Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Sex (page 2 of 9)

The Planets Now Revolve Around Neptune

For the last four years, this blog has been all about my penis.  I’ve written about my penis, given voice to my penis, posted drawings of my penis, and emailed photos of my penis to most of my female readers, including that infamous 2008 Christmas card with the miniature mistletoe and the copy that read, “Let’s Make it a Happy Holiday — Kiss Me!” I have not discussed my penis here for my own amusement or whim. I am not selfish, crude, or misogynist.   As a people-person, I believed that I was giving my female readership what they wanted.   I respect women.   I just thought that women were ALL ABOUT the penis! Have I been wrong all along?

I’m sure my male readers will understand this logic.   A man lives in a world that revolves around his penis, much like the planets orbit around the sun.  So you can imagine the mind-blowing surprise that would come from learning that a woman’s world does NOT revolve around the man’s penis!  That is a major paradigm shift for a man, as if NASA scientists suddenly said that the planets now revolve around NEPTUNE!   In Galileo’s time, they burned people who dared speak this heresy.

On Friday, I wrote a little story about sex and senior citizens.  As a literary experiment, I wrote it from the POV of women.   I tried my hardest to capture the voices of women talking about sex, in case, one day, someone wants to hire me to write the screenplay to Sex in The City 5: The Retirement Years.

I asked a few of my online friends for an honest opinion on the post. I picked those bloggers who I knew would not be offended.   I went to my Google Reader and chose those women who seemed the sluttiest, kinkiest — women I imagined to once be hot-to-trot, easy-in-college girls, who now, despite being married with children, still think about having sex ALL THE TIME.  One of these women, the delighful MammaLoves, is a political consultant in Washington D.C., which I figured was a codename for “high price hooker for U.S. Senators (Democrats only – she has morals),” so I immediately asked her to read my post.

Her review:

There are good parts, but it’s a little stiff (no pun intended). The women would be more animated and less focused on penis. We like penises, but we don’t talk about them a bunch. We also don’t focus on them as the hot part of a man. We like chests and eyes and asses and legs. And we don’t write about ourselves as removed. Does that make sense? I like the concept, but here is room for much more humor. And you know humor.

Women don’t focus on our penises?!   Have I been blogging incorrectly all this time?!   No wonder this blog never makes those A-lists of “Best Blogs.”    Are you saying that you DON’T want photos of my penis in your inbox?!  I know women don’t date a man for money or status, because that would be wrong and superficial, so I thought it must be the Penis!   Are you saying that if I did push-ups and sit-ups, and developed my chest and abs, that this would be sexier to you than me undressing, taking you into the bathroom, and proving to you that I can pee into the toilet from a good six feet away, if I aim properly and have my “game” on?!   (note to men — the compass app on the iphone is the greatest tool ever to find the precise angle of impact)

After I unpack and get myself organized in New York, I need to start working on my new memoir that I recently pitched to the editors at Random House, “All the Clitorises I’ve Loved Before:   The Personal Journey of One Blogger’s Transformation from Penis-Centric to Vagina-Centric in the Few Months Before BlogHer (In Order to “Brand” Himself as More of a Giver than a Taker… Just In Case…)”

The Canasta Group of Boca Raton

My first observation when I moved into the retirement community at Century Village was the lack of men at the clubhouse. The ratio was 2-1.

“Where are all the men?” I asked.

“They’re dead,” said Rita, my blunt neighbor, a former buyer at Macy’s.

That made sense, as the women lived, on the average, for another seven-eight years after their husbands had passed.

My name is Birdie. Two years after moving to Boca Raton from Queens, my husband, Sam, a shoemaker and amateur trumpeter, collapsed as he was in line waiting to buy a 12-Pack of Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda at Publix. As his heart beat its last solo, Sam tightly gripped a can of his favorite soda in his wedding-ringed hand.

“Damn, and the soda was on sale!” he said as his soul floated to heaven.

Sam was a good man.

Today is my 76th birthday. In the morning, Rita drove me to the Bagel House on Glades Street. Rita always drove at 5 MPH, so it took us a half hour to go three blocks. Rita never learned to drive in Brooklyn, so after her husband, Donald, died of a stroke, she took driving lessons with an Israeli driving instructor named Tal, and after ten lessons, she knew how to navigate the roads, well… barely. Rita could drive to the Bagel House, to Publix, and to Walgreens, but she didn’t venture much further than one mile from the retirement village.

At the Bagel House, Rita and I met up with Eleanor and Sunny. We played canasta as the Century Village foursome known as the “Dorseters,” named that because we lived in the “Dorset section” of the complex. At the Bagel House, I ordered my favorite breakfast dish – pastrami and eggs, with an everything bagel and cream cheese. Normally, I would order the non-fat cream cheese, but since it was my birthday, I felt that I should treat myself special.

After breakfast, we all returned to Rita’s apartment for our Wednesday afternoon canasta game. We were mid-way into the game, with Eleanor in the lead, the Stella Dora cookies almost gone, when we heard the sound of running water. Rita gave me a knowing glance.

“Should we?” asked Rita.

“No,” said Birdie. I have been brought up to say “no,” even when I didn’t know the meaning of the question. I especially said “no” to Rita when she asked a question. I love Rita, but our personalities are quite different, and I know that a question from Rita, a firecracker despite her two hip replacements, always meant trouble. This time, I understood Rita’s question, and what it entailed.

“What are you ladies talking about?” asked Sunny.

