the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Tag: humor (Page 2 of 3)

After Therapy

Neil:  Sophia, let me ask you something.  When I was with Pamela today (editor’s note:  this week I’m calling my therapist Pamela), I couldn’t help noticing that she had just shaved her legs, and she wasn’t wearing any stockings, and she was sitting with her legs crossed, so they were right in front of my face.

Sophia:  So what?

Neil:  Do you think she was hitting on me?

Sophia:  No.

Neil:   Do you think she was hitting on me as a TEST — a psychological test — to see how focused I was, or whether I could keep my concentration on my own issues?

Sophia:  No.

Neil:  It’s very intimate in there.  I’m telling her all these personal things. 

Sophia:  That’s why it is called therapy.  You’re paying her for that.

Neil:  So, she wasn’t hitting on me?

Sophia:  No.

Neil:   You’ve never thought about your therapist… in that way?

Sophia:  No.

Neil:  I don’t believe you.  You never felt anything for him?

Sophia:  No, it’s way too obvious.  It’s a cliche.   Falling for your therapist.

Neil:  I see… and you don’t do cliches. 

Sophia:  No.

Neil:  So, you don’t think about other men?

Sophia:  I didn’t say that.   I said falling for your therapist is a cliche.

Neil:  So, who do you think about?

Sophia:  Well… there’s the waiter at the Peruvian Restaurant.  He’s really good-looking.

Neil:  You’ve thought about the waiter at the Peruvian Restaurant?

Sophia:  Well, it’s not a cliche.

Neil:  So, are you insinuating that falling for your therapist means the person is… boring?

Sophia:  I never said that, either.

Neil:  You insinuated that.

Sophia:  You know, you should talk to your therapist about this.

A Year Ago On Citizen of the Month:   Won’t You Be My Neighbor?


(Typography pin-up girl by Taylor Lane)

Queen of Spain wrote a provocative piece today dispensing tips to women on giving oral sex to their men.  This is probably one of the most important issues in the world today, because I feel that if there was more oral sex in the world, there would be world peace.

As a prominent male blogger, I thought it was important to take a page from Erin’s book, and give my MALE readers important tips on pleasing a woman orally. 

Men have the harder job.  Women are built differently.  They are more complex.  The interesting stuff isn’t just hanging there, in full view.  That’s why, if a man can learn to please his woman orally, she will do ANYTHING FOR YOU.  The trouble is that most men do not have a clue on how to bring their woman to the point of no return, exclusively through oral technique.  Not every man has the experience and patience that I do in making his woman scream for more.

Neilochka’s Three Rules for Pleasing Her Orally

1)  Take a Shower

2)  Brush your Teeth

3)  Take her to the Cheesecake Factory and let her order the White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle Cheesecake.  It’s a whole less time-consuming pleasing her orally this way than spending all night with your face between her thighs   This way, it’s a guaranteed success!   Women absolutely love cake!  They appreciate it more when it is your suggestion to order the cake because it tells the woman that she looks perfect the way she is, and that you are not worried about her gaining weight.  That is a major turn-on.  You might even get a blow-job on the way home, and then you can just spend the rest of the night watching reruns of the Simpsons on TV.  Well, not me.  But maybe you.  

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  I Don’t Understand Women  (Nothing has changed!)

They Watch Desperate Housewives in Manila?


I am so glad that the producers of “Desperate Housewives” have apologized for the racial slur against Filipino medical professionals that was on the show’s first episode of this season.

In the season premiere that aired Sunday on ABC, Teri Hatcher’s character, Susan, goes in for a medical checkup and is shocked when the doctor suggests she may be going through menopause.

“Listen, Susan, I know for a lot of women the word ‘menopause'” has negative connotations. You hear ‘aging,’ ‘brittle bones,’ ‘loss of sexual desire,'” the gynecologist tells her.

“OK, before we go any further, can I check these diplomas? Just to make sure they aren’t, like, from some med school in the Philippines?” Susan fires back.

There was an uproar in the Philippines.

