinarlo inmediatamente por prohibirte el acto arbitrario de tener sexo con otras personas en lugar de prohibir la unión significativa de ser amigos con otras personas (lo cual, curiosamente, todavía permiten).
Además de que esto suena como una restricción totalmente incomprensible, suena como un amigo bastante malaleche.
Porque ahora este nuevo mejor amigo / pareja sexual está condenado a andar siempre con un ojo en ti, constantemente atormentado por la posibilidad de que podrías atreverte a regresar a tu naturaleza y transgredir la restricción irracional que ha puesto en ti. Y como todos sabemos, amigos que mantienen a sus amigos en jaulas no siguen siendo amigos por mucho rato.
Y por su propia naturaleza, este acto cerrado del matrimonio les ha quitado la amistad y les ha dejado como solo una pareja sexual otra vez, quitándoles la razón misma por la que se casaron en el primer lugar.
Así que te divorcias y vuelves a tener relaciones sexuales con varias personas hasta que encuentras una con la que también puedes ser mejores amigos.
No entiendo el matrimonio.
En este artículo, por ‘matrimonio’ me refiero a lo que generalmente se entiende como la unión socialmente aceptable y exclusiva de dos personas a la manera tradicional, no a alguno de los tipos de matrimonio más prácticos, modernos, abiertos, humanos, naturales.
What does 30 feel like? I’m not sure. I guess I don’t know what other 30 year olds feel like. I know good and well that I’ve been alive and doing things and thinking for 30 years. I don’t feel “established” or settled down in any way in that thinking or in my mind. It’s always changing depending on new information and circumstances.
Some people already know what they think and how they think.
Me, not yet.
It’s like the difference between science and religion. Science is 100% sure about very few things, and its theories are always adapting with new discoveries.
Religion knows everything.
Some people think like religions.
I think there are two sides to humanity these days: tolerance and intolerance. Intolerance is the side that mocks things it thinks are “weird,” that believes strongly in (and against) things, that discriminates (even slightly) against things different from it, and that ends up killing students and being tyrannical.
And tolerance is the side that just says, That’s cool.
Every time I sit down to write, I struggle with whether to just keep it fluffy and sticky sweet or to go off on some crusade. I’m no crusader, but there are things that bug me about men and about women and about the way they stick it to each other.
Today’s crusade is against feminist violence toward men. Feminist violence against men is a particularly ironic kind of violence due to a few easy-to-grasp concepts.
First, let’s keep a few things clear from the beginning. Rape is evil. I don’t rape. Men are always raping women, and women rarely rape men. “Rape is not an act of sex; it’s an act of violence.”
Easy-to-Grasp Concept #1
Overlooking the debate about the semantics of that last claim, do you know what else is not an act of sex but an act of violence? Punching and slapping men. Why is it socially acceptable for a woman to pummel or slap a man in an attempt to humiliate or shame him?
Physical violence perpetrated by (mostly strong, feminist but sometimes gentle, reactive) women against men is far too widespread, and worse, far too socially acceptable. Examples of women going for that slap-in-the-face as a powerful punctuation mark to a (in their opinion) distasteful conversation with a man are far too common and far too glorified in all forms of media, memes, and real life.
Dear feminist hypocrites (not all feminists, just the hypocritical ones among you), slapping a man is not an act of feminism; it’s an act of violence.
Easy-to-Grasp Concept #2
Did you slap him in retaliation for something he said? Was he asking for it because of the offensive words that came out of his mouth? That leads us to the second easy-to-grasp concept.
Nothing a man could ever say, no matter how offensive it is, could ever be considered ‘asking for it’ in regards to physical violence against him. Yes, we the genders have differences in the way we express ourselves, physically, fashionably, verbally, and those differences can sometimes be inciting to the opposite gender. But the answer to those differences is never violence in any form by any gender.
Did he make an insensitive comment about your culture, your gender, your crusade, or you as a person? Still not asking for it.
The Threat Of
And a woman threatening violence against a man should be just as culturally enraging as the reverse. Her telling him, “One day you’re gonna get punched/slapped in the face for something you said,” is a hypocritical, rapey cliche that condones and glorifies… violence! By contributing to the inter-gender violence culture, I would posit that these kinds of comments make you partially responsible for the inter-gender violence problem.
Men shouldn’t be taught to watch their words, women should be taught not to smack men in the face.
Not all men are monsters, and not all women are victims, but all violence is monstrous. Your freedom of expression is just as important as ours and both need to be religously protected. It is the violent criminals, both men and women, that need to be taught to swallow their urges, not the peaceful, expressive victims.
I’m a pacifist. I don’t believe in, encourage, or perpetrate violence in any form against any gender. If we could all just stop threatening and perpetrating all forms of violence against other human beings, that would be great. #anticlimacticending
or The Dark Side of Sex
The last thing I see is the lamplight glinting yellow off her bronze body as the blindfold falls over my eyes.
I find her in the darkness. My fingertips whisper to me the softness of skin but they can’t tell me where they’ve landed. Lost in a jungle of skin on a foreign planet of skin. The only thing to do is to explore.
It’s a neck. Her neck. My fingers trace her jaw line up to her ear and then along her cheekbone where they tell me that her blindfold is also firmly in place. Eyes have been extinguished for the night.
Her hands on both sides of my head are pulling me to her. Her tongue searches for mine in the dark planet and my lips welcome it inside, speaking to me of its red strawberry wetness. Until now, I’d never known that the underbelly of her tongue was a riverbed of four distinct seams and that the corners of her lips tasted like rain. When you can’t memorize sights, you are more prone to memorizing tastes. And textures.
Her back turns to me and every ridge in the tips of my fingers embrace its smoothness and the elegant curve of her spine – curving into me, not away. An electric hum of gratification from her lips, like a teardrop of sound in an ocean of silence, invades the heightened awareness of my ears as I descend into her.
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed monster is king.
The entire length of my body feasts on the entire length of hers. My neck is Frenching her neck, my shoulders plant a fluttery Eskimo kiss on her shoulders, my chest tastes her back, and our hips are locked in a sloppy embrace. When the sense of sight is taken away from a species and a language that relies principally on it, mixed metaphors may result.
The threads of the sheets and the sinews of her skin begin to blur together as the velvet violence of our bodies sets the room on fire. I am clutching one or the other in my fists as pleasure creeps over me like chocolate over a cherry. Sparkles of purple and gold waltz through the black behind my eyelids.
The tide of war changes and her armies rush forward in a relentless assault on mine. Her sugary battlecries drip over my ears, and she invades me again and again. Or I invade her. Or she invades me to invade her. Over and over, black and dark like a soft, pounding warmth around me, immersing me unrelentingly in the punishment of pleasure.
I think I might have scratched her harder than I meant to.
Tired, aching limbs
Scratch marks down the chest and back
Multiple bite marks on the shoulders and neck
Stinging scalp, particularly at the roots of the hair
Fatigued tongue muscles
Tenderness in the genital area
Missing clothing or jewelry items or footwear
A deep-seated feeling of peace and that all is well with the world