the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Sex (Page 1 of 9)

Wild and Crazy Dating Stories


Conversation with my friend Craig, who I met in the street.

“Hey, Neil. How’s the online dating life?”

“It’s good. I’ve met some interesting women.”

“It must be wild. I’ve been reading the articles in the New York Times about all the crazy hookups on Tinder and sex with strangers?”

“That’s the media blowing things up to write salacious articles. They love to appeal to our fears about the internet.”

“I think it’s real. Did you see that video of the 89 year grandfather who fooled all these young women on Tinder? Their reactions will shock you!”

“That’s fake shit. A perfect example of the media using “hot topics” to get hits. I should know, I just wrote something titled “4 Lessons from My Month on Tinder,” which received more feedback than any post that I’ve written on my own personal blog this year. But the truth is, most people on these dating sites are just normal people looking for love.”

“Ha ha, yeah… you mean normal, single people wanting to bring their sexy back… with strangers! Come on, Neil, surely you must have encountered something wild so far?”

“Well, yesterday, I did get a Tinder offer to join a couple in a threesome.”

“Now, that’s more like it! What did you say?”

“I swiped no. I can barely handle one women. Who wants to also deal with her stupid husband?”

I thought when you said threesome, you meant two women.”

“No. It was a married couple. So far, no offers for threesomes with two women.”

“Anything else really wild and crazy?”

“Well, there was one woman who said that before we met for coffee she wanted to Skype.”

“Ooh, for sex talk?”

“No, quite the opposite. She gave me a third degree straight out of “Law and Order” – “Do you smoke? Do you drink? Do you use drugs? Do you ever play cards for money?” I started laughing, thinking she was joking, cleverly being ironic, but she wasn’t.”

“I asked you for a story that was wild and sexy, not crazy and sad.”

“Well, how about this – I found this interesting.  As I am swiping on Tinder – yes, no, yes, no – I come across a transgender person.”

“How did you know?”

“She said in the text under the photo. I am transgender.”


“And I know transgender issues are big now, with that terrific TV show, Transparent. And you know how I am all for LGBT rights, but when I actually encountered a transgender person on a dating site, it made me stop in my tracks. I felt a little hypocritical, because there was no way I was going to swipe right and say yes, no matter what she looked like. I’m just not ready for it on a personal level. I believe in it for society, but I’m not sure I am ready to overcome my own internal bias over what is “male” and what is “female.” I’m not sure I am ready to date someone who is transgender. I thought about writing about this in a blog post.”

“No way. Don’t write that blog post.”

“Why not?”

“Because it sounds like you are anti-transgender.”

“I’m not anti-transgender. I’m just being honest about confronting my own bias. Maybe in ten years I will be able to date a transgender person, but not now.”

“Don’t write the post. You still sound like you hate transgender people.”

“I don’t hate transgender people!”

“So, are you saying that if Bruce Jenner publicly says, I am a woman, operation and all, you still wouldn’t date him?”

“I wouldn’t date Bruce Jenner.”

“The Olympic champion? Someone who has been on the front of Wheaties?”

“I’m not interested in Bruce Jenner.”

“It’s almost un-American.”

“You would date Bruce Jenner?”

“Bruce Jenner – sure. If he is fully a woman. I mean, when I was growing up, there were two posters hanging in my bedroom — Farrah Fawcett Majors and Bruce Jenner. Enough said.”

“Anyway, online dating is interesting because it make you confront your own stereotypes, stuff that we are always so progressive about online but never have to actually confront. Do I like blonds or brunettes? Is she too fat or too skinny? Will I date a woman with three children? A black woman? An Arab woman?”

“You sound very judgmental.”

“I’m probably more open than a lot other people. One woman said she doesn’t date men outside of Manhattan, as if Queens is in another country!”

“So are there any definite NOs for you — other than transgender people? What about dating someone gay?”

“Why would I date someone gay?”

“I always thought you were bisexual.”

“Why would you think that? I’m not bisexual. I’m straight.”

“You’re always talking about Broadway musicals with your friend Danny. I thought you guys had something going on.”

“Danny is straight. He is married with two children. Just because we talk about Broadway musicals doesn’t mean that we are gay. That stereotype is so old.”

“Ok, I get it. The secret is safe with me.”

