Eye Of The Beholder

So this Paris-based fitness blogger (no, I don’t know what that is either) decided to give us two views of herself — as men might see her and as she does. Here’s the object in question:

Here’s what I see: a reasonably-pretty woman, decent boobage (the bra doesn’t help), with the bandy legs and slightly large nose of the typical Parisienne. In a stone-cold sober state, I’d rank her somewhat above average: about a 7, maybe a 7.5 if she cleans up nicely. If she has a sexy walk or carries herself with confidence, she’s a definite 8, and I’d wager that most men would happily ask her out on a date.

Here, however, is the comparison she draws:

Good grief. This just goes to prove that there’s no fiercer critic of a woman’s body than the owner thereof.

Suddenly, she’s a lot less attractive. Ladies, take note: self-hatred is not sexy.

And if Miss Aubery is just doing this to attract attention to herself — what’s known today, cruelly, as “attention-whoring” — to build up her self-esteem, then that’s even less attractive.

Bonking By The Numbers

It seems like most Americans are fairly conservative in their attitudes towards sex, at least, according to this survey (found here).

As Longtime Readers know, I tend to look at most surveys with a jaundiced eye, and towards sexual surveys with even more cynicism, because a.) people who are prepared to answer surveys about sex don’t mind talking about it and are therefore more likely to be sexually liberal (as opposed to the many who think that some stranger asking about their sex lives requires showing them the door, with a shotgun as a persuader); and b.) because people lie like Democrats about their sex lives anyway.

All that said, this was a fairly large sample (which can eliminate much of the nonsense above) and I was somewhat gratified to see little nuggets such as the percentage of people who had sex parties / group sex (less than 10% — although I should point out that in a nation of about two hundred million adults, that’s still nearly twenty million swingers, most of whom, I suspect, are of the coastal habitat).

I liked the fact that among Americans, our sex lives involve innocent things like wearing sexy lingerie (75% of women) and lifetime masturbation and “ordinary” sex rated at 80%. (I suspect that if we took out the sexually-indifferent, e.g. married Jewish women, feministicals and several ex-wives of my acquaintance, the latter percentage would probably be a lot higher. [humorous stereotype alert])

I’m not going to go into more detail, because this is a family website* and you can read the salacious details for yourselves. Instead, let’s just look at something related to the topic, i.e. Claudia Cardinale:


*I’m kidding. Maybe the Corleone Family.

Good Question

This had me howling:

I remember once having a conversation in a staff cafeteria with a woman who stated without embarrassment that she had a 54-point checklist that she applied towards any guy who wanted to date her. One of the guys at the table (and no, it wasn’t me) asked her pointedly: “And what do you bring to the party?”

As she was not particularly attractive, she had nothing to say other than, “My intelligence and good conversation.”

Afterwards, another of the guys said, “She doesn’t even have those,” amid murmurs of agreement.

Ladies: you need to do a clinical self-assessment of why any man would want to date you, before you draw up your list of desirable attributes in a mate.

Another Possibility

Talking about people having extramarital affairs (and an article which discusses how younger people aren’t, while older people — Boomers, natch — are), Insty makes this comment:

On the one hand, that’s good. On the other hand, I’m slightly concerned that it has less to do with evolving morality, and more to do with declining libido.

On the gripping hand, maybe — and I speak from experience here — it’s about seeing their parents’ generation up close and concluding that all those affairs didn’t seem to make them happier, and did a lot of collateral damage.

I have a different theory, although I agree with all three of his hands’ suggestions. I think that younger married people are having fewer extramarital bonks because, quit frankly, the choices are not that great. When I see how many total fucking loons, nuts and batshit-crazy young people there are out there, it’s small wonder that a younger married couple will look at that, shudder, and decide that Hubby or Wifey are far more palatable options.

Seriously: I speak here from experience, having seen both Daughter and the Son&Heir (as well as their many friends) navigate their way through the shark-infested waters of their early- and mid-twenties, and I’m quite frankly shocked that anyone of that age managed to form a lasting relationship at all.