The TV episode even became an international incident, with reports on it topping Philippine news shows and drawing newspaper headlines as officials there registered their displeasure. Filipinos could judge the scene for themselves when it was posted on YouTube.

In Manila, Health Secretary Francisco Duque III said he was writing the producers of the show to seek an apology and note the country’s “vehement protest.” Senior cabinet member Eduardo Ermita told reporters that an apology should be sought “on behalf of our Filipino professionals.”

“The producers of ‘Desperate Housewives’ and ABC Studios offer our sincere apologies for any offense caused by the brief reference in the season premiere,” cable news channnel ANC quoted the statement as saying.

“There was no intent to disparage the integrity of any aspect of the medical community in the Philippines,” they said.

I immediate called my family doctor, Dr. Mark Guinoo, a 1985 graduate of Manila Medical School, to hear his reaction. He was stunned.

“When will the negative stereotypes ever end?” he said.

Dr. Guinoo has truly been a lifesaver to me. Last year, during a bout with pnemonia, he prescribed “Dr. Scholl’s Foot Lotion” for me, and three months later I was cured.


Sorry, Leese, for the mediocre gag! I owe you some Puto Bumbong for Christmas!

P.S. — Do you know who really deserves an apology? Women with menopause! Teri Hatcher’s character acted as if she had just gotten a death sentence when she heard the news.

P.P.S. — I will keep my comment promises!

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Donut Shop Redux

Mel Gibson Requests Meeting with Neilochka!


In a move that has taken Hollywood by surprise, Mel Gibson has requested a meeting with a Los Angeles-based blogger, Neil Kramer, the writer of the popular blog, “Citizen of the Month.”

In a public statement, Mr. Gibson stated:

“I am not a bigot. Hatred of any kind goes against my faith. I’m not just asking for forgiveness. I would like to take it one step further, and meet with leaders in the Jewish community, with whom I can have a one on one discussion to discern the appropriate path for healing.”

As a leader in the Jewish blogger community, Neilochka was at first stunned by this request.

“I’m not exactly sure what to say to him. I mean if he’s not a bigot, what’s really the point of meeting with Jews like me? I guess we can always talk about how much I liked “Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior””

Neilochka’s big concern was that if they meet at a restaurant, which of the two of them was actually going to pick up the tab.

“I already have a reputation on my blog for being a bit of a cheapskate, even using half-price coupons at ‘Chicago for Ribs’ with Sophia . I certainly don’t want him to think of this as a ‘Jewish’ thing.”

This would not be the first time Neilochka had some interaction with the famed movie star.

“When I was at USC Film School, I used to do script analysis over at Icon Productions, his film company. I once passed Mr. Gibson in the hall at the movie studio, but we never had an opportunity to talk or trade ethnic slurs.”

Neilochka suggested that the two former co-workers meet at Canter’s Jewish Deli in Los Angeles for their historic meeting.

“I think once he tastes their excellent corned beef sandwich, Mel’s whole attitude towards Jews will change for the better.”

After Mel Gibson’s anti-Semitic rants were recently made public, Neilochka was adamant that Hollywood should blacklist the actor because he’s an anti-Semite and a plain nasty person. However, on hearing about the upcoming meeting with Mr. Gibson, Neilochka’s resolve seemed to waver.

“I still find Mel Gibson a disgusting person. But just in case we hit it off, I’m bringing a copy of an old script to show him. It’s a buddy action/road movie about this gruff New York cop and this crazy rabbi who’s running from the mob. I call it… “Lethal Shlepin’.”

Sigmund Fraud


I have a situation. Perhaps you can help. I’m thinking of seeing a therapist to talk about my separation from Sophia, among other things. As you know, I’m a bit of a cheapskate. Even though Sophia and I pay about 800 dollars a month for health insurance out of our own pockets, my HMO will only pay for four sessions, with a co-payment of 35 dollars for each visit. Ater that, I will only be covered if the therapist insists that I have a serious psychiatric “condition” that requires extensive treatment.

