Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Sex (Page 3 of 9)

Bad “Sexy Email” Advice

June 24, 2008 / / 33 Comments

The internet is one big vat of useless advice given by experts who know sh*t.   You would think a guy could learn something useful from being online.  After all, I don’t just want to spend all my time online reading the sob stories that you call “your blogs.”

Today, I was thinking of something much more important — ways to improve my sex life.  I figured I would do the logical thing: search Google with the phrase “How to Improve Your Sex Life.”  I immediately came across this article titled “How to Improve Your Sex Life with Sexy Emails.” Hmm… sexy emails.  I can do that. I already write a blog.  Maybe I can actually use my writing skills and my English degree for some practical purpose.

So I spent some time lookng over “the six steps to spicing up my sex life by writing sexy emails,” as outlined by the eHow Relationships Editor.

None of it made much sense.

Step 1 –

Identify how you want to improve your sex life with sexy emails.

This is a really dumb step.  Isn’t it obvious?  I hope to improve my sex life with sexy emails by actually have sex with someone.  Duh.

Step 2 –

Meet people in your area by posting personal ads or responding to posts in adult forums.  Start corresponding with people in whom you are interested, moving straight into sexual chat or taking things slowly at first and elevating them as the situation warrants.

Hmm… go straight into the sexual chat OR take things slowly?  Let’s see.  You say I should go on an ADULT FORUM, and then you want me to take things slowly?  How slowly should I go?  I’m on an ADULT FORUM!  I realize I may look desperate by jumping right in with the dirty talk, but should I really be disguising the fact that I am on an ADULT FORUM lookng to chat about sex?

“You mean this isn’t the “Celebrity Circus” Forum?  Whoops!  What is this forum about anyway?  Women who love men with c*ck rings?  How intriguing?!  I never would have guessed.  This is so unlike me to be on this forum.  Are you wearing a bra?”

Step 3 –

Allow the situation time to evolve naturally.  Once you’ve maintained an ongoing correspondence with a partner you like, you can suggest a real-life rendezvous over dinner or drinks.  From there, there’s no telling where things might lead.

From there, there’s no telling where things might lead?  What are you saying…that she may end up stabbing me in the subway station and leaving me for dead?  I don’t want surprises.  I WANT to BE TOLD where this might lead!  I want this to end in SEX.  Period.

Step 4 –

Improve your sex life with an existing partner by using sexy email to explore your desires. Surprise your partner with a sexy note, taking it easy at first until you test the waters out, and pay attention to how your partner replies to your move.  If she’s game, she’ll respond in kind.

This step was an utter failure. I tried it tonight.

Yahoo IM: “Sophia, are you wearing a bra?”

Yahoo IM: “Neilochka, no, I’m not.  Hey, do you want to play a game of online backgammon?”

Step 5 –

Use sexy emails to describe scenes you’d like to play out with your partner or to drop hints about sexual tricks you want to try out.

Scenes?  Tricks?  What are you talking about?  I don’t want to put on a Broadway play or a magic show! I want to have sex.  Sheesh.

Step 6 –

Post ads seeking people to join you and your partner if you’re looking to add some group fun to your sex life.  Then, you and your partner can act as a team to seduce a third (or fourth or fifth) party to take part in your bedroom fun.

Huh?  Five people in one bed?  Is that supposed to be fun?  What size bed do most people have?  I thought five people in one bed was the reason most people escape from third world poverty-stricken regimes?

The internet sucks.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  The Pigeon on the Patio

Saturday, May 24th

May 25, 2008 / / 36 Comments

MORNING

In the morning, I went to see an apartment that is being rented.  This is a big step for me.  I’ve been telling you that I’m moving out for… about six months now.   To make the whole situation more pathetic, Sophia (my separated wife, for newcomers) came with me to check out the place!  Before you make the comparison of mommy accompanying her child on her first day of school, I will do it FOR you. I was nervous about seeing this rental.  I found it on Craig’s List.

“Why is it so… inexpensive?” I asked myself.  “Is the economy this bad?” 

The reason…? Let’s just say that the neighborhood was so-so, and the apartment manager seemed to have a side job running a meth lab.  New theory:  It is OK to use a coupon at Olive Garden, but not in apartment hunting.   Even Sophia hated the place.

New vague plan:  Go to NY and visit my real MOMMY for a few weeks and finish this screenplay, then come back and find an apartment.   I know… procrastination.  Brenda, my therapist, is going to give me one of her “looks” this week.