“But that reminds me of one funny story about gays on Tinder.”

“Ooh! Finally. As a supposed “humor” writer, you rarely tell any funny stories.”

“I told you about that article I wrote for that online magazine titled “4 Lessons From My Month on Tinder.”


“After I handed it in, the editor asked me to take a photo of someone swiping Tinder on a screen. I said sure, always up for a photographic challenge. So I took a photo of my own hand swiping the screen of my tablet. She said she liked the photo, but since her readership was mostly female, it would be better if the hand was a feminine one, and not one covered with strands of dark hair, inherited from my Eastern European grandparents. So, I went back to my photography studio (AKA the kitchen table), held my hand at a certain angle, and adjusted the lighting so my hand would appear more “lady-like.” I then went into the Tinder app and temporarily changed my preference from men looking for women to men looking for men. I wanted to create a photo of a woman swiping YES to a hunky man.  The photo came out perfectly, but in my zeal for the perfect shot, I accidentally swiped too far, so said YES to this man looking for love. I switched my preferences back to “looking for women,” but all day I was worried about this mysterious NYC gay man. What if he swipes yes back to me? What would I tell him? Would I have to apologize and say that I am not gay and swiped on him by accident? Would he believe me? Would he think I am trying to not hurt his feelings? Would he be disappointed if he found me very attractive and here I was – crushing his dreams? Luckily, and also rather sadly, I never heard from him, so apparently he didn’t feel the same way about me that I accidentally felt about him. Even though I am not gay, it stung to be rejected. I thought about writing about this in a blog post.”

“No. Don’t write about this either. Maybe you should just stay off your blog for awhile.”

Text Messages From a Long-Distance Relationship

Linguistics is the scientific study of human language.  Linguistics can be broadly broken into three categories or subfields of study: language form, language meaning, and language in context. The earliest known activities in descriptive linguistics have been attributed to Pāṇini around 500 BCE, with his analysis of Sanskrit in Ashtadhyayi.


Him: (typing into iPhone) “I’m sitting here in McDonald’s, thinking of you.”

Her: (typing into laptop, thousands of miles away) “Oh, yeah?”

Him: (typing into iPhone) “I’m thinking of that comment you made on that Huffington Post article about genetic modified foods. That was so intelligently stated. I wish others were as committed as you in wanting to save the planet.”

Her: (typing into laptop, thousands of miles away) “Why, thank you!  That is such an honor, coming from someone I respect so deeply. I love it when a man is confident enough to maintain such a well-regarded Pinterest board on kitchen utensils!”

Him:  “Where do you live again?”

Her:  “”

Him:  “Wow, that’s far away!”

Day Twenty-Six – THEY BOND

Him: (typing into iPhone) “I’m sitting here in McDonald’s, thinking of you.”

Her: (typing into laptop, thousands of miles away) “Oh, yeah?”

Him: “Why are you so far away?”

Her: “I know. I can’t stand it anymore.”

Him: “If you were here now, I would grab you, take you, and f**k you right on the table here in McDonald’s?”

Her: “Ooh, would there be fries with that?”

Him: “Absolutely. We would be f**king while I feed you fries, one at a time?”

Her: “And would there be a chocolate shake with this f**king?”

Him: “Absolutely. F**king with fries, f**king with a chocolate shake, f**king with two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, pickles, onions, on a sesame seed bun – everything!”

Her: “Ooh, that is so hot.”

Day One Hundred and One – THEY CARE

Him: (typing into iPhone) “I’m sitting here in McDonald’s, thinking of you.”

Her: (typing into laptop, thousands of miles away) “Oh, yeah? Wait a minute – why are you in McDonald’s again? Maybe you wouldn’t have to take those cholesterol pills your doctor gave you if you didn’t go to McDonald’s everyday!”

Day Two Hundred and Nineteen  – THEY MISCOMMUNICATE

Him: (typing into iPhone) “I’m sitting here in Chipotle, thinking of you.”

Her: (typing into laptop, thousands of miles away) “Oh, yeah?”

Him: “Why are you so far away?”

Her: “I know. I can’t stand it anymore.”

Him: “If you were here now, I would grab you, take you, and uh… MAKE LOVE to you right here on the table here in Chipotle. But first I would clean off the table.”

