Early to bed, early to rise,
Makes a man boring until he dies,
Eat the best food, f*ck all the night,
Wear comfortable shoes before a long flight.
Category: Men and Women (Page 3 of 11)
Have you ever noticed that whenever there is fashion advice given in a woman’s magazine, it is always written by… a woman? I find this discriminatory, as if 50% of the population had no opinion on the matter.
In honor of New York Fashion Week, I asked YOU, some of my female readers, to ask me — a straight male — some of your pressing fashion questions.
Your Fashion Expert
Question: Are there any cute alternatives to skinny jeans this season? — Mary C, Phoenix, Arizona
I wouldn’t wear skinny jeans because I’m not THAT skinny anymore, considering my love for bagels and pizza, so why would I ask you to wear pants that squeezes your ass together like a tight package of kosher salami? I’m not cruel. Women should just wear more short skirts to show off their legs.
Question: What the heck should I wear on a first date with a nice guy from the office? – Beth M, New Rochelle, New York
Show cleavage. Or wear a tight sweater. While I do not recommend skinny jeans or tight pants because I believe in a woman’s comfort from the waist down, I make an exception for the tight sweater in the upper half of the body. Buy a good bra. And comb your hair. If you have long hair, it is always good to have some of it drape onto your shoulder, seductively, like Lana Turner did in that old black and white movie, the name of which I don’t remember, but is always playing on Turner Classic Movies at three in the morning. Also, if you are going sleeveless, have a little bit of bra strap showing as a tease. But not TOO much. Don’t have your boobs hanging out if he is such a nice guy. He will be intimidated.
Question: I need a new going-out bag, on the cheap. Help! — Latrissa W, Miami, Florida
Seriously. No one cares ONE IOTA what type of bag you carry.  No one even notices it. Why should anyone care what type of bag you carry, unless we know that there is a kinky sex toy inside, or a lot of cash and you’re paying for our dinner, or a stash of cocaine in the side pocket, which means you are either a drug dealer, which is a little exciting and dangerous, but ultimately scary and off-putting, or a drug user, and we know that type of relationship never ends well. So, my recommendation is to just pick up any cheapo bag at Target or from an illegal street vendor, and stop wasting your time worrying over useless stuff like your BAG. Or, for that matter, your nails. No man has ever said, “Check out her newly-colored nails!” Instead, spend time thinking about how you are going to show a little bit of your bra strap on the shoulder. That’s way more important, in a fashion sense.
Hope that helped. Keep on sending those questions, so I can serve up some more closet advice! Ciao!
Note:Â I am currently available for writing assignments at Glamour and Cosmopolitan magazines.
I miss biting a woman’s arm. I love that. I love to taste the salty skin until she pushes me away and says, “Stop it. That hurts.” But she likes it, despite what she says. There is a time for strength and a time to be dominated. I am the most alive when I am biting her like an animal. She knows it, and takes pride in the mark on her arm, like I had branded her with the heat of my unstoppable passion.
Many of you ask me about my religion, wondering if I truly adhere to the belief in an all powerful, all-knowing God.
Here’s what I think: None of us can truly know if God exists, but anyone who admires nature, must see that there is a Grand Organizer serving as the CEO of the Universe. Season come and go, babies are born; life is a perfect cycle, the ultimate musical symphony. Even the parts of life that make no rational sense at first do HAVE MEANING, once we devote ourselves to examining the mysteries. All you need to do is OPEN YOUR EYES.
Let’s take the idea behind aging. We get old and die. It is rather dumb idea. If you were going to create a MAN in your image, would you really go out of the way to make him start out as young and strong, and then, as then as he gets older and wiser, have his body and mind fall apart until he is just plain dead, lying in a hospital bed.
Makes no sense, right? This God should be fired, or at sued, like Toyota is being sued with their faulty accelerators on the Prius.