Rita beckoned to us, and we all gathered at the window, stepping behind the yellow couch, a wedding present from Rita’s in-laws, that Donald insisted that they take with them to Florida from their old apartment in South Philadelphia. Rita never was sure whether his reasons for shipping the couch were romantic and sentimental about their marriage, or his perennial nature as a momma’s boy, wanting to keep the memory of his mother alive with the couch.

“Oh my,” said Eleanor, as we all looked through Rita’s living room window into the shower stall of the adjacent apartment, Apartment D. The bathroom window in the other apartment was ajar. A young man — 30ish? — was taking a shower, unaware that his entire body was visible to whoever was in Rita’s living room. The young man had a broad chest and strong legs.

“Who is he?” asked Sunny.

Rita explained that he was the son of the woman who had just moved in, a snowbird renter, like many of the tenants. The son was visiting for the week. He was recently divorced.

Rita had already mentioned to me, in private, about the young man’s daily showers.

“You should come over and take a peek.” she said.

I told Rita that I wasn’t a sleazy voyeur… like her.

“I’m a grandmother!” I said, tossing my white hair like an ancient supermodel.

Twice, during the last week, I ran into the young man while walking the Dorset corridor, as I made my way to the laundry room. When I passed him by, I felt a sadness surrounding him. He nodded, but never spoke.

“Every afternoon, like clockwork, he takes a shower.” Rita told the other women, sounding as if she was one of those retired women who become a docent at the Bronx Zoo, volunteering just to get out of the house. “A very interesting shower.”

It was a beautiful South Florida day. Rita, Eleanor, Sunny, and I peered through the slats of Rita’s blinds, gazing at the naked young man taking a shower, the steamy stream of water hitting his body as he pleasured himself.

“When a man strokes his c*ck with his right hand like that, does that mean he is right handed?” Eleanor asked.

The women laughed at Eleanor, a retired second grade teacher with a New York accent. They never expected her to say the word “c*ck.”

“Donald used his left hand.” said Rita. “Although, sometimes he used his right hand. He was ambidextrous.”

“Marvin used both hands at once.” said Sunny.

“Tiny Marvin used both hands?” asked Rita.

Sunny nodded.

“Tiny Marvin had a dick the size of a kosher salami. I just wish he had been a better kisser, God rest his soul. But he was blessed him with a penis to die for, so I guess you can’t have everything in life.”

I was very uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. I grew up in an Orthodox Jewish family, and my dear, but strict, mother always avoided talking to me about the birds and the bees. Sex was for procreation and was to remain hidden from sight and thought.

I wanted to say to my friends, “Maybe we should return to our canasta game…,” but my lips could not form the words and I was unable to move away from the window, as if a magnetic force was keeping me fixed in place.

I sighed, accepting the fact that I was enjoying the young man. He seemed lost in his own world, his masculine hand moving up and down over his hardness. Who was he thinking about? Was he making love to a stranger or his wife? A childhood sweetheart? A movie star? A chance encounter on the beach? Was he making love to the woman the way she liked it — first entering her slowly, then faster, than slower again, as their bodies became one? Could his lover taste his sweaty salty lips as their tongues intertwined in a passionate dance? Was the woman as wet and eager as I had been herself in my younger days, when I used to make love with Sam after Shabbat dinner, riding him on the easy chair in the living room until he came inside of me, and I muffled my own cry so as not to wake up the two sleeping kids.

The young man in the shower had long brown hair, was tanned, and his penis stood proudly, at full attention, reminding me of that old photo of my husband when he was dressed in his captain’s uniform on that Navy ship, saluting the American flag. Captain Sam Horowitz. So handsome.

“What a good-looking young man,” said Sunny about the naked man in the shower, as she fanned herself with a take-out menu of the local Chinese restaurant. She was diabetic and always hot, but now she was hot for another reason. I could see Sunny’s nipples harden. I was always jealous of Sunny’s full breasts, still womanly despite her age, not sagging like mine.

I was feeling dizzy and tried to pull herself away from the window for a second time.

“C’mon, ladies, we have a game to play. We’re too old to be…”

“Nonsense,” said Rita. “Last week, I went out with Seymour Miller to Ben’s Deli for dinner. We’re not too old to be enjoying men.”

“There’s a big difference about having a deli sandwich with Seymour and THIS!” I said, always the moral center of any group, always the party pooper.

“The deli sandwich was the appetizer.” replied Rita. “He spent the rest of the night eating out my p*ssy in his apartment.”

“Oy!” said Eleanor. “I mean… WOW!”

“Randall was always reluctant to do that because he thought my vagina smelled like fish,” said Sunny.

“Donald said the same thing!” said Rita. “Stupid men. When I told Seymour what Donald used to say, he laughed. “I just had herring for dinner at Ben’s, true? I love the taste of fish!”

“What’s Seymour’s phone number again?” joked Sunny.

“Eventually, the darling man exhausted himself with all his work and fell asleep right between my legs.” continued Rita. “All night, as he snored, I could feel his breath against me, like a warm ocean breeze against my most sensitive spot. It was such a tender and warm feeling.”

I had to hand it to Rita. She had a young spirit. I wondered what Sam would be thinking, watching from his Laz-e-boy chair in heaven — as four old women in their seventies transformed into peeping Tom-isinas, and acted like shameless hussies. Sam would probably be laughing. Drinking a Dr. Brown’s soda and laughing.