Her: “Thank you. Maybe next time, you can even bring a nice tablecloth.”

Him: “I did bring a tablecloth. 100% cotton. And I bought a candle too!”

Her: “How romantic!”

Him: “Let’s make love.”

Her: “I love when you say that.”

Him: “Make love?”

Her: “No, LOVE. I love when you say you LOVE me.”

Him: “Well, actually, I said, “MAKE LOVE,” not specifically “LOVE” as a solo word.

Her: “I love you, too. Are you asking me to marry you?”

Him: “Huh? What? Oh no, my battery is running out of my iPhone. I’ll have to speak with you later.”

Day Three Hundred and Twenty Eight – THEY ARE IN TROUBLE

Him: (typing into iPhone) “I’m sitting here in Souplantation, thinking of you.”

Her: (typing into laptop, thousands of miles away) “Oh, yeah?”

Him: “Why are you so far away?”

Her: “I know. I can’t stand it anymore.”

Him: “If you were here now, I would grab you, take you, and uh, uh… MAKE WHOOPIE with you right on the salad bar.”

Her: “Make Whoopie? What are you talking about?”

Him: “Making Whoopie? From the old Newlywed Game. Didn’t you ever see the old Newlywed Game?”

Her: “No.”

Him: “You’ve never seen the Newlywed Game?”

Her: “You’re older than me. That was before my time.”

Him: “I’m sure they show it in repeats, on the Game Show Network.”

Her: “I don’t want to watch the Newlywed Game. It sounds stupid.”

Him: “I loved that show. I used to watch it with my mother.”

Her: “Well, then maybe you should MAKE WHOOPIE with your mother.”

Him: “That’s gross.”

Her: “Besides, I probably wouldn’t even understand a show called the Newlywed Game, since apparently I’m never going to be a newlywed anytime soon.”

Him: “OK, that’s it. I’m making a decision here. No more of this long-distance thing. I’m packing up everything I own, and flying out there to live with you forever. With my mother.“

Her: “Huh? What? Oh no, my battery is running out of my iPhone. I’ll have to speak with you later.”

The Shoulder

The shoulder is the Mason-Dixon line of a woman’s body. North and South. To the North are her wide eyes and the gentle face, as innocent as a child’s. To the South lies the lusty flesh that is only seen in private, at night, when the soulful music plays.

I think about her naked shoulder, about the smooth curve. I am a man obsessed, who cannot focus on food, writing, or sleep.

She was in my bed that night, and I felt every inch of her electricity for hours. So why does my mind only focus on the shoulder — a utilitarian section of the woman’s body, hardly mysterious or sung about in song? Do I need to Google “shoulder fetish” this afternoon online?

In the morning, when I woke up, she was asleep. I was not alone in my sensation of early morning male ardor. The sun was there too, greedily forcing his way in through the slats of the Venetian blinds. The mighty sun broke through, his goal the same as mine. He went straight for her bare shoulder, like a pulsated arrow searching for the bulls-eye.

Several strands of hair covered our object of affection, teasing us both like the feathers of a burlesque dancer. I brushed her hair aside and kissed the soft nakedness of my favorite spot. I was confident that I could compete with the sun. She awoke, like Sleeping Beauty, and I bit her shoulder hard. I shifted my body towards her, blocking the rays of the sun from view, vanquishing my competitor. Her shoulder was now mine, alone, as was the roadmap to North and South.

I think about her shoulder all day and all night. I am a man obsessed, who cannot focus on food, writing, or sleep.

The Importance of Sentence Structure in the “Date Question”

In some ways, I know less about “dating” now than I did in high school.  I never dated in high school, so obviously, being young and stupid, I naturally assumed I understood it all.  Now, after years of experience going bra-shopping with Sophia at Target and forgetting to buy flowers on Valentine’s Day, I understand the ramifications and complexities of every life decision, which can paralyze even the strongest of men.

This was my Facebook status update earlier —

“If you were a separated woman who lived on my block, and I asked you to go to the movies, would you assume that I am asking you out on a “date,” and what would you think are my “motivations?” Won’t this act forever change our current relationship? Why the hell am I asking YOU?”

