Tag Archives: Humour

Opposing Forces: The Laws of Attraction (?!)

An immensely wise philospher-singer once sang:

We come together
Cuz opposites attract
And you know–it ain’t fiction
Just a natural fact
We come together
Cuz opposites attract

Whatever happened to that Paula Abdul, anyhow? Where is she now? Those one-hit wonders, you know, like flashes in the pan.

The Guy sent these photos the other night after I pointed out what had to be, and what I said then, the most unseemly gay male couple I’ve ever seen. Now, keep in mind, I live in Vancouver, or as I think of it, San Francisco North. I’ve lived here all my life and see trannies, queens, and the whole shebang as often as they come.

Picture a Pillsbury Dough-kinda boy: nice protruding round belly, about 5’11, goatee, 26, kinda cute in that “If I weighed 65 lbs less, I could be a surfer! Hand me a Twinkie?” kinda way. And his boyfriend: About 5’5, absolutely skinny, 18-if-a-day, wide-eyed with do-it-to-me-now! lust, gazing up longingly. Chunky Two-Time had LoverBOY leaned up against a rather dubious chain-link fence, and it was pretty fucking obvious who was offering a little topping for the evening, if you know what I’m saying.

The Guy shuddered. And rightfully so. It just looked fucking weird, man. I’ve seen the whole Blue Oyster Cult-Village People leather crowd, the big fucking hairy bears, the demure little Asians and their Rice Queens, and the whole shebang, all right? This looked weird. I’m tellin’ ya.

But not as weird as this.

I went out with a guy once who argued that, when it comes to love, a couples’ longevity depended categorically on the balancing of the attractiveness scales. There had to be a relativity between their appearances, or it’d be doomed due to the rearing of the ugly insecurity head.

Maybe. Maybe so. Maybe not. I don’t have my Relationships Physics & Probability degree just yet. Probably a hold-up at the post office. Please, Mr. Postman, look and see if you got a letter in your bag for me. I been waiting such a long time since I ordered that degree of mine.

I think there could be some truth to it. Look at the couple in the photo, then. As I said, the Guy fired it off to me to illustrate that the Gay Odd Couple was a fitting reminder of this forwarded email he’d received that’s making the rounds as “Redneck Wedding of the Year.”

(I didn’t realize they had a rewards ceremony now. What, every-fucking-body’s got trophies now? Who’s next, huh? Bowlers?)

I confess, I feel badly putting the photo up. I’m sure they’re sweet people. Scary, but sweet. In between shooting beer cans off the fence, Jeff Foxworthy reruns, and playing D&D, they probably serve up a hell of an apple cobbler, you know?

I just don’t get the whole opposites-attracting thing, myself. I’ve always been attracted to guys who carry a few extra pounds, just like me. (Not rotund, just excessively huggable.) They should be bookish, and into film and food and life, not clubs, and smart enough to make me frustrated that I shoulda known that first.

Most couples I know are pretty on-page physically. Not too many of them would stand out in a crowd, and probably most seem natural together. The beautiful people get together, the people with perfect hair curl up together, the punks mesh’n’mosh, the granolas sing Kumbaya in harmony, the plastics meld… it’s all so consistent. Do they last? I don’t know, but they look right at the mall.

Nah, I don’t get opposites attracting. What’s the point of hooking up with someone you got fuck-all in common with? How about you? Has it ever worked for you? Are you into the relationship equivalent of magnetic field reversals or something? ‘Sup with that? Enquiring minds, yada, yada. And were you at this wedding? What kind of cake was it?

Oy vey, you searched for what?

This one sounds really innocuous, until you start thinking of the implications of language. In reviewing my webstats just now, I came across someone who landed on me via this search string:

“How do I position myself when having sex with my honeymoon partner?”

Honeymoon partner. Wow. Bet that’ll be an unbridled night of torrid passion. Honeymoon partner. Not lover, not mate, not even spouse. Honeymoon partner.

One should make love on a honeymoon, don’t you think? Not “have sex”? Unfortunately, I don’t know what page they landed on, since I’m too cheap to pay for a full stats package and the info switches over too quickly. Sigh.

If you can’t call the person you’re about to supposedly spend the rest of your life with your lover, you might want to double-think those vows. Lover. I absolutely love having a lover. Not just a boyfriend or a partner or whatever, but a lover. Doesn’t it just roll off the tongue? Don’t you get a little hot just thinking of the word? Isn’t it almost… tasty?

But having sex with a honeymoon partner? I mean, it sounds like there’s gonna be a chaperone standing in the corner, throwing out coaching lessons as they go.

“No, no. To the left. The left. There you go… right. Now again. Again. Deeper. Oh, come on, do it like you mean it. Deeper. Yep! That’s the ticket. Let’s have some more of that! Fabulous. You’re almost getting the hang of… oh, slippage. What a shame. Just when you were fulfilling your potential, too! All right, let’s try that again. From the top.”

