Archive for 2007

Player or Poseur gave me many minutes of quality entertainment, so in homage to that theme here’s something similar I call Girlfriend or Fling.  Examine the photo and figure out by superficial judgement alone if the girl(s) featured would make girlfriend material or good time material.  Does she look like the type of girl you could trust to be loyal and faithful, or would you be more likely to catch her dancing on a bar one night with a club monster sliding a hand under her skirt?


The girl on the left would make a solid girlfriend, assuming she met your attractiveness threshold.  The girl on the right would make an excellent one night stand.  She is dressed sluttier and is more assertive in her grinding.  Plus, playettes are always striking poses in order to draw attention to their bodies… their bread and butter for getting what they want.  Girls with better values and a stronger internal compass tend to smile warmly and sincerely at the camera, because they are trying to convey their personalities.

Date Girl #1 like she was a normal human being who would be happy to enjoy the pleasure of your company.  Wait 2 days before returning Girl #2’s texts and phone calls, and when you do set up a date, tell her to wear something revealing.



This photo gives a better idea of what kinds of traits men notice when deciding girlfriend potential.  These two girls are nearly equal in attractiveness (in fact, they might be sisters), so differences in beauty are neutralized as a variable.  Yet, the girl in the orange top has heartbreaker written all over her while the other looks more grounded.  Judging by their clothes is difficult since there is not much distance separating them, though the orange top plunges lower showing more cleavage, and lace is always indicative of sexual adventurism.

Like with the first pic, the smile says it all.  Blue shirt girl’s smile is natural, unforced, and inviting.  She doesn’t give the impression of hiding anything about her true character.  Orange shirt girl is looking seductively at the camera under heavy lids.  She is making love with the viewer, while blue shirt girl is making friends with the viewer.  I would feel safer dating blue shirt girl.

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For most guys porn has been a part of his life since his first adorable little ejaculation.  It’s been a good friend, right there all along, assisting in quickie wanks, long drawn-out Saturday afternoon sessions, and walk-by chubbies at the office (pre-firewall days).  It’s helped to raise our standards of what we expect in bed from the women we date (another reason why women are getting sluttier.)  Recently, I found myself reminiscing about my first exposure to porn.

joyofsex.jpgIt was at my grandparents’ house.  I was exploring the basement when I came across a copy of The Joy of Sex in an old beige filing cabinet.  What a find!  The rush of excitement was instantaneous.  The pencil sketch drawings were thin gruel compared to today’s high res video on demand, but I was 14 and just saying the word “boobie” was enough to give me blue balls.  I pored over every single picture.  Eventually I got around to reading the words.

I don’t know what was skeevier — getting off to porn with my grandparent’s watching Jeopardy in the next room, or finding porn in their home, a place I used to think was holier than a confessional.  I’m pretty sure the book smelled like old people.  That didn’t stop me.

From then on I was a perverted pirate on a porn treasure hunt, always looking for my next fix.  Like women, the chase was almost as much fun as the viewing.  With each score I ratcheted up my demands for stronger, purer stuff.comf21.jpg

My next big find was my parent’s underwear drawer.  Big honking VHS tapes with colorful scenes all over the sleeve.  I later learned that most of my friends found their parents’ porn in the underwear drawer as well.  I wondered if our parents got together on bridge night to discuss the best places to hide the porn from the kids.  In their infinite wisdom they decided under the granny panties.  Come on, that’s the first place a kid is gonna look knowing that’s exactly where his dopey parents will think he won’t look.  It wasn’t long before I found the vibrators and devices I still can’t identify to this day.

Porn is so ubiquitous now that the thrill of the chase is gone.  Kids these days have no idea what it was like back when we had to walk 5 miles through the snow, uphill both ways, dodging suicide bombers, to get to number 2 pencil sketches of vaj.  Today it’s log on, rub one out, get back to whatever you were doing.  There’s no anticipation.  It’s not Christmas morning anymore, it’s a typical Tuesday afternoon.

In the distant past when men had nothing but glimpses of ankle to masturbate to, actual sex must have been an earthshaking experience.  It must have been the kind of thing that men died for… and created civilization for.