I received several interesting responses.  Thank you, Facebook “friends” — some of who I know absolutely nothing about, but love you anyway — for your honest responses.  I wish I could go on a date with you.  But frankly, I would be too worried that you would write about the disastrous date on your blog, so forget about it.

The Facebook response that intrigued me the most came from Marie Angell, a singer from Houston, who indicated that asking a woman out on a date is primarily — about language.  As a writer, I love to think about the meaning of words.   Writing is about words.  Recently, I wrote a post that everything online is merely words.

So why can’t dating be seen as simple and controllable as being about words?!

This is what Marie wrote —

“Is this a date to you? If so, then you should say something along the lines of: I’d love to take you out–would you like to go to a movie on <date 3 days hence>.

If you just want to hang out as friends (for …now), you can say: I’m in the mood for a movie. How about you?”

So, in a nutshell, if a guy starts a sentence with “I’d love to…” he wants to get into the woman’s pants.  But if he says, “I’m in the mood…” he is saying that he hasn’t seen “The King’s Speech” yet, but hates going to the movies by himself.

Now, it is all clear.

A Proof of the Existence of God

Many of you ask me about my religion, wondering if I truly adhere to the belief in an all powerful, all-knowing God.

Here’s what I think: None of us can truly know if God exists, but anyone who admires nature, must see that there is a Grand Organizer serving as the CEO of the Universe. Season come and go, babies are born; life is a perfect cycle, the ultimate musical symphony. Even the parts of life that make no rational sense at first do HAVE MEANING, once we devote ourselves to examining the mysteries. All you need to do is OPEN YOUR EYES.

Let’s take the idea behind aging. We get old and die. It is rather dumb idea. If you were going to create a MAN in your image, would you really go out of the way to make him start out as young and strong, and then, as then as he gets older and wiser, have his body and mind fall apart until he is just plain dead, lying in a hospital bed.

Makes no sense, right? This God should be fired, or at sued, like Toyota is being sued with their faulty accelerators on the Prius.

But hold on. Let’s approach it from another angle — a philosophical method — one operating under the assumption that God carefully and methodically plans life out with an organizer on his heavenly iPad.

This morning I took a walk outside. Summer is approaching in Los Angeles. The flowers are blooming. Women are walking around in tight t-shirts and shorts. I found myself attracted to several of these women. Some were young, some were older.

And what type of thoughts were flying through my head? Yes, the existence of God.

Here’s why —

When you are a man in your early twenties, you spend most of your time trying to get into the pants of a woman your age. All other women seem too old, unless you are a Mrs. Robinson type perv.

As you move into your latter twenties, you notice that your female friends are ALSO in their late twenties. It shocks you to realize that they are actually SEXIER now than women in their early twenties. What happened? They have more confidence, more life experience. Of course, you wouldn’t refuse to hop in the sack with a twenty-two year old, but your age range has expanded, creating more opportunities.

I know every man remembers the moment he turned thirty and opened his eyes, and said, “Holy shit, women in their thirties are f**king hot!” Ten years ago, these would seem like old women. Now they are in their prime. These women have lose their shyness, and it is not uncommon to hear a thirty-five year old woman telling a man on a first date, “How about after dinner we go back to my place, watch the last episode of Lost, and I’ll give you a blowjob you will never forget.” No woman in her twenties would ever say that. Of course, as a man, you are still attracted to women in their twenties. But now, in most cases, you are attracted to women in their twenties AND THIRTIES.

You see where this is going. This natural selection continues as the man ages, so by the time a man is in his eighties, he is interested in fucking every woman from 21-89. Without God lower his libido, can you imagine how difficult it would be for a 90 year old man to go outside without tripping over his erection and breaking his hip?

Luckily, God is merciful. Even with the lessening of the libido, there is a point in a man’s life when he is attracted to women his own age, his daughter’s age, his granddaughter’s age, AND HIS great-granddaughter’s age. The pain is just too much for anyone, and God, in his wisdom, allows him to die.

God exists.

A Master Class

Today is my mother’s birthday. This is her birthday card.

It was a windy and lonely October evening. I was in my bedroom, the overhead lamp flickering, as I IM-ed with Allison, a New Hampshire woman who wrote a knitting blog.

“Do you really want to do this?” I asked.


“What do you want me to do?”