A month ago, I bought myself a vibrator online. When I received the vibrator in a plain brown wrap envelope, I was surprised at the shape. The large purple object seemed more like a sculpture at the Museum of Modern Art than a human penis. I never owned a vibrator before, although I had friends who swore by them. I decided to try this model after I read about it on my daughter’s “mommy blog.”

Lisa, my daughter, became upset when I once commented on her blog, so now I make believe that I never read it. The whole concept is foreign to me. Isn’t there privacy anymore? Do others really care about her baby’s poo?

“Who reads this anyway?” I once asked Lisa.

“A lot of people, Mom. You just won’t understand. I’m very very popular. I’m considered one of the top 10 influential mothers of 2008, according to Online Advertising Magazine. Mothers come to me for advice. I’m my own brand!”

“You’ve only been a mother for three years. What do you know about being a mother?”

“That is soooo typical of you. You can’t appreciate my accomplishments. Being a mother nowadays is a lot different than when YOU WERE A MOTHER. It’s much more complicated. It’s a juggling act — being a mother, being a businesswoman, being a role model for other women.”

I didn’t tell her daughter about the vibrator. Lisa would have said, “That’s gross.” I was also hurt when Lisa made the comment, “When YOU WERE A MOTHER,” as if I wasn’t a mother anymore. This was further proof that Lisa knows very little about being a mother. A mother is always a mother. She has so much to learn.

The young man in the shower groaned in a deep animalistic manner. His body flew back as he had his orgasm and the bottles of shampoo and conditioner, sitting on an unsteady shelf, fell on top of him, as if the bottles were pissed at him for coming too soon, before they had their own orgasms.

The women of the canasta group laughed at the comedy of the attack of the bottles, as the man covered his head for protection and his dick rocked side to side. The young man turned towards the window, hearing the giggles, and the four women — Birdie, Rita, Eleanor, and Sunny — jumped back like little girls, the blinds quickly closing in a click. The retirees ran back to the table, their hearts beating from all the excitement and drama.

“OK, whose turn is it?” asked Eleanor, the sensible school teacher, hoping to return everyone back to the canasta game. She picked up a pencil, out of instinct, as if she was about to take attendance.

But the class was not ready to go back to their studies.

“He’s certainly a good-looking young man.” said Sunny. “We should introduce him to one of the yoga instructors at the clubhouse.”

“Nice body,” said Rita, as she munched on a Stella Dora cookie.

I stood up, feeling nervous, as if I were about to make an important announcement, or a toast, or a commencement speech.

“I enjoyed giving Sam blowjobs in the morning,” I told the other members of the canasta group. “Last night, I used my new vibrator for the first time, and as it hummed inside of me, I thought about my husband. And the humming reminded me of his trumpet playing. And a little bit of his pacemaker. I miss him.”

“I’m sure he was in heaven, playing his trumpet, and missing you too. Probably playing with himself, if I know men,” said Rita.

“I hope so,” I replied. “Or at least having a good time up there with someone else. He deserves it. As long as he’s not f**king my late sister, Miriam. She was always stealing my boyfriends. What a bitch.”

The other women laughed again. It was turning into a memorable day. My phone rang. It was Lisa, making her obligatory Wednesday afternoon phone call/birthday call. I shut off the phone.

“I’ll speak to my daughter later.” she told the others. “Right now, I’m enjoying my birthday with my girlfriends.”

Lap Dancing and Science

A few days ago, some blogger made a joke about lap dances on Twitter, and it occurred to me that, despite my encyclopedic knowledge of trivia, I didn’t have a clear idea of what happens during a lap dance.   While I have never seen a lap dance in person, I have seen them in movies.  We’ve all seen the scenario — it is a bachelor party, and the groom’s buddies hire some sexy woman/graduate student to dance in some tight t-shirt, circling the soon-to-be-groom like a twirling dervish, an erotic symbol announcing the death of the man’s happy single life, one last hard-on before he settles into the wife-controlled world of domesticity.

But how does the lap dance work? Does the lap dancer just dance for one song?  Do the man get to pick the song from her CD collection?  After all, if I’m going to be the one turned on by the dancer, and she starts dancing to Milli Vanilli, it’s not going to work for me.   I want a song that I would find sexy.  And does she dance just for me?  What do my buddies do meanwhile — just sit around and laugh at me?  Does she ACTUALLY sit on my lap?   If I get into the music, can I dance WITH her?  Even better, can I sit HER on her in the chair while I dance for HER?   That could be fun, too.

Apparently, I need to go out more.

I would be a bad customer for a lap dance.  It took me three years to learn to hug bloggers.  I don’t want a strange woman sitting on my lap, unless I’m volunteering as Santa at the local hospital.

(note to self:  volunteer to be Santa at local hospital)

So, how does an uneducated man learn about lap dancing.  Well, leave it to Wikipedia to have an entire entry on lap dancing, telling me everything about the history of this age-old form of entertainment.

But there was one section of the article that really captured my imagination, because it contained some useful information —

In 2007, based on statistics from 18 dancers over 60 days, it was noted that female lap dancers earned the highest tips around the time of ovulation, during the most fertile period of their menstrual cycle, and the lowest tips during menstruation; the average difference in earning between these two times amounted to about $30 per hour.

Wow.  What a difference in tips!  That’s the equivalent of me going to Olive Garden two nights in a row, ordering the same soup and salad special, and tipping the first waitress $2 and the second waitress $35!  Clearly, there is something special going on during the woman’s “most fertile period of their menstrual cycle.”

