By now you’ve probably had a gander at Ross Douthat’s bloviating treatise for the Atlantic titled ‘Is Pornography Adultery?’… right?

Well, unless you’re a sex-blogger that is, in which case you’ve probably only been reading other sex-blogs, and maybe looking for cheat-codes/possible play-partners from World of Warcraft/Second Life. Because, you know, we’re kind of a weird, insular bunch.

Anyway. This rambling vomitorium is so tedious, so pedantic, and so utterly anachronistic, that a rebuttal almost seems moot. It would be like debating the concept of irony with a golf club and a super-sized jug of St. John’s wort. As such, I’m not really going to present a reasoned, rational rebuttal to this googly-eyed gobbledygook. I’m going to do exactly what needs to be done…

…make fun of it until it cries and runs home to its mom. Because if there’s one thing that white people everywhere need to understand, it’s that you have to stop sweating the small stuff. Getting offended doesn’t get anything done. That’s what cruel-tongued ridicule is for!

So, if you haven’t yet read Mr. Douthat’s article, please do so at this time. Then take this quiz. The answers are at the bottom – but be good, boys and girls (especially boys) – no cheating!

1. According to Mr. Douthat, viewing porn is like adultery when:
A. you are masturbating to someone less attractive than yourself
B. you mail your ejaculate to the person(s) you masturbated to
C. you pay to watch German scat videos
D. you’re in it

It reads kind of like a 527 ad, if the 527s were a somewhat literate bunch. You know, the Kristol Light gang. Besides, chances are that 527 groups would have a hard time taking the stupefying leap of faith from masturbating to Sports Illustrated’s Swimsuit Issue (it’s okay; don’t worry), to paying for hardcore porn on the internet (very, very bad). You know you’re in for a long troublesome read when you come across this: ‘the problem of the male libido’. Because, you know, we’re just that dumb.

Okay, so maybe we are. I’ll cop to that.

2. What precisely is ‘the problem of the male libido’?
A. it’s staunchly anti-American and pro-North Korea
B. its allergy to all things Jane Austen and/or Victorianism
C. like a squatter, it leaves in its wake a messy trail of used condoms, empty Funyuns bags, and gooey, shimmering blobs of evil
D. its relentless enthusiasm for really depressing porn
E. its tendency to scream at its wife the following terms of dis-endearment: ‘at least I don’t plaster on the makeup like a trollop, you cunt’
F. our unabashed love of cockfighting
G. quite frankly, it gets a lot more credit than it really deserves

First off, I am not plugging anything here – not porn; not really, anyway. I mean, for me, porn is like the Constitution – in theory, I love it – but in reality, it tends to get all twisted-up and interpreted worse than Scalia and Roberts trying to translate a Bergman film with their fingers in their ears and chanting ‘la, la, la, la, la, la, la!’

What all of this means is that old porn is okay; today’s porn is analogous to immorality, infidelity, and having sex with prostitutes. Makes sense, eh?

3. The difference between Debbie Does Dallas and Whipped Ass is:
A. 35mm film-stock
B. Debbie Does Dallas was turned into a musical
C. ass-to-mouth action
D. the spanking scene in Debbie Does Dallas was clearly staged; when Whipped Ass whips ass, they really let those asses have it

4. Playboy also earns a special exemption from Mr. Douthat’s formulation of Porns That Are Bad, due to:
A. decades of worthwhile fiction from John Updike
B. decades of excellent martini recipes
C. decades of Mr. Douthat desperately crushing on Shannon Tweed
D. decades of pre-Gawkerish Ivy league hipness
E. decades of Robert Christgau bloviating about jazz

According to Mr. Douthat, Dan Savage is wrong about everything. And for that matter, so are most women. Betcha didn’t know that. But all of that is dressing; the crux of the argument here is the formation of a ‘moral continuum’ between porn-viewing and adultery. Because watching Burning Angel, Bookworm Bitches, or Barely Evil videos online is totally the same thing as having an affair. With your own penis.

5. Who benefits in drawing a “moral continuum” between porn-viewing and adultery?
A. the 527s
B. the sex-positive blogging community, because if there’s one thing we love, it’s politicizing our sex lives!
C. Donny-Boy Wildmon
D. eunuchs

Don’t fight it. It’s universal. Kind of like the demonization of sex.

6. So, why do men cheat?
A. to impress our friends and neighbors
B. because we’re dicks
C. because we practice polyamory in its purest form: Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell
D. to piss off the lust in Jimmy Carter’s heart

7. And, why do men look at porn?
A. boredom
B. because we’re pretty sure our significant others aren’t going to be terribly interested in reenacting scenes from 2 Girls, 1 Cup
C. boobies!
D. to piss off the lust in Jimmy Carter’s heart

8. Okay. And so, what, if anything, is the correlation?
A. whatever FOX News tells us it is
B. while it may indeed be hard out there for a pimp, it is a far harder thing to be a sex-positive male
C. boobies!
D. if we legalize prostitution, Western civilization will crumble

I’ve been in plenty of relationships. A gaggle of them. And I’ve cheated in more than a few. And you know what? Nothing drove me to it – it’s just that I happen to act like a dick most of the time. Do I really have to blame that on porn? I mean, come on – let me keep my dickishness. I’ve worked hard at it. It’s mine. It’s every man’s. So please stop diagnosing it. I mean, equating adultery with porn-viewing is like comparing Manwich with prime rib - yeah; they’re both beef-based - but that’s about as far as the similarity goes.