“Go down on me. That really turns me on.”


I took a deep breathe. I was nervous. Although this wasn’t real sex, I felt the same sense of performance anxiety. I tried to visualize Allison in her bedroom. I wish I had bought a web-cam so I could at least see her face.

“Are you undressed already?” I inquired.

“Yes. I’m on my bed with my laptop next to me.”

I started typing, touching the keys gently, fearful of what my lustful emotion might bring forth, bursting from me like water from a broken dam.

“I’m kissing your thighs. I’m kissing you around. I’m uh…”

“Are you kissing my sweet spot?”

“Yes. I love your sweet spot. Can you feel me?”

“I can feel your tongue. It feels so good.”

Wow. Wow. Wow. This was more intense than I could ever imagine.

“I love doing this to you. I love feeling you move to my touch.” I quickly typed.

There was a long pause on the other side.

“I don’t know if I can type and take care of myself at the same time.”

“So don’t type,” I replied, always the gentleman. “Let me do all the work.”

“You’re amazing, Neil. Really.”

Just as I was about to dive back into this virtual reality, my mother knocked on my door.

“Neil, there’s a phone call for you in the kitchen.”

“Not now!” I shouted.

“It’s that producer from Los Angeles!”

“Oh, shit!”

I had been waiting all week for the call from this producer. Had he liked the first 30 pages? Is this a good sign that he is calling so late in the day? Or a bad one? I had to make a quick decision between business and pleasure. Art and commerce won out. I ran into the kitchen, where my mother was making dinner.

“Ed, how are you doing?” I said to the producer on the phone, trying to sound as confident and polished as possibly without letting on that I am in the middle of giving virtual oral sex to a blogger/knitter in New Hampshire. “Oh, you mean you DIDN’T like the first act?”

I could see frustration on the face of my eavesdropping mother.

“What didn’t he like about it?” she asked. “What does HE know?”

“SHHH…” I said to my mother. The last thing I needed was getting my mother involved in any drama. Besides, the producer didn’t know my mother was here. I had told him that I moved to New York to shack up with this hot Asian NY model I had met in a Santa Monica bar, not to live with my mother in Queens.

I continued to listen to the producer’s notes, most of them making very little sense.

“Well, I can rewrite that first act if you want?” I said, pasting on a fake smile. ” Uh, I don’t know. Do you really see Jake as a Ben Stiller-type? Oh, you do? I think it is a, uh, great idea. I love Ben Stiller!”

“I don’t like Ben Stiller at all,” said my mother, shaking her head. “Jerry Stiller, yes. But I saw Ben Stiller in that “museum” movie on HBO. That was terrible.”

“Ma!” I said, scolding my mother, before I realized I was still on the phone. “My God, Ed, I meant — that is a exceptionally good idea,” I continued on, stumbling with my tongue. “I’ll get to work on it right away. What? Notes? From Evelyn? Now?”

The producer wanted me to talk to his brainy development assistant for more notes. She was not very fond of me. Our relationship turned sour when she caught me looking down her blouse during a “story” meeting at the Polo Lounge. Now I had to endure her nasty, passive-aggressive notes. This could take another twenty minutes.

“OK, put her on. I’ll be back in a second.”

I rushed back into my bedroom. Allison was still online, texting furiously.

“Oh, Neil, I never felt like this before. You are F*CKING AMAZING! I feel so bad, so dirty, but so good. You know exactly how to reach me with your tongue, with your hands. I want to feel you inside of me.”

Apparently, I was quite a stud while I was away.

“Uh, I’m not sure I can type anymore either.” I wrote back. “I need to take care of something.”

“Yes, yes. Take care of yourself.” said Allison, the friendly knitting blogger from New Hampshire. “I know your big, hard man-thing needs care. Stop typing and take care of it. Make me feel like a woman. Oh yeah, that’s it. I feel it. Oh, I love it. I LOVE IT!!”

While this was doing wonders for my ego, I didn’t have the time. Hollywood was calling. My career was on the line, and Evelyn was on the phone. I made a mental note to myself have more virtual sex in the future, because, as evidenced by Allison’s reaction, I was much better at it than real sex.

I ran back into the kitchen. My mother was nearby, chopping up vegetables for a chicken soup.