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I was never one to keep a diary.  Nor did I ever keep a diary but call it a journal.  Yet a casual glance shows that 99% of blogs are basically diaries of the minutiae of people’s lives and their overheated ruminations about said minutiae.  Since I mostly write about abstract stuff I kind of feel like I’m missing out by not blessing the reading audience with the all-important trivialities of my daily life.  So here’s a glimpse into my mental world from this past weekend:

At the pool there was an unfortunate couple with a kid.  The woman suffered from advanced stages of what looked like multiple sclerosis or some similar gift from god, her back grotesquely misshapen and her arms bent in awkward positions.  The man, husband I presumed, was inflated like a hot air balloon, at least 400 pounds.  I thought, That guy is damned lucky she’s deformed or he’d get no pussy at all.  Then I wondered if I was the only one thinking that.  I pondered a bit more that he could lose his weight while she could do nothing about her affliction.  In this way I was comfortable mentally blaming fatso for ruining my visual environment.  Most of the time you don’t see people like this, the walking wretched, out in public.  They generally stay holed up indoors with delivery services providing their needs.  I think most people are happy with this arrangement, even if they would never admit it.

It was blazingly hot, so I went to Cold Stone Creamery for a delicious ice cream.  The semi-retarded looking kid behind the counter took my order.  When I got outside to sit and enjoy my hard-won kill, I realized the kid gave me not just the wrong ice cream flavor (cinnamon instead of coffee), but the wrong mix-in (butterfinger instead of heath bar), and the wrong size (small, not medium).  So the semi-retarded look was more than just a look.  I marveled how an order could be so magnificently fucked up — a trifecta! — when it was just me and my friend in the shop and no one else to create undue stress on the employees.  I decided it must be an omen, so I didn’t bother returning it for the correct order.

There is only one public humiliation worse for a man than licking the sweaty balls of a tranny on the 50 yard line at halftime of the Superbowl on national TV, and that is having the barbell fall on him in the middle of a bench press rep — during the warm-up set.  My buddy had walked away since I informed him it was my warm-up and I wouldn’t need him to spot yet.  At rep number 9 (we guys remember the rep numbers like you girls remember anniversaries), I felt a sharp pain in my right shoulder and the bar started going backwards until it was sitting on my chest.  A helpful gym rat lifted it up off me.  I couldn’t look anyone in the eye after that.  Luckily, it was uncrowded, so I think I’ll be safe to come back in a year or two.

My friend’s wife hates me.  Oh yes, it’s so obvious.  At the BBQ they threw on Saturday she exchanged a total of two words with me:  Hi.  Bye.  And she was facing away from me when she spoke them.  This is understandable.  Every time I’ve been to their place, I’ve either gone swinging single or with a girl she hasn’t met before.  I’ve known her husband much longer than she has.  He and I have the OLD DAYS.  The OLD DAYS are not to be trifled with.  Things happen in the OLD DAYS, like late night carousing, lapdances, and alibi duty.  A wife knows deep down that whatever memories she’s building with her husband pale in comparison to the knee deep in the mud memories he has with his lifelong buddies before mortgages and kids civilized him.  So I’m that no-good reminder of his wild days, and my mere presence gets under her skin.  Wives put a lot of effort into breaking the spirit of their husbands; the last thing they want is for that free-wheeling, carefree SOB to show up and piss all over their hard work in a single afternoon.  The icing on the cake is that I suggested the bar for their first date which eventually led to marriage.  She should be naming her next kid after me.

I hope this journey through the pages of my life was as good for you as it wasn’t for me.

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No one goes on vacation thinking of the long ride home.

What is unique about love is that it alone among all the human desires defines by its absence the utterly meaningless life.  With love, the poor person can feel rich as if the struggles of his survival were minor inconveniences.  With love, the old person forgets his age.  With love, the young person sheds his angst.  A man can amass a kingdom’s fortune and an emperor’s power but without love his worldly successes stand like hollow totems to unhappiness.  What good is anything if it doesn’t ultimately reach a conclusion in love?  The wealthy businessman who spends all his hours in his office and wastes his years whistling past the grave being too busy for love is a loser no less than the unloved degenerate street bum.  Sushi tastes better than a 20 dollar bill.