9. Judging from his body of work, Ross Douthat most likely is:
A. the large-headed love-child of Karl Rove and a tsetse fly
B. kind of a dick
C. just a simple man trying to spike his page-views with a bit of ludicrous controversy
D. a really funny guy
E. well, he’s no Ezra Klein, that’s for sure

10. And at the end of the day, the shimmering guardian-angel of Mr. Douthat’s argument is:
A. anti-porn, because if there was no porn, there would be no lust in our hearts (oh, shut up and let the little fella dream, okay?)
B. anti-prostitute, because nothing infuriates an ugly man more than having to pay for it
C. anti-woman, because there wouldn’t be porn if it wasn’t for women – logic achieved!
D. anti-internet, because if there was no internet, there would be a lot less porn for the women of the world to turn to for a steadyish paycheck (ha!), and this in turn would better-staff our Wal-Marts, making the American Shopping Experience a far more pleasing one

BONUS QUESTION: So, after having endured all that, what do Mr. Douthat and his ilk probably fantasize about?
A. Sarah Palin in dominatrix garb, spanking their bare little blogger bottoms
B. Rudy Giuliani in dominatrix garb, spanking their bare little blogger bottoms
C. the impending rapture
D. disproving the theory of evolutionism
E. all of the above

Answer Key: 1-D; 2-C&G; 3-A; 4-A; 5-C; 6-B; 7-D; 8-all; 9-E; 10-C; BONUS-E

Cross-posted from Junkbuzzed…

For those who missed it, this week I am reviewing the masturbatory wonders of the Fleshlight in a 5-post series. Parts one through three went up over the last three days – catch them here, here, and here. (I strongly recommend reading them in order, because reading my crap is a lot like watching HBO’s Carnivale, in that we both suck as exposition, unless said exposition is thrown out there to confuse the viewer/reader even further.) But nonetheless, a quick recap, for those suffering from short-term memory loss:
- I threw a hissy-fit over not getting any free sex-toys
- Always Aroused Girl, the Official Angel-Faerie of Teh Internets, offered me a Fleshlight through Eden Fantasys, provided I would review it
- I did a happy dance
- I stuck a Boba Fett action figure into it
- I turned it into a thermos
- I asked a nice lesbian to have sex with it using a strap-on

VII. FIELD TESTS (SEXUAL)

b. A TIME TO FUCKAll my other experiments were completed; it was time for me to take to the most crucial and decisive test, the act of inserting my own penis into the maw of the Fleshlight. I canceled all my appointments, drew the shades, and took a shower. It felt kind of like a date. Except that my date was expecting neither dinner nor small-talk. So it was more of an NSA Craigslist hookup than an actual date. Which is not at all a bad thing.As the time drew near, I again appraised the puckered lips of my Fleshlight. I began to think of it as a controlled glory-hole. (Which is my chief problem with glory-holes; if you’re as anal-retentive as I am, what sexual glory can you hope to achieve when you have absolutely no idea who or what is at the other end of that hole awaiting your cock?)

And so then there was just me and just it.

Well, that’s not entirely true. The M.A.F., having heard that I was down to my final experiment, decided to call me. Thirteen times.

“Hey – how is it?”

“I haven’t tried it yet.”

“Oh.”Ten minutes later…

“Hey – how is it?”

“I still haven’t tried it yet.”

“Oh.”

By the time of his eleventh call, the M.A.F. had finally worked up the nerve to say what he really wanted to say.

“You know, if you don’t want to try it, then…”

His voice trailed off, hoping he’d said enough without having said too much. Because no boy wants to sound desperate or needy when asking to ‘borrow’ another boy’s means of nutting. Which, as creepy as it was, it was still somewhat heartening – for this was reasonably good proof that the M.A.F. did indeed come equipped from Hasbro with a penis.

But, you know, seriously – fuck that shit.

“Um, yeah…no. I don’t think these things were meant to be shared, you know?”

“Oh, right. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah…”

It took two more calls before the M.A.F. finally got the message that he wasn’t going to fuck my Fleshlight. Then I turned my phone off. And then there was just me and just it.

Well, I thought, let’s just get right down to it. I dropped trou, made myself all nice and comfy on the couch, and unscrewed the cap on the Fleshlight, revealing once again its pooched nether lips. And with a fiercely retarded childlike ‘yaaahhhhh’ I thrust my penis into the cavity like a dude casting a spear at some unseen enemy.

This was immediately followed by another, more strained and pained ‘yahhhhhhhh’, as I felt most of the epidermal layer of my penis being ripped away.

At which point I called my girlfriend, whom I was insisting leave her poolside party in order to ferry me and my now-bleeding penis to the emergency room.

The upside of going to the hospital after having sustained a substantial penile injury is that they are going to give you some really fabulous drugs. The downside is that, aside from the drugs, if you have either insufficient or no health insurance, all they’re going to do for you is put some Neosporin and ACE bandages on it. (And make you famous via the internet, conventions, and in the nurses’ lounge.) However, having a male attending physician helps somewhat, as he will give you extra bonus drugs. Because when one man nearly rips his pecker off, every other man feels it. (And you wonder why the patriarchy is so damned effective? Hive-mind, baby.)

There are very few things in this world which I am truly and honesty grateful for. Sure, there are things like cigarettes, girls with low self-esteem, and Akira Kurosawa movies. But I would be remiss if I did not add to the list at this time Novocain, Percocet, and the sweet, sweet oblivion that they work in tandem to generate.

I arrived back home the next morning and limped over to my computer, my penis thickly gauzed and numbed. It was at this time that I noticed an awful lot of unopened emails, mostly from Always Aroused Girl.

From: AAG
To: TSM
Re: Just in case…
Hi. I get the feeling that you’re sort of a doofus. So I thought I’d pass on one kinda sorta important piece of advice – don’t forget to use lube.

From: AAG
To: TSM
Re: re: Just in case…
Hi. I haven’t heard back from you. Just in case you missed my last message – DO NOT FORGET THE LUBE.

From: AAG
To: TSM
Re: re: re: Just in case…
I just felt a great disturbance in the Sex-Positive Force, as if one really stupid motherfucker cried out in anguish and agony because he stuck his penis into a Fleshlight without any lube. That wasn’t you by chance, was it?

From: AAG
To: TSM
Re: re: re: re: Just in case…
Okay. So I just did a quick scan of hospitals in your area. And I’m pretty certain that it was you. So I am contractually obligated to inform you that neither myself, nor Eden Fantasy, nor the internet at large, will be paying for your skin graft. Hope your deductible’s paid up.