“Do you know where I put the extra aluminum foil?” asked my mother.

I shrugged and my mother disappeared down the hallway. I picked up the phone.

“OK, Hi, Evelyn.” I said to the young Harvard grad, the type of woman who at college would walk right past me with her nose held high. “Sure, I want to hear you notes. Will it take long? I was busy uh, writing, and I don’t want to lose the momentum when the blood is flowing. Ten pages of notes? Oh, sure. Go ahead. Yes, yes, I heard. The main character. More Ben Stiller-like, right right….

I faked like I was jotting down notes.

Meanwhile, my mother discovered the aluminum foil on top of the drawer in my bedroom, where we stored various bulky and duplicate items, like the 24 rolls of toilet paper that I had recently bought at Walgreen’s.

As my mother was about to leave the room, the foil in her hand, she heard a beep from the laptop. Allison, the knitting blogger, was busy sending messages on IM. My mother walked over, as curious as Yenta the Matchmaker.

“I love the way you take me.” wrote Allison. “You are like an animal. You make me so wet and horny, Neil. I’m such a bad bad bad girl when I feel you inside me like this. Make me come like a wild beast. Do it, Neil. Do it!!!”

My mother wasn’t sure what to do. Her maternal instinct was to help her son. At least he was coming out of his shell and interacting with nice women other than Sophia.

“Perhaps I should take a message while he is out,” she thought.

She sat down and typed a message.

“Hi there, Allison. I just wanted to tell you that Neil had to take an important phone call from a movie producer in LA. He’ll be back with you in a few minutes. OK?”

After a brief pause, came her response.

“Who is this?” asked Allison.

“This is Neil’s mother. I was passing by when I saw your messages.”

“Jesus Christ! Neil’s mother! My god, this is the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to me. I promise, I never did this before. This is my first time ever. Oh my god!”

“Don’t worry about it? Are you and Neil going to date? Are you Jewish?”

“No, we’re not going to date. I’m married. I have a a year old baby.”

“So, why are you fooling around with Neil on the computer? What about your husband?”

“It’s a long story.”

“What’s the problem?”

“It’s just after the baby, things changed. With Russell”

“Yeah, that happens. That happened with me and Artie, too, after Neil was born. Neil was such a demanding baby!”

“Maybe it was my fault. I’ve always had a bit of a problem with sex. I don’t know, it’s hard for me to have an orgasm.”

“Is Neil really exciting you THAT much?”

“Not really. He’s OK. But I was faking it a bit cause he seems so insecure on Twitter. He does seem very nice and funny, but not really my type. A little too insecure. Why are nice guys always so insecure?”

“Have you tried exploring your own sexuality with a vibrator?”

“I bought one online, but I don’t know. Maybe I just don’t know what to do with it.”

“Which one do you have.”

“The RabbitX.”

“Oh, that is a good one. I hope you didn’t pay full price for it. I know where to get them on sale.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You have your vibrator nearby?

“It’s in the drawer.”

“Get it. I’ll give you some tips on how to use it! I think this will really help you with some of your problems. Then you can show your husband what to do.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Kramer. You’re really cool!”

A half hour later, back in the kitchen, I finished my conversation with Evelyn. I had a migraine and my head was spinning. Now I was going to change the sidekick into a black woman to make the screenplay “different.”

“Thanks for the notes…” I said, but Evelyn had hung up on me before I had the chance. I love Hollywood.

My mother had just returned to the kitchen, and was back working on her chicken soup. Living for a year, as an adult, with my mother, has been a difficult experience. I frequently feel ashamed when I tell people about it, and I wonder if they are laughing behind my back. But one positive outcome about living with your mother is — her chicken soup! She may not be hip or trendy or know anything about Twitter, but you can always depend on a mother to cook her son some soup! But I need to get out of here. Once I build my confidence again, off I go — back into the real world!

I returned to my bedroom. I immediately noticed that Allison was online, waiting for me. She was in a ecstatic mood, as if she had just seen the sun shining after years of darkness.

“You just gave me the best orgasm I ever had in my life” she wrote. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“I did?” I asked, a little surprised.

“That was like a master class in having an orgasm. How did you get so good?”

I sat up a little taller in my chair. I felt like a King. Maybe I SHOULD feel more confident about myself.

