Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Sex (Page 4 of 9)

Off the Record: Not as Sex-Obsessed As He Looks

October 2, 2007 / / 22 Comments

top_secret.jpg

He’s not as sex-obsessed as he makes himself out to be in his blog posts. In his mind, he might be making love to his latest female commenter, but in reality he mostly wants to talk about life, love, and make silly jokes with her. OK, maybe with some feeling her up as they talk, just for fun.  He likes breasts a lot.  But, truth be told, he is probably more emotional and sentimental, and fearful, about intimacy than most women. He worries that he talks too much. He worries that talking too much is too girl-like.

He finds Sophia hot. He thinks she likes him, too. It’s too bad they drive each other crazy. It is a strange marriage. Sophia is much sexier than he is. Sophia understands make-up sex. He doesn’t understand make-up sex. After an argument, he pouts for days with his arms crossed. His relationship with Sophia is complex. It is frustrating — in many ways.

Twice in his life, before he was married, he had a naked woman who he hardly knew come into his bed uninvited, one drunk, one a roommate’s ex — and both times, despite their advances, he just talked with them. He is more comfortable talking. Or writing.

Is that why none of you see him as dark, mysterious, and dangerous, despite his clear intentions to portray himself as that? He’d like to be thought of as dark, mysterious, and dangerous, the type of man who has passionate trysts in dark alleys, the woman pressed against the wall, her legs tightly wrapped his waist. But he would probably worry too much about the garbage in the alley. Or rats. He likes comfortable beds with nice sheets. Maybe it is a Jewish thing.

Sophia is still asleep in bed. He likes to watch her when she sleeps.

Wendy, one of his favorite blogging-friends, is coming to town this week and they are seeing “Wicked” together — alone, sans spouses. He is excited to meet her, but also a little disappointed. One day, he’d like a blogger to be too afraid of meeting him, thinking him too dark, mysterious, and dangerous. That’s how he feels when he meets YOU.

He likes to use the word f**k on his blog. One day, he will be able to write the word without astericks. Or make love in some exotic locale, like an airplane or the roof of a Manhattan apartment building, or a dark alley, like they do in the movies.

Despite the humor of it all, his talking Penis is important to him. Without his talkng Penis prodding him, tormenting him, he would spend his life just writing and talking. Let me change that. He would have NOTHING to write or talk about. Or he would be so polite and agreeable, you would want to vomit.

This is all off the record, of course. Please go back to thinking him as a Hebrew Don Juan.

The Great Talking Penis Cartoon Scandal of 2007

September 30, 2007 / / 16 Comments

The trouble began, like most things in the world, in Saskatchewan, Canada.   Some cute female blogger asked me to send her a drawing of my “talking penis character” to include in her scrapbook, or something like that.  At first I said no.  But she wouldn’t give up.

I challenged Neil to send me a watercolour of his talking penis? And then he said he would, but didn’t? And then I twitter taunted him and called him a watercolour c**ck tease? Well, he came through (so to speak), just for me.

Now there is a cartoon of my “talking penis” posted on someone’s blog in Canada (via Savia).

And I feel ashamed.

I can only imagine my upcoming therapy session when I have to admit what I did:

Therapist: “You shouldn’t let a woman sway your emotions one way or another. You need to be YOU.”

Neil: “Right. Right.”

Therapist: “And you need to learn to say “NO” to women. Don’t be a pushover and let them run your life.”

Neil: “Yes, uh… well, I wanted to bring that up…”

Therapist: “Yes?”

Neil: “Well, there is this female blogger in Canada named Savia… well, she’s cute, and she, uh, likes to collect naughty drawings, and asked me to send her a drawing of my talking Penis…”

Therapist: “How immature. Of course you told her that was impossible. You’re an adult who doesn’t do those sorts of things. A college-educated man. Besides, there are no such things as talking Penises.”

Neil: “Yes, of course. Talking Penises don’t really exist, but…”

Therapist: “Oh no…”

Neil: “…but she seemed so disappointed when I said no. And you know how I hate to disappoint a woman.

Therapist: “Neil…”

Neil: “She was crying on Twitter, for godsakes! I didn’t realize that she was actually going to put it on her blog. I thought it was just for her.”