But hold on. Let’s approach it from another angle — a philosophical method — one operating under the assumption that God carefully and methodically plans life out with an organizer on his heavenly iPad.
This morning I took a walk outside. Summer is approaching in Los Angeles. The flowers are blooming. Women are walking around in tight t-shirts and shorts. I found myself attracted to several of these women. Some were young, some were older.
And what type of thoughts were flying through my head? Yes, the existence of God.
Here’s why —
When you are a man in your early twenties, you spend most of your time trying to get into the pants of a woman your age. All other women seem too old, unless you are a Mrs. Robinson type perv.
As you move into your latter twenties, you notice that your female friends are ALSO in their late twenties. It shocks you to realize that they are actually SEXIER now than women in their early twenties. What happened? They have more confidence, more life experience. Of course, you wouldn’t refuse to hop in the sack with a twenty-two year old, but your age range has expanded, creating more opportunities.
I know every man remembers the moment he turned thirty and opened his eyes, and said, “Holy shit, women in their thirties are f**king hot!” Ten years ago, these would seem like old women. Now they are in their prime. These women have lose their shyness, and it is not uncommon to hear a thirty-five year old woman telling a man on a first date, “How about after dinner we go back to my place, watch the last episode of Lost, and I’ll give you a blowjob you will never forget.” No woman in her twenties would ever say that. Of course, as a man, you are still attracted to women in their twenties. But now, in most cases, you are attracted to women in their twenties AND THIRTIES.
You see where this is going. This natural selection continues as the man ages, so by the time a man is in his eighties, he is interested in fucking every woman from 21-89. Without God lower his libido, can you imagine how difficult it would be for a 90 year old man to go outside without tripping over his erection and breaking his hip?
Luckily, God is merciful. Even with the lessening of the libido, there is a point in a man’s life when he is attracted to women his own age, his daughter’s age, his granddaughter’s age, AND HIS great-granddaughter’s age. The pain is just too much for anyone, and God, in his wisdom, allows him to die.
God exists.
We were on the couch, kissing and undressing, when I suggested we go into the bedroom.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I feel the same way about you anymore?” she said.
I pulled back, suddenly feeling very alone, like a lonely sailor on a clipper ship on a dark New England shore.
“I need you,” I said, as I reached out to her breasts, the two precious, flickering lighthouses that could save me from my solitude. “And I thought everything was going so well?”
“It was.” she replied,” her blue eyes showing a restrained affection. Â “I once found you so…manly…”
She nervously took out a cigarette from her purse. I wanted to tell her to quit, just like Schmutzie had done recently, but I didn’t want to make waves.
“And now I’m not “manly” to you anymore?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“It all happened on September 17th.  In the beginning of the month, you promised to blog every day in September, and then, on that infamous day, you said you just couldn’t go on. You couldn’t handle the pressure. You broke your promise.”
“I hated blogging every day. It made me feel so unfunny and self-absorbed and selfish and stupid. There was even this blogger who sent me an email, complimenting me, saying she wished she could be as productive! And instead of saying thank you, I sent her a sarcastic email back. “You want to write every day? It is easy. You just ignore all the other bloggers out there, all your friends, and never read their posts, and never comment and act like you are the only voice important in the world, and then you will be able to post every day.”
“That was a bit assholely of you.”
“Yeah, I’ve been a jerk all week. Sweetney wrote this interesting post that drove me crazy, where she shares her affection for Kanye West after the VMA awards. She wrote that we must separate the art from the artist, and even said, “I’m a person who has long stated that I would rather be friends with an interesting asshole than a boring nice person.”
“So, do you disagree with that?”
“No, but it got me thinking a few days before the Jewish High Holidays about what is important to me in life. It made me wonder if I should just be a jerk to the world and only care about myself, because when it comes down to it, people are judging you on your final product and not on how you act in the world. Theoretically, if I push an old woman down a flight or stairs and then write a fantastic blog post about it, I might even get to win a award for it!”