As for the Boomers… I believe that anyone who’s ever read anything I’ve written on the topic knows exactly how I feel about my own generation. (Cliff Notes: we’re goats.)

We’ll see, though, how it all pans out. Loons and psychopaths aside, nobody gets into a long-term relationship like a marriage thinking it’s going to fall apart, and maybe when it comes to extramarital bonking the Millennials are, as with so much of their lives, simply late bloomers.

That’s All I Need

Apparently. some study has come out [sic] that all the 50+ set needs is to have more nookie, because that will help their brains.

It’s been a while (no details necessary), but I seem to recall that sex has the opposite effect on my brain, in that as I recall, I become really stupid during the act itself — the Goofy-like facial expressions alone are the giveaway — and pass out in some kind of coma shortly thereafter. I know that some people claim that sex makes them feel “more alive”, whatever that means, but they’re probably the same people who claim to have sex 7.9 times a week, the lying bastards.

I mean, seriously: does sex help your brain more than. say, reading a Thomas Sowell book on economics? That just doesn’t seem feasible. And yes, I know that economics puts people to sleep; but then again, so does sex. Afterwards, not during, although I seem to recall a few embarrassing occasions when I fell asleep during sex — but that was years ago, my memory is fading, and maybe I fell asleep while reading an economics book rather than while having sex. It’s an easy mistake to make when the two activities are so similar (it’s been an even longer time since I read an economics book.)

Unfortunately (and this is a recurring theme on this blog), this advice means that oh FFS, the senescent Baby Boomers, already one of the most sexually-obsessed generations in human history, are going to try to coax yet more erections from their exhausted phalli and pound on Gammy’s worn-out genitalia even more than they have already, just so they can remember what The Who sounded like at Woodstock.

And if that concept doesn’t give you the heebies, I don’t know what will.

Fortunately, this does not affect Your Humble Narrator because, well, none of your business, and also because my memory is just fine — even though I can’t remember movie titles, the actors’ names who starred in them, or anything other than the fact that a couple of scenes showed Julie Christie’s nipples. Or maybe it was Susan George’s pubic hair, or Vanessa Redgrave’s buttocks. Whatever. What I do remember, with blinding clarity, is the dismay I felt when Urkel Obama was elected POTUS, the joy I felt when God-Emperor Trump ended the Socialist Years, and the bitter tears that were shed by the foul socialists when Hillary Bitch Clinton came out of the 2016 presidential election looking like a complete tit. Oh, I remember the good stuff, you betcha. Don’t need sex for that, thank God.

I have always thought that memory is like a computer’s hard drive: there seems to be a limit on the amount of stuff one can hold in storage, as it were, and as one gets older, the damn thing gets fuller and fuller — not only with worthwhile stuff like the plot line of Hugo’s Les Misèrables, but sadly with the biggest load of crap, like Fonzie’s hairstyle in Happy Days. Now if having sex meant that you could somehow erase all the latter bullshit to make space for more of the worthwhile stuff, I’d park my RV outside Dennis Hof’s Chicken Ranch in Nevada and run all my credit cards up to the max in a matter of days. Assuming that Big Pharma could manufacture sufficient quantities of those pills that give one a woody, of course.

But no. My bet is that if more sex improved my memory, I’d just start remembering more bullshit, like the Girl Scout Incident of 1975 or the Great Parking Lot Affair of 1992. (Or was it 1993?) Or if more sex actually improved my brain function, it would doubtless enable me to understand still-more worthless bullshit, such as the difference between M1 and M2 — the economic things, not the British motorways.

I seem to have forgotten the original premise of this post. Sorry about that. Maybe all I need is some nookie. With some woman who will not puke at the thought of having sex with me. Oh good grief. Gimme the pills — and not those damn Viagra things, either.

Or maybe I’ll just have (another) drink. Gin works wonders with the memory — or maybe it was foreplay which does that.

I forget.

 

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.