Therapist: “Why? Neil. Why would you do something like that? Why would you send something so personal to a person you hardly know?”

Neil: “I don’t know.”

Neil’s Penis: “I know! I know. Even a Fifth Grader knows the answer to that one. He’s hoping to one day get into her pants!”

Neil: “Shut up, Penis!”

Therapist: “Who ARE you talking to, Neil?”

Greetings from the Road

August 6, 2007 / / 30 Comments

utah.jpg 

Hi, there.  This is going to be a short post because I’m writing this on the laptop while I’m driving across country.  I took off on Friday to start my road trip.  I’m not sure what this says about the morality of American women, but it is almost TOO easy to accomplish my goal of 50 women, 50 States.

My first stop from California was in Nevada, where I met Jennifer watching the Bellagio “water” show with her girlfriends.  She was in Vegas for her bachelorette party and she was very eager to go for one last fling, especially when she heard my name and recognized it from all those “Best Blogs of the Blogosphere” lists. 

“I’d love to be the first lay on your Road Trip!” she announced.

The sex was amazing.  Her fiancee from back home, Dr. Anderson Traub of Wilmington, Delaware, is one lucky guy, that is if she still does this sort of stuff once she gets married.   After a couple of rounds of intense lovemaking, I gave her some advice about her upcoming wedding. 

“Always remember –” I told her, “that you and Anderson should enjoy the event as much as the guests.  The wedding is for you!”

The best of luck to both of them!   Mazel tov!  

Recently, I had a discussion with Dagny about whether it is appropriate or not to mention the ethnicity of someone in a post.  In Sedona, Arizona, I had an interesting experience.    Does it really matter that Carla was a black woman?  Probably not, but since it was my first experience bedding an African-American, I feel that this information is relevant.   But even more importantly, I certainly think it is essential for you to know that Carla is a massage therapist and KEGELS instructor!   That certainly mattered a lot more in bed than her skin color!  When they say there is a “spiritual vibe” in the red rocks of Sedona, I now know what they are talking about!  I certainly felt my chakras rising!

In Salt Lake City, I took some time out for a little tourism.   The Mormon Temple is beautiful.  And the members of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir truly have voices like angels!  I really appreciated being taken around the church grounds by my lovely tour guide, Sarah.  After sitting through a few videos about her religion, she was more than willing to go out with me for some ice cream (she doesn’t drink and Salt Lake City has a lot of great ice cream making up for the lack of bars).   As we enjoyed the sweets, I told her about my Road Trip, and she was so excited about participating  Utah rocks!  She was a lot of fun and a great conversationalist.  Ironically — I thought this was amusing — the only sex position she doesn’t like is… the missionary one.

Despite the good times, I’m feeling a little down.  I’m having some doubts about the whole enterprise.  Once I accomplish it all, will there be anything to show for it?   Will this be the biggest accomplishment of my life?  Will I be like Gary Coleman or Todd Bridges, always looking back to the one sitcom they were in, knowing they never could achieve the same greatness?

And — I hate to bring up this mushy stuff — but what about love?  Romance?  Sure, there is something intriguing about bedding 50 women in 50 states?  But isn’t there something a little superficial about the idea?  I can see maybe going to Hawaii and having sex with some lonely busineswoman for the night, but ALL 50 States?  Is this what our Founding Fathers really had in mind with the concept of ONE country, indivisible?

Where does love come into play with all this?  Wouldn’t it be better to turn back, go into therapy, and try to make a REAL relationship work?

“No!  Do not turn back!” said a German-sounding voice.

“Who is this?”

“This is Doctor Sigmund Freud, talking to you from the beyond!  You must continue on with your quest!”

“Sigmund Freud my ass.  That is the worst attempt at an accent EVAH, Penis.”

“You can’t turn back now.  You’re doing so well!”  said my Penis.  “The last three days have been terrific!  This is the best trip we ever went on together!”

“What about the time we went to Cooperstown with my parents?”

“You’re a moron, Neilochka.   We couldn’t even masturbate that weekend because you were afraid of the parents walking in.”

“What about all the cool baseball stuff we saw at the museum.  And remember that female docent? That was the first time I  saw a woman not wearing a bra.”