I then took a look at the packaging from the Fleshlight. Turns out it came with a pamphlet after all.“Be sure to use lube, you shithead,” the instructions said.Now they tell me. Don’t they realize that boys never read instructions until they’ve gone and done something irredeemably stupid?

After a druggy, ‘well whaddaya-know’ shake of the head, I trudged off to bed, where, thanks in no small part to the narcotics, I proceeded to sleep for three days. And I dreamt, of Fleshlights, caves, space slugs, and what might have been…

Ratings

- as a pecker-ripper-offer: A+++

- the American healthcare system: F

- the potency of Percocet,  Valium, and Novocain: A+

Remarks: While the Fleshlight does not possess any teeth, it can in the absence of lube stand in for the famed vagina dentata quite admirably. But really. Seriously. Use lube.   

Tomorrow: the stunning finale, with a cast of thousands, guest-directed by Michael Bay, where Paul Giamatti will portray yours truly giving the Fleshlight one more well-lubed go.

Cross-posted from Junkbuzzed…

For those who missed it, this week I am reviewing the masturbatory wonders of the Fleshlight in a 5-post series. Parts one and two went up Monday and Tuesday – catch them here and here. (I strongly recommend reading them in order, because reading my crap is a lot like watching HBO’s Carnivale, in that we both suck as exposition, unless said exposition is thrown out there to confuse the viewer/reader even further.) But nonetheless, a quick recap, for those suffering from short-term memory loss:
- I threw a hissy-fit over not getting any free sex-toys
- Always Aroused Girl, the Official Angel-Faerie of Teh Internets, offered me a Fleshlight through Eden Fantasys, provided I would review it
- I did a happy dance
- I stuck a Boba Fett action figure into it
- I turned it into a thermos

VI. THE CONCEPT OF A MAN IN HIS LATE 30S WHO HAS BOUGHT A FUCK-TON OF SEX-TOYS, BUT NEVER ONE TO USE ON HIMSELF

The arrival of the Fleshlight brought with it a bit of consternation. It wasn’t quite what I was expecting, but then again, I wasn’t really sure what I was expecting in the first place. I have been buying sex-toys for many, many years. But never for my own benefit – unless you count a lifetime’s accumulation of ass-whackers, bondage accoutrements, remote-controlled butt-plugs, ugly sticks and rock-chicks procured for the exploitation of others’ pleasure to be my own benefit. Which it sort of is.

But let’s be honest here – sex-toys for boys have been historically pretty slim and shoddy.

I mean, it’s not exactly rocket science, figuring out what sorts of things boys like to nut in/on/near. In short – holes. So let us take a brief tour of some of the many holes that boys have appropriated for the singular purpose of their own sexual gratification:

GIRL-HOLES:
- pussy-holes
- ass-holes
- mouth-holes

BOY-HOLES:
- ass-holes
- mouth-holes

OTHER HOLES:
- glory-holes
- fist-holes (a/k/a The Band of the Hand)
- love-doll holes
- holes in rocks
- holes in trees
- holes in sediment
- sink-holes (excessive girth and stamina usually required)
- doughnuts (primarily Dunkin Donuts, as Krispy Kreme doughnuts are far too moist and prone to breakage)

Assuming that the boy in question is looking solely for something to nut on/in/near, the pickings are maddeningly slim. Sure, there have always been the built-in-joke since time immemorial of the love-dolls, be they the cheap, inner-tube-grade blow-up dolls of yore, or the version 2.0 models, with their real-feel skin, porn-star vaginas, and $5,000 price-tags.

And not that it’s mattered so much historically. After all, boys are not exactly known for taking their genitals too seriously (one of the many advantages of being part of the patriarchy). The main rallying cry of a boy’s genitals is usually something like this:

‘Hey! I wonder what that hole feels like!’

And thus it was with the Fleshlight – the only difference being that this was something of a designer hole. Which from a certain point of view could take some of the fun out of it – because you know how boys love to improvise. It makes us feel crafty.

VII. FIELD TESTS (SEXUAL)

While I had completed all my non-sexual field-tests, I still wasn’t quite ready to take the plunge myself. I thought it best to give it a test-drive from a somewhat more female-centric point of view. Because if boys love pussy, then lesbians practically worship it (see Acantha, acanthus, and face-scratching).

a. THE GREAT LESBIAN FORD TEST-DRIVE EVENT

So I called up my friend Doris. Doris is a butch lesbian. But don’t let that scare you – other than her outright hatred for men, meat, and mirth, she’s really quite a lovely girl. IT geek by day, professional dominatrix by night, Doris is what you would end up with if you mashed-up Booger from Revenge of the Nerds, Bulle Ogier from Maîtresse, and Cookie Monster. Happy to contribute to the pursuit of questionable science, Doris came over, bearing, as requested, a strap-on harness and dildo.

(Doris Fun-Fact #1: Did you know that Dion’s classic song “Runaround Sue” was inspired by a girl named Doris? Doris, in fact, was to be the titular character of the song, but, upon realizing that the only good rhyme for ‘Doris’ was ‘clitoris’, Dion wisely changed it to Sue.)

After blowing through all my alcohol reserves in getting Doris good and tanked, I began plying her in my most gentle mode of coercion: ‘come on, fuck my Fleshlight. Please? I’ll make cookies!’

(For the record: never enter into a drinking contest with a butch dyke – it’s gonna end badly for you, trust me. She will drink you under the table; and, once satisfactorily slumped under said table, she will then rifle through your pockets, stealing your wallet, watch, and anything else that may be of value. Because while they seem really nice on network TV, take it from me – butch dykes are mean, mean people. So handle with caution.)

Never underestimate the power that freshly-baked cookies hold over a butch dyke. Thus, a quick trip to the stand-mixer later, and both of us were practicing our own wildly different takes on the creaming method: me with butter and sugar; and Doris, poking away at the Fleshlight’s pursed cavity with a lackadaisical forefinger. The remainder of her prep-work looked like that of a UFC fighter getting ready to clamber into the octagon, with a lot of neck-cracking, grunting, and the continued downing of scotch.

