You have those nights sometimes, the nights before a simple kind of day, a your kind of day-day, where the only thing you really know is this: You’re calling the shots.
The man? Fuck him. The woman? Her too. And everyone in the sub-genres? Them too.
It’s 12:24 a.m., and I’ve decided that whatever it is I do when I roll my lazy ass out of bed, it’s okay. Tentative plan: A fine breakfast, a little South Park, a trip with the bike and the camera downtown to play tourist, for kicks. That’s it.
Before, I had these grandiose plans of, oh, I don’t know, accomplishing something, or something. I’ve come to my senses. Partly sunny. Dubious, you think? Fuck no. Partly’s sounding like it’s from God’s lips, man. Yep. A fine day, whatever materializes. With the last 45 or so days being filled with 40 or so days of rain, well, I’ll take drizzle, man. Just get me the hell out.
Though I feel like keeping to myself after my crazy past six weeks, I am going to force myself to be social. A tad. But only to cute men.
The women, they’ll get nods and grunts. Yep. Balance. It’s all about balance, isn’t it?
Oh, I’m joking. I play well with all others. My folks brought me up with manners, etiquette, you know, and that makes me the mostly charming young thang before you. I say “mostly” because having a mouth like Susan Sarandon at her time of the month is really not doing me any favours. But it feels so damned good, and the hedonist in me, that’s all she really needs, ya know.
Hopefully the following applies to none of my male readers, but, guys, I’ve been hearing some horror stories.
See, I’ve heard all these things through regular conversations with real, live guys, not through this blog. So, I’d like to just say this right now, that there’s a little too many instances of this sort of thing. You want chicks to feel all right about touching themselves and such, then we need to get on page about this.
Chicks, we’re sensitive, right? Estrogen: License to Pill. It’s rough, yeah, baby. Real rough some days, and you guys, you’re so lackadaisical and oblivious. Normally, it makes us chuckle, but sometimes, y’all leave scars.
These conversations I’ve mentioned, have all included guys, who, upon going down on women they were with, reacted in one or more of the following ways:
- Actually vomited between her legs
- Groaned, grabbed his clothes, ran, and proceeded to dress in her apartment’s exterior corridor
I mean, my GOD, guys. If you’ve done this, you are such an ass. Even if it was totally unintentional, oh, lord.
Don’t you ever get the sense that some people are the needing the emotional form of toilet training? Instead of just blurting out every fucking thing you feel in the split instant it hits, try something incredibly nouveau and cutting edge: Hold your goddamned tongue until you’ve let the stupid idea rattle around yer skull a moment.
And that doesn’t go out to just guys, there’re so many women that applies to, and we all know it.
If a guy reacts like that in one of those moments, it’s akin to a woman snickering at the size of a man’s cock. “You’re… not cold, are you? Oh, sorry, yes, that was optimism. I was hoping I could at least turn the thermostat up. Sadly, though… there might be little point in— Oh, I made a punny! (giggle)”
I just find myself wondering what such an experience would do to a woman’s future sex drive, considering how much more governed by emotions (and estrogen, sigh) we happen to be.
I’ve only had one real experience of issue with a bit of a foul odour, and it was after an eight-hour car trip with a guy I really, really, really wanted to sleep with when I lived in the North. He had a girlfriend at the time, and I had shit going on long distance, so I constantly felt the hopelessness of that, too. He paid me the most incredible compliment that day, too, that would sound totally cheesy to say here, but probably the greatest thing a guy ever said to me. It was his tone of voice and the way he stared through me as he said it, though. I melted. A couple hours after that, and needing a washroom for a bit, and I was conscious of my scent. Nothing too intense, mind you, but it was there, perceptible, a little, and I became hyperaware. We arrived at a washroom within five minutes of my noticing it, and I was able to wash up and feel great again, and I’m pretty sure he never picked up on it.
But if he had, it probably would’ve been a source of pheromones, not offense. Since that time, I kind of started to quiz the guys I’ve been with, and have been remarkably surprised at what was, I perceived, an offensive odour, and what guys have found attractive. They seem to have a more accommodating standard, I suppose. We chicks, we get bombarded by media ads about “feminine freshness’ on a daily basis. Hell, they have “feminine wipes,” which are the female equivalent to the baby’s-dirty-ass-alcohol-soaked-wipe. Unfortunately, there’s a market for them. It’s called “being single.” The Age of Paranoia.
I’m just saying, guys need to be empathetic to the issues that chicks sometimes have to deal with, and being nice and delicate about the fact that she needs a shower can go a long, long ways. How about, “God, I bet you’d be incredibly hot all lathered up. But mostly, I wanna do the lathering. Get you wet. Dripping. In the shower.”
That way, you get to play with a bar of soap. (Dove is nicely contoured. Ever notice that?) You get a nice shower. You get a clean chick. And you get to get laid after all. Everybody wins. She keeps her pride, and you get to enjoy the perks.
And though there’s not such an amenable conclusion for chicks who are usually stupid enough to blurt out a comment about a man’s penis size, really, they just ought to bloody well know better. I mean, Jesus. A little empathy. Just like God gave you that flabby bit on your inner thigh that no amount of working out can resolve, the small-penis thing wasn’t likely a request, and surgery ain’t no walk-in-the-park boob job, either.
Anyhow, thanks for coming on my tangential walk this evening. I’ve clearly been sort of colouring by numbers on this posting, but hey, it’s been fun for me. Come again.