“You really are losing it.  Just relax.  Blogging is just a silly hobby. Worry about your REAL work, the stuff that PAYS YOU MONEY, not this shit. You’re being manipulated by those who ARE making money through blogging to make you think that BLOGGING is super-important.”
“This is what happens when you blog every day.”
“I still don’t see what the big deal is about blogging every day. It isn’t nuclear science. Just put up a video or a photo.”
“Don’t you get it. No one wants to think about themselves all the time. And by blogging every day, it is like going into therapy every day.  It is uncomfortable. It drives you insane. And then there are distractions all around you, all the time. Mamatulip wrote a post two days ago where she complained about her inability to get any writing done when her family is around. Just to cause her more grief, I wrote this nerdy comment on her blog —
I once read this book about being creative and writing — I think it was called The War of Art, but I am not certain, and the thesis was a bit scary — the ones who are going to most frustrate you and hold you back from any creative endeavor are going to be those closest to you – your spouse, your kids, and your best friends, and that you almost had to view them as “the enemy†to get anything done. It made sense because those are the ones who are dependent and love you, and the most fearful of you taking too much time for yourself. I think this author would probably tell you that during those afternoons alone, you need to throw the phone out the window.”
“So are you saying that if you really want to accomplish anything, you have to be an asshole to everyone and ignore your family?” asked the beautiful woman on my couch.
“Have you ever seen a movie about a brilliant musician, artist, or writer who hasn’t cheated on his spouse, ignored his children, chopped off his ear, or committed suicide?”
“No offense, but you are not writing a symphony here. You are writing a stupid blog about your mother and your penis. Get over yourself. No one really cares about you. No one knows you.”
“You mean Redneck Mommy doesn’t really want to do me?”
“No.”
“What about you?” I said, with a sly smile. “I thought that’s why you came over and we were making out?”
“Yeah, I was going to f*ck you, but things changed when you decided to quit blogging every day in September.”
“What’s the difference? I’m still the same person!”
“Don’t you get it? For a woman, sexy is in the mind. You were very sexy when you were blogging every day, like you were a Homeric hero on a journey, just like you described yourself in your first post this month.  But once you quit, eh.”
“I’m not quitting blogging. Just blogging once a day…”
“I’m sorry. It’s all in the mind. It’s like now I visualize you kissing my special spot, and then suddenly getting all bored after you get a hair up your nose, and saying, “Can we move on already?” I want someone who I know can go the extra mile, not a quitter.”
“Are you saying that if I quit blogging for the entire month of September I will be sending the message to others that I will be lousy in bed?”
“I’m not sure I can ever have an orgasm with a quitter.”
“WTF!”
“Yes. Women are weird. We think that way.”
“Can’t you just fake it?”
“Sure. An once you quit blogging every day, all your female blogging friends are going to say, “Oh, Neil, it is fine if you want to quit. We understand.” We have a mothering instinct. We want our sons to try their best, but if they strike out during little league, it doesn’t matter.”
“So, why not the same for me?”
“Because we’re not your mother, asshole. You already have your mother IN Queens to coddle you. If you want to be with a real woman, you better be prepared to finish the job!”
“But I will. I promise I won’t give up! I’ll never give up.”
She started to close her unbuttoned blouse.
“No!”
“I’m sorry. Stop reading the phony crap in Cosmo and let me tell you what REAL-LIVE WOMEN talk about in the locker room. Rule #1 —
If a Man succeeds, he gets a blowjob like no other
But a Man gets zilch if he quits before Rosh Hashana”
“That doesn’t really rhyme, and it is rather insulting to men… and Rosh Hashana.”
“Woman’s prerogative.”
“What kind of double standard is that? Why do I have to perform like a solider in the Foreign Legion just to prove my worth, my manhood? Why can’t I quit, or fail, or give up — and still get laid?”
“Ooh, Project Runway is on!” she said, turning on the TV.