“That’s right!  And she kept on talking about Joe Dimaggio’s big bat!   Boner-time   Ha Ha.   We were so immature back then!”

“That was a long long time ago.”

“Her name was Tracey.” said my Penis.

“The docent from Cooperstown?  You remember her name, Penis?”

“Not only that!  I googled her name and found out she now lives in Austin, Texas.”

“Why did you do that?

“Because we’re turning this car around and going to Texas to find Tracey.  Ride ’em, Cowgirl!”

“This woman must be like sixty years old by now?”

“So? I don’t see any problem with that!”

Dear Reader:  Please help me!  Should I listen to my Penis and continue onto Texas

or

should I turn back like a rational person, find a good therapist, and focus on a real relationship?

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:   The Sidewalk of Love

Fifty States, Fifty Positions

August 2, 2007 / / 34 Comments

usmap.jpg 

Today, I stop being depressed.  I do this by coming up with a plan.  I have decided to look at the positive side of things.  If things fall through with Sophia, I will see the opportunity,  and not the regret.   I will focus on my FREEDOM to be who I WANT to be and to DO what I want to do!

Let me speak to my male blogging friends directly:

I know that many of you are married with children.  I am happy for you.   You are living lives of comfort.   But we both know the truth — you have sacrificed your dreams in accepting this marital bliss.  You have gained a wife’s soft bosom and the joy of a child’s laughter, but it has required a compromise — you have packed your dreams in the dusty attic of your mind, never to be seen again.

I understand.  I was once JUST LIKE YOU, content just to be able to play with a woman’s breasts ANY TIME I wanted to (well, accept before 8AM or during periods)!  Who wouldn’t become complacent under those conditions? 

But I am lucky.   Show no pity for me concerning my situation with Sophia.  This might be the best thing to ever happen to me.

My plan now is to LIVE MY DREAM.   It may be too late for you, my married male blogger friends, but you can certainly help me plan my dream.  Maybe you can live your dream vicariously through me.

I’ll probably end up back in Los Angeles to live, but I thought of going to New York for a while and visiting my mother… maybe even check things out there while I get some therapy.   I was going to fly there, but then I had an idea — why don’t I just drive across this great country of ours?   Then came inspiration!   It was like the stars converged over my head, giving me the opportunity to accomplish my life-long dream —

— yes, getting laid by a different woman in all fifty states. 

Why settle for just one when America offers so much variety?!

All men have this dream,  but how many of us get to achieve it?  We always get bogged down with marriage and babies and cleaning out the garage!

Not me!

I’ve had a slow start.  I’ve only had sex in two states.  Sure, they are the most populous — New York and California, but even Barak Obama can’t win the election with just two states under his belt. (wait a minute:  I think there was one time in Vermont.  I just don’t remember if I made it through the actual “sex” part).

Men, here’s where you can help.  What do you think would be the best route to accomplish all 50 states from California to New York?  I’m not really sure how to program the GPS for this type of information?  How much time should I take in each state?  Remember, I need to drive in town, get a hotel, meet someone, AND get laid — all before I move on to the next state.  Do you think I will need the same amount of time in red states as blue states?  So far, I don’t have any specific plans.  The only “sure-shot” I know about is Blogger X in New Jersey, but she is mad at me right now for not reading her blog lately.  I guess I can always tell her that “I read it in Bloglines!”   Women buy any excuse, right, guys?!

Back to the planning phase.  I will need to also hit Hawaii and Alaska.  Do you think I should hit Hawaii first for the lei, since fares from LAX are pretty reasonable?  I’m also debating whether I should go the southern route via the Gulf States first — before we get too far into the hurricane season.   I’ll probably wait until it is colder before I make the Northern States.  I’m figuring that by then, women will probably be hornier and more desperate, especially around the time of the Christmas parties and New Year’s Eve.

What do you think?  Will it take that long or can I wrap this up by Columbus Day?

Men, I really hope that I can be an inspiration to you.  If I can impart any wisdom to you, it is “Don’t Let Women Rule Your Life — Always Follow Your Dream.”

