Parte 3a en la serie, "Ponerse mas acomodante hacia los escojos de mis companeros globales" --
this time, though, I shall address the idea of female promiscuity thru (cursory) dissection of a "mimbo". Y'all watch Seinfeld, correct? Then you should know of what I write.
As it goes, present and currently room in a three-bedroom town-house with two gentler men than I whom I found to be letting a room via an ad at roommates.com. Erm, in actuality, one of the two living here when I moved in remains here; the other transferred his employment, following a merger, and replaced himself with a recent divorcee and pharmaceutics industry supervisor. But, that last, is neither here nor there.
No, now I write of the continuous occupant, who has been here since the lease took effect, and I'll call him "Gerard Hopkins". He is a happy fellow, more than pleasant enough and looks past, though probably more than he (or anyone else) should, my oddity. The thing of it is, though, for his being prodigiously more hep than I -- in fact, for the pharmaceutics industry supervisor being much the same -- they don't seem much more confident...
Wait, I don't know if confident is the word. Perchance, versed?
Yes, versed. I shall go with that, for now, for lack of maximum cerebral operation as of now. (I am just waking, really, after my ritual morning wank, as well recovering from a severe head-cold.)
The man in question, Gerard, appears to have taken much the same tack as I have in finding eligible and fair females with whom to chat away, cavort, and (in his case) engage in actions traditionally-considered connubial. By this I mean, he ventures to the internet -- say, Yahoo! chat, and HotorNot -- to flirt with and screen for peculiarities that certain brand of female, the horn-dog (or should that be bitch? Horn dog seems more the nomenclature for insatiably sexual male, with horn bitch being apropos the female, to extend the metaphor...). And, in the time I have lived in this abode, I can think of four, more likely five, but probably seven, if I really strained, women with whom he has followed-up his internetic mewling by going for drinks, or having them in, and then allowing the forking [sic] to begin.
Now, what should be my problem with this? A, I am a man, and, B, I have noted I am aiming to try to get past my antiquated and prejudicial (and not even from any fealty toward religion, as I am rather areligious, so even worse than most sexual tight-asses), so Gerard's conduct should not strike me as undesirable in any form, shape, or way.
But, it does.
Here is my problem:
He is slaying this gash, some of which has been attached to rather fine female corporeals (namely, the slender, taller (for a woman) blonde whom I saw exiting his room on a Friday morning about two months ago, and whom I never saw in the homestead again, as I prepared for work (I was tying my shoes)), and appears to be doing so with aplomb -- at least, gauging from the pants (almost caninic) of the most recent paramour (though this arrousal may be more her doing, as anything more than eating a sandwich (no, that is not a metaphor) could moisten her, and maybe the other women just weren't that taken by Gerard's thrusting and fingering) -- but without any finesse, subtlety, or (can I say) affection.
One example: the current fork-mate to whom Gerard has squired himself must have first been granted face-to-face privilege with the right honourable G. about three weeks ago. I walked into the abode around eleven-thirty PM, upon arrival from my second (part-time) and they sat in the living, G. in the la-z boy recliner (unreclined) and P. (as in paramour) on the couch to G.'s left, on the middle cushion. They were conversing -- and though I am a nosy, impersonal thug, I didn't snoop to conquer of what they may be speaking --, and in so doing, flirting (though I am not positive of this), and I let them be, only disturbing them one time more when I had to rush to the ground-floor half-bath to obtain the plunger. (While readying for Orpheus' entrance, I moved my bowel, proceeding to clog the toilet.) I clambered down the stairwell, excused myself, asked their permission to pass (such was granted, with surfeit), and having the plunger in hand, returned upstairs, to clear the commode.