AFTERNOON

As I’ve mentioned to some of you, I’ve started to work on this screenplay project with another writer.  It was a long process of pitching and coming up with ideas.  While nothing is certain,  there is some interest, and I’m hoping to make some real money this year, not just the fake dollars that you can use on Second Life.  Then again… Hollywood is a risky place until the money is paid.

It is not easy working with another writer.  It is like a marriage.  It takes some time.  The other writer and I split up the work load.  I’m writing some of the scenes involving the major female characters.  I opened my mouth and said that “I understand women,” when in reality, this is an obvious lie.  Belinda from Ninja Poodles told me to read Stephen King. 

“He writes excellent female characters!” she said. 

Wht do you think?  Do you think most male writers do a poor job in creating female characters?  I don’t know about you, but I found it completely believable that the Sharon Stone character wore no underwear during that police interrogation in “Basic Instinct.”

Speaking of sex-starved screenwriters, I tried to write a scene on Saturday afternoon while shopping at Target.  Target is my new pharmacist, mostly because they give you the pills in these hip red plastic containers.  I went to Target to pick up my cholesterol medicine (and some paper towels).  This time, I travelled without Sophia holding my hand.  After walking the aisles of products of artists and architects who sold out to the Target Man, and drooling over this cool red Michael Graves toaster, I decided to have a cup of coffee in “the cafe.” 

Our new Target is a rather fancy one.  The parking and the “courtyard” are on the first floor.  The “cafe” is on the second floor and looks out over the courtyard.  I use the term “cafe” loosely.  They sell hot dogs, popcorn, and Pizza Hut slices.  However, a tiny Starbucks franchise is attached to the side, and the atmosphere is light and friendly.  I ordered my “tall” coffee, sat down with my Target bag, and decided to write a scene in the trusty black-and-white-covered composition notebook that I always lug around in case inspiration hits.

Being a New Yorker, noise and chaos is usually calming.  I have no problem writing when there is activity going on.  I just couldn’t focus in Target.  Some bratty kids were playing with the ice machine and the open mustard package sitting on the plastic chair adjacent to me was bugging me.

I decided to take a breather.  I walked over to the railing and looked down into the courtyard.  Customers were flooding in and out, some wheeled shopping cars, others with children in tow.  The majority were women… mothers.  Not surprisingly, my second floor position gave me a pretty good view of the finest cleavage that Redondo Beach had to offer.  I could look right down the tops of women’s blouses.  Hello, mothers!  Some thin, some buxom, some size 2, some size 16, some in tight dresses, some in low cut blouses.  I completely forgot about my screenplay and just enjoyed the view.  This was better than looking down at the Grand Canyon.  So many women!  I glanced up and noticed that there was a video camera.  Big Brother was watching.  This changed everything. 

“Is anyone watching me?” I wondered.   “I must look like a total pervert!”

I certainly felt like a total pervert, especially when I realized that my Target shopping experience had aroused me to the point where I had to sit and wait another twenty minutes until I could leave.

What would my mother think if she saw me on the nightly news, arrested and dragged from the Redondo Beach Target “cafe,” still aroused from looking down the blouses of mothers shopping for Pampers for their children! 

Tonight on America’s Most Wanted

“Redondo Beach is a sleepy town on the coast near Los Angeles.  It is a family-oriented town where children go to church and everyone is polite.  But every community has their bad apples, the underbelly and perverts who walk the street.  One of the favorite Saturday activities in this pleasant beach community’s is for mothers and their children to go to the local Target for some fun, relaxation, and shopping.  Little do the unsuspecting mothers know, that in the cafe, is Neilochka Kramer, the lowest form of pervert, ogling women like  one-dimensional sex objects when he is supposed to be writing realistic female characters. “

NIGHT

Sophia got her Wii fit delivered.  I said I would connect it and figure out how to use it, but I did the laundry instead.  I was feeling passive-aggressive.  Why are we getting a Wii JUST as I’m about to move out?

At 2AM, I turned on Showtime.  There was some soft-core movie.  I have no idea what it was about, but I watched a scene where  a sexy woman in high heels (male screenwriters again!) comes into a bar/restaurant, asks the bartender to show her to the women’s room, and then the two have sex in the cleanest and well-organized restaurant kitchen in existence.  

The minute the situation became “hot” and the woman stripped down to her bra, some annoying jazz music started to play on the soundtrack.  It made me wonder what would happen if sex really caused this John Tesh-like music to play in our minds.  Would I become impotent?  I think I would rather BE impotent than have to endure this same music every time my pants came off.  I certainly would want the sex to be over VERY QUICKLY just to stop the music.  On the positive side, women would want it over fast, too. 

“Come on.  Stick it in and get it over with already!  Just make this third-rate jazz music stop!”