I love science.  And I love applied science.  It got me thinking — what could I do with this important scientific news?  Immediately, it became obvious to me.  I’m frankly surprised that our greatest minds haven’t noticed it earlier —

Think about it.   Women are MOST LIKELY to be hornier and HAVE SEX with you during this fertile period.  No wonder these lap dancers are racking up the big bucks during this fertile period.  For most of the month, they are just faking it, dancing for some dopey guys.  But during this fertile period, the women are themselves as horny as the men, maybe even hotter.  On those special nights, if the groom looked anything like Brad Pitt, she might actually take him right there on the chair.  The men sense this, and are going crazy, throwing money to the wind.

So, imagine I work in an office.  I’m a single guy.  I like Susan in Marketing.  I want to ask her out on a date.  I also wouldn’t mind seeing her naked in my bed.  What is my best option to get her into my bed with the least possible effort on my part?

Science.

I find out the time of her period, I chart her cycle on a Excel sheet, focusing in on the day when she is the most fertile.  I make a date with her — on the exact day when she is the most fertile and horny as a wild cat.  I take her somewhere fancy, like Olive Garden, tell her some bullshit, like “your eyes are like emeralds,” and then open the car door for her on the way home.  Snap —  in like flint!  A half hour later, she’s riding me like Annie Oakley on her beloved chestnut Abyssinian!

It’s all because of science, math, and Excel.

One problem remains.  In order for the science to be accurate, I need to plot out her most fertile day, which means I need to know the exact days of her period.  This can be tricky, unless I rifle through her pocketbook or her waste-paper basket, looking for evidence.

Luckily, science comes to the rescue again, this time with the Mcclintock effect.

The McClintock effect, also known as menstrual synchrony or the dormitory effect, is a theory that proposes that the menstrual cycles of women who live together (such as in prisons, convents, bordellos, or dormitories) tend to become synchronized over time.  The phenomenon, sometimes referred to as the “social regulation of ovulation,” was first formally studied by psychologist Martha McClintock, who reported her findings in Nature in 1971.

This gives me a whole lot more opportunities to create points on my Excel chart.  Clearly, those working in an office together spend hours in an enclosed space.  Menstrual synchrony will sure take place amongst female employees.  So, if I notice that many of my female co-workers are excusing themselves to the bathroom on the same day, say the 25th of each month, I should be able to extrapolate to a fairly accurate degree the exact day when Susan would be most likely to do the nasty with me on our first date.

Although I majored in English in college and have always enjoyed the Humanities, I have a great respect for Science and Math.

Boys into Men

Back in August, Twenty Four at Heart published a post about male/female communication and sex. Most of those who commented were women, and they seemed to agree that men were crazed horndogs who thought about sex ALL the time. At the time, the comments bugged me. After all, most of these commenters were mothers of boys. How do these cute little boys become these sex maniacs? Is it genetics? Is it cultural? What is the mother’s role in all this?

I wrote this comment:

I think a few of your readers were confusing thinking and acting. I think you can be the most loving and loyal husband, a man who finds his wife the sexiest woman alive, and still thing about sex with the waitress serving the burger at the diner. This doesn’t mean that the man would have sex, or even WANT to if she actually came onto him. It just is. And frankly, if I think men were given as much freedom as women to express their emotions — cry, hug, say I love you to their friends — without seeming unmanly, they wouldn’t have to fall back on sexing up every encounter with a woman. Many men have no other way of expressing themselves.

Months later, I still remember this post. I used to think that I was different than other men, but I’m not. I also find it hard connecting with a woman without thinking of her naked at least once during the conversation.

The Sexy Email Exchange

Hi, this is Neil’s Talking Penis.  Remember when I used to post ALL the time on “Citizen of the Month?”  You haven’t heard from me in quite a while.   Why?   Well, frankly, there has been nothing to report.  Unlike Neilochka, who likes to hear himself talk, I only speak when I have something to say.

Another reason is that Neilochka has been infringing on my free speech.  He hated all the attention I got back in the good ol’ blogging days, when he was mostly known as “the guy who wrote the Talking Penis blog.”  Now he wants to be more “sophisticated,” like the classy bloggers who get book deals.  He doesn’t realize that the only freakin’ book deal that he’s ever gonna get is a book about ME!

Neurotic Jewish guy from New York — BORING! Seen it, done it, read it — snore!   But — Opinionated hard-on with a knowledge of the Kama Sutra, fine wines, and 80’s music? Now that is a best-seller!

Today, I have returned to the Blogosphere to complain about Neilochka.  He does not deserve to have me.  It is like serving the finest steak to an anorexic vegetarian.  It is like buying shoes for someone with no legs.  It is like writing a comment on Dooce’s blog, expecting one in return.

So, sit back, grab a Diet Coke, and let me tell my tale of how pathetic Neilochka can be:

Last week, Neilochka received an email from a nice, very attractive, intelligent, single girl in her thirties who lived in another part of the country.  She was a blogger who he had only read infrequently.  She knew about his frustrations living away from Sophia.  She also had her own frustrations.  She had recently broken up with her boyfriend.  In a polite manner, she suggested a remedy —

“…how would you like to send “sexy” emails to each other? Believe me, I have never done this before. I hope you are not offended. It would be fine if you said no. I just thought it would both do us some good… and it might be fun.”

Neilochka stared at the monitor for a long, long time.  He had never received an email like this, other than spam trying to sell him Viagra.  Neilochka has emailed and IM-ed with many female bloggers, but usually it about them complaining about their boyfriends and husbands, not wanting virtual sex talk.