That obligation completed, I returned to my boudoir, slid my pajama pants down, and began my ritual evening wank. I was interrupted though, as I heard the distinct marking of four clomps on the stairwell, but spaced apart enough so it was obvious it was not one individual leading another, the first's arm out-stretched and (more) formally, chivalrously squiring the other to a destination. No, it was more the slow walk to the private room at a brothel, after the client has chosen his playmate and provisioned the money. Such time is when the forking begins -- with it in, and out, nobody gets hurt (to borrow from Kevin Nealon, in an SNL sketch for '88, which had nothing to do with sex (I think, rather, it was a planning session for a bank robbery)).
This disturbs me. Even for my (gradual, almost molassic) change in consideration of an individual's sexual history being Good or Bad -- I would hold that by twenty-five, one's quarter-life crisis [sic] -- that, if male, fifteen partners (for any manner of vaginal, oral, and/or anal) should be the average had, and, if female, twenty-three to twenty-five (considering that, mostly, a woman should have had (due man's compulsion, weaker in some than others, but still there) a fair number of partners (and a few of those merely for one- or five-night-stands) for oral only, so a greater number overall -- it still turns my stomache the nonchalance with which some regard sex.
My point: I am a rom... I am not a romantic, nor a formalist, but, as with most things, I enjoy ceremony, ritual, structure. This is not to say I think that sex should only proceed from a wedding ceremony -- if my saying that fifteen and twenty-five partners, average, for men and women, respectively, by age twenty-five doesn't prove that, I don't know what will --, but, I don't cotton to the wanton in much of anything (at which I aim to try, and I aim to try at most things). Therefore, I am of the estimation that, even with ephemeral contacts from which spring relations sexual, there should be some measure of foreplay and pre-penetrative activity to quicken the pulse, slicken the to-be-affected areas, and slacken the posture. (To the last, rohypnol does not count. Partners should be receptive and conscious, not just holes to plug.)
Climbing a stairwell, something so rote, does not count for any of those.
In fact, to think of it, however disgustedly my grey matter reacts to doing so (some things, such as (in my frosh roommate's case) walking in on one's parent's freaking mid-day, and doing so (the child walking in on it) when one is fifteen years old should not be recollected), even the sex seemed rote. The thrust were there, the bed-spring squeaked, and the lady woofed, but otherwise...
It had all the appeal of anal in the toilet at a Castro District gay-disco. Just to get it in, and out, and (hopefully) nobody getting hurt. (Caveat "(hopefully)" added because it was such wanton sexuality in the seventies -- "getting off with three-to-five anonymous partners a night, for ten years", to quote Henry Rollins from his Think Tank talking disc -- that instigated the AIDS virus in the population at large, and which even to this day keeps history repeating in form of (much) less painful, but probably more displeasing (anyone for anal warts?), venereal disease.)
Somewhere along the line, then, but probably in the seventies, penetration became the new handshake. Not even a Lewinsky, something so vanilla [sic] as that, but honest-to-Got phallo-vaginal discourse. Seems a little much for somebody you've just met.
And, lest you play the hypocrite card (by default), thinking I must be prevaricating, I must have something similar in my past I am hiding, I say: I don't. The only time I ever, ever ever, was of the consideration that a first face-to-face encounter should beget sex was the first time I had a date. I was twenty (late-bloomer, yes) and home for my spring holiday from uni. I had been chatting away, via e-mail and AIM with a woman, let's call her "Mirela", on SparkMatch (Christian Rudder and Chris Coyne's first attempt at a gratis pimping service), for about a month. We seemed to be getting on quite well, on a pen-pal/friendship level at least, in writing -- as is almost always the case with me; I blow women's minds with my verbiage, and they get hot-and-bothered for me, but those who then agree to meet me in-person, for half-and-half flipping and chips, are quickly disabused of any interest (romantic, and lighter) in me for seeing my physical absurdity (morbidly obese, or so would have it be know one Ms Julie Bartlein (her name, I do not alter, for her bitchiness shall be rung out from every mountain-top)) and, at times, with either late-Elvis burns or Alexei Lalas style goatee -- and in late February (this is all occuring early '01) made plans to reconnoiter during my spring break, as I would be at my parents' homestead and she would be just around the way, as she attended Wisconsin Lutheran College.