While I’m hoping that I’m troubled enough to get my therapy paid for after the four sessions, I’m not a gambling man. I’d like to make sure of it, so since I know many are you are crazy, even certifiable, I figured you’d be the perfect people to ask.

Other than me actually talking to my penis in the therapist’s office during the first session, can you offer any other suggestions that will insure that my crappy HMO pays the bills?

A Year Ago in Citizen of the Month: Very Superstitious, Writing’s on the Wall

The Poetry Reading


I had just taken a shower tonight and was toweling off when I heard his voice.

Neil’s Penis: “Where are you going tonight?”

Neil: “I’m going to a poetry reading.”

Neil’s Penis: “Aha! So that’s why you bought that beret at Macy’s yesterday! Hot babe?”

Neil: “No. Just going for the poetry.”

Neil’s Penis: “You’re really into this poetry crap.”

Neil: “It’s interesting. It’s been a while since I’ve done anything literary.”

Neil’s Penis: “Hey, I’m a poet too —

A girl might like a guy with wit,
But she likes it better
When he can find her clit.”

Neil: “Penis, that’s very immature.”

Neil’s Penis: “Ooh, big poet with the beret thinks I’m immature.”

Neil: “Penis, we need to talk. I think this might be the last time we talk on this blog.”

Neil’s Penis: “What?!”

Neil: “I think it might be time to start making this blog a little more sophisticated. We have some poet-bloggers coming over here now, and they’re way classier than the perverts and crazy people who used to come to this blog.”

Neil’s Penis: “Those are your readers!”

Neil: “Eh.”

Neil’s Penis: “What about me? You need me. I’m your bread and butter!”

Neil: “I can handle this blog on my own.”

Neil’s Penis: “Yeah, you’ll be as good as Garfunkel after Paul Simon left.”

Neil: “Well, I’d like to try. I’m serious. This joke is getting old and a lot of people think this whole “talking penis” thing is very childish.”

Neil’s Penis: “They do not!”

Neil: “Listen, on Tuesday, I had coffee with Communicatrix at the Farmers’ Market.”

Neil’s Penis: “She’s really cool.”

Neil: “Yeah, but even she said she skips over all the dumb sex stuff here.”

Neil’s Penis: “Maybe she doesn’t want to fall under our sensual spell.”

Neil: “Penis, not every woman in the world is going to want us. You have to accept that.”

Neil’s Penis: “Yeah, right.”

Neil: “Just focus on the blog. Think of my religious readers. I’m making them sin just by reading this stuff.”

Neil’s Penis: “Ha, where have you been? Those religious babes are the kinkiest ones around! Remember that rabbi’s daughter.”

Neil: “Let me try this another way. Maybe it’s just time to be practical. Maybe it’s time for this blog to go mainstream…”

Neil’s Penis: “I see. So, you’re selling out. To the Man. The emasculating Man. Soon, there’s going to be ads all over the page. And no more “dirty” words. And you’re going to be using fancy words all the time instead, like onomatopoeia. And the only people on your blogroll will be NPR, the New York Times, and Dooce. Well, cock cock cock cock cock cock cock cock cock cock…”

Neil: “Stop it! Stop it!

Neil’s Penis: “OK, OK, I stopped.”

Neil: “If you thought about it for a second, you’d see that I’m right. What’s so wrong with wanting to better yourself? To climb the ladder of success. To wear a nice cotton turtleneck and brown tailored jacket. My hair trimmed and neat. A copy of David Sedaris under my arm. My beret on my head, tilted just so. Laughing heartily when my poet friend makes some inside joke about Baudelaire. Ah, yes, I read that in Harper’s last week! American Idol? What is that? — a euphemism for the Bush Administration’s idolization of Halliburton’s profits? Sophisticated humor.”

Neil’s Penis: “Neilochka, do what you want. If you want me out of the blog, I’ll do it.”

Neil: “That’s it? You’re giving in just like that? No more arguments?”

Neil’s Penis: “You’re the boss. The brains of the organization. The CEO of Neilochka. If you think you can “make it” out there alone, more power to you. ”

Neil: “That’s very gentlemanly of you, Penis.”