Neilochka went to this girl’s blog and read a few posts. She seemed totally normal.

I screamed to Neilochka from inside his pants.

“Do it! Do it! For god’s sake, do it!  It is better than me sitting around her doing nothing but playing Sudoko with myself!”

Neilochka, as expected from a man who never takes action without mulling over it for ever, took forever to take a baby step.  He emailed the girl back.

“Hi, there!  Thanks for the email.  I am very flattered.  And it is very brave of you to be so assertive, especially for a woman.  I think it is really cool…”

And then he blabbed on some more, ass-kissing her and comparing her to what he loved so much about Sophia, exactly the wrong thing to be saying to a horny babe who obviously wants some sex talk.

She emailed back, saying that she loved his blog.  That was very clever on her part, as every guy loves to have his ego stroked.

But Neilochka, still with his head in his ass, emailed back, saying that he’s not sure he is the “right person to be doing this with.”

“I mean even though I’m separated, I’m still technically married, even though I am living apart, but I still…oh, I don’t know…”

After I bit Neilochka on the leg, he quickly changed his mind —

“Why not — let’s give it a shot!”

I did a little happy dance in his pants.

Now from my experience, women like a confident man in the bedroom.  It is like ballroom dancing — there are times where the man should lead.  Every romance novel has a man carrying his woman into the bedroom, sometimes even against her will.

“You brute!”

But then he kisses her, and she changes her mind, as quickly as Joe Lieberman changes political parties.

“Take me now, you hunk of manhood!”

Sadly, Neilochka is not that kind of man.  Ask Sophia.  Wait, forget that. Do NOT ask her.

Neilochka worries too much.  About making everyone happy.  If he was smart he would just worry about satisfying one person — me!

So, instead of Neilochka writing back —

“I am so hot thinking about you, I can’t wait any longer.  I want you.  I am ripping open your blouse – I don’t care how much it cost at Nordstrom — my hands NEED to explore your every curve…”

He wrote back a lame, flaccid message —

“So, what do we do now? Are there some… like… rules?”

You ever hear a Penis sigh like Charlie Brown.  Good Grief.

Neilochka waited for the return email.  She finally wrote back:

“Rules? Well, I am reading over the rulebook now, peering over the top of the book with my librarian glasses.”

Neilochka was impressed.  She used the word “peering” which is a cool word.  And he always had a thing for those sexy librarian types, who pull down their hair.  Neilochka decided he should show the girl that they were relating well —

“We have a lot in common! I wear glasses too!”

WTF?! A minute later, there was an email response.  The mood had changed.

“I just wanted to tell you, so you’re not disappointed later, but I really don’t wear glasses.”

Neilochka appreciated her honesty.

“That’s OK.  You have virtual glasses!  Cheaper that way.  Glasses are so expensive nowadays. Guess how much my glasses cost?”

Her response —

“$300?”

Neilochka’s response — (It was turning into a game show)

“No, almost $600. I have astigmatism so I had to get these superlight lenses from Germany.”

Neilochka and the girl exchanged a few more emails about the eyeglasses.

I was going crazy.

“Forget the optometry talk!  Talk about her tits.  Say you want to stick your face in her p***y!  She wants to get virtually f**ked, not talk about Lenscrafters!”

I tried to remind Neilochka to keep his eye on the prize, and not to let this unique opportunity fall off a loser’s cliff.

And then, IT HAPPENED.

It was 6PM. Neilochka’s mother called from the kitchen.

“Neil? You want dinner?”

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, at this point Neilochka sent this hot and horny girl the ultimate sex-killing email — a statement that should be written on his tombstone as a warning to future generations of men —

“My mother is calling me for dinner. Gotta go!”

“OK. Later!”

Three days passed until Neilochka remembered about the emails.  Three days!  Let me just repeat it to you to show you how pathetic this is — Some intelligent, hot babe WANTS to send horny emails back and forth with a man — even initiates it — and praises his lame-ass blog — and she tells him that HE TURNS HER ON — and he actually FORGETS about it for three days?!

You would think after this utter disaster that Neilochka would say “I’m sorry” TO ME?!  But no!

He thinks about the girl.

“Should I apologize to her?” he asks himself.  “It wasn’t that I wasn’t attracted to her.  Well, actually that WAS the problem.  I wasn’t really attracted to some person I hardly know. Maybe if we IM-ed for a couple of months –”

Oh yeah.  Cool Hand Neilochka.  Maybe if they IM-ed for a couple of months, and then exchanged photos, and then spoke on the phone, and then sent Christmas-Hanukkah cards, and then went to the movies a couple of times, and then watched “Dancing with the Stars” at night, laughing at Susan Lucci, and then kissed under the stars during a fireworks display–

Pathetic.

Yesterday, Neilochka emailed the girl.  They both laughed about the sexy email exchange.  They both thought it was their fault that it was so short-lived.  He did ask if she was wearing a bra, but that was as far as the sex-talk went.  She wasn’t.

And then, of course, Neil asked the most important question of all:

“If I don’t use your name, can I, uh… blog about this?”

Bad Dialogue

The “love scene” from my latest screenplay, a romance titled “The Secret Affair of the Mommyblogger”:

The couple meet in his car, which is parked outside the “other” suburban Bed, Bath, and Beyond – the one the neighbors DON’T go to, because there is no Chipotle next door. The are immediately all over each other, the passion intense.

She: “I think we should put on the breaks.”

He: “And I think we should shift gears.”

She: “And I think I need an oil change.”

