Vaj Day

‘Cause, really, that’s what it is. A day to celebrate vaj.

So in the consumerist spirit of the occasion here’s the Valentine’s Day card I plan to send out to my stable of regulars.

For my extra special girls, I’ve put the effort and love into making homemade cards:

I’m a romantic at heart.

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A Hallmark Moment

It is late in the night and two grown men are driving home from the clubs. Navigating cop cars and pedestrians on [x], we notice a couple of bicyclists on our right. Nearing the first bicyclist we can’t help but trumpet a horny ode to her luscious figure 8 derriere as she pedals hard in the chill air.

“Hey man, over there. What an ass on her! The cheeks just hug the shit out of that bike seat. Look at the way the ass globes move up and down in perfect harmony.”

“Love that ponytail. It says all the right things — grab the reins while you pound me.”

We drive past her.

“Dude, she’s hot! Face to match the ass. So many cute bike babes.”

We approach the second biker from behind.

“Whoa, another one. Check out this chick. Beautiful blonde hair. I love long blonde hair. Look at those jeans pulled down low.”

“Niiice, I see some white panties poking out! Is that plumber’s crack? Sweeeeeeet.”

We drive slowly by the second biker.

“AUUUGHHH!!! It’s a dude! Oh man, fuck! AUUUUGGGHHHH! What the fuck!? What dude wears his hair like that??”

“FUCK! SHIT! UGH! I’m hitting the lesbian porn as soon as I get home. Pull your pants up you hipster slob! Night ruined!”

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Website Find Of The Week

Ow, my balls!

Why are guys getting punched in the sack so much funnier than girls getting hit in the vagina?

Hidden psyche answer:

Because by nature, men are expendable.

PS: Here are a couple more nad shots I found artistically elevated:

God Vs Satan

2 Balls 1 Foot

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Outrage Of The Day

Ugly people canoodling in public.

It’s not cute.  It’s not charming.  It doesn’t make people go “aww” to themselves.

Please, kindly take your ugly nuzzling to the privacy of your homes and draw the shades.  Think of the beautiful people’s feelings.

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Number One Asset

I once had to get rid of a girl for a shallow reason.  It’s a shame, too.  I didn’t want to… she was cute, considerably younger, sweet… but some things are non-negotiable deal killers.  I was finger banging her during foreplay and, because I like the full experience, I brought my fingers up to my nose for a big sniff.

DAMN!  PEW!

Her vaginal odor instantly ruined the mood.  I don’t know what produced it — natural musky scent, yeast infection, old chicken wings — but a foul genital smell is right up there with brandishing an ice pick for making me walk away from sex and finish up later to pics of Lois from Family Guy.

I butched up and endured for as long as I could, but every time we changed positions and her bush passed through my smell zone I got blasted in the face with toxic fumes.  Doing her doggy style I was forced to press her ass cheeks together to keep the odor trapped.  Afterwards, I was afraid to smell anything on me.  I scrubbed my hands like a surgeon prepping for an operation and hours later the stank was still on my fingers.

I spent the next day smelling my own farts to get rid of the memory.  Then I shaved my pubes because I figured there was no way her sticky pungent juices would ever leave my groin.  It was like radical lice therapy.

I like going down on very attractive girls.  But even a Russian 10 would stop me cold in my tracks if her pussy smelled that strongly.  If I can’t go down on her without suppressing a gag and crying like I was peeling onions with a clothespin on my nose she will never be a long term prospect.  I may as well cut my losses.

I had a nightmare that night about being tortured by Central Asian Islamists who forced my face repeatedly into this girl’s snatch while yelling PUSSY IS GREAT! LICK IT DRY! over and over.  They called it beaverboarding.

Here’s Chateau Tip #14, ladies:  Your vagina is your number one asset.  Treat it as such.

Maybe girls can’t smell their own pussies the way we can’t smell our own bad breath.  In that case, it’s the duty of every man to inform his stinky girl she has issues down there.  If she can’t be bothered to fix a problem with her number one asset then that tells me she does not care for my desires as a man.  If she refuses because of a hippie belief in going au naturel then dump her.  Feminist mother earth hippie chicks with unkempt overgrown bushes will never treat you like the king you are.  Selfishness is a major character flaw in women.

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300

A girl invited me to a party over the weekend.  She said the crowd would be mixed with some gay guys and trannies in attendance.  Her social scene is alternative so I know what to expect when I hang out with her.  I called Zeets and told him I was going to this party.  He offered sage advice:

Zeets:  Gay guys means lots of hot single girls.  The one is always found with the other.  Bring your best game.
Me:  What about my date?  I’m not going to number close right in front of her.
Zeets:  Listen, if she’s a nonconformist then she’s probably OK with an open dating arrangement.  Anyhow, you’ve gotten numbers before while on dates, you pig.
Me:  I’ll be discreet.
Zeet:  Oh, and wear straight clothes, not your usual metrosexual crap.  You don’t want to fend off advances from gays all night.  If you stand out as a straight guy the girls will flock to you.  Ya gotta keep two things in mind.  If a girl is surrounded by well-groomed but completely indifferent gay men she’ll crave attention from a straight guy to validate herself.  And, two, if you’re a straight guy who’s comfortable around gays, the girls will be intrigued by you.  Intrigue equals horniness.

