Safe Sex

Apparently, eligible bachelors are taking measures to have safe sex, just not quite in the manner you’d think:

Hamptons bachelors are getting vasectomies so gold-diggers can’t trap them

I bet it’s not just bachelors in the Hamptons, although the New York media, easily among the most parochial in the world, would like to think so. (I especially like the added wrinkle that they’re having their sperm frozen prior to the operation, so if they decide later to have children, it will be entirely their choice.)

Why would they resort to such extreme measures? From the article:

Child support is 17 percent of the father’s salary up to $400,000, after which the amount is at a judge’s discretion, according to Garr. For someone who makes $1 million a year, Garr estimates annual payments of $100,000 — a total of $2.1 million until the child turns 21. Meanwhile, a vasectomy is typically covered by insurance or costs $1,000 out of pocket.

If I were a healthy young bachelor, I’d do it too. (I did have it done, of course, only at age 42, long after I’d become a daddy. I just didn’t want to become a repeat offender.)

This was always going to be a possibility in the Battle of the Sexes, by the way, after that loony court decision which ruled that even an anonymous sperm donor could be held liable for child support. Predictably, after that, fertility clinics reported that the donor count had fallen to zero and the flow had dried up [sic].

And it’s not just for child support, either: if the woman is an illegal alien, a U.S.-born baby becomes a residence visa.

And if you think I’m being overly cynical about this, please read the horrifying experience one guy encountered (also from the article):

[He] doesn’t want a repeat of last summer, when a woman he met at a party tried to pull a fast one after sex.
She offered to dispose of the used condom, but when she was in the bathroom for a while, John got suspicious. He found the woman seated on the toilet and inserting his semen inside of her.

Now that’s cynical.

Bird & Bees

For no reason at all, I’m declaring today to be “Sex Day” on this here back porch of mine. Yes, what the hell: the entire Zeitgeist and its acolytes the media seem to have declared every day to be about sex, vid.:

So why should I not follow this trend for just one day at least?

In any event, it’s got to be more interesting than talking about Nancy Pelosi, Chuck Schumer and those other tools. Oh, and by the way, speaking of tools: No-Class Michelle Obama dresses like a slut when visiting a cathedral in Italy. I know that this last bit has nothing to do with sex per se, but it’s all part of the coarsening of society, innit? More articles and thoughts on sex below… if you can stand it.

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:

Read more

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?