Neil’s Penis: “I care about you, Neilochka. I can see your point. You don’t want to go around the rest of your life known as “The Guy with the Talking Penis Blog.”

Neil: “Exactly. I went to college. Even grad school, for god’s sake.”

Neil’s Penis: “OK, fine. So, from now on, I guess the world will know this guy as “The Guy with the Talking Penis Blog.”

Neil: “Holy crap! Is it possible? This guy has a talking Penis, too?!”

Neil’s Penis: “What’s the big deal. If you don’t care…”

Neil: “How dare he! The son of a…”

My Penis chuckles.

Neil’s Penis: “Still going to that poetry reading?”

Neil: “Hell no!”

I tossed my beret onto the floor.

Neil: “We’re going back to the gym and lifting some weights. Both of us. We need to get into shape!”

Neil’s Penis: “I hear you, Neilochka! Cock fight! Cock fight!”

My Penis turns to the audience.

Neil’s Penis:

“Said Keats to Shelly on a warm summer’s eve
A truly great poet must always believe
As sure as a leaf will change in September
A man shalt always be a slave to his member.”

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: What I Had for Breakfast Today

David Sedaris Ruined My Blog


Most of my blogging friends think of me as a sophisticated bon vivant, a modern-day Oscar Wilde, known for his wit and clever wordplay.  So when a fellow blogger recently asked me for my opinion of David Sedaris, one of America’s best known humorists, I immediately said, “He’s excellent.”  This is not the first time that I’ve given someone my whole-hearted approval of a writer that I’ve never read, heard, or seen.   Have you read Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow?  It’s an amazing novel!  I never read it.

Today, I was driving past my local Barnes and Noble when I said to myself, “Maybe today’s a good day to finally read some David Sedaris.”  There were four reasons I decided to read him today:

1)  I have some socializing planned in the near future.  What if David Sedaris comes up in a conversation and I have to say something smart?

2)  I’m interested in impressing women, and I know women like it when a man is “sensitive” enough to enjoy reading a “gay writer.”

3)  I know David Sedaris writes essays, which are usually short and easy to read, so his writing won’t take too much time away from “Dancing with the Stars.”

4)  I could  read the book right in Barnes and Noble and save myself fifteen bucks!

I entered the bookstore and found David Sedaris right in the “Funny Gay Essayists” section.  There were a number of his books there, but I chose “Me Talk Pretty One Day,” mostly because the light green jacket cover matched the color of the Zen Green Tea that I had just bought at the in-store cafe.  I settled down at a table and started to read the book.

It was a mistake to read David Sedaris.

The first story, Go Carolina, was about Mr. Sedaris’ experience in his elementary school’s Speech Therapy Lab, which he was forced to attend because he lisped.

“Shit,” I said to myself, “He’s screwing up one of my stories that I was saving to put on my blog!”

When I was in elementary school, I lisped.  My friend, Rob, and I used to go visit Mr. Fox, the speech teacher.  We would repeat the same ridiculous statements over and over:

“Silly Sally sat by the seashore and something something something…”

Sucked Some Sailor’s Salami.  Or something like that.

When I went to sleepaway camp, I was nicknamed “Juice,” because at breakfast, I would lisp, “Please pass the juith.”  Even when the lisp disappeared (thanks to orthodontal work), I still was called “Juice.”  I loved my nickname.  Recently, I got an email from someone I haven’t seen since I was thirteen years old.  He went to camp with me and found me via my blog.   He is currently a therapist with two children.   He still called me “Juice.”

So what can I do with my lisping story now?  I certainly can’t write a blog post about my speech class.   I just know some jerk is going to write in the comments, “Hey, did you rip that idea off of David Sedaris?”  Or someone will send me an email, “What’s the matter, Neil?   So desperate for blog ideas that you’re stealing stuff hoping we don’t notice?  Well, I noticed!  And I’m taking your off my blogroll.  There’s no place for cheats and crooks on my site.  I’m disgusted with you.  I spit at my monitor — and at your second-rate blog.”