(Doris Fun-Fact #2: Doris Kearns Goodwin is an excellent historical researcher and writer. Well, she is when she’s not busy plagiarizing other people’s books. But that’s okay. Team of Rivals so quenched my own historical fetish for all things William Seward that she could give it up and start writing for TMZ, and I’d still like her.)

All her accoutrements set firmly in place – and let me tell you, there are few sights as stunningly twisted as a drunken butch-dyke wearing a strap-on harness and dildo over her khakis while preparing to mount a Fleshlight. Seriously. It just doesn’t get any better than this.

“Why am I doing this again?” asked Doris.

“Because you are my friend and you love me very much.”

Doris harrumphed and waggled her plastic purple penis at me.

“And because I am making cookies.”

“Oh yeah.”

(Doris Fun-Fact #3: Doris, in Greek mythology, was one busy chick, pumping out no less than 50 – count ‘em – 50 sea-nymphs from her engorged loins. That’s a whole lotta nymphage.)

As I pulled out the first tray of cookies, Doris slid her plastic purple penis into the fish-mouthed maw of my Fleshlight.

“I can’t believe this is how I’m spending my Saturday night,” she sighed.

“How is it?” I asked, grabbing my notepad.

“How is what?” she grumbled.

“How is it?” I repeated, nodding to the Fleshlight. “Is it a good fuck?”

“Are you retarded?” yelled Doris.

“I’m a journalist,” I said resolutely, waving my pen for added effect.

“You’re a moron,” she responded, “and a bigger pussy than this thing I’m fucking. Now give me a cookie.”

A plate of cookies later, and I once again impressed upon Doris just how important her forthrightness was to my pursuit of scientific truth.

“Well,” she drawled through a mouthful of cookies, “it’s a hole. Pretty sturdy, too. So, you know, it’s all good.”

Which is why I love Doris so much. And why every straight man should have at least one butch dyke friend. Because they’re like a perfect hybrid of all the best parts of men and women. Except that they will under no circumstances ever have sex with you.

Rating: A (like the lady said – a hole’s a hole.)

Coming up tomorrow: the Snarling Misanthrope himself sticks his own penis into a Fleshlight, forgetting one really important thing.

Cross-posted from Junkbuzzed…

For those who missed it, this week I am reviewing the masturbatory wonders of the Fleshlight in a 5-post series. Part one went up yesterday – catch it here. (I strongly recommend reading them in order, because reading my crap is a lot like watching HBO’s Carnivale, in that we both suck as exposition, unless said exposition is thrown out there to confuse the viewer/reader even further.) But nonetheless, a quick recap, for those suffering from short-term memory loss:
- I threw a hissy-fit over not getting any free sex-toys
- Always Aroused Girl, the Official Angel-Faerie of Teh Internets, offered me a Fleshlight through Eden Fantasys, provided I would review it
- I did a happy dance

III. SEE WHAT BROWN HAS DONE FOR ME

Like a kid who begins his Countdown to Christmas three months early, I too awaited the arrival of my Fleshlight with what can only be described as savage glee. For this represented several personal (if not mildly pyrrhic) victories for me, which I proudly trumpeted to anyone who would listen to it:

- I am a bold, fresh new voice on the internet, and thus the internet respects me
- AAG has promised not to file a restraining order against me
- I like toys
- I really like free toys
- Not only am I receiving a free sex-toy, but I am continuing to make good on the enduring promise of manhood, which of course is to stick your penis into as many different holes as possible before you die (I think it’s in the Bible)
- The internet really wants me to masturbate and tell them all about it

One week later, Brown came a-knocking at my door. And Brown, for those not in the know, always comes as advertised – brown shirt, brown shorts, brown knee-high socks (you know, it’s sort of a Catholic-tranny kind of thing when you get right down to it), and a big brown box. With my name on it. The topper is a beatific smile, because if you spend your days clad in the color of turd, you may as well let yourself be in on the joke, right?

“Good afternoon!” I said. “What can Brown do for me today?”

“Brown can give you some sex-toys,” responded Brown, handing me the big brown box with my name printed across the front.

Please remember that you should always be kind, courteous, and above all respectful toward Brown. Because if you piss him off, Brown can fuck your shit up but good. And so, a glass of lemonade and a slice of coconut cake later, Brown was on his way, off to shower more of his special brand of goodness upon the rest of the world. Kind of like a benevolent brown Santa.

Again I thanked Brown profusely. Then I locked the door and checked the box to make sure that he hadn’t given it a test-drive.

And then I beheld it.

IV. FIRST IMPRESSIONS

…are important, but overrated – after all, there are far too many ugly people having sex for first impressions to matter that much. Nonetheless I will now share with you my first impressions upon my Ark-like unboxing of the Fleshlight, STU Vagina series (Stamina Training Unit; it sounds so suburban commando, doesn’t it?):

- It looks like a Maglite, minus both the Mag and the Lite.
- In lieu of these things is a silicone-molded vaginal sheath with that real-feel sense of microwaved chicken breast. Which is actually kinda nice.
- It is essentially a giant pussy-thermos. Which is subjunctively different than a thermos full of pussy. Although I wonder, if I were to remove the pussy from the equation, would it serve double-duty as a beverage/soup thermos?
- It’s not really pink, or any other realistic Benetton-hue of vagina. It is in actuality more of a brain-matter grey. Which means that zombies will love the fuck out of this thing.
- As is the case with most silicone products kept in tightly-sealed storage, it smells kind of like old-lady feet wrapped in nori. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing; I have been known to succumb on occasion to some good, sturdy MILF (and even the occasional post-MILF).
- Due to its resemblance to a heavy-duty flashlight, I am suddenly struck with the vision of young costumed children on Halloween accidentally taking it out with them for their trick-or-treating. Hilarity, I am sure, ensues.