This was my Saturday, May 24th.

Two Years Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Driving in LA – In Two Parts

A Five Minute Long Wild Sex Comedy

April 27, 2008 / / 20 Comments

— starring Neil, Sophia, Neil’s Mom, several half-naked girls from Queens, and introducing Moondog, as Neil’s surfer dude buddy.

FADE IN:

INT. DON CARLOS’ FISH TACOS – REDONDO BEACH – DAY

Neil and Moondog have just finished hanging ten at Redondo and are now chilling at Don Carlos’, the sweetest joint in town for fish tacos. Hot girls in bikinis are constantly walking by. All the girls seem to know Neilochka (his surfer name) and Moondog.

Neil: “I think it is time, Moondog. I’m gonna find me my own place and move out.”

Moondog: “About time, dude. My ear was burning like the hot sand hearing this every week after week… for three years…”

Neil: “Maybe I’ll first go to New York for a few weeks cause I still don’t have any digs. Just feeling as down as GeekDude without his Red Bull. I’m feeling major wipeout over my babe.”

Moondog: “Sure, man. We’re all bummed about you and Sophia. But maybe it’s time to move on. Time to ride the next big wave. Definitely go to New York for a trip.”

Neil: “Yeah, I can go see some of that, what do you call it, art. At that museum from that movie. That museum rocks. They got the stuff from the posters… but they’re real!”

Moondog: “Hell no, forget the old dead white dudes. You need to get over Sophia. You got to start schtupping everything is sight. There’s some pretty hot skirt over there in New York.”

Neil: “Sweet. But can’t I do the same here in LA?”

Neil looks over at a buxom beauty in a tight bikini as she rollerblades by, her breasts a bouncin’!

Moondog: “Dude, surfer dudes like us are a dime a dozen at the SoCal surf and turf. In Gotham City, we’re exotic. They hear your LA accent and your Hollywood style, and they’re already getting wet from the tide. It’s time for you to get on that plane, and shine off your own Big Apple hidden away down there…”

Neil: “And where do I meet this chicks? I don’t have the Benjamins for those Samanthas and Mirandas.”

Moondog: “LOL, dude. NYC is P***y Grand Central. They’re everywhere. East side, west side, all around town! Just look at a map of Manhattan. It’s shaped like a giant breast with the nipple pointing out to Brooklyn.”

Neil: “That’s no nipple. That’s the Brooklyn Bridge.”

Moondog: “I’ve felt up two girls from Brooklyn and there must be something in the water there because Brooklyn nipples could slice a pizza pie. No wonder the Dodgers had to move to LA. They couldn’t concentrate on the game. All those Brooklyn nipples.”

Neil: “Well, I won’t be in Brooklyn. I’ll be in Queens. And I’ll be staying with my mother. That’s not a very good spot for a little romance.”

Moondog: “Hey, I met your mother. She’s cool. The babes won’t even know she’s there. But be strong. This is for you… to live it up… don’t call Sophia… for anything…”

CUT TO:

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM – QUEENS – NIGHT

Neil is making passionate love to Freya Aaronson, the once Orthodox, now Reform, Jewish girl he loved in high school but never looked his way, but is now a an assistant editor at Random House and currently submitting her fiction to the New Yorker Magazine.

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me harder, Neilochka! Nothing could feel as good as you f**king me, Neilochka… maybe except getting published in the New Yorker! F**k me, Neilochka!”

Neil: “Could you just be a little quieter? My mother is sleeping next door. She has to go to work tomorrow early.”

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! Wasn’t your mother written about in the New Yorker because she’s been working forever at Farrar, Straus, and Giroux? Would she mind if I left behind a few of my stories, Neilochka? They’re perfect for the New Yorker. F**k me, Neilochka! Your mother is amazing. F**k me, Neilochka!”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM – QUEENS – THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil is in bed, being ridden by Yvonne, the flirtatious black girl from the local stationary store, a brainy grad student at Fordham. The bed is pounding against the wall.

Yvonne: (as she rides him) “Oh my god, dinner was amazing, Neilochka. So good. And my friends consider me a foodie! I can’t believe your mother’s secret ingredient for her brisket is… ketchup. I never would have guessed. How long does she cook the brisket for? It was so tender. So soft.”

Neil: “Can we talk about this later? A conversation about soft, tender meat is not something a man wants to hear when…”

Yvonne: “Do you think she would mind if we went for seconds of the brisket? I can’t stop thinking about it! That brisket was so good. I need to get the recipe. Will she be serving this brisket for Passover?”

Neil: “Passover was last week.”