So, on the Monday of spring holiday, we had an evening nosh at a south-side ("here we are now going to the..." -- fuck you, Moby!) all-night greasy-spoon, and seemed to continue to get on well, as our conversation was not stilted (even for my speech impediment and sometimes stutter), centering not on any nerves we were feeling for not feeling each other, such that we had come to know what monstrosity I was, but rather the recent Anger Management Tour (Eminemens, Limp Bizkit, Xzibit, Papa Roach) which Mirela had attended with friends from uni, parochial schooling, and what we had been reading.
All quite nice. In fact, I was quite arroused by her wit, as well her atraditional but still pleasant physicality.
My obner began heading south, though, as Mirela and I left. Toward the vestibule, we encountered the once (and future?) Ms Sam Keck and her best friend (whose name does not rhyme with Merlot), whom I happened to know, and Mirela knew the former, from having gone to uni with her for two years at WLC. The women chatted for a bit, and when it got time to Ms Keck asking from where Mirela knew me, the gal acknowledged, "We met on-line, at SparkMatch."
Oh, no.
My bubble burst. I did not need my desperation confirmed -- as though it wasn't already tacitly apparent -- to people I knew in high-school, and whom I would still see around, even for not being friends, when returned home for holidays and special events.
That said, I was still into Mirela, and as we departed, she said she could give me a brief auto-tour of the WLC campus before dropping me at my place of rest. Woe was me, but I thought this might have meant she'd take me up to her place, and we could fool for a bit.
(Hey. It was my first date, and I thought that is what happened on first dates. Probably I had seen too many romantic comedy, namely, ones with John Cusack, in my life.)
No such luck -- thankfully, I have to admit, since in retrospect I should have gotten to know the girl better anyway -- but, we agreed to rendezvous again, when I would be back for the summer (in late April/early May), and before she would be returning to Minnesota, to spend her summer with family.
(That said, when she emailed me again, around April 20, I never returned her note. Not for not having gotten to provide or receive a hand-job -- "oh, I wanna get to third base with you", quote Boris the Sprinkler -- but because my outre status, as having to stoop to pick up women via personals services, was starting to eat at me. Especially so, since people I knew now knew I did so.
But, of course, had I continued to pursue acquaintance, and maybe dating, with Mirela, assuredly I would have... I might not have laid pipe, since she was probably a bit virginal still (Wisconsin Synod, the most conservative Lutheran sect... ("let's talk about sects, baby")), but I would have spooned her, fingered her, massaged her... with a light touch.)
I suppose, then, to sum this all up... I am not trying to say I am a better person than Gerard -- certainly, though, he is a better man, by which I mean manlier -- nor that to be metro is the answer (I am certainly not; to wit, when I expressed recently to one of my cineplectic colleagues that I don't watch much tee-vee, but I have my favorites (Daily Show, SportsCenter, Trading Spaces), her eyes went agog, and she said, "Wow! I can't see you as a Trading Spaces watcher."), but I think I mean there is a way to put one's sting down without debasing oneself nor the partner (even when multiple over a short period, and when that multiplicity is not a factor of serial monagamy [sic]) toward whom such is done.
Man is animal, and sex -- moreso, reproduction -- is bestial, but man also has reason, and from that, we could make our sex less like that of bears and less of a cross to bear.
N.B. On the few subsequent dates I have had, and on the (rare) occasion when I encounter a fair female at Barnes n' Nobley or a cafe (I will never be one to be able to be relaxed enough in a bar-cafe or club to "work it" there) and my kavorka (sp?) takes effect, I have not gone from meeting to wanting to freak in sixty seconds.
Slow and steady wins the race.
But: more to come later, after my shift (2-11 PM) at the cineplex today even, about the Polish au paire met at Barnes n' Nobley (Nov '03), the Wauwatosan cum UW-Eau Claire and Beloit College alumna (Nov '01), and the hottest, sweetest cross runner from Pewaukee (Dec '01). Mmmkay?
np: Molotov -- "Nero"
this time, though, I shall address the idea of female promiscuity thru (cursory) dissection of a "mimbo". Y'all watch Seinfeld, correct? Then you should know of what I write.