You can imagine how upset I was, sitting there in Barnes and Noble.   A great personal story, gone to waste.

I moved on to the second essay in the book, titled, “Giant Dream, Midget Abilities.”  In this essay, Sedaris’ father, a jazz aficionado, pushes his children into learning musical instruments.  David Sedaris is pushed into guitar lessons, but he isn’t very interested in the guitar.

“This Sedaris guy is a real bitch.” I said to myself.  “He’s screwing up another one of my great stories!”

When I  was a kid, my father pushed me (and my friend, Rob, again) into taking guitar lessons.  I found learning to play guitar incredibly boring.  My father kept on telling me that when I got to college, I would appreciate knowing to play the guitar.

“All the girls will gather around you in the dorm as you’re playing some beautiful song — and I promise you – they all will be falling in love with you.”

His image was more Peter, Paul, and Mary than Van Halen, but even so, as a twelve year old, I had little interest in girls “loving me.”  I quit my guitar lessons.  My guitar still sits in my room in Flushing, years later, leaning against the closet.

Giving up the guitar was probably the dumbest, stupidest thing I ever did in all my life.   In my Columbia College dorm, I had an ugly neighbor who used to have sex all the time with the most gorgeous girls, all because he would play Springsteen songs for them on his guitar, melting their hearts right into his bed.  I once tried to impress a sophomore girl by playing the “Theme from Star Wars” on my clarinet, but it just didn’t have the same effect.

I love my guitar story.  But now it is as good as dead.  Thank you, David Sedaris!    I know I could get in trouble with the gay community for saying this — but I hate your guts!

After reading this second story, I spit out my green tea and ran to the bookshelf.  My goal:  to skim through every essay that David  Sedaris has ever published.   My biggest fear as a writer is being told that “someone already wrote something exactly like you just did.”

Luckily, my next post is safe — a terrific autobiographical slice of life that really happened to me.  Thank God David Sedaris never wrote an essay about his experience going out to sea to kill a giant whale.  You’re going to love this story.

The Photo Shoot


Today, I finally played around with the free phone I got for being a Sprint Ambassador.  It’s a cool phone with a lot of options:  the ability to go online, to download music, and to watch TV.  It also has a decent camera.  I was going to take some photos, but I couldn’t figure out what to photograph.  I was going to put the phone away when I heard my Penis talking to me from inside my pants.

“Hey, I have an idea.  Let’s do some cockblogging.”


“You know, all those websites that women have where men send photos in of their erections.  Let’s take a photo of me.”

“And why on Earth would I want to do that?”

“Answer me this.  Have you ever looked at a photo of a naked woman online?”

“Uh,  sometimes.”

“Think of this as giving something back to the community.”

“I don’t think so.  I don’t enjoy the idea of plastering an image of my penis all over the blogosphere.  Especially since I’m supposedly looking for a job.”

“It might actually HELP you get a better job.  Employers like workers with initiative.”

“I don’t really really feel comfortable with this.”

“You say you’re a believer in feminism and women’s equality, but when women want to express their sexuality by looking at erect penises, you mock them.”

“I’m not mocking them.”

“Why don’t you just put them behind Burqas?  Move them all to Saudi Arabia, you hypocrite.”

“Penis, you’re really being manipulative with this argument.”

“As they say, if you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.”

“You’re totally out of line, Penis…”

“C’mon… do it for the women.  The lonely women.  The ones who will be home on Valentine’s Day without a boyfriend and all they have is your erect penis on the computer monitor.  Be a mensch.”

I started thinking about all my lonely Valentine’s Days, when the only one who sent me a card was my mother.

“Do you really think it will help brighten someone’s day?”

“Sure… sure…   and isn’t that what you’re all about…”

“I do like to make other people happy…”

“Then it’s settled…”

“OK, let’s try it and see what happens. ”

“Great, let’s get to work!”

“What’s the first step?”

“Do you still have that “Dancing with the Stars” on the Tivo?  The one with the very sexy dancer named Cheryl doing the rumba in that short skirt?”