I rummaged through my closet for non-metrosexual clothes.

Off-center design = fashion maverick.

This was the straightest shirt I could find.  I must’ve donated all my grunge-period flannels to the Salvation Army.  Girls think I am Italian because of this jacket.  Italians get laid so leaving that impression is OK with me.

I knew something was amiss when I walked up to the building entrance and saw groups of five and ten guys piling in together, some holding hands.  Inside there were at least 300 gay men.  That’s not a typo.  300 fabulous Spartans.  It wasn’t hard to tell they were gay even when they weren’t kissing and lightly touching each other’s pecs mid-conversation.  My butt cheeks clenched defensively.

I counted three girls in the entire crowd.  I saw no noticeably straight guys.  So this party was “mixed” in the sense that some of the gays were bears and some were swishy.  Quite a few looked like they dedicated their waking hours to the gym and salon.

Luckily, my date was cute and wearing a plunging neckline, so I spent most of the time with my eyes locked on her cleavage reaffirming my heterosexuality.  And also to avoid accidentally seeing anything that would give me post-traumatic stress disorder.  Once shirts began flying off I told her it was time to go.

Outside, she started laughing.

Me:  What’s so funny?
Her:  They all thought you were gay.
Me:  Yeah, well, maybe that’s because you took me to a GAY PARTY.
Her:  It wasn’t just that.  It was your shoes.
Me:  These shoes are comfortable.  That makes them straight shoes.
Her:  And your hair.  It has that perfectly disheveled bedhead look.
Me:  But it’s naturally disheveled.  No comb or products used.  Again, straight.
Her:  And the way you grabbed my ass and hung on for dear life.
Me:  Better to be safe than subtle.

Things I learned from this experience:

Zeets’ theory failed.  No girls flirted with me.  Conclusion: lesbians.

A presumption of gayness occurs when the crowd reaches the tipping point of 50% gay.  Acting super straight by frowning constantly, substituting conversation with grunting, musing about Scarlett Johansson’s killer BJ lips, and keeping my hands in my pockets did not save me from being mistaken for gay.  Also, see: clothes.

A few gay guys at a party can be good.  They bring girls and a whimsical vibe.  300 is bad.  If you are a halfway decent looking guy you will feel like you’re being eyefucked.  Similar to how a hot chick must feel when she walks into a roomful of men.  Or a thin guy at a NAAFA mixer.

The blatant flattery from gays will temporarily boost your ego.  It’s not nearly the same as flattery from cute girls, but it’s not half bad either.  They’re very creative in their compliments.  “Well aren’t you a tall drink of yum!”  “Somebody hit you hard with the hottie stick.”  As they’re walking behind me: “Who wouldn’t want to follow that in!”  Afer ten minutes of this direct game, though, it gets annoying.

I’ll never trust a girl again when she says she’s taking me to a party with “some gays”.  She can go alone.  The nookie is never that good.

PS:  I watched 16 hours of football on Sunday.

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Formative Years

This story from my past is reproduced in its entirety from an email exchange I had recently with someone.  Originally intended to be private, we both thought it should be flung across the worldwideweb for the glimpse it gives into what made me the lover of myself thousands I am today.

***

when i was a young teen my parents, in a paroxysm of disciplinary fervor, enrolled me in a church youth group.  i spent the time with my fellow morally upstanding youth groupers trying to get into the pants of the hotter christian girls, only to be rebuffed by their closed leg policy.  finally, i cracked the austere exterior of a sweet pretty young thing during a bbq on church grounds with some help from a flask of jack&coke i had hidden in my jeans.  tragically, we had nowhere to hide from prying eyes or the lord above to grope kiss and fondle.  there were woods about a half mile away but people would look for us in a panic after a while.  finally, we absconded to the only place which at that moment was completely shrouded in privacy — the church rectory.
well, we *assumed* it was private.

as we were making out in the hallway with my body pressing hers against the wall desecrating all that is holy, careful to do it away from the watchful eye of a nearby wooden crucifix, we heard a toilet flush and then the head priest walked in on us with my hand firmly wedged down the front of the tight jeans of mi amour.  i struggled to pull my hand out as the priest gasped for words and turned red-faced, but like chinese fingercuffs my struggling only pushed my hand in farther.  a wave of anxiety swept over me as i imagined i would be marched out in a perp walk before the scandalized flock, my girl and me intertwined like siamese sex fiends in such a romantically touching way.  finally, with the help of proper breathing technique and my double-jointedness, i extricated my hand, by now smelling of raw sexuality, and the girl began crying.  i contemplated making a run for it but instead stood like a statue as the priest’s admonitions buzzed like ocean surf in my ears.
i quit the youth group the next day with no resistance from my parents.  word of my exploits traveled the lands far and wide.

***

yours in the light of the lamb,

poon h. christ

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