V. FIELD-TESTS (OF A NON-SEXUAL VARIETY)

I thought it both novel and wise to begin the field-testing phase with several non-sexual experiments. One is a direct throwback to childhood – a fetish of sorts that has haunted my waking dreams for a long 25 years.

One is simply the by-product of can-do man-talk, in that, unless it is really shiny and really expensive, any and everything you own should serve as a multi-tasker of sorts – even if you have to force it into double-duty.

The third and final of the non-sexual field-tests is a process of determining exactly how much like a flashlight a Fleshlight actually appears.

a. THE BOBA FETISH

If you are not a regular Junkbuzzed reader (and if you’re not, you are so due a whipping – go on – get my belt – I said git!), then you already know of my Boba-Fetish for all things Star Wars.

Allow me then way-back your asses to the Supercuts days of Return of the Jedi. After Luke kills Jabba the Hutt’s pet Rancor, a totally pissed-off Jabba orders Luke and Co. taken to the Pit of Carkoon, where they will be tossed into everybody’s favorite vagina dentata, the all-powerful Sarlaac.

Even in 1983, at the not-quite percolated age of 11, I was well aware that George Lucas created the Sarlaac as a representation of Freud’s vagina. And we’re not talking about the new-and-improved Special Edition version of the Sarlaac, where Georgie CGed in a rather PC-like venus flytrap-beak thing into its vaginal cavity, probably as an apology to his then-girlfriend. Because girls in general tend to take it personally when boys depict their va-jay-jays in such fashion; don’t ask me why.

No, this was the old-school Sarlaac, big and pink and slimy, with thick hentai-like tentacles designed to drag kicking and screaming any boy who did not dive in of his own accord. Oh yeah – and it had teeth, too. Big sharp nasty ones.

So of course my first field-test for the Fleshlight would be to insert Boba Fett into its not-so-gaping maw. (After all, I did request the extra-tight model, because either I have a tiny penis, or I have a tendency to stick my penis into inordinately large holes. Like, you know, bathtubs.)

I called up one of my toy-collecting friends and quickly laid out the situation. It didn’t take very long, as each and every Star Wars fan already equates Sarlaac with vagina. (And you wondered why there are so many single men in their mid-late 30s.) A short time later, my friend the M.A.F. arrived, bearing a shopping bag full of toys.

M.A.F. is short for Mini-Action Figure (nobody knows his real name). The M.A.F. is duly monikered thanks to his rather diminutive stature (on his tippy-toes, he is almost 4’9”). And his general appearance – slim, clean-cut, sort of non-descript – suggests that he began life as a GI Joe action figure clad in Bermuda shorts. Unfortunately, as the manufacturers of GI Joe felt they could not adequately market a gay beach-resort trooper, they sent him to the My Little Pony factory, where he was kissed by a fuzzy-bellied Fairy-Tale Bird, and became a real boy.

They kind of fucked up the voice-chip thing though, as he sounds like Tom Waits on helium.

Furthermore, the M.A.F. is a rather ambiguous ‘figure’, sexually speaking. No one can ever recall him going on a date of any sort, even though he spends no less than six hours each day grooming himself.

We just like to say that the M.A.F. hasn’t yet figured out which way his kung-fu grip extends.

The M.A.F. swore that he’d never before seen a Fleshlight – but really, any boy would swear to another boy that they’d never seen such a thing. They’ll cop to all the porn-watching in the world; they’ll cop to owning all sorts of sex-toys to use on their significant (or insignificant) others; they’ll cop to pretty much anything under the sun – but, by and large, a boy will not admit to another boy that he has ever used a male-masturbation device.

Of course I told him the same thing. But, you know, I was totally telling the truth.

Regardless, he brought his toys over, which at the end of the day is all that really matters. This set the scene quite perfectly: two boys, an as-yet unused Fleshlight, a bag of Star Wars toys, a carton of smokes, a digital camera, and the great outdoors – male bonding at its finest.

And thus ensued one of the most surreal fetish photography shoots ever shot….

Ratings:
- as a representation of Freud’s vagina: C (it would’ve been a B+, but the absence of teeth brought down the overall score)
- as a play-set representation of the all-powerful Sarlaac pit: A (the absence of teeth didn’t really matter much, as federal safety regulations would have defanged it anyway)

b. THE PUSSY-THERMOS

It looks like a pussy-thermos. So why not, right?

Granted, it isn’t insulated, nor does it come equipped with any sort of water-sealant. Plus, one might suspect that since it was not expressly designed to hold beverages, it might contain certain chemical agents which humans were not meant to ingest.

But, you know, fuck all that shit. If it looks like a big ol’ Slushie cup, then a big ol’ Slushie cup it shall be.

So I fixed myself a pussy-thermos full of Jim Beam and Coke. Which was pretty sweet in and of itself, as there just aren’t a lot of sex-toys on the market that you can really get your drank on with.

And really, it wasn’t so bad. As a cup, it’s perfectly adequate, as it has no holes or leaks. And the polyurethanes only served to heighten my buzz, as well as provide me with a low-level sense of vertigo. Although the lack of insulation meant that I had to keep adding ice every 20 minutes or so (apparently the manufacturer built in some sort of constant heat-applicator to the thermos, in keeping with the motif of Pussy Is Hot).

The most impressive aspect of it however is in being able to boast to your friends that after you are finished getting your drank on, you are then going to fuck the shit out of the cup.

Now that’s pretty cool.

Ratings:
- thermos: C-
- cup: A
- coolness ratio, a/k/a, drinking from that which you might later fuck: A+

c. CHAMELEON NATURE

The final of these field experiments is perhaps a nod to the late Steve Irwin, who taught us in his short time on earth two very important things:

1. if you want to see some cool shit, poke it a lot
2. if you want to see some cool shit but don’t want to get your face eaten off in the process, learn the art of disguise

As a boy who rather likes having a face, hairy though it may be, I elected for the second option – the Fleshlight as chameleon.

Yeah…this one didn’t turn out so well. Probably because during the two days I left the Fleshlight out on my coffee table, nobody came over. Can we call that a push?