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:   Mel Gibson Arrested for DUI

L.A. Heat

July 3, 2007 / / 37 Comments

hot.jpg 

I love when it gets hot in L.A., 100 degrees hot, and the AC conks out for those on the 405, and Jesus Gonzalez climbs from his stalled Toyota truck, sweaty and wet, but happy because his radio still works, and his favorite song blasts on Latino 96.3, and the sisters Johnson — Francee and Frenchie from Compton, CA — exit their Hyundai and dance on the hood, stripped to their bras, and the Goodyear Blimp flies overhead, barely seen because the rising heat fogs up the sky like a steam room. 

“Pump it up, Jesus,” I yell from above. 

I am the pilot of the Goodyear Blimp. I came to L.A. in ’87 from Phoenix, after my bitter divorce.   “Louder!”  I cry, only knowing the song because it is a favorite of Rhonda, the fortyish woman I met at Winchell’s Donuts a few days ago, the woman I left in bed this morning with her nipples still hard, the one I thought about all morning while eating my Egg McMuffin, while reading about the Dodgers, while driving to my job in which I fly the Goodyear Blimp high in the air, over the oven of a city, over the traffic of the 405, over the music blasting from the Toyota truck of Jesus, over the sisters Johnson, dancing in their bras, and while I listen to the beat and the Spanish lyrics that I cannot understand, I swear I can feel Rhonda’s heat still on my fingers.

The Creationist Museum of Redondo Beach

July 1, 2007 / / 28 Comments

The new Creation Museum in Kentucky presents a “walk through history.” Designed by a former Universal Studios exhibit director, this state-of-the-art 60,000 square foot museum brings the pages of the Bible to life, and attempts to show an alternative to the “evolutionary” model of history.

Its main competitor, the new Creationist Museum in Redondo Beach, CA, also focuses on the truth of the entire Bible, and uses the science to proves its validity. The highlight of this exciting museum is the interactive Garden of Eden room, which is so realistic, many visitors say that they feel as if they are walking “right through the Bible.”

eden.jpg

Text from the Creationist Museum of Redondo Beach exhibit catalog:

“And when the woman saw that the tree was pleasant to the eyes, she took of the forbidden fruit thereof, and did eat, and he did eat of her. And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons, but the aprons didn’t stay on for long as man and woman went on their third date, and the moon was bright, and they were bathing in the warm waters of the river, and man could not hide his growing desire for woman, taken of his own rib, and they lay on the grass as one, and they watched what the animals did, and they immediately did the same.

And God looked down and saw that his children were disobeying him and his anger was strong, and God thought of smiting his children until he saw woman atop of man, a lily in her hair, riding him as if he were a wild goat, and he heard his children, together in unison, dedicating their happiness to him by loud shouts of “Oh God, oh God, ohhhh God!” And then, all of God’s anger disappeared, proud of the wonderful summer activity that he had created for those in the Garden, and honored by all the praise that he was receiving.

And this was the birth of Monotheism, the idea of one God.”

Audio from the first LA Bloggers Reading. (thanks Jenn)

I’m Not Gay!

June 26, 2007 / / 69 Comments

shirtless.jpg

Despite the recent posts about my gardening and love for ABBA, I just want to say for the record — I’m not gay.  If I was gay, I would be completely proud of it.  In fact, it might even be a blessing, so I wouldn’t have to deal with dating women.

But honestly, the shirtless guy seen above, featured on Cosmo’s website as some hottie, does absolutely nothing for me. What’s sexy about this guy? Who knows?  His abs?  I don’t even understand what women see in men.  In my eyes, men mostly look dumb, especially when they are posing half-naked.

Straight men rarely “look” at other men as “objects of beauty.” Women are more appreciative of the attractiveness of their own gender.  When I was first dating Sophia, she would sometimes ask me if I thought some woman on the street was pretty. At the time, I thought she was testing me, so I always answered, “Nah. You are the prettiest.”

Eventually, I learned that this wasn’t a ruse. She was genuinely interested in my opinion. She enjoyed looking at other women, as much as a man.  She could see the beauty in a woman.

We could be watching “All My Children,” and Sophia will say, “Isn’t the new nurse at Pine Valley Hospital very pretty? I love her hair. Maybe I should get my hair done like that.”