He: “And I think you turned on my ignition.”

She: “And I think you’ve just opened my glove compartment.”

He: “And I think I feel your airbags.”

She: “And I think we should go hybrid.”

He: “And I think your cupholder is convenient.”

She: “And I think I need a lube job,”

He: “And I think I’m going zero to sixty.”

She: “And I think we’re stuck in a fender bender.”

He: “And I think I’m overheating because of the steep incline.”

She: “And I think your timing belt needs adjusting.”

He: “And I think it is my internal combustion.”

She: “And I think you’re not watching the road signs.”

He: “And I think I blew a gasket.”

She: “And I think you stalled before I reached my destination. Hand me the GPS and I’ll get there myself. Then I need to pick up the kids from day camp.”

Sex in the Male City (in honor of BlogHim ’08)

New York City may have nine million residents, but it is a small town when it comes to meeting available women.  Or at least so it seems when we go out on the town. 

At a half past ten, I was dressed to the nines and entering Maxwell’s, located on the corner of Right Now And Everyone Was There.  On a normal night, I would never make it within ten feet of the velvet rope, but ropes seem to jump by themselves with a friend like Robb.  He is what Glenn would call “a trifecta” — a high-profile attorney, one of the Manhattan’s most eligible bachelors according to New York Magazine, and currently representing the daughter of the biggest real estate developer on the Upper East side, in a nasty divorce case that makes it to Page Six as frequently as she has gotten DUIs in the Hamptons.

So, there we were, in Maxwell’s, four attractive single men, Robb -the lawyer, Jake – the ultra-successful financial analyst, who never said no to a nice pair of legs, but always dropped her as fast as a T-bill in his money market account, Glenn – the former ballplayer, now a sought-after commercial artist, the only man I ever met who had slept with seven different women in one week, but who secretly would throw everything away just to become a stay at home dad, and me – the under-employed writer, currently living with his nice Jewish mother.

I spent much of the night thinking about Atlas, and how he struggled to hold the world up, despite his powerful arms.  What does friendship really mean to me and my friends?  Are we like four Atlases?    Would we always be there to help each other hold up our own little worlds? 

Of course, our conversation in Maxwell’s revolved less about Greek Mythology then our favorite topic — male shoes and fashion.

“Hey, Neil, my main man, are those Dockers you’re wearing?”  asked Glenn, admiring the fit.

“F**k no,” I answered.  “I wouldn’t wear those piece of sh*t pants again after the Docker/Levi Strauss Company screwed me with that “free flight” that ruined my going to BlogHer.”

A gorgeous model sashayed by, catching our attention.  This was not just any model.  This was Ashley Maran, the latest cover model in Vogue.  Our conversation quickly turned to our second favorite conversation — the fairer sex.

“I’m breaking up with Annie,” said Robb, batting first, hitting us with a foul ball.

None of us were surprised, but we were a bit sad — we actually liked Annie.  She was a Mets fan.  So, we pressed him for more info.

“One of the reasons I was initially attracted to her was because she is a dentist.  I figured — a dentist, oral sex, a perfect match.   But she gave the worst blowjobs I ever had.  How can you explain that?  She even used her teeth!”

We all cringed in pain.

“Didn’t they teach her about this in dental school?”

We all agreed that this was a legitimate reason for dumping her like a third-rate draft pick, even if she did like the Mets.

Jake had oral problems of his own.  Jake had been dating a busty stock broker from Goldman Sachs, and apparently she was bullish on him going down on her.

“That’s all she wants.  Apparentlly, she can only have an orgasm through oral sex.   I mean she’s been going to therapy for years because of this.”

We all agree that Jake was practically a Mother Theresa for sticking around with this woman for longer than he ever has with anyone else — nearly three weeks.

“You know me, I’m eager to help out.” said Jake.  “I drive you guys to the airport whenever you need me.  But not driving my c*ck between her thighs is torture. ”

Jake looked like he was near tears.  Robb gave him a sympathetic hug.

“I can’t sit there for two hours with my tongue doing all the work,” Jake continued.  “I’ve lost ten pounds this month because my jaw hurts so much, I’m too tired to chew any food.”

After we all consoled Jake, It was now Glenn’s turn on the witness stand.

“I sometimes wish I could just settle down, have a child, and become a stay at home daddy.”

For years, I never understood Glenn’s fantasy of being a SAHD.  Here he was, a big success with a fancy Soho condo, women up the wazoo – and he wants to throw it all away?  For what?  For dirty diapers and daddy blogging?   But New York can do that to you.  It gets at you.  It wears you down.

“I just want to meet the right woman.”  said Glenn, sighing.  “But it feels as if the only women over thirty in New York are either taken, unable to commit, lesbian, or trans-gendered men.”

“What about Lisa?” asked Jake. 

For the last month, Glenn had been seeing Lisa, the cute V.P of this hip new internet marketing firm in Chelsea.

She’s very passionate, but a little too short.” said Glenn.

“Short?  What are you talking about?” asked Jake.

“Well, I mean she’s compact.  She’s 5’2″, and when we are in bed… and I’m a big guy, so… uh…”

“Are you saying your d*ck is too big for her p*ssy?” asked Robb.

Glenn nodded.

“Has this ever happened to any of you?” he asked.

“Of course” we all said, nodding, as if this was a frequent problem in our lives.

Finally, it was my time to be grilled, like salmon filet at Tavern on the Green.  I could feel the guys looking at me as closely as they would a brunette’s tight ass as she climbed on the Stairmaster at the Crunch Gym in Tribeca.