“Well, I’ve always been good doing research, from school. I’ve read a lot of pornographic books. Online videos. I learned. But who knows? Maybe it just comes naturally. Maybe being a great lover is all about genetics.”

“That I believe. Genetics. From now on, every time I have an orgasm, I will thank God for the Kramer family. See you, Neil. Gotta go. My husband just got home and I want to show him something!”

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Change of Fantasy

Hi, dear reader.  Today, I’d like to report a change in my typical male fantasy. You know, the one I have when I’m  sitting in McDonald’s or the supermarket or the subway and think about sex.  I have no idea what this change of fantasy means or why it has occurred in such a juncture of my life.  I seriously doubt that you will understand it, so don’t bother to analyze it unless you have an advanced degree in Neilology.

Let’s begin.  For many year, my male fantasy involved me being on the bottom, and the woman on top.  Why am I on the bottom?  Perhaps it insecurity?  Who knows?  My personal theory is that I am voyeuristic.  When I’m on the bottom during lovemaking, it is like a two-for-one-deal.  Not only do you get to fuck a woman, you get a free Las Vegas show.  The woman is like an exotic dancer.  You can check out her body as she moves.  You can watch her face, her breasts, her stomach.  I like this a lot, even though it means I usually have to wear my glasses during sex.

You also have your hands free. Woo-hoo!  I like to change things up with my hands.  Sometimes I like to grab her ass.  Sometimes, especially if a classical music station is on the radio, I imagine I am conducting the New York Philharmonic in Beethoven’s Symphony No. 3 (The Eroica – get it?) while she rides me.

This male fantasy served me well for many a year. Being on the bottom gave me the ultimate control, and the fantasy woman on top, who could be anyone from my wife, a blogger, a waitress at Denny’s, or Meryl Streep, was always satisfied with the way I took my time, extending the session like a Lakers game in overtime, until she was screaming out my name, along with assorted obscenities and pleas to do it again.

Yeah, those were the days.  Nice fantasies.

But something has changed in my fantasy life since the start of the summer. Is it the economy?  The Obama administration?  I have become more aggressive.  I am no longer conducting music with an imaginary baton in my hands.  I am ripping the clothes off her body, like some vicious gangster with no respect for woman.  Ripping off clothes?  This would make make wife laugh.  After schlepping to Macy’s with her, standing around for hours while she buys a t-shirt, and then paying for it with my Mastercard, the last thing I would ever do is go home and SHRED the t-shirt into tiny bits, reducing it into a designer rag to wipe the dust off of the television.  For me to rip off a woman’s t-shirt would mean a desire, a yearning, to expose her breasts and hungrily bite her nipples in the same way that a vampire needs to suck his victim’s blood.  That is not me.   Or is it?  How did this happen?  Am I angry?  How did I become so selfish in my fantasy life.  Why does she like it?  Why does she raise her knees so I can enter her wetness fully, teasing my cock while we kiss.

What makes this fantasy so odd is that it doesn’t seem violent at all.  We levitate into the air as we fuck, as if we were in outer space, with zero gravity, so the intensity is counter-balanced by the floating, and the anger fades, and we both feel as light as feathers, objects without weight, carefree and beautiful as a warm summer breeze.

Feminists Ruin Everything


It’s one thing to have a woman run for President, or become a CEO, but enough is enough.  It’s not fair.  You keep on infringing on our territory, without giving us anywhere to go.  You can wear a dress.  You can wear pants.  We can wear pants.  Can we wear a dress?   Of course not!   We would be mocked by you!   You don’t even like us to cry.

It used to be that our penis made us unique.  But like Delilah, you feminists will do anything to further your cause in destroying the men you hate so much, slowly pushing us towards the end of the cliff.   First you start using all these exotic vibrators, making us irrelevant in the bedroom.  Seriously, how can we compete with an electrical object made in Japan?  They are like a Sony TV or a Honda Civic — they never break!


And seriously, how many men do you know with a nine inch erect penis?    We see the disappointment on your face when we undress.  We do.

Next, you infiltrated one of our special male clubs — the “peeing” standing up club.   What evil feminist invented the P-Mate, Female Freedom?  God should strike you down.


