The “Right” Time To Get Busy

The last time I found myself in this particular situation was during the presidency of George H.W. Bush, and I have no intention of ever being in this situation again. So I think I’m probably outside the target audience for this article. But hey, in the interests of Sex Day:

How long should you wait to have sex? Nearly 50 percent of straight couples in a new survey reported holding out one week to a month before getting it on with their partners.
What’s more, 21 percent of the couples waited up to two months and 10 percent waited up to half a year to have sex, according to the survey of 1,000 Americans and Europeans from DrEd.com. Only 18 percent of the men and women surveyed reported waiting less than a week to have sex.

Actually, I’m rather heartened by this study (here’s the original) — I thought the “can’t wait” number would be a lot higher these days. Although I’d like to see the age breakdown of the various responses, because I suspect that there’s a considerable difference thereby. Anyway, all the data is suspect because people lie like dogs when it comes to interviews about sex. What managed to arouse my ire, however, was this Clintonian paragraph:

“I know plenty of couples that did a bit of a courtship dance around sex and took the slow road,” he said. “They learned to appreciate each other, and they learned to enjoy kissing, touch, oral sex, and all of those activities that don’t get consumed by intercourse.”

For the last fucking time [sic]: oral sex is not part of the “courtship dance” — blowjobs are sex acts, despite Bill Clinton’s casual assertion that they aren’t.

And frankly, if oral sex isn’t “consumed by intercourse”, you’re not doing it correctly. That, or you’re doing it in parking lots or behind bus stops instead of in bed.

Or am I just being hopelessly old-fashioned about all this? (Wouldn’t be the first time.)

One Dozen

Some people were asked what they thought was the “magic number” of sex partners — more than X being too many, and less than X showing likely sexual inexperience.

The number X: twelve (or to be accurate: not X but XII).

My guess is that most of the respondents weren’t around in the 1970s. “Twelve” would have been an annual average, back then.

Here’s a totally gratuitous pic of a Seventies girl (Christina Lindberg), just to show what we guys had to deal with, temptation-wise, in those days:

Yeah, call me old-fashioned (take a number), but I love the clothes women wore back when I was in my late teens and early twenties.

 

Blast From His Past

The Dallas Stars hockey team just finished a woeful season — from second in the league the season before, to “no playoffs for you this year”. One of their star players is #19 Tyler Seguin, who used to play for the Boston Bruins a few years back. Which is where this pic comes from:

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No Change Necessary

Over at Britain’s Daily Mail newspaper, some bint is full of good advice for Brad Pitt:

Isn’t it time pampered man-baby Sad Dad Brad just grew up?

That’s the headline, and I’m not going to bore you with the rest because it’s basically just one of those everyday “let me tell you how to change your life for the better” articles from a female journalist — a breed not exactly renowned for their chastity, sobriety and responsible level-headedness themselves.

Of course, there’s always the standard manosphere response to twaddle like this, i.e. “I guess I missed the memo which gave you the right to tell me how to live my life”, but a far better response is instead a question: Why should Brad Pitt “grow up”?

Yeah, he’s a bad boy. Yeah, he has a pattern of self-destructive behavior. Yeah, he’s irresponsible. Yeah, he’s a social miscreant. Yeah, he’s this and yeah, he’s that.

Lest we forget, all that (coupled with an acting talent which makes most other actors green with envy, and which propelled him out of pretty-boy roles into big, solid, meaty, Oscar-winning performances) — all those flaws enabled this miserable “man-baby” to have sex with Jennifer Aniston and Angelina Jolie on consecutive nights. How many other men in the world can make that claim?

None. Because he’s Brad fucking Pitt, that’s why, and he doesn’t have to obey anybody’s rules or take advice from anyone. That said, here’s mine.

Brad, dude: if you read this, tell them all (including that stupid psychiatrist) to go and fuck themselves. I assume you’ve got enough money squirreled away that it doesn’t matter whether you ever work again, or not. (And even if you haven’t, you’ll still be able to make a truckload whenever you feel like it, e.g. Oceans 14 through 114.)

And you don’t have to see a shrink. Most shrinks are total girlymen (note their choice of profession), and they’re all just going to tell you what to do to make you more acceptable to the Sisterhood.

You don’t need the Sisterhood because as long as you live, you’ll have permanent access to another kind of sisterhood, the one that wants to rub warm oil all over your man-baby’s body before shagging you till your blue eyes cross. Yep; all over the world, there are a million beautiful women who will have sex with you on whatever terms you wish to make; and if you’re done with those, there are yet another million who would leave their boyfriends or husbands just for the chance to bounce on your Sealy Posturepedic with you.