The mischievous thing about love is that as vital as it is to a fulfilling stint in consciousness, it mocks its own importance with reminders that it rests precariously on a foundation of some very banal preconditions.  People fall out of love and it is rarely for lofty reasons.  A man loves a woman until she gains 50 pounds.  A woman loves a man until he loses his job and goes unemployed for months on end.  And when that pretty face turns ashen and carved with the years will it really be love anymore?  Those crass attraction buttons still have to be pressed for love to appear and then to sustain itself.  Self-delusion about the dirty business behind love is not only required, it’s inevitable.  Why ruin the fun by obsessing over the dull ride home?

A lot of seducers mistakenly think that love is a garnish to the main course of pursuing and winning the hearts of women.  They compartmentalize — it’s a bonus to feel love, but damned if they’ll let that get in the way of the good times.  The worst thing to happen to a guy who gets ass regularly is not rejection (after all, rejection is the badge of honor worn by womanizers) but falling in one-sided love.  Or, similarly, falling in love only to have his woman dump him.  Getting dumped is part of the game, and can be expertly handled, especially if there are fallback options.  But the alpha who succumbs to the folly of love opens himself up so completely that state control is no longer his prerogative.  He risks everything, including his most cherished asset… his trust.

This is the wrong way of approaching relationships.  It’s fine to be calculating about the pick up, and the dating, and even the relationship management, but attempting to corral as thermonuclear an emotion as love is only going to light the fuse on the bomb.  I’ve seen many players sabotage their relationships with really great girls who had captured their hearts because they feared losing control under the chaos of being in love.  They put all this effort into bedding her and making her fall for them that they lost sight of the main objective.  A man can be all alpha but if he doesn’t cash it in for the ultimate prize he’s revealed the beta at his core.

I once lost a girl I loved.  The rush of pain was so intense even a fight club pummeling couldn’t have distracted me from it.  But I didn’t stoically shrug it off.  I threw glasses at the wall.  I broke things.  I smashed up my apartment.

If you aren’t smashing stuff after losing a lover you don’t know the pleasure of relinquishing everything for love.

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“The pump is better than coming in a woman.”*

It’s been a long while.  Some nagging injuries and laziness have kept me out of the gym ist2_1553025_pink_dumbbells.jpg(I mean the real gym with plates of iron, not the one you froo froos go to for your spin classes and low impact hiney-toning spazrobics), but I’ve returned. After only a couple of months the strength and the feeling of being able to take on anything that comes my way is back.  And there’s no going back to being a couch potato; weight training is just too beneficial not to make it a lifelong commitment.  Ferchrissakes, it actually reverses the aging process!

Gaining new strength and mass has always been an uphill battle for me.  I’m a natural ectomorph, which means women who like barrel-chested stocky men should look elsewhere.  If I were playing for the other team, I’d never be invited to any “bear” parties.  Getting older also means muscle gains come slower and recovery times between workouts get longer.  Injuries happen easier as well, which explains why the older guys in the gym are so focused on proper lifting form.  Going to failure on the warm-up set and crashing the bar into your chest on every rep is a fool’s game played by the wet behind the ears.

A few things I’ve noticed about gym culture:

It’s not hard to spot the roid muscle from the natural stuff.  Guys who juice have a weird inflated look to the muscles, and their skin seems paper thin.  Plus, they have the tell-tale “roid gut” which looks like they swallowed a ripped keg.  Good for impressing other guys; not so good for impressing girls.

adduction_start.jpgGirls using the hip adductor machine are placing towels over the pelvis.  Sweet Jesus, is nothing free anymore?  Your privates are already clothed, it’s not like we guys are getting a zoomed porno shot of your goods. Taking recreational glimpses in between our sets of girls on this exercise machine, legs spread as wide as they’ll go, gives us masturbation material for at least a couple nights.  Don’t reduce the joy in the world.

Creatine, BCAAs, and whey protein are your best (legal) friends.