As it goes, present and currently room in a three-bedroom town-house with two gentler men than I whom I found to be letting a room via an ad at roommates.com. Erm, in actuality, one of the two living here when I moved in remains here; the other transferred his employment, following a merger, and replaced himself with a recent divorcee and pharmaceutics industry supervisor. But, that last, is neither here nor there.
No, now I write of the continuous occupant, who has been here since the lease took effect, and I'll call him "Gerard Hopkins". He is a happy fellow, more than pleasant enough and looks past, though probably more than he (or anyone else) should, my oddity. The thing of it is, though, for his being prodigiously more hep than I -- in fact, for the pharmaceutics industry supervisor being much the same -- they don't seem much more confident...
Wait, I don't know if confident is the word. Perchance, versed?
Yes, versed. I shall go with that, for now, for lack of maximum cerebral operation as of now. (I am just waking, really, after my ritual morning wank, as well recovering from a severe head-cold.)
The man in question, Gerard, appears to have taken much the same tack as I have in finding eligible and fair females with whom to chat away, cavort, and (in his case) engage in actions traditionally-considered connubial. By this I mean, he ventures to the internet -- say, Yahoo! chat, and HotorNot -- to flirt with and screen for peculiarities that certain brand of female, the horn-dog (or should that be bitch? Horn dog seems more the nomenclature for insatiably sexual male, with horn bitch being apropos the female, to extend the metaphor...). And, in the time I have lived in this abode, I can think of four, more likely five, but probably seven, if I really strained, women with whom he has followed-up his internetic mewling by going for drinks, or having them in, and then allowing the forking [sic] to begin.
Now, what should be my problem with this? A, I am a man, and, B, I have noted I am aiming to try to get past my antiquated and prejudicial (and not even from any fealty toward religion, as I am rather areligious, so even worse than most sexual tight-asses), so Gerard's conduct should not strike me as undesirable in any form, shape, or way.
But, it does.
Here is my problem:
He is slaying this gash, some of which has been attached to rather fine female corporeals (namely, the slender, taller (for a woman) blonde whom I saw exiting his room on a Friday morning about two months ago, and whom I never saw in the homestead again, as I prepared for work (I was tying my shoes)), and appears to be doing so with aplomb -- at least, gauging from the pants (almost caninic) of the most recent paramour (though this arrousal may be more her doing, as anything more than eating a sandwich (no, that is not a metaphor) could moisten her, and maybe the other women just weren't that taken by Gerard's thrusting and fingering) -- but without any finesse, subtlety, or (can I say) affection.
One example: the current fork-mate to whom Gerard has squired himself must have first been granted face-to-face privilege with the right honourable G. about three weeks ago. I walked into the abode around eleven-thirty PM, upon arrival from my second (part-time) and they sat in the living, G. in the la-z boy recliner (unreclined) and P. (as in paramour) on the couch to G.'s left, on the middle cushion. They were conversing -- and though I am a nosy, impersonal thug, I didn't snoop to conquer of what they may be speaking --, and in so doing, flirting (though I am not positive of this), and I let them be, only disturbing them one time more when I had to rush to the ground-floor half-bath to obtain the plunger. (While readying for Orpheus' entrance, I moved my bowel, proceeding to clog the toilet.) I clambered down the stairwell, excused myself, asked their permission to pass (such was granted, with surfeit), and having the plunger in hand, returned upstairs, to clear the commode.
That obligation completed, I returned to my boudoir, slid my pajama pants down, and began my ritual evening wank. I was interrupted though, as I heard the distinct marking of four clomps on the stairwell, but spaced apart enough so it was obvious it was not one individual leading another, the first's arm out-stretched and (more) formally, chivalrously squiring the other to a destination. No, it was more the slow walk to the private room at a brothel, after the client has chosen his playmate and provisioned the money. Such time is when the forking begins -- with it in, and out, nobody gets hurt (to borrow from Kevin Nealon, in an SNL sketch for '88, which had nothing to do with sex (I think, rather, it was a planning session for a bank robbery)).