Yeah, having sex with millions of willing women is a sad, shallow and meaningless existence. Brad, baby: lest we all forget, you tried doing the “responsible husband” schtick with Miss Crazier-Than-A-Sackful-Of Cats herself; how’s that working out for you?

Quit all that namby-pamby sculpture and building fires bullshit. Grab a bottle of Southern Comfort, fire up a joint and give a call to [insert the name of random hottie here]. You may hate yourself in the morning, but what the hell, you seem to hate yourself right now with all this “sad dad” crap anyway. So give it a shot.

In the words of the immortal Jeremy Clarkson: “What could possibly go wrong?”


Disclaimer: I have no actual proof that Brad bonked Jennifer and Angelina on consecutive nights, but let’s just go with the odds on this one. He’s Brad Pitt; who’s going to bet against him?

Faking It

More news from the Female Orgasm Front: apparently, eight out of ten British women fake their orgasms. (Men do too, just in smaller numbers.)

Don’t care. Besides, they’re Brits, ergo drunk most of the time, ergo probably can’t remember what happened anyway.

And in an unrelated development (via Insty again), some guy has invented a machine (called a “Yarlap” — priceless) which stimulates a woman’s pelvic floor and may help her have an orgasm.

Still don’t care. I thought that kegels were supposed to do this precise function, but apparently eight out of ten British women are either too drunk or too lazy to do even this most basic of exercises.

And just to add a little visual to this piece, here’s the pic (again) of Typical British Chick:

No man should.

Frankly, I’m surprised that more British men don’t fake their orgasms, just to escape their predicament.

Seeking Excuses

I have a theory that for many women, sex, or rather agreeing to have sex is difficult, and especially so for the first time with a new partner. How else to explain the fact that so many women admitted that their first time with a new man was generally experienced in an alcoholic haze? (For those who haven’t been keeping up, the source data is here.) So if confronting herself about her “slutty” behavior (even if the sluttiness is only in her own mind), a woman would like to have an excuse like “Oh, but I was drunk…” and thus can excuse away or justify the indiscretion. Or else, as the original study showed, women can even explain away the drunkenness as just a regular part of the dating process, so therefore it’s okay.

I also believe that this is why so many women have rape fantasies, because “Oh, he forced me to do it…” is likewise an expression that denies the woman’s [shameful] complicity in the act. (Of course, now that it’s become okay to accuse a previous partner with actual rape as part of the excuse, the whole thing has become considerably more sinister, especially as such accusations can take place months or years afterwards and still be considered valid by law enforcement. But for the sake of argument, let’s treat this scenario as but a blip on societal consciousness which will disappear at some point when women regain their sanity. We can only hope.) Certainly, this explains female submissiveness (outside a natural submissive personality anyway), which can be regarded (by women) as a kind of watered-down rape fantasy.

The only time, I think, when self-delusion disappears is when a woman encounters a universal object of female desire, such as a hunky actor or popular musician. Even then, there is a “safety in numbers” excuse — “OMG everybody is crazy about him!” — which makes it okay, or at least, provides a figleaf of an excuse for irresponsibility and sexual licentiousness. You only need a sliver of an excuse, and it will be acceptable, in other words.

I think men, on the whole, just go “Huh?” to all this, I suppose because there’s little societal censure in licentious sexual activity for men (yeah I know, double standards whatever). But I think we men need to understand this female need for self-justification (or -delusion) when it comes to sex, because how else can we otherwise explain that so many women seem to need booze to help them get it on, even with longtime partners and/or husbands?

It’s not just partner-sex which occasions such a mindset. I recall one woman tweeting (? I think) of her humiliation when her suitcases were searched in Customs, and her collection of travel vibrators and -dildos came to light. Equally astonishing was the number of women who commented with their own humiliations on similar occasions. (I didn’t take note of links or numbers because I read this before I got back into blogging, and didn’t think I’d need them. But I recall that the sympathizers numbered well into the thousands.) So the market came to the rescue in the comment thread, with many women extolling the virtues of Bergamo’s Cucumber Soothing Gel as a travel accessory, which seemed rather odd to me until I found a picture of said wonder-substance:

Of course it’s the product, and not the packaging which makes this so appealing to women — “It’s for my skin condition, Mr. TSA Agent!” — and thus is plausible deniability maintained.

You’re not fooling anyone, ladies… but hey, if it makes you feel better about yourselves (and gets us guys involved in the process, so to speak), then go for it.

“Hey, bartender!”