A recent essay about “facials” really got me thinking. Why is it that the act of ejaculating on a woman’s face is called a “facial”? Is semen an astringent? It seems to me that the act could be called something manlier, like “spackling,” or more … inviting? Women love cupcakes. Why not call the sex act “frosting”?
This essay was posted on Jezebel, and it was written by Hugo Schwyzer. The piece seeks to explain why men want to “jizz” on a woman’s face. Apparently, this sex act is highly controversial. Some women find it degrading, some find it liberating. Is it a way for men to mark their territories? Or is the act a symptom of the AIDs epidemic, when semen became a potentially lethal substance? Has porn popularized this climactic ritual? Does porn influence men, or is it a reflection of the evolving sexual desires of the day? (I’m going to answer this in a hot minute.) Keep reading »
“It’s not ‘talking to yourself’. It’s ‘engaging in a conversation with your needs.’” ”Hello internet porn, how are you today?” ”Where did I put that Slim Jim??”
“(random laughter for no reason)” ”We all die alone.” ”Please text me back please text me back.” ”I’m out of Captain Crunch. My life sucks.” ”I’m Batman.” Keep reading »
Somewhere, last night, a young man stood in his apartment wearing nothing but a condom. He stretched his arms out, closed his eyes, and whispered “if I wear it, they will come. THEN COME AND COME AGAIN.”
The condom was one of dozens he keeps strategically hidden throughout his apartment. He keeps a pile in his nightstand drawer, another pile in the bathroom, another 20 or so are tucked in between couch cushions, books on the bookshelf, and in the cupboard, hidden behind jars of peanut butter.
He considered, briefly, wearing a long string of connected condoms like a bandolier. Keep reading »
My New Years resolution is to be less stupid. I don’t usually make New Years resolutions, or as I call them, Last Year’s regrets. Usually, I just think they’re for suckers.
The only people who benefit from New Year’s resolutions are the therapists who profit from disappointment maintenance. But this year is going to be different. I’m making one “big picture” resolution instead of committing to a dozen specific self-improvement chores that I will end up failing to complete. Instead of trying to hit a bullseye with an arrow, I’m going to score a slam dunk by setting up a ladder right next to the net. Okay, well, here’s a specific resolution I will honor: I will not make any more sports metaphors.
Keep reading »
There are plenty of things men don’t understand about women. Like why you insist on leaving the toilet seat down. Or buy candles that smell like food. Or give pointers on pooping etiquette. Or analyze the gender politics of bowel movements. Would somebody please explain the allure of gloomy teenage vampires dry humping? To be fair, there are plenty of things women don’t understand about men. Like why we find flatulence so amusing. In the interest of gender relations, I will explain this. Keep reading »
I would not be blogging about the various and amusing differences between dudes and chicks for fun and profit if it were not for a boss who dressed like she was ready to hit a late-’90s girl power soft rock music festival at a moment’s notice.
When I moved to New York 15 years ago, I was lucky to find any work. I had no connections, no money, and no marketable skills. I had a degree in playwriting which qualified me to brood. I was too sweaty to wait tables, too goofy to work in sales, and when the temp agency put me in front of a computer, I looked like a monkey with a Rubik’s cube. I tied my only tie with all of the grace of a hangman. That tie was baboon ass red. Keep reading »