Tag Archives: Humour

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.”
_______________

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?

A Detour: Acquisitions

Normally, I tend to write about sex on this blog. At the beginning, though, I had said it would be frequently about sex, but occasionally I might write about something else that was possibly inappropriate for my other blog.
So. This is one of those times. Certain people read my other blog.
Some of us are fortunate enough to have steady, reliable drug dealers. Now, me, I only do dope. I’m mostly well-behaved. Recently, though, I had a stoner concert to attend and thought I should acquire some… inspiration. I found out then that my formerly regular dealer is, get this, on “hiatus.”
“They give you those, do they?” I asked.
“When you ask ’em nicely, yes,” he said.
Deciding that This Concert was worth the effort, I figured, “What the fuck? Let’s see what I can do.”
So, without ado, I decided to negotiate an acquisition on the streets. I headed to Vancouver’s primo chemo district to get me some cheebah. Now, keep in mind, I’ve done this once in my life. I’ve somehow always had connections — a variety thereof. Buying on the street has never been required.
How does one tactfully approach someone and, essentially, ask, “Say, are you a dealer?” Why not just tack onto that, “And hey, I have a family of four that needs killing. You up?”
But this is how you do it. Find a way to observe the street for a few minutes. Walk up it, then down it. Make note of who’s stationary, and better yet, leaning on a wall. Find a way to keep an eye on the scene for a few. Who stays put? Who crosses a sidewalk to talk to someone, then crosses back? Do they use hand gestures? Do they keep looking around, twitching?
Dealers.
Now you walk back towards him/them, and making eye contact, you raise your eyebrows.
That’s it. You’ve done it. Easy as pie. Now: “Holdin’?” “Whatchoo need?” “Weed.” “Yup. How much?” “20.”
Next thing you know, you’re holding two dime bags. Go home. Get happy.