The gym pickup is totally possible.  Yeah, we’ve all heard how women don’t like to be hit on at the gym where they are “under construction” and not fully prepped to be approached by guys, but nevermind that.  I find a spot next to a cutie to do my bike or treadmill warmup, preferably one not wearing headphones, though if she is a light tap on her arm, smiling, and a motion to take off her headphones works well.  Here’s where I come in with the fun stuff.  Never be serious in a gym pickup.  That’s a killer.  Usually there’s a TV set nearby so I’ll say something like “I can’t believe what’s on this TV.  Sports again!  And golf no less.  What’s a guy gotta do to watch a little Desperate Housewives in the gym?  Is that too much to ask?” Anything to get her laughing and smiling, because if you look around that’s the last thing girls are doing in the gym.  Get her attention, open with a situational observation, then playfully flirt.  That’s the basic formula.  Once I’m in, I start vibing.  Running the treadmill is fucking boring so most girls I’ve successfully opened would welcome a 10 minute conversation.  I wait for her to start asking me questions, then move into my close.  I tell her I have to get back to my real workout but that I liked talking with her and we should hang out.  Then I suggest a date to meet, usually one not too far in the future.  I don’t have a phone with me, so I say “Just give me your number.  Don’t worry, I have a feeling I won’t forget it.” Then I get back to working out so it doesn’t look like I’m at the gym to pickup chicks.

Alright, back to throwing iron.  Here’s motivation to set an example for all those pasty-assed nerdos hiding under their mama’s beds:

*Arnold later retracted this statement

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Dear fruit of my loins, 

You’re not getting any inheritance.  I plan to blow the whole wad on booze, traveling, and Ukrainian hookers.  I’m going out with a smile on my face.  So prepare for your future.

Forget about a college fund.  You think I want to sock away a hefty percentage of my take-home so I can put your ungrateful ass through an overpriced IQ-notarizing ivory tower for the benefit of corporate human resources departments?  Fuck you.  Save up yourself, get a loan, or learn a trade.  The library is free.

Don’t come to me for a self-esteem boost.  That’s your mother’s job.  I’ll tell it like it is.  You’re getting fat?  I’ll let you know.  You throw like a girl?  I’ve got the video to prove it.  That’s a father’s job; to give you a taste of reality that’ll either motivate you to improve or divert your energies into more productive pursuits.  Fuck this kumbaya cooperative superfeminized dreamworld shit that’s killed the American spirit.  I’ll give it straight up.

If I catch you masturbating do not look me in the eye.  We are never to speak of it.  We will act as if nothing ever happened.

On a related note, you are not to disturb me while I am in my masturbatorium.

I will have mistresses because it is the French thing to do.  Get used to it.

I will flirt with your unbelievably luscious, hot teenage female friends no matter how old I get.  Get used to it.

I will never hit you.  Instead, I will mindfuck you until you are hitting yourself for your foolish behavior.

I will love you very much… unless you do things that will make me not love you.  Nothing is unconditional in this world.  Learn that lesson well.

If someone is causing you undeserved trouble or heartache in your life, you will have no more powerful ally than me.  Do not abuse this privilege.

To my daughter:  Disownable offenses include stripping, whoring, getting your vag tattooed or pierced, sex with losers, bukkake, home made porn vids, and majoring in womyn’s studies at a 36K/year no-name liberal arts college.  Choose wisely.  If necessary, I will spring for plastic surgery to improve your looks.  Trust me, it’ll be the best investment a father could possibly make in his daughter.

To my son:  You will learn how to say Hi to girls before the age of 16 if it kills you.  There will be no Star Trek or Lord of the Rings posters in your room.  You will instead have Helmut Newton photographs hanging on your walls and a copy of Mystery Method.  I will treat the family dog better than you if you major in anything that doesn’t ensure a salary high enough to keep you from grubbing off me.  Learn how to throw a punch.  If you turn out gay, don’t ever bring your “boyfriend” around me.  Certain things are best left in the realm of the abstract.


if I find out your mother was a two-timing whore and you are not my kid, you will never hear from me again.  Kindly direct all your rage her way.

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