This disturbs me. Even for my (gradual, almost molassic) change in consideration of an individual's sexual history being Good or Bad -- I would hold that by twenty-five, one's quarter-life crisis [sic] -- that, if male, fifteen partners (for any manner of vaginal, oral, and/or anal) should be the average had, and, if female, twenty-three to twenty-five (considering that, mostly, a woman should have had (due man's compulsion, weaker in some than others, but still there) a fair number of partners (and a few of those merely for one- or five-night-stands) for oral only, so a greater number overall -- it still turns my stomache the nonchalance with which some regard sex.
My point: I am a rom... I am not a romantic, nor a formalist, but, as with most things, I enjoy ceremony, ritual, structure. This is not to say I think that sex should only proceed from a wedding ceremony -- if my saying that fifteen and twenty-five partners, average, for men and women, respectively, by age twenty-five doesn't prove that, I don't know what will --, but, I don't cotton to the wanton in much of anything (at which I aim to try, and I aim to try at most things). Therefore, I am of the estimation that, even with ephemeral contacts from which spring relations sexual, there should be some measure of foreplay and pre-penetrative activity to quicken the pulse, slicken the to-be-affected areas, and slacken the posture. (To the last, rohypnol does not count. Partners should be receptive and conscious, not just holes to plug.)
Climbing a stairwell, something so rote, does not count for any of those.
In fact, to think of it, however disgustedly my grey matter reacts to doing so (some things, such as (in my frosh roommate's case) walking in on one's parent's freaking mid-day, and doing so (the child walking in on it) when one is fifteen years old should not be recollected), even the sex seemed rote. The thrust were there, the bed-spring squeaked, and the lady woofed, but otherwise...
It had all the appeal of anal in the toilet at a Castro District gay-disco. Just to get it in, and out, and (hopefully) nobody getting hurt. (Caveat "(hopefully)" added because it was such wanton sexuality in the seventies -- "getting off with three-to-five anonymous partners a night, for ten years", to quote Henry Rollins from his Think Tank talking disc -- that instigated the AIDS virus in the population at large, and which even to this day keeps history repeating in form of (much) less painful, but probably more displeasing (anyone for anal warts?), venereal disease.)
Somewhere along the line, then, but probably in the seventies, penetration became the new handshake. Not even a Lewinsky, something so vanilla [sic] as that, but honest-to-Got phallo-vaginal discourse. Seems a little much for somebody you've just met.
And, lest you play the hypocrite card (by default), thinking I must be prevaricating, I must have something similar in my past I am hiding, I say: I don't. The only time I ever, ever ever, was of the consideration that a first face-to-face encounter should beget sex was the first time I had a date. I was twenty (late-bloomer, yes) and home for my spring holiday from uni. I had been chatting away, via e-mail and AIM with a woman, let's call her "Mirela", on SparkMatch (Christian Rudder and Chris Coyne's first attempt at a gratis pimping service), for about a month. We seemed to be getting on quite well, on a pen-pal/friendship level at least, in writing -- as is almost always the case with me; I blow women's minds with my verbiage, and they get hot-and-bothered for me, but those who then agree to meet me in-person, for half-and-half flipping and chips, are quickly disabused of any interest (romantic, and lighter) in me for seeing my physical absurdity (morbidly obese, or so would have it be know one Ms Julie Bartlein (her name, I do not alter, for her bitchiness shall be rung out from every mountain-top)) and, at times, with either late-Elvis burns or Alexei Lalas style goatee -- and in late February (this is all occuring early '01) made plans to reconnoiter during my spring break, as I would be at my parents' homestead and she would be just around the way, as she attended Wisconsin Lutheran College.