Rating:
- passing as a flashlight: INCOMPLETE

Tomorrow: the Fleshlight undergoes its first sexual field-test (but it’s totally NOT what you’re thinking).

cross-posted from Junkbuzzed…

I. HOW THROWING A HISSY-FIT WILL ALWAYS GET YOU WHAT YOU WANT

As Americans, we have certain inalienable rights. Among these are the rights to life, liberty, and the never-ending pursuit of NSA sexual gratification. But there are other rights just as resolute as those committed to history in the Bill of Rights, and just as imperative:

- the right to always be offended
- the right to better, cheaper pharmaceuticals with a longer-lasting buzz
- the right to start your own sex-blog (apparently everybody got the memo on this one)
- the right to get what you want when you want it
- the right to raise a big stink about it when you don’t

These last two rights are downright essential to life in this post-post-modern world. For in order to truly be a viable part of the American experience, you must first learn and master the gentle art of Throwing a Hissy-Fit Until You Get What You Want. Of course, there are alternate terms for this of which you may be aware: Showing Your Ass; Being A Rich Old White Dude; Owning An SUV; Getting Your Wrong On; Throwing A Wobbler; and finally, Getting A Free Gift-Card At The Piggly-Wiggly.

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘now that’s just not right – you can’t just throw a fit and expect to get what you want!’

Why not?

But instead of boring you with more rhetoric, allow me instead to show you some positive examples of hissy-fits that changed America, and possibly the world:

- The Boston Tea Party
- Mr. Sherman Pays a Visit to the Beautiful City of Atlanta (now commemorated as a lovely collector’s-edition children’s book with lots of pop-up flames)
- Reagan in ’87: ‘Like, tear down this wall, you bitches!’
- That time I started shrieking and flinging myself into end-caps at Hills department store until my mom finally bought me that Star Wars figure that I really really really wanted (Dengar; because everybody loves a fat man wrapped in bandages)
- Kathy Griffin’s entire career

Case in point: I recently posted a hissy-fit of my own on the anti-man policies of teh internets when it comes to the rationing out of free sex toys.

I am Sick and Tired (Sick and Tired is a registered ™ of The Internet and its parent company, Ennui, Inc., all rights reserved) of being treated like a second-class sex-blogger. It’s well-known that every sex-blogger with a vagina has an affiliate deal with one of the sex-toy e-tailers.

I mean, just look around. Every single girl sex-blogger gets free sex toys to review and keep. Look at Ellie. Look at Catalina. Look at Curvaceous Dee. Look at Essin’ Em. Amongst a hundred-thousand others. It’s like the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon – you cannot make six consecutive sex-blog jumps without tripping over at least a couple of girl-blogs with affiliate deals and free toys sticking out the, well, you know.

Hell, I even hear that the state of Florida sends Feministing all their confiscated truck-nuts for “constructive demolition”.

And what do us boys get? Nada. Zip. Zippo. Nil. Zilch.

II. ENTER THE ANGEL-FAERIE OF TEH INTERNETS

A scant hour after my hissy-fit was posted in all its pristine eloquence, I received a response from everybody’s internet angel, the Glenda the Good Witch of Sex-Positivity, the one and only Always Aroused Girl, who set into motion a rollicking exchange of emails:

From: AAG
To: TSM
Re: Fleshlight
The internet has heard your shrieking hissy-fit and thus would like to offer you a complimentary Fleshlight.

From: TSM:
To: AAG
Re: re: Fleshlight
Well, it’s about goddamned time.

From: AAG
To: TSM
Re: re: re: Fleshlight
Um, yeah. So do you want it or not?

From: TSM
To: AAG
Re: re: re: re: Fleshlight
Is it used?

From: AAG
To: TSM
Re: re: re: re: re: Fleshlight
Uh, no. And you’re starting to creep me out.

From: TSM
To: AAG
Re: re: re: re: re: re: Fleshlight
I thought you were Always Aroused.

From: AAG
To: TSM
re: re: re: re: re: re: re: Fleshlight
Apparently there’s an exception to everything.

And after a few days of apologizing for my haranguing, AAG finally agreed to have Eden Fantasys ship out a fresh new Fleshlight to my Fortress of Attitude on Ice Planet Hoth.

Of course there was a catch of sorts. In exchange for a freshly-minted Fleshlight, the internet, as well as its sex-positive parent company Eden Fantasys, would require that I write a review of the product. This was a challenge which I was ready to welcome into my heart and home. Seriously; I get to play Ralph Nader with a Fleshlight?

The American Dream, dear reader (citation needed), is alive and well.

(And for all you sex-positive young-un’s out there who have no idea what I’m talking about – let me assure you that once upon a time, before he became such a self-aggrandizing political irritant, Ralph Nader was perhaps the coolest, bad-assiest nerd in all of America.)

EDITOR’S NOTE: Did you know that Eden Fantasys is one of the world’s largest, if not super-best e-tailers of sex-toys for the sex-positive elite? So, uh, get ye over there, and buy a boatload of shit. Tell ‘em TSM sent you. (On second thought, don’t – they might charge you double.)

But this led to a whole new crisis. What sort of review system would I employ? Thumbs-up/thumbs-down? A 5-star scale? Score it out of 100? Could I declare it fresh/rotten, a la Rotten Tomatoes? Or maybe I should take a(nother) page from my dad’s old porno mags and score it by number of erect/limp penises. Or Cialis tablets.

Oh, great world of wonder! So much you have given me to ponder!

But all I had to ponder now was the wait.

Coming up tomorrow, in Part Two: See what Brown does for me - and - the unboxing of what just might be the final Cylon - the Fleshlight.

Cross-posted from Junkbuzzed…

As you already know, this past week we took the first step of anointing our new god, the golden child, the chosen one, the Padawan who would be Supreme Galactic Chancellor. And what a picked pickled pepper of pageantry that was. We had all the drama that the NPR-elite could possibly muster, except without all the lisping that you get on the radio version. The sidebar to this was the 1000-fold increase in activity on Denver Craigslist. Everybody got some, and then some.