+++
I can’t quit doing this — blogging every day in September — can I?
+++
Editor’s note: This was truly an anxiety-producing post.  I had to go to take a nap immediately after I published it. I’m not sure why yet.  It’s probably about my own shame I would feel if I quit doing something as unimportant as a month of blog posts. Why would I react so strongly over something so silly?
Even more troubling — do I feel I am not worthy enough to be in a normal relationship until I prove something?
Fall is a time of introspection.
Shana Tovah to my Jewish friends!  A happy, healthy, and joyous New Year.
1.
Yesterday, I chatted with a guy on Facebook. He was someone I didn’t know, but he seemed to know me. He noticed that we had befriended many of the same bloggers.
“A lot of married women, right?!” he joked.
“Yeah,” I said, not sure where his thought process was heading.
“Which of them do you think is the hottest?”
“The hottest? I don’t know. They’re all pretty nice.”
He gave me his opinion of someone’s “hotness.” I wasn’t quite sure what this guy was comparing — the hotness of the profile photos, the writing, or their status updates? I assumed he was talking about the photos, but hasn’t this guy ever heard of PHOTOSHOP? I look better than George Clooney on my profile pic thanks to the fine folks at Adobe!
Is this how most normal guys talk to each other in private? I didn’t even know this guy and we’re already rating women on their curves?
“Whooa… nice babe in the red!” he wrote to me. He was looking at my blog.
I clicked onto my url because I wasn’t sure what he was talking about.
He was looking at the “poster” from the Blogger Arts and Crafts show.
“That’s Erin!” I scolded him. “She’s a blogger I know.”
“She’s… hot…”
This annoyed the hell out of me, as if he was checking out the ass of my sister.
“Hey, she’s married and I don’t think she would appreciate us talking about her like a sex object.”
“OK, OK… whoa.  You call her a “hot babe” in your own post.”
“That’s different.” I replied.
“Why?”
Oooh, that was a good question. The only thought that popped into my head was that if I am going to be sexist or inappropriate, I should do it to the person’s face, or at least read her blog first.
I remember once seeing a photo of a blogger friend in a tight t-shirt.  A few days later, we were chatting on IM.
“Susan, I have to tell you that you have great breasts!” I said. “Your husband is so lucky!”
“Really? Thanks! LOL”
Was I wrong for saying that? Of course I was. Was I being honest in expressing myself to a friend? Absolutely.  And notice how I mentioned HER HUSBAND, as if I was congratulating him as well. My comment was not wrong or hateful. In fact, it was all about beauty, family values and a celebration of their marriage!
But mark my words — if some guy took me aside at BlogHer and whispered, “Check out Susan’s tits!” I would punch him in the nose. That is just rude.
2.
A relative died this weekend and my mother is going to Massachusetts on Monday to attend the funeral. We had already bought tickets to a revival of “Pal Joey” tomorrow night at Studio 54, so now I had an extra ticket.
“Who should I ask?” I wondered.
A couple of weeks ago, I met a friend of a friend, a single woman. I thought she might enjoy going to the show instead of my mother. But just as I was about to contact her (I chose email rather than the phone, of course), the same fears and insecurities that have been plaguing me since junior high, when I had a secret love for Jane Goldfarb, came to surface. This was a disappointment. I was confident that years of marriage would have given me the inner strength to combat that age-old fear of the opposite sex, but it was exactly the same feeling that I remember — that fear of rejection, now mixed in with a new more-adult anxiety — the equally debilitating fear of success. What if it goes WELL?!  What then?!