Yvonne: “Too bad. Try to come fast so we can go have some more brisket.”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM – QUEENS – THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil is in bed with the petite Emily Ning, a divorced mommyblogger. She lives on the third floor of the same building as Neil’s mother. She works in PR for a Hong Kong-based bank downtown. She is an ardent blogger and loves reading Citizen of the Month. She is giving oral sex to Neil.

Emily: “Do you like how that feels? Do you like that? Am I making you dizzy? You didn’t expect me to know how to do that, did you? How about if I use BOTH hands on your?”

THE CAMERA PULLS BACK

to show that Emily not only giving oral sex, but is also throwing punches in the boxing ring on Neil’s Wii-connected TV, and talking to her opponent, another mommyblogger, via cell phone.

Emily: (into phone) “You didn’t expect to go right, left, did you? You’re going down!”

Emily continues on with her oral sex, looking bored, then leans over to her laptop and sends a quick message to her opponent via Twitter.

Emily: “Knockout, sucker!!”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM – QUEENS – THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil’s head is between the thighs of Anna Castro, his long-time friend from elementary school, who he has liked ever since they danced the Tarantella together at the fourth grade dance festival. Anna is lying in the bed, her legs apart, waiting impatiently for Neil to take some action. Now, Neil is on the phone, looking frantic:

Neil: (into phone) “I know what I said, Sophia. I said I wouldn’t call you. But I’m telling you… it’s not in the right place with her. I can’t find the spot. Yes, I have my glasses on. Isn’t it in the same place on every woman?… You don’t have to be sarcastic! I didn’t complain when you called me with that stupid computer problem about Photoshop Elements… Yes, she’s nice… It’s none of your business… OK, her name is Anna. .. Yes, the one from the fourth grade dance festival. .. No, I didn’t step on her feet… Yes… yes… Yes, I’m taking the damn cholesterol medicine… Listen, I didn’t call you to chat…”

Neil’s mother opens then door to Neil’s room, carrying a tray of Oreo cookies and low-fat milk.

Neil’s Mother: “Would anyone like a snack?”

Anna quickly jumps out of bed.

Anna: “Thank God. Yes!”

Neil’s Mother: “I’m watching “Dancing with the Stars” on Tivo, Anna. Would you like to join me?”

Anna: “Absolutely!”

Anna exits with Neil’s mother.

CUT TO:

INT. DON CARLOS’ FISH TACOS – REDONDO BEACH – TWO WEEKS LATER – DAY

Neil and Moondog are chilling at Don Carlos’, chowing on fish tacos and drinking Coronas. Moondog is shaking his head in disbelief.

Moondog: “Dude… never tell this story to… anyone.”

The End

Will a Tattoo Add to My Worth in Bed?

April 4, 2008 / / 81 Comments

I saw this intriguing “quiz” titled “What are You Worth in Bed?”


What is your worth?

Normally I ignore these nonsensical quizzes, but who isn’t curious about how much one can get for his sexual services?  During the Eliot Spitzer scandal, there was much talk about the fees paid to his high-priced hooker.   Naturally, many in the blogosphere starting thinking about their own careers.   Would it be more lucrative being a hooker than, for instance,  running an Esty shop selling knitted socks?  Now is your chance to find out.  The quiz has separate questions for both men and women.   Most of the questions in the gigolo-meter are pretty standard for the men — age, height, penis size, but then there are  tricky questions like, “How kinky are you?”  or “What do you like to do after sex — party, spoon, or go to sleep?”

Bad news.  I’m only worth a lousy $918 in bed.  How humiliating.  I’m pretty sure my downfall is this — I’m not dangerous enough.  Women want a sense of danger in their male hooker.  My kinky rating wasn’t very high, and I had to answer “no,” when I was asked if I had any tattoos.  I was actually surprised that there was a question about tattoos.  Would I be worth more in bed if I had a well-placed tattoo?  Do women want a man with a tattoo?

Desperate to up my bed-ability scores, I’ve been thinking about my lack of tattoos all day.

By Jewish law, I’m not supposed to get a tattoo, but many Jews have them anyway.  My main reason for avoiding tattoos all my life is fear.  I used to faint when I received allergy shots.  Uh-oh, by revealing that, I think by worth as a male prostitute just dropped another five bucks.

I actually do find tattoos on a woman as sexy.

Right, men?

But are tattoos as interesting as they used to be?  Tattoos are so common in Los Angeles, that they hardly seem special anymore.  I’m more unique by NOT having a tattoo.