“What about you, Neil?” asked Robb.  “You’ve been awfully quiet tonight.  You getting any action in Queens?”

I think it was Isaac Bashevis Singer who said, “The best stories come out of the daily experiences of your own life.”  So, I took the writer’s advice.

“Well, I went to McDonald’s for a cup of coffee and as I was drinking it, I got a major hard-on.”

“Was the girl at the counter really hot?” asked Jake.

“No,” I said.  “I think they just added too much sugar.”

After a long, uncomfortable pause, Glenn changed the subject.

“Have you heard from Ms. Big?” asked Glenn.

The others looked at each other, concerned.  Was it too soon to bring up the name of Ms. Big?

“I IM-ed with Sophia last night.  She’s in LA.”

They all were eager to know what she said.

“Well, she sent me this message: 

 “You should start seeing someone there.” 

I said, “A woman?” 

She wrote back, “A man or a woman.” 

I answered, “A man or a woman?!  I don’t get it.  Are you saying I should start seeing someone — like going on a date?” 

She said, “No.  I meant you should start seeing a therapist in New York.””

My three friends laughed.  But it was OK.  I know that if I were Atlas, and had to hold up the world with my skinny arms, they would be at my side, helping me carry the weight.

Update:  BlogHim 08′ recap

xoxoxo

One aspect of blogging I enjoy is taking some random element and squeezing it until it runs dry.  Such is the case with my web-cam.  So, until I return to reality, let me continue living in a fantasy world until the weekend is over —

Ladies and Gentlemen — the last entry in the Web-cam trilogy:

Today, I chatted with Haley, a female blogger who I haven’t spoken in months.  Haley had moved across the country and had stopped blogging for awhile.

During our chat, we talked about her work and my writing.  She told me that she had been keeping up with my life through the blog.

Haley: “Why did you really buy that web-cam?”

I told her that Otir was using Seesmic (a video blogging app) and had been trying to get me to use it.

Haley: “No, really…?  We’re friends.  You can tell me.”

Neil: “That is the reason.”

The conversation continued on without any more mention of the web-cam.  I had a feeling that she didn’t believe me.

After chatting for a half hour longer, I told her that I had to go.  My mother and I were off to have dinner at the local Dominican diner.

Neil: “Take care.  Speak soon.”

Haley: “Bye!”

Neil: “xoxoxox”

I paused for a second.  That was the first time I had ever written that sign-off — xoxoxo.  I’ve seen others write it, but I’ve never seen a man do it.  It’s OK when woman says that to a man, but… I worried that I looked too forward.  I didn’t want it to seem as if I was hitting on her.  I figured it was time for some damage control wth Haley.

Neil: “That’s the first time I ever wrote xoxoxo.  I’ve seen others use it.  I’m experimenting with it.”

Haley: “LOL.”

Good, she LOL-ed.  She isn’t upset.

Haley: “xo”

xo?  I found that odd.  Why was she giving me an xo rather than the full xxxooo?

Neil: “Why just xo?”

Haley: “Huh?”

Neil: “I gave you xoxoxo, and you just said xo.  Are you mad at me?”

Haley: “No, of course not.  xo and xoxoxo mean the same thing.”

Neil: “I don’t think so.  xo is like a tiny peck on the cheek.  xoxoxox is more intimate — like we’re actually doing it.”

Haley: “Doing it?   You mean… like f**king?”

Neil: “I was just joking.”

Haley: “I don’t think you were.”

Neil: “I was joking.  I was making a literary analogy”

Haley: “I think you want to f**k me.”

Neil: “I don’t want to f**k you.  I don’t really know you.”

Haley: “Oh sure, but that wasn’t going to stop you from taking out your c**k to show me on your web-cam!”

Neil: “I was never going to do that.”

Haley: “Well, that’s because you ended up buying  a cheapo web-cam that doesn’t work.”

Neil: “The only reason I got the web-came was to debate politics with Otir on Seesmic.”

Haley: “So how many times have you shown your c**k to Otir on Seesmic?”

Neil: “She’s a married woman.  A religious woman.”

Haley: “So are you saying religious women can’t be sexy?  I believe in the Lord my Savior Jesus Christ and I’m very very sensual.”

Neil: “Really?”

Haley: “You want to see my tits on my web-cam?”

Neil: “My mother is calling.  We’re going out to the Dominican
Diner.”

Haley: “Your loss.  I have really nice tits.”

Neil: “Maybe later.  xoxoxo”

Haley: “xo”

Neil: “Hey, why just xo…?”

Yahoo Messenger:  Haley is now offline.

And she then blocked me.

Truth Quotient: 31%  (I did IM xoxoxo to Melissa from “the Daily Minute” today and she only returned a xo, Otir did ask me to try out Seesmic)

This Time, It’s For the Women

The big question on my mind after yesterday’s post was “What type of pornography do women like?”  After doing extensive research and interviewing several female bloggers on Facebook chat while offering unsuccessfully to show them my new “web-cam,” I now can present the results. 

The methology used was completely scientific, and included questions such as, “What do you fantasize about when you make love to your husband?” and “What visual stimuli gives you the most intense orgasm?”

A Critical Look at this Porno Clip

OK, I’m not going to lie.  I read about this website today that is called “a YouTube for pornography,” so I took a little “peek” to see what it was all about.  Believe it or not, I try to avoid pornography, not out of prudishness, but from a belief in feminism.  I was educated by intelligent teachers who taught me that pornography was anti-women, a patriarchal tool that turned capable women into mere sex objects.