My intention is NOT to date this woman. I just have an extra ticket. But won’t she assume that I am asking her out on a date? And what’s so wrong about that? Should I remind her in the email that I am still married, and that I know she knows that I am still married? Will she think I am a two-timing cheat? What if she says no? Will she feel uncomfortable with me if I meet her again at some party? Should I just write in the email “Oh, I just happen to have an extra ticket…” to make it seem less than a date? Or does that sound rude, like I really don’t give a crap and just asked her because she’s available? How can I make this sound like it isn’t a date, but still give her the hint that I am asking her for a nice reason, and that I think she is smart and funny, yet I still looked at her ass that night, even though I shouldn’t have done that? And you know what — I’m not even sure she’s doesn’t have a boyfriend. Should that matter? If we aren’t dating, what’s the big deal? If some guy you just met called you up and asked you if you wanted to go to the theater, would you think it was a date?
I am now at McDonald’s writing this post. I was going to title it something like “Wimping Out,” because I am deciding to call a male friend to go with me instead of driving myself crazy.
But you know what, I’m tired of portraying myself as wimpy in this blog. I am not that wimpy. I just have trouble making decisions sometimes because there are too many different scenarios playing out in my mind at once. Maybe that is why I am good at Hollywood pitch meetings. If a producer doesn’t like the guys driving a Corvette, — hey, they can drive a tractor instead! But this type of creative thinking is BAD in real life. It makes me too passive. And what is the worst that can happen if I ask her? She can say no. I can French kiss her in the taxi cab on the way home? She can fall madly in love with me and I tell her that I am still married and break her heart?   I can find her BORING and can’t wait to get home and go on Twitter?
F*ck you all. Why am I always presenting myself as more fearful of life than I really am on this blog? Am I doing it for your amusement? Am I afraid that I would have a boring blog post if I actually enjoyed myself and only had positive stuff to write about. And what do I care what you think?  This blog is not making me one cent, you social-climbing, self-absorbed…
OK, OK, calm down. Don’t transfer your anger and frustration onto your readers. They mean you no harm. They like you. Or at least they like “you” on the page — the one they think they know. In reality, they are as weak as you, despite their bravado and their shiny happy blog headers.
And what about Sophia? Is she going to mind if I invite this woman to the theater? Why would she care? F*ck it. What’s it to her? I’m doing anything wrong. I’m asking one woman to go to one musical with me on a Monday night because my mother is going to a funeral in Massachusetts! What’s the f*cking big deal?!
OK, I’m leaving McDonald’s and going upstairs to email her.
I don’t want to ever hear anyone ever call me a wimp again.
Update:Â She can’t make it tomorrow, so I am going with a gay male friend.
Latest Filter For Good Post: The Story of Paclitaxel
Note: You notice how this post is sort of a throw-a-way post? Should I even bother to post nonsense like this? I was thinking of calling these posts “Expendable Posts” that I would publish, and then just delete in a few days. If my blog is supposedly my “calling card” for my writing, why do I want to have crap cluttering things up? But at the same time, it is kind of fun posting crap. I think something really fucked up my idea of blogging about six months ago, around the time I read Queen of Spain’s post about “The Business of Mommyblogging.” Until then, my blog was like a child’s sandbox, and I was just having fun. And then, it felt like I was Dorothy seeing the real Wizard of Oz. Most of you had “reasons” for being online — branding, money, connections, advancing your writing, corporate sponsorship. I began to feel like I was just playing with myself. That I was a still child and everyone was now an adult. The only possible “practical” reason to continue blog was related to writing, but where does this leave moronic posts like this one?
Of course, there is the community aspect of blogging? But what is my community? Some bloggers, especially the parent bloggers, frequently wrote posts addressing each other, sometimes even getting annoyed if a non-parent commented on an issue related to children.
I’m not a parent.
Should I be searching for my own unique community? And what is that community? Writers? Do I really want to become one of those who only reads “the literary blogs” and pooh pooh those who ONLY write blogs about their lives, but without the cleverness of a poet? I know plenty of people who are exactly like that.
Besides, half the time, I don’t really write anyway. I just blog funny stuff.
Humor bloggers?
Nah, not funny all the time.
Today, I’m not even writing at all. I’m putting up a video.
