It seems that women are genuinely shocked that men enjoy genital stimulation via your lovely mitts. But it’s true. They were hot in your parents’ basement when we were teens, and they’re hot now.
But maybe the problem is our terminology. A “blow job” sounds fun. Playful. Kind of like a Blow Pop. But a “hand job” sounds like construction work.
Words are power. Here are 11 alternative names for an erotic activity that is definitely hands-on. Keep reading »
Not all hotties grow up to be sexy MILFs. That’s because MILFs contradict the dominant fashion paradigm. Youth is not beauty and vice versa. Experience counts. There was a time when a mother was a wholly desexualized human being. A woman stripped of want, lust, and femininity. MILFs obliterate this old-fashioned stereotype. A woman retains her sexual power after childbirth. She is, in fact, more potent. A hot mama.
Like most guys, I love MILFs. It always baffled me when I was an editor at BEER FART BOOBS magazine why we didn’t feature more MILFs. It took me a couple of years to realize that our magazine was for young men but read by tired old men who depressingly took “college are the best years of your life” to heart. They wanted jailbait. Not secure, sophisticated women who can shuck corn with their thighs. Keep reading »
I can’t stand the concept of the “man cave.” It’s like a grown-up version of the word “cooties.” One is something you catch from yucky girls. The other place is a spider hole you scurry to in order to escape girls with cooties.
First, don’t confuse the “man cave” with a “caveman.” Generally, I think cavemen are awesome, even if 40 percent of Texans think ancient man rode dinosaurs. I am pro-caveman — the hunting, the grunting, the freely flapping testicles, the whole kit and caboodle. However, they lived short, brutal lives of constant terror. Not the same thing as what I am ranting about. Keep reading »
When I’m ill, I drink whiskey. More specifically, a hot toddy, otherwise known as “Irish Nyquil.” My beloved local bartender from North Ireland taught me her old family recipe — just hot water, a couple jiggers of whiskey, and lemon wedges studded with cloves. One of those, spicy Kung Pao chicken, and bed. I behave like a dying animal when I’m sick. I like to suffer alone, in the dark. I hate to be fussed over. Can’t you see I’m in mortal combat with the sniffles?!
This frustrates my girlfriend because she sees it as unfair. Well, life is unfair, Toots. When I fall ill, she wants to rush to my apartment and dote on me. Nurture me back to health. And I refuse to let her. I can’t stand being pampered. It drives me crazy. I am a man. Like Batman. And if Batman can sew his own wounds shut in his crime-fighting bunker, I can blow my nose in bed without help from anyone. For the record: I blow my nose with toilet paper, not “Kleenex,” the way the cavemen did. I appreciate her attentions, of course. But it’s my fight. Keep reading »
This Sunday is the Academy Awards of Football and, believe it or not, there are a lot of people who couldn’t care less about this High Holy Day. But if you’re dating a pigskin junkie, you have very little choice: You’re going to be dragged to a get-together where jerseys and body paint are the fashion. Normally, I don’t get wildly excited about football, but this year is a little different for me. I usually just inhale nachos until the Halftime Show, then return to carbo-grazing. Occasionally, I’ll look at the score, or ask if anything is broken.
But for those women (and men) who dread an entire day dedicated to cheering human freight trucks slathered in spandex, please consider that Super Bowl Sunday is a day when you are allowed to eat with your fingers, wear fat pants out, and not actually have to talk to anyone. Just grunt. These are positives. Just show up and do your best dinosaur impersonation. Keep reading »
If a hood is good enough for Batman, it’s good enough for my penis. Uncircumcised joints look gross, like a cross between a tentacle and a trunk. But the word on the street is that it feels better to have a foreskin. My zipper cudgel is cut, and therefore less sensitive than a man who’s packing a frightful sex nozzle. I mourn the loss of that little flap of skin. I think I would have preferred to have had the choice to be circumcised or not. Keep reading »
A recent issue of GLAMOPOLITAN magazine instructed its female readers to surprise their boyfriends by showing up at the dude’s apartment wearing a trench coat and nothing underneath. Don’t do this. And I’m not telling you not to do it because a silly girly magazine said so. I kind of enjoy those trash-diculous publications: they’re like Maxim with mood swings. Where else am I going to learn to love my curvy body? (But seriously, diet anyway. Did you know there are no calories in a hangnail?) Keep reading »
Women don’t clamor for guys with ripped six packs. Am I wrong? We’re talking about those toned, well-defined abdominal muscles that grace the covers of magazines for hairless men who drink liquid protein. Clean pants, yes. Dandruff-free hair, definitely. I know for certain ladies appreciate a healthy dude, or at least, a dude who doesn’t have stubby, greasy egg roll fingers and a beer baby bump. But abs you can shave wood with? No. At least, I don’t think so. Ugh. I’m slowly coming to the realization that this might be a lie I’ve told myself. Proof that I might be self-deceiving is in every episode of MTV’s epic anthropological documentary series “Jersey Shore,” where primped pretty people strut and rut in the wild. I watch it purely for research purposes. Keep reading »
”Open relationships” are like snowboarding. There are people who can do it very well. And then there are people like me, who will end up breaking something. I was in an open relationship once. It lasted for a couple hours and abruptly ended with me storming out into the cold, crestfallen that she had actually taken our agreement literally. I had started the evening’s revels a sophisticated libertine and finished the night a blubbering spaz. Not to mention a hypocrite. Keep reading »
Last night, Amelia introduced me to a television show where fashion-forward harridans-in-training reject a stream of desperate men, shucking and jiving for their approval. These men were delivered to these reclining prima donnas via conveyor belt — a literal conveyor belt.
As if they were stepping off an assembly line from the Freshly Scrubbed Emo Dude Factory.
ABC has aptly named this reality show/dating game “Conveyer Belt of Love.” Judging by her IMs, Amelia OMG LUVS this show and I imagine many millions of women do too. They tuned in and got off as vapid divas objectified equally bird-brained bimbros. Wielding signs that read “Interested” or “Not Interested,” these ladies licked their lips, wrinkled their noses, and rolled their eyes as dude after dude begged to be loved. Keep reading »