I don’t remember ME ever asking Sophia if she thought some guy was sexy.   Straight men don’t think about how other men look. They care about what car they drive.

As a experiment today, I went to Starbucks and surreptitiously checked out other men, trying to figure out if I could find a man “sexy” in a aesthetic, non-sexual way.

It didn’t work.

It didn’t matter if the guy was young or old, thin or fat, he was pretty much just a guy. There was one guy who walked into Starbucks wearing tight jeans and had a nice hard ass, but so what! It didn’t make me want to go on a date with him. And that whole “checking out a man’s package” when he’s wearing pants is a total myth. I tried it in Starbucks, and you can’t tell anything!

Anyway, I just wanted to report back to you.

Guys and Doll

April 12, 2007 / / 38 Comments

Today I received a phone call from Danny.

“You’re not going to believe this,” he said, “but you just got ONE more birthday gift in the mail!”

This was very surprising.  Surely, someone felt very guilty for not sending me a gift for my birthday.   When I arrived at Danny’s, he handed me the package, saying, “This person must have felt VERY guilty.”  The colorfully-wrapped gift was enormous.  I brought the box home, placed it on my bed, and ripped it open.  Inside was a female blow-up doll, ready to use. 

“Whoa!  Who sent me this gift?” I wondered.  “Crazy Aunt Purl?  Charming but Single?  The gals at Poetry Thursday?”  But there was no return address or card.

“It was me!” said my Penis.

“You sent me a birthday gift?”

“Sure.  I felt bad that everyone gave you a gift except for me.”

“How did you buy this?”

“I bought it online while you were sleeping.”

“And what did you use for money?”

“Oh, they’ll give a American Express card to ANYONE nowadays”

“What name did you us?”

“Kramer.  Penis Kramer.”

“They gave a credit card to someone named Penis Kramer?”

“Have you seen all the weird names out there?  LaKisha?  Apple?   Why not Penis?”

“Well.. uh, thanks for the gift, I think.    But I’m not really sure what to do with it.”

“What are you — a moron?  What do you think you do with it?  It was my birthday, too.  Think of  it as a birthday gift for both of us.”

“It just seems a little… unsanitary.”

“And REAL SEX is clean?  Don’t worry, the plastic is hypo-allergenic.”

“I don’t know.  I’m really not into having sex with a plastic doll.  Can’t we exchange if for something else?”

“Think about it, Neilochka.  No more waiting for Sophia.  No more worrying about women again.  Whenever you want a woman — there she is.  She is the Perfect Woman!”

“Well, I could definitely save money not having to buy flowers on Valentine’s Day.”

“Exactly.  Come on, let’s give a try!”

“I’m not really in the mood now.  I was hoping to watch “Dancing with the Stars” on Tivo.”

Neil’s Penis presses the TV remote control.  MTV comes on the TV.   On the screen, Shakira is shaking her hips in a music video.

“Oh look,” said my Penis, as sly as a snake, “Shakira!  You loooove Shakira!”

Shakira bellydances for the camera.

“OK, I’m ready.” I said.

I quickly undressed.  My Penis and I jumped into bed, next to the blow-up doll.  I politely propped the blow-up doll’s head against a pillow, making her comfortable.

“Hi there.  It’s very nice to meet you, maam,” I said, and then started caressing her and whispering things in her ear.

“What are you doing?” asked my Penis.

“Sophia taught me to always do foreplay first.”

“You don’t need to do foreplay on a blow-up doll, you dummy!  That’s the whole point.”

“Good.  Because she pretty much tastes like a Hefty trash bag.”

“Just stick me in already!  I’m getting bored.”

I climbed on top of the blow-up doll, feeling my way to the cut-out hole under the midsection of the doll.

“Jesus.  I don’t even need to see the tag to know that this was made in Hong Kong for the Asian market.”

“Quit kvetching and just push in!” my Penis yelled.

“Will you be patient?!  The last thing I want is to puncture her.   You want half of a blow-up doll permanently melted on you, Penis Kramer?”

After some maneuvering, the blow-up doll and I started “making love.”   I was thrusting and my penis was loving every minute of it… but I was unsatisfied. 

I stopped.

“What?! What?!  What’s going on?” screamed my desperate Penis.  “Keep it going, Neilochka!”