What do you think of the idea of “expendable posts” — ones you might publish just for the hell of it, or you just want to rant, like this, and then delete it afterwards so your “brand” doesn’t get diluted or you just don’t want the post sitting up there forever? Is that being dishonest, in your view? On the other hand, is it better to steer away from writing shitty posts like this — out of fear being seen as a lesser writer? C’mon, we all have shitty posts in us!
Maybe, twice a month, I will intentionally write a really bad post on some lame topic, just for the expression of it, and then delete it. Is that against the rules?
You don’t really have to comment here. I’m deleting this post tomorrow.
Sanford:Â Hi, I’m Redd Foxx.
Stanford:Â And I’m Wille Garson.
Sanford:Â Together we play Sanford and Stanford, on the new hit CBS comedy of the same name.
Stanford:Â And if you have no idea what we are talking about, you apparently didn’t read Neilochka’s last post, which has been up there for at least five days.Â
Sanford: Yeah, what’s your problem? Why didn’t you read it, you sucka? How would you like one across yo’ lip??!
Stanford: Ha Ha, Redd. Remember, non-violence is the answer. Unless, we are fighting for a table at Hugo’s in West Hollywood for Sunday brunch!
Sanford:Â That was one lame fruitcake joke, Stanford.Â
Stanford:Â On our show, the two of us are constantly battling as I attempt to transform Fred’s old junkyard into a trendy B&B for the gay, lesbian and transgender community.Â
Sanford: Transgender? What the hell is that?!
Stanford:Â (whispers something in his ear)
Sanford: Holy…! (grabbing his chest) Oh, this is the big one! You hear that, Elizabeth?! I’m coming to join you, honey!”
Stanford:Â Ooh boy, and I thought only gay men were drama queens!
Sanford: As you can see, on Sanford and Stanford, we play it up for laughs. But today, as part of CBS Cares, we’d like to talk to you about something that is not funny at all — an issue that is heating up America during this election year.
Stanford:Â We are speaking about “Can Male and Female Bloggers Ever Be Friends?”
Sanford:Â And Stanford and I both agree — the answer is “Yes”.
OK, this is Neilochka. I am interrupting this post for three reasons.
1)Â It is not that funny.
2)Â I cannot come up with a good ending.
3) I am worried that readers born after 1980 have never heard of Sanford and Son, and will think of me as an old fart who doesn’t know what LOL means.
The point of this post is to say that I met Astrogirl from Notes From the Bunker this weekend. We had a great time together. We had pizza at my favorite Queens pizzeria, Valentino’s. We saw art at the Frick Collection.
We then went to a cool exhibit on Chinese Propaganda at the Asia Society.Â
We ate sushi and I got slightly drunk on sake. Oh, and yeah, she is married, so it was all safe. There was no action other than her letting me see her tattoo on her back.
But Astrogirl was also nice enough to give me hints on some “do”s and “don’t”s for when I actually go on a REAL date.
For example, don’t make a woman self-conscious about food. I’ve met quite a few female bloggers for lunch and I am always fascinated by what they order — and don’t order. I’m always wondering — are some women afraid of being seen eating a sandwich or finishing everything on the plate? Is it a rule for the woman to fake insecurity about ordering dessert? Do women really want a “side salad” when the man orders a six foot hero? Should the man order a boring salad too, just to show comraderie? Finally, while it might seem like a compliment to tell a classy dame like Astrogirl that, “You are ordering two slices of pizza?! I love that you’re doing that. I hate when women only order a salad and never finish it. You clearly have no phobia about eating! I knew I was going to like you in person!” she probably is going to overlook the accolades and just think that you are calling her a pig.
Sanford:Â I know my sister-in-law Esther can swallow a whole franchise of Domino’s in one night.
Esther:Â You shut up Fred, you fish-eyed heathen!
Sanford: Oh no, Esther, where the hell do you come from? You scared me. You are so ugly, I could stick your face in some pizza dough and it would scare away the tomato sauce.