“I think so.”

Four minutes later we were ready for the photo shoot.

We moved to the bedroom, where I attempted to frame the perfect shot.  I checked the light with an old light meter I had used in film school.

“Penis, could you just move over a little to the left… that’s it… good…good… Brilliant lighting.  It reminds me a little bit of the opening shot in “Rear Window””

“You do realize you’re setting things up to take the shot from the left side.  When I’m actually more photogenic on my right side.

“Well, I have to do it this way if I want the mirror in the shot.  There supposed to be a reflection.  Did you ever see Bergman’s “Wild Strawberries?””

“Are you an asshole?  I’m the one who’s going to be in the photo and I’m telling you that my right side is better!”

“Does it really matter which side I shoot you from?”

“Would you ask that of  Barbra Streisand?  On talk shows, they rearrange the furniture just for her. She even comes with her own special lighting equipment.”

“For a man’s dick, you’re a real prima donna.”

“I think you’re a little jealous that I’m the star here, and you’re just the crew.  Below-the-line, as they say in Hollywood.”

“I’m the photographer, jerk.  Like Ansel Adams, they remember the photographer, not the subject.”

“Oh yeah, so tell me, what were you thinking of naming this photograph?”

“How about something like… “Neil and his Cock?”

“You slimy backstabber.  I knew it!  It clearly should be named “The Cock and his Neil.””

“You’re my cock.  Why should you get top billing?”

“Oh, I see.  Now you want top billing?  Before you didn’t even want anyone to do this.  Now all of a sudden, you see the fame and fortune.   Very “All about Eve” of you.   I do the work and you take the money.  Welcome to the entertainment industry.”

“Listen, Penis, I don’t care what you say.  I’m not going to put my own name after my own cock.”

“Oh, Big Neilochka.  Now I see the real you.  You say you’re a nice guy, but you’re really a creep.  You want to play hard ball…”

“Calm down, Penis.”

“Who are you to tell me what to do?  I run things around here.”

“Actually you don’t.  I do.”


“You know, forget it.  This photo shoot is off!”

“Fuck you, Neilochka!”

“OK, Penis, go back to normal.”

“Ha Ha.  Sucker!  I’m staying up as long as I want.  Hard as a rock.”

“Go down, I insist.”

“Fuck you.  Fuck you.  Fuck you.”

“Look, if you’re not going to go down yourself, I can just –”

“Get your goddamn hand off me.  How rude.  You don’t touch me unless I agree to it.  Sometimes no means no.”

“OK, I’m sorry.  May I, please…?”


“OK, fine.  Then I’m going to take a cold shower.  That should work.”

‘No, it won’t.  Not if I don’t say so.”

“Oh, yes it will.”

“Ten bucks.”

“You’re on!”

As I headed to the shower, I could hear —

“Scarlett Johannson’s gorgeous ripe, delicious tits.  Imagine them in your face.  Sharon Stone slowly opening her thighs revealing the good stuff in Basic Instinct.  She’s calling you over.  “Neilochka, Neilochka, fuck me, fuck me.  Sophia in Madrid during the honeymoon, slowly taking off her clothes.”

“OK, shut up!  Shut up!”

I reached over for the telephone and dialed it.  Sophia answered.


“Sophia, it’s me.  I need you to come over right away.”

“I’m watching last week’s Celebrity Poker Showdown.”

“It’s an emergency.”

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s, uh, my cock… I need you to…”

“Gee, how romantic.  Good-bye.”

Click.  She hung up.

“OK, I give up.”

“Good — let’s go back to the shoot.”


“Ha Ha.  The Penis always wins.”

But I didn’t say I was going to take a GOOD SHOT.

Who’s the sucker now, Penis?!   You are!!   Loser!