Sigh. And this is why people need to stop overthinking things and go more with their feeling. Life’s too short to be clinical.

Filler — A couple good jokes for you

It’s a Monday, and it could be a Very Good Day, depending what goes down, so I don’t want to write right now. I don’t want to tamper with my headspace. It’s sunny, blissful, beautiful out today, and I’m about to head out into the world on my Eurotrash scooter, and plan to find my way to a beach or forest to do some photography. I’m going to try and find Love in images, I think. That would be a fun challenge. (Challenges rock. Ever assign yourself them at the start of your day? Try it!)

But I’d like you to have a smile on your face today, like the one I already have. So, without ado, one of my all-time favourite dirty jokes. I don’t know if it’s really the joke I love, so much as it is the woman I heard it from, and how incongruous the two seemed together. This is why I talk to strangers as often as I can. You just never know. :)

Now, I was working in a photo lab back in the day with my colleague Cathy. It was a slow Friday night and we had put out a tray of cookies for customers, for the hell of it. A little old 84-year-old lady stopped in, had some cookies, and began talking to us.

She looked at us both, scrutinizing us. “Do you girls like dirty jokes?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you like sex?” Then she shook her head. “Well, of course you do. We all do.”

Well, anytime you have an 84-year-old lady with plastic glasses and her hair in a bun, leaning heavily on a burled cane, offering to share a filthy joke with you, you accept the offer. Here’s the joke she told.

____________

In marriage, there are three stages of sex.

The first is called House Sex. This is when you first marry, and you can’t get enough of each other. You have sex all the time, everywhere you can, all over the house. Thus, house sex.

The second stage is called Room Sex. This is when you’ve been together for a couple years and things have slowed down. You still enjoy each other’s company, but you tend to stick to the bedroom and have sex only in bed.

The third stage takes place after about seven years, and it’s called Hall Sex. What it is, is every time you pass each other in the hall, you mutter “Fuck you,” and you’re done with it.

____________
Little old ladies are wise as hell, huh?
____________
One for the road:

Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse go to court to get a divorce. The judge checks out the paper, frowns as he’s looking them over, glances up over his reading glasses and peers at Mickey Mouse.

“Mickey, look, I’m sorry, I want to help you out. I watched you as a kid, but really, I can’t grant you a divorce on the grounds that Minnie’s insane. I mean, “for sicker or for poorer…” You know? You made a vow, Mickey.”

“Oh, sir, I never said she was insane,” says Mickey. “I said she was fucking Goofy.”

____________

The rest of my jokes involve priests or sex toys. Well, here’s hoping I have the day I’m wanting to have. Hope you do, too.

I Hear My Monthly Train A-Comin’

Something’s snapped in me this afternoon. I awoke with a spasm in my neck from having slept wrong after my before-the-crack-of-dawn inhalations of an illicit nature, and my mood has steadily declined since.

I won’t bore you with my shit. Suffice to say my day is a heady stew of money woes, persistent battles with the flu, a turn to shit for the weather, and being overwhelmed by several things that loom ominously before me, like rent. My inability to do a single productive thing today has resulted in a blackening of my previously “just dark” mood, and now the forecast for my evening has me thinking I should’ve started this fucking thing with, “It was a dark and stormy psychic evening when our protagonist…”

And it clicks. Coupled with my stresses and the full-fucking-moon rising somewhere on the horizon is the dreaded bitch of PMS.

There is a reason, my friends, that PMS has previously been used as a “diminished responsibility” defense for murder: Sometimes, you go right fucking nuts.

And the funny thing is, most of us, we know it’s coming. Every single month you get that day or two where nothing’s going to work. Your mood’s gonna get worse and worse no matter what’s going on, and all you can do is just cope – that is, you would cope, if you actually realized it was just biology fucking with your head again.

Trouble is, it’s usually not until you’re half-way through the ever-increasing darkening that you remember: It’s that fucking time of the month again. It’s your early warning system for the red tide, and the villagers better get the fuck out of the way.

Women despise PMS. Women loathe the emotional charges that come from being victims of estrogen. We wish for days of smoother sailing, when everything would be a little less turbulent. Some days there’s just nothing a gal can do but wait to ride out the storm.

You guys think it sucks? Try riding the wave from inside the barrel sometimes, boys. You ain’t fucking woman enough to deal with half the head games brought on by that fickle bitch named Estrogen.

Personally, when moods like this fell me, I stay out of everyone’s way when I can. I keep the conversations short and sweet, I keep to myself, I keep my mouth shut, and I keep out of trouble.

‘Cos god knows I just don’t have the patience for a court trial, diminished responsibility or no. Just be happy I’ve got cheap, dull kitchen knives tonight is all I’m saying, man.