“It all just seems so… cold.” I replied.  “It’s like she’s not even human.”

“We’re f***ing a blow-up doll, Neilochka.  What do you think?  Just enjoy it!”

“It just doesn’t feel like a real woman.”

“Look, I’m happy.  Can’t you be happy for me?   You still get the in and out.”

“I’m not just talking about in and out.  There’s more to sex.  There’s the smell of the woman.  The heat of the woman.  The voice of the woman.”

“Oy!  What a nudnik!”

“I’m sorry, Penis.  I just need to feel some sort of connection.”

“I have an idea.  What if I make believe that I’m the voice of the woman you’re having sex with? 

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I can “throw my voice” like a woman, so it sounds like it is coming from her.    This way the “sex” can feel more “real” to you, and I can finally have some fun here.”

“You can do this?”

“Sure.  I once took a “ventriloquism” course at the Learning Annex.”

“OK, Let’s give it a try.”

I started my thrusting again.  My penis did his ventriloquism act, and it really worked.  He really made it sound so authentic.  It seemed as if feminine orgasmic moanings and groanings were coming straight from the blow-up doll’s bright red open mouth. 

“Oh, OH, you are so good!” cried the “woman.”  “I love how big and hard you are.  You are the most amazing Penis in the world.  You are like a Ninja sword of pleasure, you apple-headed monster, you bald-headed battering ram.  Do me, you Captain Howdy, you Cock-a-saurus Rex, you Danger the one-eyed Ranger.  You fill me completely with your Fire breathing Dragon, your Incredible Bulk, your King Kielbasa.  Take me to math class with your Perpendicular bisector.  I kneel before you, mighty Longrod Von Hugenstein, Erectus Nebuchadnezzar.  Show me “the Wall” with your Pink Floyd, you upright citizen of the month!   Forever bless you, oh, proud member, Navajo nightstick of Neilochka…”

“Hold on… Hold on!” I said, stopping again.  “This is not working for me at all.”

“‘I thought you wanted to hear a turned-on woman.”

“Yeah, but all she talks about is… YOU!”

“So?  Aren’t I the one doing all the work?”

“It makes me feel like an object.  I’m not an attachment to you, Penis.”

“You’re not?” my Penis asks, surprised.

“A woman is not with us for YOU.  She’s with us for ME.  For being a good person.  For holding the door for a woman.  For helping the old woman across the street.”

My Penis laughs.

“Yeah, right.  And my name isn’t Penis Kramer…  Can we get back to “doing” the blow-up doll?”

“It feels empty.”

“Not every sexual encounter has to have harps and violins playing in the background.”

“Remember when Sophia and I were honeymooning in Spain, and we were in that small town, and there was this man outside playing the violin…”

“OH NO, not that story!”

“It was so beautiful… there was a full moon… and then he sang that Spanish song, “Me Amor…”

“No… no… you’re not going to start crying again…”

“What went wrong, Penis?” I sobbed.  “What went wrong?!”

“Stop it.  Stop it!  I’m getting soft.  The walls are crumbling!  I’m melting.  I’m melting!  I can’t believe it, Neilochka.  You’re so ungrateful.  Especially after I got you this gift.”

“Are you sure this gift was really for me?”

“What are you saying?” asked my Penis, his voice rising in anger.

“I’m saying you’ve always wanted a blow-up doll, and you used my birthday as an excuse to get yourself one.”

“You know, it was my birthday too!   And where was your birthday gift to ME?”

“Who buys a birthday gift for his Penis?”

“You’re a hypocrite.   To all your blogging friends you go, “Buy me stuff!  Buy me stuff!”  But when you have to buy a gift for someone else, it’s always, “Oh, I forgot,” or “Who buys a gift for his Penis?””

“Now you’re acting like a woman.”  I said mockingly.  “A high maintenance woman!”

“No, you’re the woman!” yelled my Penis.   “You can’t even have sex with a blow-up doll without crying about “the violins in Spain.””

“No, you’re the woman!  Look, who is the one throwing his voice so perfectly?!  “Oh, you’re so good.  Do me!  Do me again!”

My Penis turned red in anger.

“You’re a dick, Neilochka!”

“Hah, look who’s talking!”