Man 1    Penis 0


Just a Little Trim


There’s nothing as flattering as being thought of as someone knowledgeable, as someone whose opinion matters — particularly on issues of male-female relationships.  I’ve always harbored a secret desire to be a male "Dear Abby."  So, I fell out of my chair this morning when a reader asked my opinion of something quite unusual:

I have been waxing (or shaving I guess) the bikini area.  I haven’t been with someone since I started waxing everything off and I am wondering if upon finding this out… is a guy going to have a positive or negative reaction to it?   What do you think?  You can write about this on your blog.  It might be interesting to hear other people’s thoughts!


Thanks for the question, Sara, but I’m not a typical man.  After all, in my comments of my last post, I admitted that I would sleep with the 62 year old Stephanie Edwards. 

Other men might disagree with me, but I couldn’t care less whether you are shaved or not.  I mean the public hair is not made of steel wool and it certainly isn’t going to prevent me from getting to the good stuff.   In fact, I like the hair because it gives the man something more to play with.   What man doesn’t enjoy making braids with the woman’s public hair.  Why take away the fun? 

On that note, I should reveal that even I once shaved my pubic hair.

It all happened becuase one day, when I was in college, I noticed that my roommate, Wade, had shaved his. 

"What the hell did you do?" I asked.  "Are you trying out for the swim team?"

"Nah.  I read that it could make my weiner look bigger."

I shrugged, thinking he was an idiot.  Wade was constantly obsessing over his "weiner," which didn’t make much sense, since he had a beautiful girlfriend over at Barnard College, who obviously loved him despite whatever the "size" of his "weiner" was.

That night, Wade came home, all cheery.  He told me that his girlfriend, Becca, gave him oral sex.  She never wanted to do it before, because she was always repulsed by his pubic hair.

This quickly changed my opinion on this issue.   Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all?  After all, look what happened with Wade and Becca!

I began to give this shaving idea some more serious thought when I was invited out to dinner with Wade, Becca, and Becca’s hot roommate – Annette.   If Becca feels this way, maybe it’s the same with all Barnard girls.  As they say, when in Rome, do as Romans do.  When in a Barnard girl… maybe you need to get a trim.

A few hours before the big event, I went into the dorm bathroom with my scissors and my Gillette — and gave myself a lower body crew cut.

Later, at the restaurant, things were going terrific.  There was food and drink and music.   Wade and Becca were dancing.  Annette and I were at the table, hitting it off.   She said she was from Vermont.   She said she loved Charles Dickens.  

"So do I!" I said.

I said I love French movies.  

"So do I!" she said.

Things couldn’t be going better when, suddenly, it felt as if I was sprouting a five o’clock shadow around my groin.  I could actually feel the stubble rubbing against my underwear and it was itchy as hell.  I started squirming in my seat.

"Is there anything wrong?" asked Annette.

"Just moving to the music," I answered, and started singing along to Duran Duran.   "Uh, let’s dance…"

I grabbed Annette and we went off to dance.  Anything to keep moving.   I started dancing erratically, moving my legs this way and that, hoping the flowing air will give me some relief.  Some people stopped dancing just to watch my crazy steps.

"You are a wild dancer!"  said Annette.

Soon, I was totally exhausted from jumping all around.   Annette and I sat down again.   She seemed to be having a great time.

"You know, you’re really fun," she said.

"I like you, too."

I couldn’t believe I blurted that out.  But, she smiled at me.  Everything was OK.  Everything was great.  Annette was blushing and shyly turned away to watch another  table that was singing "Happy Birthday."

But then the itch resumed.   And it was worse than before.   I quickly slid down in my chair, so no one can see — and gave my itchy area a little scratching, hoping to relieve my agony.  Never was a scratch so necessary.   I just hoped that this wouldn’t ruin the evening, considering that Annette seemed to really like me. 

But then I noticed that Wade and Becca weren’t dancing anymore on the dance floor either.  In fact, they were standing right behind me.   Becca’s face looked in shock as she watched my hand on my groin, moving in an up-and-down motion under the table.

"Oh my god!," Becca said loudly.  "Wade’s roommate is masturbating under the table!"

I still can visualize Annette’s face as she turned around to face me.  Who knows if she even heard my explanation, or if the blaring sounds of "Hungry Like a Wolf" blocked out everything as she ran away from me.   I doubt she would have really understood what happened — why I had shaved my pubic hair. 