Years ago, tattoos were mostly for sailors and bikers, done by Thai “masseuses”  in seedy port cities too ugly even for the prostitutes.  Tattoos then became hip, and like Wall Street traders moving into the old drug warehouses of the Lower East Side, every upper-middle class white person wanted to be seen as faux- dangerous, at least on weekends.   So, the tattoo became a commodity.

I like tattoos that are visual and colorful.  I hate when the simplicity of body art become pretentious.  Wherever I go to a coffeehouse in Los Angeles, I always bump into someone with a tattoo that requires me to take out my reading glasses.  When did tattoos become so literary?

Is it the influence of celebrities?  (via US Magazine)

Here’s Meagan Fox, star of Transformers, that thought-provoking piece of bot cinema, with a quote from Shakespeare’s King Lear on her left shoulder, “We all laugh at gilded butterflies.”   This is clearly an actress who want to prove that she isn’t just pretty, but a wordsmith — akin to Pamela Anderson putting on a pair of fake librarian glasses to prove that she has an IQ as large as her fake boobs.

Angelina Jolie commemorates the birth of her children with, of course, Roman numerals on her arm.  Do I really have to remember what the roman symbols M and L stand for just to read the dates?!  Why not make it easy for us?

Lindsay Lohan writes “La Bella Vita” on her ass.  For some reason, I don’t believe this is true.

Victroria Posh Beckham, a Kabbalah fanatic, has a Hebrew psalm on her back, translated as “I am my love’s and my love is mine,” which just happens to be the exact same phrase Sophia and I used on the front of our wedding invitations years ago.  Maybe Sophia and I wouldn’t have as many problems today in our marriage if we had just tattooed our wedding vows on our backs instead.

I’ve thought about getting a tattoo for a long.  I’d like for women to see me as a little more dangerous, because I know that while most women want to marry the “nice guy,” they want to f**k the “bad boy” on the kitchen counter.  It’s time to become the bad boy.

This “What Am I Worth in Bed?” quiz has hit me where it hurts — my ego.   I should at least be worth $1000 as a male hooker.  The solution — only a tattoo can help monetize my sex life.

Today, that all changed.  I went down to Venice Beach and got a tattoo of one of my blog posts written directly on my back.

Surprisingly, when I retook the quiz, my worth dropped to $850.

We Talked About Eliot Spitzer in Therapy

March 12, 2008 / / 48 Comments

I spoke about Eliot Spitzer in therapy yesterday. It was a weird conversation with Brenda. Usually, I walk into the office and we fiddle about until we fall into some sort of topic. Yesterday, I sat down and immediately said, “I think we should talk about sex today. Isn’t that what we are SUPPOSED to do in therapy?”

The conversation turned to the news about the governor of New York because, well, frankly, I’ve never been with a high class hooker. Or a moderately-price prostitute. Or cheated on my wife. Or even been to a Hooters. And THAT was on my mind.

Now before my female readers go, “Wow, what a wonderful fella,” DON’T. Who knows what would happen if I actually became governor of New York and had the opportunity to afford some high priced hookers. I’m sure Mr. Spitzer was a nice Jewish boy at one time also. Hell, now that I see what high priced hookers make, I might want to BECOME a call, uh… boy. Writing is slave labor compared to what they make! And they get free dinner, too!

Note: The following is a bit rambling and I may disagree what I say tomorrow, but I’m just spitting it out anyway.

Yesterday, on Twitter, I noticed some discussion about Eliot Spitzer. A woman was describing him in negative terms. She was saying that he was arrogant. She also made mentioned that a lot of high powered men feel the need to have sex on the side. After all, he wouldn’t be governor if he didn’t have big cojones. She was mocking him, but I have to admit, that to a guy like me, her negative portrayal almost made him sound cool, as if this super-powerful guy just has so much sperm building up in him that it had to go somewhere. Like he was a nerdy Superfly. Remember when I once wrote a post about some spam I got about some pill that could increase the amount of your semen so you could flood the entire neighborhood with your “seed” and impress your neighbors, as well as fertilize their lawn? Men are into that sort of stuff. I could even hear some guys talking about Spitzer in the locker room. “I bet you his wife wasn’t giving him enough p***y!” Even Spitzer himself only apologized to his wife for embarrassing her. He is more ashamed of getting caught than breaking his marriage vow. He probably thought it was a healthy release. Hey, he is a powerful man with powerful needs.