Stanford: Come on, you two. I hate when people fight. Unless of course if it is a party at David Geffen’s home and we both show up wearing the same outfit!
Sanford:Â Stanford, you big dummy!
Neilochka:Â Boy, this Sanford and Stanford idea is as unfunny as a SNL skit!Â
(By the way, don’t worry, Astrogirl, I’m also gonna tell my readers that you are like size -4 so other women can hate you as one of those skinny bitches who can eat two slices of pizza without even worrying about it).
I’m a crazy guy with marital issues who currently lives with his mother and talks about his penis all the time. You’re an attractive, intelligent married woman with two children. We both blog.
Can we ever really become friends?
Was I “safer” as a male blogger when I was living with Sophia? Should I steer away from commenting on your cleavage in every Flickr photo, even after ten other women did the exact same thing? Should I even try to say hello to you on IM or does it seem like I am on the prowl, especially after I admited to my one night wild online sex email night? Do you think it bothers the Palinode that I am better friends with his wife, the better-looking Schmutzie? If I were travelling in your town, would your family put me up for the night? Would your husband care if he caught us in bed together during the afternoon, even though we were only eating malomars and watching “All My Children” (but in the nude, since it is the best way to watch soaps). Is there a way to be a buddy with you, respecting you wit and intelligence, while at the same time, acknowleging that I am a man and you are a woman, and that I am not your gay sidekick from Sex in the City?
Imaginary IM Conversation:
Me: “.. so anyway, you just click on that WordPress plugin, and that should take care of you blog backups..”
She: “That was so easy. Thanks, Neilochka. You Rawk!”
Me: “Oh, and I saw that new photo of you on Facebook. Wow, your breasts are amazing! Your husband is one lucky man.”
She: “Thanks, I’ll tell Jim you said so. You coming to the BlogHer pajama party on Saturday?”
Me: “Absolutely. I’m already working on the Swedish meatballs for the pot luck.”
She: “Mmmm. All the girls can’t wait to see you. We loved how you felt us all up — one by one — during the night. You have such big… hands! Jim thought that was so funny and… typical of you. Are you going to be doing it again this time?”
Me: “If it is OK with Jim and the other husbands…”
She: “Sure, sure. They love it when we have a good time with you. I mean, we work so hard during the week with the kids. Why shouldn’t we have some fun?”
Me: “Jim’s a great husband.”
She: “He’s the best, and a good provider. And despite whatever problems you have with Sophia, it’s wonderful that she is understanding, too. It really isn’t such a big deal that your female blog friends enjoy giving you oral sex so much. She knows that it isn’t serious — only a form of affection for our “Neilochka.” We consider it more “social media” and “community building.””
Me: “My community is building right now thinking about it… if you know what I mean.”
She: “LOL (spits diet Coke onto monitor) You are so… funny!”
Back in August, Twenty Four at Heart published a post about male/female communication and sex. Most of those who commented were women, and they seemed to agree that men were crazed horndogs who thought about sex ALL the time. At the time, the comments bugged me. After all, most of these commenters were mothers of boys. How do these cute little boys become these sex maniacs? Is it genetics? Is it cultural? What is the mother’s role in all this?
I wrote this comment:
I think a few of your readers were confusing thinking and acting. I think you can be the most loving and loyal husband, a man who finds his wife the sexiest woman alive, and still thing about sex with the waitress serving the burger at the diner. This doesn’t mean that the man would have sex, or even WANT to if she actually came onto him. It just is. And frankly, if I think men were given as much freedom as women to express their emotions — cry, hug, say I love you to their friends — without seeming unmanly, they wouldn’t have to fall back on sexing up every encounter with a woman. Many men have no other way of expressing themselves.
Months later, I still remember this post. I used to think that I was different than other men, but I’m not. I also find it hard connecting with a woman without thinking of her naked at least once during the conversation.
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