And this coming week we will bear witness to the congregation of the veritable Legion of Doom to the DNC’s Super-Friends. Yes, the Republicans are coming! And they’re bringing the earth’s most popular governor with them! (Of course, it’s easy to be the earth’s most popular governor when the state of your governance has about as many people in it as Columbus, Ohio.) They’re bringing a crotchety old guy who can’t remember stuff! And they’re even bringing their own Hillary Clinton – no, not Sarah Palin (she’s more of a William H. Macy from Fargo sort of figure), but the brokenhearted, crestfallen figure of one Mitt Romney. (Let us hope that Tag and Trig can forge some sort of truce.)

But can the conservatives top the liberals in terms of sheer electronic sexual alacrity? So far, it looks like a no. But in order to sniff them out, first you have to learn how to crack their code. Republicans more than any other race of humanoids rely on code-speak to a ridiculous degree. But we’ve broken it. And so, for your edu-tainment, here are but a few of the acronyms that Republicans use when trolling the intertubes for a little NSA filibustering…

F – let’s fuck

LFCH – let’s felch

LPH – let’s phish

IWTDYOSMB – I want to drill your off-shore mines, baby

GAAPOTMLATTYC – go ahead and plaster on the makeup like a trollop tonight, you cunt

IWYTSMLOPN – I want you to shake me like our party’s nominee

OPIGDASWI – our party is going down, and so will I

SKSVILA – seeks Vicki Iseman look-alike

WINBOBFISP – who in the bluest of blue fucks is Sarah Palin

PGMHSS – please, God – make her stop screeching

YKINMK – your kink is not my kink

OKMT – okay, maybe tonight

YKINOK – your kink is no one’s kink

YKSLAADBPB – your kink smells like ass and discount-brand peanut butter

IAATPB – I am allergic to peanut butter

BITMFT – but I take medication for that

LGKTSICDULTOIT – let’s get kinky tonight so I can draw up legislation to outlaw it tomorrow

TIPCAICY – tonight, I’m pro-choice – and I choose you

AEIOU – autocratic ejaculate is our ulterior (motive)

ASY – and sometimes yellow (instead of ejaculate)

RNC=AR! – the Republican National Convention equals anal rampaging!

PDLLAC – please don’t look like Ann Coulter

FFMUILLAC – force-feminize me until I look like Ann Coulter

LLCT – let’s Larry Craig tonight

IBWATMSPIA – I’ll be waiting at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport

S#_ - stall # ___

PAMR – Patriot Act my rectum

YMTHAABOJB – you, me, Ted Haggard, and a bottle of Jim Beam

LMFDAGI – let’s meet for drinks and grope interns

TWML100YBIOL2M – the war might last 100 years, but I only last 2 minutes

PDOM – please don’t out me

SEGWMM – seriously, Ed Gillespie will murder me

RTAPT – Rudy’s throwing a party tonight

BYOD – bring your own dress

Crossposted from your friendly neighborhood Junkbuzzed.

I don’t really know when it started. Like matter, anti-matter, and Catholic guilt, it’s just always been there. I am speaking of course about porn – and I don’t just mean pornography in the traditional late-70s/early-80s glossing over of the more arcane (and dare I say, ‘nether’) of the girl-parts; I am talking about porn in the abstract: specifically, the art of transmogrifying the mundane into the pornographic when there are no other options.

It sounds hard, I know. But stick with me – all you need is a penis, a television, and a little imagination. And a dad.

Back in the 70s, there weren’t a great many TV stations from which to choose. You had your Big 3 networks, cranking out the hits since time immemorial:
- ABC: home of Wonder Woman, Isis, and Three’s Company
- CBS: home of The Incredible Hulk and The Jeffersons
- and NBC, home to a googillion spanking fantasies, thanks to the whippin’-a-week antics of the gang at Little House on the Prairie (if you’ve never done a naughty Nellie Oleson/angry Nells Oleson getting the belt sort of scene, you don’t know what you’re missing.)

Then there was PBS, which existed solely to make children not want to watch television, thanks in large part to Mark Russell and a weird fetish for stiff British melodrama which continues to this day. Mark Russell, it should be noted, is one of the primary reasons why the children of the late 70s and early 80s STILL PLAYED OUTSIDE. (With no video game consoles to console ourselves, we needed some means of escape. And that’s precisely what today’s kids need: less mind-altering pharmaceuticals, and more Mark Russell, singing those goddamned insipid political song-parodies of his. Yeah; he was the Jon Stewart of the day. You see now why Gen-X is still so fucked up?)

And, depending on the quality/malleability of your rabbit-ears, you might have had a UHF channel or two. These channels of the obscure served to fill the federal government’s quota of no less than 14 hours per day of Woody Woodpecker, 3 Stooges shorts, and a whole lot of Streets of San Francisco.

But the really weird shit came out of Canada. I grew up near the border in New York, and as such was entertained/stupefied by such televised delights as child-talent competitions (if you too as a child living in or near or border town were similarly forced to watch Tiny Talent Time, please email me – I’m setting up a support group), SCTV, and hours on end of staring at a barely-in-focus maple leaf.

Early morning however was my dad’s favorite TV-viewing time. Canada, it seemed, was really serious about physical fitness in those days. So serious in fact that they cock-blocked any and all morning cartoons in favor of a two-hour block of exercise programs. Tightly spandexed Canadian girls with really large feathered hairdos did slow-mo squats, thrust, and dips, all while yelling, ‘how’s that workin’ fer yeh, eh?’ (Bear in mind that Canada was somewhat ahead of the curve with this one. It would be a few more years before a fledgling ESPN, desperate for content, began running their own exercise programs in five-hour blocks daily, thus giving the unemployed/sick renewed reason to just stay home and jack off.)

In my house, the daily rigmarole of getting ready for school was executed under a strict Don’t Go Into The Living Room edict. For the living room was where dad held court with the fitness beauties of eastern Ontario, clad only in his bathrobe and puffing on a cigar.