I’m no saint. And I don’t moralize. I enjoyed seeing your bras on my birthday. But, all in all, my sexual adventures are pretty tame. I pretty much went from hopeless nerd to being married. Why she married me is still a mystery. I never really had wild and crazy days, so that’s dangerous. Take that as a warning. Maybe I should go to a prostitute someday, just to see if I can do it. Almost like sex therapy. The idea of sleeping with some complete stranger that I’m paying for freaks me out and seems totally unappealing. But maybe it is good for a man to be able to just take some woman and be selfish about it. I bet you never get performance anxiety. You can come fast. You can come slow. She doesn’t have to have an orgasm. You can have sex standing on your head. You are paying for it! It’s sort of like going to therapy… but more interactive!

I am totally FOR legal prostitution. I feel that hookers are here to stay — who can refute thousands of years of history — so why not make it safe and get some tax dollars. Maybe we can let the Native-Americans run the prostitution rings? They do a pretty good job with the casinos. But don’t expect to see me with a prostitute soon. Not for any moral reasons. I just don’t think my personality fits the bill. And, in a way, that bothers me. Shouldn’t a man’s c**k go up just because a naked woman is in the room with him? I know… I know, it doesn’t work that way. But maybe I would be the governor of New York if I was more that type of personality.

I’m sure some of you have cheated on your spouses. In fact, I have spoken to a blogger who has cheated on her husband with a married man. Again, I don’t moralize. The woman was having some problems at home, and this was an outlet.

“How do you feel about the other wife?” I asked.

“Well, not too bad. She wasn’t satisfying him,” she answered.

It was another case of a man who just needed a lot of f**king — so what could he do?! He had no choice! It almost seemed to be part of his appeal!

Over the course of my life, whenever I wasn’t getting enough, I usually turned… well, myself.

My Penis: “Do we really have to talk about this…”

I’m just saying, as a dramatist, those exploits aren’t very dramatic. They are almost uncomfortable to talk about. I don’t go to my friends in the bar and say, “Hey Brad, John — you won’t believe how good my masturbation went this morning!”

But, they sure would be all ears if I told them that I just “did” a beautiful $3500 high-class hooker. Or I had an affair with the buxom brunette from the office.

OK, I’m going to stop this post now. Maybe I’ll finish it later. I’m losing my train of thought. Eliot Spitzer is probably resigning as I’m writing this. I’m sure there are thousands of blogs talking about him right now. I bet you that this is the only blog on Technorati that uses Elliot Spitzer as a segue into talking about masturbation.

Eh, this isn’t really about masturbation. It is about being a man and what his sexuality is all about. And how I somehow associate power and money and creative talent with the need to f**k a lot. Can you think of Picasso painting without visualizing him f**king all the time?

Tags: Eliot Spitzer, male sexuality, therapy

You Can’t Spell Happiness without Penis

February 21, 2008 / / 31 Comments

happy.jpg

There’s an old showbiz adage — “Dying is easy, comedy is hard.” Look how easy it was for me yesterday to write about being miserable. All I had to do was throw some Leonard Cohen or Beck lyrics up on the screen and everyone is crying a river.

But comedy requires work.

Today, I received an email from someone in the PR department of Conde Nast. I don’t know her, but just from her name, I visualize her as extremely attractive, single, ambitious, brunette, Jewish, with knowing eyes — someone like Sophia, but who’s not kicking me out.

Anyway, back to reality. This lovely PR person wrote to me wondering if I was interested in writing a post about an article in their current Details magazine. The article is very creatively titled “Is Being Well Hung the Key to Happiness?” She titled her email “Hung = Happiness.” The Economist this magazine is not.

Here’s the opening of the article:

Is Being Well Hung the Key to Happiness?
Some guys never seem to worry. The reason for that is probably in their pants.

Things were not looking good for Josh (not his real name). He had lost all the money he’d made as a day trader. To make matters worse, his longtime girlfriend walked out on him, taking all the furniture and whatever else she could carry. By any measure, it was rock bottom. But when Josh’s friends mobilized the rescue crew, they were astounded: Josh appeared to be totally unfazed.

“He didn’t care!” says Josh’s best friend, Steve (not his real name), a 35-year-old hedge-fund manager who worked with him on Wall Street. “He shrugged it off. It would have killed a lesser man.” But Steve knew his friend’s nonchalance wasn’t due to some elaborate form of self-hypnosis or handfuls of Wellbutrin. Josh owed his composure to something far simpler: nine inches of the most primal form of self-assurance known to man.

“If it weren’t for his cock, he’d be a hobo riding the trains around the country,” Steve says. “It’s opened doors for him. Rich women put him up at their apartments. We have friends who have more money than him and are more successful than him, but they all say, ‘I want to come back as this guy.’ Secretly, we all want to be him.”

Clearly the PR department of Conde Nast did their research and knew exactly who on the blogosphere who be interested in this new “scientific” research. (I can’t believe the hoity-toity Huffington Post wrote about this important scientific discovery too!) It really didn’t matter that I had never opened a copy of Details magazine in my life.