“You lousy son of a…”

“Stop it!   Stop it!  Stopi it!”  cried the blow-up doll, stepping out of the bed and walking away.  “How hard is it for a blow-up doll to get laid around here?!”

She headed for the front door.

“Where are you going?” asked my Penis and I simultaneously.

“I’m going out to a nightclub in Chinatown.  I have needs too, you know.  Call me when you two grow up and straighten things out.”

After the blow-up doll slammed the door behind her, my Penis and I looked at each other, daggers in our eyes. 

“You want to masturbate?”  I asked.

“Sure.” he replied.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  You Decide

I Never Promised Anything

February 23, 2007 / / 47 Comments

cat3.jpg

Tonight, I’m going to be interviewed by Wombat of Kiss & Blog on his BlogRadio channel at 8PM EST. If you want to laugh at my accent, it should be on the archives afterwards. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this until after I’ve done it, just in case I’m really boring or I say “like…” and “um…” a lot. But what the hell. We’re all fake friends.

Considering that Wombat usually interviews bloggers about relationships and sex, he has definitely picked the WRONG person this time if he wants a lively interview. The last blogger he spoke with spent much of her time talking about her pierced clitoris. How am I going to compete?

This morning, I turned to Sophia for help:

“Sophia, I need to make something up in order to make myself more kinky for this interview. Can I lie and say you have your nipples pierced?

“How does that make YOU more kinky? If anything you should say that you have your nipples pierced.”

“Jeez, that sends shivers down my back. Yuch. Maybe I can say I have a c**k ring?”

“Ha. Like anyone is going to believe that. Do you even KNOW what a c**k ring is?”

“I’ve read about it in Penthouse years ago. You sort of put it on your penis.”

Sophia started typing on her laptop.

“Here’s a photo of one on Wikipedia.”

“Holy crap. No way. Jesus, there is NO way I would ever use that. You can get a stroke or give your penis gangrene.”

“Look at this one,” she said, laughing.

“Ha Ha. You’re right! That one is the same style as your wedding ring!”

“So, WHAT are you going to talk about? You’re not going to talk about ME, that’s for sure.”

“I can’t talk about you?”

“No.”

“Hmm… that doesn’t leave me much to talk about.”

“Sorry.”

“Without me talking about you — rather than interviewing ME, he should probably be interviewing my hand.”

“Well, you have a talking penis. Why not a talking hand?”

“I have an idea,” I said. “I could tell the story about the first time I saw a p***y.”

“Oh, yeah? You never even told me this story!”

“I was about bar mitzvah age. And there was this girl, Lisa, who liked me. But despite me becoming a “man” that year in the Jewish tradition, I was still more interested in my stamp collection than girls. One afternoon, I was in Lisa’s home and she asked me if I wanted to see her pee.

“OK,” I said.

I went with her into the bathroom and watched her as she took down her pants and sat on the toilet. And then she peed sitting down. It was amazing. I never saw anything like that before. After she was done, she leaned back.

“Would you like to look at IT?” she asked.

“OK,” I said.

I got on my knees, adjusted my glasses, and looked at her p***y. It was pretty interesting. It looked like a giant paper cut.

“Now it is YOUR turn.” she said to me.

“What do you mean?”

“I showed you mine. Now you show me yours.”

I thought this was rather rude of her, despite the fact that I was on my knees staring at her p***y.

“I never said I would show you mine.”

“You promised!”

“I never promised anything!”

She started to cry. Not only was this my first look at a p***y, it was my first real encounter with the irrationality of women. Why was she getting so emotional?

“Get out!” she yelled.

“Hey, calm down. If you want, I’ll show it to you.”

“Too late. Get out!”

Sophia laughed.

“That’s the whole story?” Sophia asked.

“It was the first, but not last time, that I disappointed a woman.”

Sophia laughed for five minutes. I thought she was laughing just a little TOO LONG.

Rich Man, Hot Babe

February 22, 2007 / / 36 Comments

trump2.jpg

I’ve never done speed dating before, but I know I would be good at it. I’m an immensely interesting person for one minute, and then I become a total bore, so with speed dating, I could capture a woman’s attention before she saw “the real me.” Also, since the woman finds it OK to interact with me for just one minute, I assume she won’t be rattled by my perennial problem of premature ejaculation. She’ll already be used to me making it through one minute, and then the conversation is over.