I’m sure some of you have sons.  Do you remember that look on your son’s face the first time he held his dick in his hand and pissed on your flowers in the backyard.  Pure glee.  Power!  The greatest day of his life.  I remember that day better than my bar mitzvah and wedding.  That’s when I really became a man.   Peeing standing up is for MEN!  Some things should not change.  I believe in equal rights.  I believe gay men should be married.  But c’mon, women, we STAND when we pee.  You don’t.


Yesterday, events took a turn for the worse.  I was beginning to accept these new gender roles.  I am a liberal thinker, and secure in my manliness.  I can live in a world with a woman president who uses a vibrator at night and pees standing up.   But this —


The Smart Memory Bra by Lisca lingerie senses a woman’s arousal through her body’s heat, then squeezes her boobs together accordingly.  The integrated memory foam bra reshapes under the influence of heat to enhance cleavage, so when she becomes excited, her larger breasts will indicate to others that she is horny.

What is this?  It is a publicly visible female hard-on!  Is this really necessary?   We enjoy your mystery.   We don’t want to see your breasts tell us that you are horny.   Stop it women.  This is the one male thing left to us that you should not steal — our overtly visual sign of arousal.


What Would Jesus Rodriguez, Moralistic Web Developer Geek, Do?

Dear Jesus Rodriguez, Moralistic Web Developer Geek,

I have a dilemma that only you can help me with.  Last night, I was in the bed of a beautiful brunette.  She had invited me there, eager for carnal pleasure.  Our lips were together all night, biting and kissing.  I could feel her wetness with my hand.   She stroked my manhood and whispered into my ear, “I want to feel you inside me.” I had never been more sexually excited in all my life.  All I wanted to do was to make love to this goddess of passion.

But then, the damn guilt set in.   There was a moral dilemma that weighed on my shoulders.  Here she was — a woman with the most sensual body, only twenty-five years old, so full of life, when I glanced over at the calendar hanging over her desk.

It was 1989.

I had to tell her the truth.

“I travelled here in my time machine,” I told her as I felt her perfect breasts.  “I come from 2009.  In the future, we are good friends.  You are mommyblogger married to a wonderful husband.  You have three wonderful children.  After a year of torment and lust, I figured the only way that I could ever sleep with you was to spend the last year downloading the specs to a time machine onto my iphone, and then building it in my mother’s kitchen.”

“What’s an iphone?” she asked.

“Never mind.  You’ll read about it on Twitter.”

“And you live with your MOTHER?”

“Let’s not get into that now.   Time is of the essence”

“So you mean you’re not just an older man who I met in a bar, who wants to teach me everything about sex, but a computer friend from the future who was so desperate to f*ck me, he spent a year building a time machine, just so he can travel back to 1989 just to get into my pants?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Well, shit.  How can I NOT f*ck you?!”  she said, as she climbed on top of me.  “No one has ever done THAT for me!  Usually they just buy some flowers at Trader Joe’s”

“Wait!” I said, still torn over the moral dilemma.  “But is this right?   Your future husband is a cool guy.  Your children are a delight.  You post photos of them online.”

“I post photos of my children online for everyone to see?  Isn’t that irresponsible?”

“Yeah, but you make money from exploiting them on the blog.”

“Oh, OK,” she said, relieved.

“So what do you think I should do?” I asked.   ” Have sex with you, fulfilling my ultimate fantasy, or just returning back to the future frustrated?”

The woman pondered for a moment.

“Sometimes, when I have a moral dilemma, I ask myself, “What Would Jesus do?”   But then again, I doubt Jesus ever had to deal with issues of time traveling to get laid.”

“Well, first of all I’m Jewish.”

“Really?  I’ve never had sex with someone Jewish!  Do we need to say a prayer or something first?”

“But wait!”  I cried suddenly, with an idea.


” I DO know of a Jesus who CAN help.   Wait here in bed while I travel back to the future, go on Facebook and ask Jesus Rodriguez a question.”


“Avoid it.”

“The future seems really stupid.  By the way, if I have an orgasm with you, can we use the time machine to keep on back to that moment over and over again? — cause that would be nifty!”

Jesus Rodriguez, Moral Web Developer Geek, please help!

Should I have sex with the hot mother of three by going back in time and f**king her before she gets married?

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