So, on the Monday of spring holiday, we had an evening nosh at a south-side ("here we are now going to the..." -- fuck you, Moby!) all-night greasy-spoon, and seemed to continue to get on well, as our conversation was not stilted (even for my speech impediment and sometimes stutter), centering not on any nerves we were feeling for not feeling each other, such that we had come to know what monstrosity I was, but rather the recent Anger Management Tour (Eminemens, Limp Bizkit, Xzibit, Papa Roach) which Mirela had attended with friends from uni, parochial schooling, and what we had been reading.
All quite nice. In fact, I was quite arroused by her wit, as well her atraditional but still pleasant physicality.
My obner began heading south, though, as Mirela and I left. Toward the vestibule, we encountered the once (and future?) Ms Sam Keck and her best friend (whose name does not rhyme with Merlot), whom I happened to know, and Mirela knew the former, from having gone to uni with her for two years at WLC. The women chatted for a bit, and when it got time to Ms Keck asking from where Mirela knew me, the gal acknowledged, "We met on-line, at SparkMatch."
Oh, no.
My bubble burst. I did not need my desperation confirmed -- as though it wasn't already tacitly apparent -- to people I knew in high-school, and whom I would still see around, even for not being friends, when returned home for holidays and special events.
That said, I was still into Mirela, and as we departed, she said she could give me a brief auto-tour of the WLC campus before dropping me at my place of rest. Woe was me, but I thought this might have meant she'd take me up to her place, and we could fool for a bit.
(Hey. It was my first date, and I thought that is what happened on first dates. Probably I had seen too many romantic comedy, namely, ones with John Cusack, in my life.)
No such luck -- thankfully, I have to admit, since in retrospect I should have gotten to know the girl better anyway -- but, we agreed to rendezvous again, when I would be back for the summer (in late April/early May), and before she would be returning to Minnesota, to spend her summer with family.
(That said, when she emailed me again, around April 20, I never returned her note. Not for not having gotten to provide or receive a hand-job -- "oh, I wanna get to third base with you", quote Boris the Sprinkler -- but because my outre status, as having to stoop to pick up women via personals services, was starting to eat at me. Especially so, since people I knew now knew I did so.
But, of course, had I continued to pursue acquaintance, and maybe dating, with Mirela, assuredly I would have... I might not have laid pipe, since she was probably a bit virginal still (Wisconsin Synod, the most conservative Lutheran sect... ("let's talk about sects, baby")), but I would have spooned her, fingered her, massaged her... with a light touch.)
I suppose, then, to sum this all up... I am not trying to say I am a better person than Gerard -- certainly, though, he is a better man, by which I mean manlier -- nor that to be metro is the answer (I am certainly not; to wit, when I expressed recently to one of my cineplectic colleagues that I don't watch much tee-vee, but I have my favorites (Daily Show, SportsCenter, Trading Spaces), her eyes went agog, and she said, "Wow! I can't see you as a Trading Spaces watcher."), but I think I mean there is a way to put one's sting down without debasing oneself nor the partner (even when multiple over a short period, and when that multiplicity is not a factor of serial monagamy [sic]) toward whom such is done.
Man is animal, and sex -- moreso, reproduction -- is bestial, but man also has reason, and from that, we could make our sex less like that of bears and less of a cross to bear.
N.B. On the few subsequent dates I have had, and on the (rare) occasion when I encounter a fair female at Barnes n' Nobley or a cafe (I will never be one to be able to be relaxed enough in a bar-cafe or club to "work it" there) and my kavorka (sp?) takes effect, I have not gone from meeting to wanting to freak in sixty seconds.
Slow and steady wins the race.
But: more to come later, after my shift (2-11 PM) at the cineplex today even, about the Polish au paire met at Barnes n' Nobley (Nov '03), the Wauwatosan cum UW-Eau Claire and Beloit College alumna (Nov '01), and the hottest, sweetest cross runner from Pewaukee (Dec '01). Mmmkay?
np: Molotov -- "Nero"