I was sitting at my laptop watching Big Boob Woman and Muscle Chest Guy go at it on a kitchen table, doing it every way possible, including positions hat would require me to do a lot more exercise than the hula hoop on the wii-fit. The woman in the video was making so much noise that I turned down the speakers.  I didn’t want my Orthodox Jewish neighbors to think I was a freak.

During this bland sex scene, I had thoughts.  Not sexy thoughts.  Not thoughts about feminism and how women are objectified.  No.   I felt that the video was anti-MALE.

Let’s look at the female character.  It was only a clip, so I don’t really know how she met the guy, but – for argument’s sake — let’s go with the old story that he is a plumber coming over to fix her sink.  One thing leads to another and soon they are f**king on the kitchen counter.  Typical.   We’ve all seen it.   I’m sure this exact situation has happened to most of the mommybloggers who read this blog.

If you look at the woman during the sex, she is having the time of her life.  She is yelling at him to “do it harder,” throwing her head back and forth, and rolling around like an Energizer bunny. She is as demanding of him and his time, like a wife who wants to spend all Sunday shopping at the mall and buying shoes.

The guy seems unhappy, as if he isn’t even present.  He is a robotic Terminator of sex.

You can almost hear him say, “I must pound her.  I must pound her.  I must show no emotion.  I must pound her.  Harder.”

At some point during the sex, he turns her over, face down like a fried egg in the skillet.  I thought that during this brief intermission, their might be some conversation, or a joke told.  Nope.  The woman doesn’t even give the guy a “nice going” or some kind encouragement.  She just wants MORE!

He quickly goes back into robot mode. 

“I must pound her from the rear.  I must pound her from this rear.  It does not matter what side she is.  I must pound her again and again.”

While the woman seems in heaven from all the thrusting, the guy looks like he is stuck on a hot subway in August.  His face is as sour as a dill pickle. 

As I watched the video, I felt bad for the dude.  While he didn’t look very bright, he obviously spends a great deal of time at the gym, making his body buff.  He is proud of his body, but when he jumps out of his clothes in one quick swoop, she hardly looks at him.   If anything, she goes straight for his penis, the one muscle he didn’t work on in the gym.  Is that what we are to women?  A penis?

“I must pound her.  I must pound her.”

I wanted to reach into my laptop and comfort the fellow. 

“Relax, big guy.  It is noble of you to want to give this nice lady several orgasms before you finish fixing the water pipes, but why not enjoy it yourself?  I know what it is like to be a people pleaser, but sometimes you have to be a little selfish — to take care of yourself, too.  Who knows?  Maybe she might even enjoy seeing you having a little fun. It’s not all about her, you know?”

“Pound.   Pound.   Pound.’

My advice would fall on deaf ears.   The filmmakers want him to be a robot.  And the woman, despite being an educated woman (she wore glasses that she takes off early in the scene), is presented as self-absorbed and uncaring about the man’s pleasure.  She WANTS him to be a machine.  How else can you explain the constant cry for “Harder! Harder!” like she is a drill sergeant at Fort Bragg.

Men, let’s talk privately for a second.  Seriously, how many of us can make love to a woman for three hours straight, in fifteen different positions, without… you know… having to come…

Is it any wonder this guy looks like he is constipated.  He’s been pounding her for three hours, still waiting for her to have her fifth orgasm.  He is a SAINT!

Ladies, is this fair?  I have no idea why women complain about these types of pornographic films. The female character gets all the attention and has all the fun!  The man is practically her love slave.  He is expected to act like a soldier in combat, refusing to enjoy himself – just so he can bring the woman to sexual ecstasy and have her nearly pass out!

Sure, at the end, the guy comes too, but by then, he is so exhausted, numb, and out of it, I bet you he doesn’t know what is going on. 

“Uh, wait a minute.  Did I just come OR was that my foot falling asleep?”

And even after his orgasm, he still isn’t smiling.  Of course not.  He’s thinking, “Holy shit, tomorrow morning I have to f*ck this woman for another three hours!”

These movies do more harm to men than women.  These ridiculous lovemaking scenes screw up the minds of men.  Think about the messages being sent to your own sons, brothers, and husbands:

1)  You have to keep it up for three hours and never orgasm until the woman faints from intense pleasure.

2)  Every time you make love, you are expected to do it in several complicated standing positions which can give you knee problems later in life.

3)  Sex is not really sex without giving her oral sex for an hour, no matter how uncomfortable it is for those with weaker jaws.

4)  Lovemaking is all about getting the woman to come.  The man must never enjoy himself or smile.  The man’s role is to be a human sledgehammer and repeatedly hitting her in the correct spot, like those Whack-a-Mole games.

5)  And the most pathetic thing, is after all this work — and I mean hard, physical labor — the man isn’t even allowed to have his orgasm INSIDE the woman.  No, he has to quickly pull himself out, so he comes all over the place, ruining the good sheets he just bought at Target.   What the hell is that all about? Men like to have clean sheets too!

Seeing these porno films has made me lose interest in sex.  I  can understand why women want sex, but what man really wants to go through all that effort, especially when he has HBO? 

And god forbid, a guy has sex and doesn’t make it all the way through the three hour/twenty position love-fest!  He feels all guilty and inadequate.

“Oh, you were fine,” the woman says. 

Yeah, sure.  We know the truth.  You really want the robotic guy in the porno film.

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