New York can be a tough place to meet someone, and speed dating is popular in the Big Apple. I was especially intrigued by this new form of speed dating that I read about on Zandria’s site.   The sponsors included New York Magazine and was titled the “Natural Selection Speed Date” — Rich Guys and Hot Girls.  The application requirements were very specific:

Men (solely based on wealth)

Salary:

  • Age 25 or below $200K +
  • Age 26-30 $300K +
  • Age 30+ $500K +
  • Invested Assets: $1 million +
  • Trust: $4 million +

*Men will be asked to provide documented proof

Ticket Price $500

Women (solely based on beauty)

  • 5 pictures will be submitted for judgment by celebrity Matchmaker Janis Spindel
  • Pictures are judged for beauty
  • No additional information will be accepted

Ticket Price $50

The first meet-up took place two weeks ago in a Upper East Side supper club. Now, if you’re expecting me to be all P.C. and all, and call this disgusting, I’m not. The company’s website makes a compelling case for this type of natural selection:

[Our company] is honoring the age old union of wealthy men and hot girls. Society has taught us to not publicly acknowledge the obvious – no longer dear friends. Women want money in a man, men want beauty in a woman – this is a factual force of nature. Women don’t ask “So, what does he do for a living?” because they’re interested in his personality and guys don’t ask “is she hot?” because they’re concerned with character. Guys know that money buys them the car, the house and the trophy wife. This genetic cleansing is how the wealthy stay beautiful.

My main problem is that the match-ups don’t adhere to true scientific testing. The qualifications for the men can be easily documented, but the choosing of the women seems as rigged as a Russian figure-skating event.

spindel2.jpg

First of all, is Ms. Spindel really that qualified to judge what I find beautiful?

beauty2.jpg

And does she just pick stereotypical-looking blonds like I might see on FOX drama as CIA agents? Where are the hot Asian chicks? Where are the slightly-eccentric looking redheads who you just know will show you a wild time? Look at the three women that Ms. Spindel considers beautiful.

#1 — Eh. Looks like my cousin Miriam.

#2 — Flat as a board and thinning hair.

#3 — She is OK, but has a pig nose. She also looks like she is very quiet when she has an orgasm.

Of course, if I were drunk and lonely and “American Idol” wasn’t on TV, I wouldn’t say no to any of these women saying, “Neilochka, let’s ****!” (this does not include Ms. Spindel, no offense… she just seems like she would be too aggressive). But are they THAT BEAUTIFUL? For five hundred bucks and opening up my bank records, I would expect more. I could easily come up with a list of BLOGGERS who are prettier than these women. Just go on Flickr, which is my new pornography.

I think many of my problems with Sophia are based on our total disregard for the rule of “Natural Selection.” After all she is beautiful, but I’m not rich. If the world worked perfectly, she would be with someone rich.

But alas, I’m not rich. Only beautiful. Why can’t I exploit my beauty as much as women? Maybe I was destined to be with a rich but ugly woman. After all, that still maintains the idea of natural selection. Are there any speed-dating services for rich, ugly women and beautiful, poor men? It’s the same principle of Natural Selection, just updated for the twenty-first century — I’m all for the equality of the sexes!

If a woman was really rich, I could deal with her being ugly. Hopefully, not THAT ugly. I mean it would bother me if she had warts all over her face. But then again, if she was rich… and let me feel her up while watching TV… hey, why not? It’s natural selection!

(Update: After reading some more about this, I’m beginning to think the speed-dating service was less a legitimate operation than a crass way to create some publicity through an actual speed-dating event. By creating a dating scenario as ugly as possible, they were able to get media attention from both the networks and bloggers like me. Now, they are in talks with VH1 about doing a show about this concept.  I look forward to seeing what advertisers want to get involved in a project that uses terms such as natural selection and genetic cleansing.  What fun!  So, I am now going to take out most of the links and names in hope of not giving them any more publicity)

« Older posts Newer posts »

© 2025 Citizen of the Month

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑

Social media & sharing icons powered by UltimatelySocial