At first, I had no interest in writing about this post. After all, the PR department sent it to me because they WANT me to write about it, and as Sophia would love to tell you, I’m passive-aggressive. Therapy has changed me, and as proof of that, I’m actually going to go against the grain and agree to help out this lovely and good-willed woman from Conde Nast.

But, here’s my dilemma. I want to say something funny about the article, but I’m stuck between two vastly different comedic “gags.” This is what makes comedy so difficult. Follow along as I mull over my options. Consider this a “Master’s Class” in Comedy.

Gag #1 —

“Happiness = Hung? I think the scientists at Details Magazine better go back into the lab. I think my sleeping in the car last week being miserable clearly refutes their findings!”

Now, I’m the first one to admit that this joke is a dud. However, it serves a vital purpose. Think about the context of the joke. What important piece of real-life information am I subtly adding to the joke? Here’s another hint — soon I may be re-joining the dating pool. Have you figured it out yet? Can you see why I might want to let this less-than-stellar joke remain?

Imagine, mommybloggers across North America, emailing and twittering each other this afternoon, “Did you read Neilochka’s blog today? It wasn’t very funny, but tell me if I’m wrong — in the subtext of the joke, wasn’t he insinuating that he is… well… uh… well… really…well…?

Gag #2 —

“Happiness = Hung? I see! Now I understand why I was miserable sleeping in the car that night!”

That is a much funnier punchline. It is a double whammy. I end up sleeping in the car and blaming it on my own… shortcomings. Of course, it also sends a message out to the world that may end up hurting me in a few months when I make my first appearance at BlogHer.

Imagine, I’m waiting on line to get my BlogHer badge, one of the few men amidst hundreds of horny housewives.

Mommyblogger #1 (not her real name):  “Isn’t that Neilochka? He’s even better looking in person. And so tall!”

Mommyblogger #2:  “Uh, yeah. But did you ever read that post he wrote in February about Details Magazine…”

Mommyblogger #1:  “No, send me the link.”

Mommyblogger #2:  “You NEED to read it. It says so much about him. I’ll send you the link in tinyURL.”

Mommyblogger #1:  “Huh? Why in tinyURL?”

Mommyblogger #2:  “Read his post. Then you’ll understand.”

Clearly, you can see the dilemma I have here. Go with the joke that has the subliminal message that drives women crazy or go fo the funnier line that doesn’t get me laid at BlogHer. This is exactly why comedy is underappreciated. Funny movies never win the Oscars or any serious awards. I don’t mean artsy-funny movies like Juno. I mean the crap that I’m going to write. But they really should. Men expose their souls through comedy!

My Penis just hit me on the leg.

Neil’s Penis:  “What the f**king kind of post is this, Neilochka?  Are your cracking up over this Sophia thing?  Stop moping around and be happy!  Remember Bobby what’s his face’s song– Don’t worry, be happy!”

Neil:  “And what should I be happy about?  I think soon I’m going to be moving out of the house… again!”

My Penis clears his throat, reminding me about that dumb Happiness = Hung article in Details magazine.

Neil’s Penis:  “You’re happy, right?”

Neil:  “Oh, right… right… I’m happy…. very happy indeed.  Don’t worry about me anymore, Mom.  Everything is great.  I’m happy.”

Neil’s Penis:  “Exactly! Woo-hoo!  Nothing can get us down!”

Neil:  “Thank you, Dad, for your excellent genes!”

Neil’s Penis:  “That’s right.  You can learn something about PR from Conde Nast.  Self-promotion is important.  Party!  Party!  Happy! Happy!  Joy!  Joy!”

Neil and Neil’s Penis: (singing together) “We are Family…!”

Thank you Conde Nast and Details Magazine for reminding me that I have so much to be happy about!

I Wish I Was a Sexologist

February 6, 2008 / / 34 Comments

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Actual email I received yesterday from a legitmate television producer:

Neil,

Are you a certified sexologist? I’m doing a show where I need an expert, and you appear to be perfect.

P

Huh?  The only explanation was that he read this NSFW post that I wrote almost two years ago, when I was still perfecting the craft of blogging.

My email back to the producer:

P —

I’m not “certified” under California or New York law, or anywhere else to be honest, but I enjoy sex, and give unwanted advice all the time on my blog, so in that way, I’m perfect.  My wife wouldn’t say I’m an “expert” either, although I try my best!

thanks,

Neil Kramer

Unfortunately, he wrote back and said that he could only use an expert with a certified sexologist degree.  Snob!  Like having a sexology degree means anything.   Then again, if I had known that I could have had a television career being a sexologist, I wouldn’t have wasted all that time on my useless English degree!  And unlike the girls in my Columbia “Chaucer and Medieval Lit” seminar, I bet you the babes in Oral Sex 101 actually do put out!