If I had any Midol kickin’ ‘round tonight, I’d grind those bad boys into powder, let ‘em swim in vodka and cranberry, and I’d call it the Red Tide Rising martini. At least then I could be a bitch in style.

Rant: The Kid and the Long, Long Night

Ed. Note: This is a classic “me” post — starts one place, ends miles away. It’s a bit of a trip, but it’s a fun one. Hang tight.

I should go back to bed. It’s a raining Tuesday morning and I have a few minor goals today. One, I want to write my goals. (Ironic, isn’t that?) Two, I want to brainstorm a few ideas. Three, I want to have a nice breakfast, take a soggy walk up to the video store, come home, and write for a couple hours. The reward? Episodes five and six of the second season of The Wire.

(If you like intelligence, you admire a well-written, complex criminal story, and you like good acting, editing, and directing (and I mentioned the writing) and you’ve not yet seen The Wire, then what, pray tell, are you waiting for? Brilliance. Really.)

So, I sound like I’ve got it together. Plans for a low-key day, chilling. A day without men. Full-stop.

Let’s face it, there’s a certain point where we each get tired of the opposite sex’s bullshit in dating. One of the luxuries of being single is that when it all gets exacerbating, we can pull up the stakes and say, “Nah, man, party of one this week.” Yeah, don’t think I ain’t considering it.

Okay, I try to keep things relatively benign here. You don’t need to know my business. You probably want to know (filthy pervs) but you don’t need to know. Let’s break the rules this morning. A special exception.

So, a week or so ago, I hooked up with this kid. I was going through this two week period where my hormones raged like some political coup d’etat in South America. It was excruciating. I needed relief. I lowered the standards a bit, let’s say. Sorry, but it’s true. Yes, I let one slip by me.

This kid. I really, really, really hate to admit this, but I literally forget his name. I think I blocked it all out. I know I knew it earlier in the evening, but I remember thinking, at about 11, “What the fuck is his name?” and I’ve never since found out. So, I think it starts with a J, but it might be a D, and either way, I just don’t care enough to look the damned name up. I wrote it. Somewhere. But he’s The Kid.

I’m 32, he’s 26, not a big age difference. The thing is, I realized right then that all the men I’ve been seeing have been 34-36 of late. It’s been wonderful. I’d always toyed more with younger guys, since I do have a pretty young disposition when I want to, given my music and culture tastes and love of rebellion and so forth. But these guys I’ve been seeing have all kind of had it a bit more together, and certainly were far better lovers overall, with patience and dedication and openness being factored in, than I’d had in the past.

(You know, I got to say, there’s something much more attractive about divorced men now that I’ve had the privilege. They’ve had sex, regularly, and sorta know what they’re doing. Usually, even a sexless marriage means he gets out and gets free, then gets laid and gets open about it. Not an entirely bad set of circumstances, girls, if you’re looking for someone who has the geographical prowess to find your damned g-spot.)

So, he’s 26. One of these kids into Anime and punk and foreign flicks and art-house indies and classical music on Sundays. You know how it is. “I am artist, hear you roar.”

We hooked up for a coffee and had basically already said we’d watch a foreign flick, cuddle up with blankets and some wine, watch the movie, and play with each other the whole night. Given it was snowing outside, it sounded like brilliance. We ordered Chinese in, laid about, and got pretty damned intimate.

The great thing about the couch-and-movie thing with someone you’re interested in, at the very beginning of an encounter or relationship, is that virgin groping of each others’ bodies. It lasts for a couple hours running time, and then things heat up exponentially. When you’re already in a relationship, you just press pause. I like delay.

So, here’s where you need to know that I’ve gone from being a steamed milk lover to a vanilla lover to a malted milk lover. I ain’t chocolate yet, daddy. You don’t really know much about those aspects of me, but yeah, the only thing I don’t do, really, is pain or humiliation. Maybe one day I might get interested with the right person, and I don’t rule it out at all, but this is not that day. Suffice to say, I’m certainly beyond “you show me yours, I’ll show you mine” and other basics that may well reside in another galaxy. I obviously feel no fear about speaking out about sex, and certainly not while doing it. I’m very helpful. Older guys seem to enjoy this. Most of the time, younger guys did, too. Again, this was not that day.

Necking, kissing, groping, ooh. Nice. Of course, someone always needs to go to the bathroom, and it was him. Naturally, we decided the bedroom a more fitting place to play the extra innings. Onto the bed we went.

Things escalated to all-over kissing and using fingers in orifices and all those fun things. Now, for me, I have to say the experience was a headtrip. Longtime or thorough readers will have heard tell of a certain sexual encounter I retold that I’ve long since made private — a guy we’ll call M I really fell for and was devastated by in my youth.