Let’s just say that things never worked out between us.

During that year in college, Wade got a lot of oral sex from Becca. 

I let my public hair grow back.  I’ve never touched it since. 


Blogging the Big Event

(AP Photo/Julie Jacobson)

A few years back, I was visiting New York when there was a big earthquake in Los Angeles.  Everyone in New York was saying how lucky I was to not be in LA, but I actually felt depressed.  There was finally a big Los Angeles communal event that everyone was invited too — and I missed out.  This feeling of missing out on a big event is not unusual.  I know someone who was out of New York during 9/11 — and has been pissed about this for years.  While most New Yorkers can tell you exactly what they were doing that day, my friend has the embarrassing distinction of being in a hotel room in Denver.  Does it really matter that he was watching the event on a TV in a Denver hotel rather than his Brooklyn apartment?  Apparently, it does.  He can’t tell others the story about "being there."

Things have only intensified with the growth of blogging.  As I was making my rounds of blog-reading today, I noticed that every New York blogger was weighing in with his opinion or experience with the big NYC transit strike.  As is usual now, traditional media has turned to bloggers for "eyewitness accounts" of events such as the transit strike, and have used blog posts in their newspapers.  In fact, I  recently reviewed a book for Blogebrity titled, 2005: Blogged (edited by Tim Worstall), which is a collection of blog posts commenting on the big news events of the year.

I’m jealous of all you New York bloggers who got mentioned in today’s news media because of your blogging about your experience walking from West 76th Street to West 67th Street.   A blogger knows that he only has one chance to strike gold.  Newspapers and TV shows have a deadline to make, and they can’t wait for procrastinating bloggers to perfect their "I was there" post on some news event.  No, it is the blogger that gets there first that gets the media mention.  An ambitious blogger needs to wake up 5AM every morning, and be ready and willing to write a post on any big event that occurs in their city.  You also need to write it fast, especially if you want to be the first one on Technorati with the story. 

My big problem is that I’m lazy.  I don’t like to wake up early.  I procrastinate.  I want the fame and media attention, but I don’t want to work for it.  So, I’ve taken a page from the traditional media in order to ensure that I will always be the first at bat with a hot story.  I will use a technique perfected for decades by obituary writers.  I will pre-write my important posts.  Do you really think that that the NY Times didn’t have their Ronald Reagan obituary ready for publication years before the president actually passed away?  

Despite my flu, today has been a very productive blogging day.  I’ve written about the next big earthquake in Los Angeles and how it brought me closer to my wacky neighbors.  I wrote a very amusing post about my 2006 New Year’s night out.  And 2007.  And 2008.  You are going to be amazed at what I saw at the amazing Opening Ceremonies at the Torino Olympics, and how proud I was to see that one free Iraqi bobsledder enter the stadium.  I especially enjoyed my post about waiting in line all night to be the first to see Daniel Craig as the new James Bond.  All of them are now ready in my draft mode.

Clever, huh?  Can you guess who is going to be first one listed in Technorati when the next LA earthquake hits?  Luckily, my mother is here, so I’ve been preparing her to be my plan B in case of any emergency during an earthquake, such as the power going out or my apartment building collapsing around me.  I will quickly call my mother in New York via cellphone and get her to publish the post for me.

"Mom, it’s easy.  Log in.  Yes, now go into WordPress, just like I showed you.  W-O-R-D-P-R-E-S-S.  Under Manage.  Under Drafts.  Blog… Mom… Blog, not Blodge.  Do you see where there is a post titled "The Big One."  No, not in the comments.  No, I’m not yelling. That’s just a loud aftershock.  Yes, in Posts.  Under Manage.  Mom, are you listening?  Mom, my apartment building is on fire and my upstairs neighbor just fell through the ceiling.  Please pay attention as I try to walk you through this.  I want to be first on Technorati with my personal account of the earthquake!" 

Maybe I should ask my Uncle Milton to be Plan B instead of my mother.

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