Penis and Vajayjay

November 16, 2007 / / 58 Comments

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She looked down at me, but could only see the top of my head, resting comfortably between her legs.  She moaned as the rest of my face was deep inside, pleasuring her vajayjay.

Not a very good beginning to my latest erotic story, is it?!   I’m so out of it.   Until I saw this article yesterday in the New York Times, I had never heard of the word “vajayjay.”  Apparently, this euphemism for vagina got “her” start on a TV show.

It began on Feb. 12, 2006, when viewers of the ABC series “Grey’s Anatomy” heard the character Miranda Bailey, a pregnant doctor who had gone into labor, admonish a male intern, “Stop looking at my vajayjay.”

Now do you understand why the TV writers are on strike?  Without them, we would still be crude and calling it a p***y?

Oprah then used the term on her show, catapulting the term into the public domain like Jerry Seinfeld’s wife’s lame cooking book.

As you all know, I write about my Penis a lot.  I actually use the word “Penis.”  That’s what it is called in the English language.  If I want to be a little saucy, I might say c**k, but I tend to use asterisks.  I’m very prim and proper at heart.  I’m not a believer in letting it all “hang out.”  I’d prefer a burlesque show to a strip joint.  I’d rather keep the non-asterisks for private, like for those special moments when the women is quietly murmuring, “Give me your f**king c**k!  Harder!”  I believe in keeping some of the mystery out of the public realm.

If Penis = Vagina, c**k = p***y.  Vagina might be a tad clinical to some, mostly because it isn’t truly the interesting part of the anatomy, or specific enough.  Althoug most women hate it, I personally like the word pussy (there, I said it!) because it is sexy, and women are mysterious, like cats.

Whatever the term, I really really hate “vajayjay.”  It reminds me of childish terms like wee-wee for the penis   Women, please — do not use the term in the bedroom.  Any man will lose his will to live if he hears you scream, “I love the way your wee-wee feels in my vajayjay.”

Neil’s Penis:  Please, No!!!!

Six (Or Another Reason I’m in Therapy)

November 9, 2007 / / 44 Comments

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Last night, I awoke from a dream at 3AM.  I couldn’t fall back asleep because my mind was working overtime, trying to decipher one of mankind’s greatest secret since the Celestine Prophecy:

How many women can one man make love to at one time?

As someone who took AP Calculus in high school, I used my math skills to come upon the number SIX:  a man can — with no tools other than his body — make love to six women at once — with his penis, his mouth, his right hand, his left hand, his right foot, and his left foot.    This seems to be the man’s physical limit, unless he has some unusual appendage, like a third hand. 

As if wasting my time on this scenario wsn’t crazy enough, I spent another hour drawing “mathematical charts” and “architectural blueprints” to verify this important discovery to myself.

Oral

October 18, 2007 / / 34 Comments


(Typography pin-up girl by Taylor Lane)

Queen of Spain wrote a provocative piece today dispensing tips to women on giving oral sex to their men.  This is probably one of the most important issues in the world today, because I feel that if there was more oral sex in the world, there would be world peace.

As a prominent male blogger, I thought it was important to take a page from Erin’s book, and give my MALE readers important tips on pleasing a woman orally. 

Men have the harder job.  Women are built differently.  They are more complex.  The interesting stuff isn’t just hanging there, in full view.  That’s why, if a man can learn to please his woman orally, she will do ANYTHING FOR YOU.  The trouble is that most men do not have a clue on how to bring their woman to the point of no return, exclusively through oral technique.  Not every man has the experience and patience that I do in making his woman scream for more.

Neilochka’s Three Rules for Pleasing Her Orally

1)  Take a Shower

2)  Brush your Teeth

3)  Take her to the Cheesecake Factory and let her order the White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle Cheesecake.  It’s a whole less time-consuming pleasing her orally this way than spending all night with your face between her thighs   This way, it’s a guaranteed success!   Women absolutely love cake!  They appreciate it more when it is your suggestion to order the cake because it tells the woman that she looks perfect the way she is, and that you are not worried about her gaining weight.  That is a major turn-on.  You might even get a blow-job on the way home, and then you can just spend the rest of the night watching reruns of the Simpsons on TV.  Well, not me.  But maybe you.  

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  I Don’t Understand Women  (Nothing has changed!)

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