I was cutting The Kid extra leeway because I knew the body type, the personality type, and for me, he was very much a throwback to that great guy who introduced me to my sexuality and gave me a glimpse at the lifestyle I now lead. Absolutely, the eyes, everything sort of reminded me of that sexy irreverent man of the past.

But make no mistake, regardless of where the “inspiration” came from, I was absolutely turned on. It didn’t matter how he fumbled or did whatever the hell he did, I was into the moment because I was making it happen for me.

We rested later, and then after an hour or two of sleeping, I rolled over and snaked down his body and gave him a blowjob, thinking of M the entire fucking time. (Hence the post about oral last week.) It was hot, probably last an hour or slightly longer, with a couple cuddle breaks for five, but yeah. The lights out, my mind was elsewhere. That part of the night went over very, very well.

But when he left, I knew I’d never be interested again. If you can’t get someone’s face out of your head when you’re playing with someone else, it just ain’t fair to do it again.

He left, though, because I finally rolled over, turned his face towards mine, and said simply, “You need to leave now” at 7:30am. I mean, fuck. 7:30? I think there should be a law about inquiring in 90-minute intervals from 4:30 on about departures for first-night sleepovers. Jesus. Then I won’t have to come shy of muttering “get the fuck out” when I need my sleep before work in the afternoon.

So, he left. We exchanged kisses. “Another movie next time,” he said/I said. Nod. Smooch. Buh-bye, and thanks for flying Indoor Air.

So, yesterday I encountered the kid. “So, that’s that,” I commented.

“Yeah, well, that was no fun, you were way too aggressive,” the Kid says.

I honestly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I mean, if they’re rubbing something like a clit and it’s not a clit, it bears mentioning, yes? If they haven’t got a clue where the g-spot is, it’s kind of nice to give them the keys to the future, n’est ce pas? And rolling over for an un-asked, un-told blowjob in the dead of the night, definitely a bad kind of aggression, I know, but I can’t help myself. I’m a monster. I should be locked up. Or tied up, at the very least. Please?

Yes. You heard it here first, readers. I’m too aggressive.

God, shoot me if I ever have to have feather sex again.** I’m implementing an “extraordinary cases only” rule about fucking guys under 30 now. Yes, one bad apple spoiled the barrel, but shit, I’ve only heard rumours about the bad lovers thing before now. I just hate having evidence thrown in my bed. I tell you.

And on top of all that, he was the kind of guy who doesn’t pick up the condom after. Learn this, men: It pisses us off when you do that. Toilet seat up? Not half as bad. Take your fucking condom with you. Please, and thank you. That concludes this public service announcement.

End rant. Thank you for listening. Now, which coffee shall I brew?

The Guide to Turning Them Off

We’ve all been there. Someone approaches us at a party, their eyes go all neon “F-u-c-k   m-e,   p-l-e-a-s-e.” They hang onto us. They flirt. They harass. Most importantly, they annoy. Oh, fuck, do they annoy.

And sometimes it seems that no matter how you try, they just don’t get the fucking hint.

Maybe you need to actively cause them to be disinterested in you. Here are some tried and true methods:

  • Whenever they try to make you laugh, snort. Loudly.
  • Every time he says something about his life, say, “Oh, my ex-boyfriend did that, too. Funny.” Sigh, shake your head, and insert negative factoid, ie: “I still have the restraining order.”
  • The all-time “a”-list: Spill your drink on them, and don’t offer to help clean it up. (Give yourself 5 points if you’ve spilled your drink on someone you actually liked, and still managed to seduce them for that first time that very same night. Fun, huh?)
  • Roll your eyes. Often. Dramatically. And if you need more, scoff quietly and shake your head after you roll your eyes. Snicker if necessary.
  • Men, you can just simply stare at her breasts. Paste a little grin on and just look at the twins, and every time she asks you a question, stay with the twins and just nod or shake your head, still grinning. Warning: This approach could incur the wrath of the slap.
  • Girls, you can just look at his crotch, gush, and say, “Aww. It looks so cute. Reminds me of my brother.”
  • Lean into them, sniff, and say, “What’s that smell?” Just like grade school? Yep! And just as fun!
  • Mention casually that, “My therapist wants to increase our sessions, and maybe my meds, too.” Now twitch.
  • Cock your head to the side and ask, “Have you been saved yet?” (My favourite answer: “No, just discounted.”)
  • Query them, “Do I smell funny to you? I’ve been having a persistent personal odour issue, and I’m hoping I may have finally found a remedy.”
  • “Did you know that your aura has three sub-categories?”
  • And there’s always my favourite, the classic “Fuck you. Now go away.”
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It’s a shame that more people don’t have fun actively causing the opposite sex to be disinterested. It’s really quite enjoyable. Plus, you save them the hassle of being interested in you. Life’s easier for all, and you get the fun therapy that comes from being a blatant dick/twat for a limited time.

What more can you really ask for?