“Your father’s exercising,” mater would say as she served breakfast. I was never invited to exercise with the old man, and subsequently I began to suspect that this was an entirely new discipline in the Physical Fitness arts.

Also, though I was but a wee and therefore moronic young Misanthrope, I understood one basic principle of exercising – which is that if you’re doing it right, you’re probably not smoking a pipe during. This continued until I was old enough to get it, at which point my father promptly bought a second TV for his bedroom.

By 1980, Family TV Time was a regular Saturday night activity, also known as Special Family Torture Time. Disco was dying, but its bad hair, clothes, and expensive coke habits weren’t. And thus, as it was far too early to banish me to the clutches of bed, I found myself privy to the old man’s latest TV obsession. There were two shows that my father liked to watch on Saturday nights. No – there were two shows that he insisted upon watching each and every Saturday night.

The first of these programs was Hee Haw.

Now we were not a country music sort of family – My Mother the Filthy Hippy raised me on a steady diet of Dylan, The Beatles, The Stones, and a touch of Neil Diamond – because even fist-pounding rebellion needs an occasional feel-good moment. As such, I would stage elaborate protests, complete with signage, body makeup, and protest songs (“ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s Hee Haw farm no more”; “Old MacDonald had a farm, until he saw Hee Haw and died of a massive aneurysm”; and “Haw no, we won’t Hee”). These demonstrations were met with the icy glare of a dad who really needed to see some titty. Which in retrospect was a far kinder sort of quashing than how Nixon might’ve responded.

Regardless, each Saturday night at 7:00PM, we were welcomed back to the Joke Fence/Grassy Knoll by the porcine visage of Roy Clark. If you never saw Hee Haw, please allow me to sum up a few of its running features:
- all goings-on took place in Kornfield Kounty. They were rather skittish about disclosing fully the name of the actual town, at least in proper order with the county: Kerfuffle.
- moonshine was used as the premise of many a skit, because as we all know, rural alcoholism is a hoot.
- banjos. They really liked banjos.
- whenever they felt that the audience wasn’t being completely pandered to, they resorted to singing gospel songs. With banjos.

But the real reason that my old man (and the rest of America) really watched was because of the Hee Haw Honeys. These were the sirens of the cornfield (excuse me – Kornfield), always outfitted in the traditional ethnic garb of farmer’s daughters – i.e., cutoff denim short-shorts, and a red-and-white checkered napkin tied around their chests. All I remember from these segments are tits and “y’all”. Which I’m pretty sure is exactly what the old man was going for.

After Hee Haw, Special Family TV Torture Time then segued from the cornfields to intergalactic space-tranny dancing. No; it wasn’t Dance Fever (Adrian Zmed was many things to many people, but he was always All Man.) Of course I am referring to Solid Gold. If you don’t remember Solid Gold, allow me to defrag your memory. Solid Gold, like Law & Order and all its subsequent spinoffs, was predicated on two separate but equal facets of the musical-television genre:
1. The hosts: Marilyn McCoo, Dionne Warwick, and Rick Dees. Yeah – the chick from The Fifth Dimension, the Psychic Friends lady, and the “Disco Duck” guy.
2. The Solid Gold Dancers, who were actually Pod People hatched from mold spores found on the outer hull of the Apollo 11.

The show’s format was pretty straightforward. After all, there wasn’t much need for smoke and mirrors (well, not the mirrors, anyway – I do remember a lot of smoke machines in play) – these were the last days of television as we knew it before MTV. Back then, a singer with a face made for radio could still score a hit single. And this is where Solid Gold came in. Dionne or Marilyn would babble a bit (if we were really lucky, we’d be treated to a little Andy Gibb in this segment as well), and then introduce the week’s Top Ten singles.

The Top Ten was the exclusive domain of the Solid Gold Dancers. Imagine an ensemble of dancers so garishly awful they couldn’t even break into the chorus lines in Las Vegas, but had just enough pride left to keep themselves from doing hardcore porn. On Solid Gold, these dancers found their bespangled Shangri-La. It was a happy, coke-fueled median of sorts, where the music and the fog machines were always set to high. And so were dreams!

Here, in their natural habitat, they performed really bad sexually-suggestive dance interpretations of the day’s top songs. So if you ever wanted to see a troupe of so-tightly-spandexed-I-can-see-your-uterus dancers dry-humping the sky to Christopher Cross’ “Sailing”, then Solid Gold was the show for you. Which means that in those waning days of the family Betamax, every dad in the USA was watching.

I was 8 when I was first subjected to the Solid Gold Dancers. And to me they looked like cut-scene space-transvestites from Star Wars. Which might’ve been kinda cool if not for all those goddamned Olivia Newton-John songs. At the time, I just thought it was all part of my father’s ongoing campaign of domestic terrorism against me, the goal of which was to ruin my life. Though I suppose that this is the inadvertent goal of most fathers. Meanwhile, the old man watched Solid Gold every week with a steely, stoic expression. He never let on just how much he was enjoying himself. I guess I should just be grateful that there wasn’t an internet in 1980.

It took Air Supply to show me the way. With a little help from the Solid Gold Dancers.

One traumatic Saturday night, the Dancers pulled out all the stops in their spastic neon ballet set to Air Supply’s future classic “Making Love Out of Nothing At All”. Because if you’re gonna do interpretative dance to 80s songs, you might as well do it to a Jim Steinman composition. (If you don’t know who Jim Steinman is, you know his songs. He’s the flaming MC of all things Melodramatic and Douchelike, responsible for Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart”, Celine Dion’s “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now”, the Sisters of Mercy’s “More”, and pretty much every godawful thing that Meatloaf ever recorded.)

It was a hot mess. The Solid Gold Dancers were inspired – they danced like they’d never danced before. They really were making love out of nothing at all. Well, it was nothing at all, unless you count all the dry-humping going on. Whoever washed the Solid Gold floors after each taping had quite a task.

And then I got it. That was the point of all this Special Family TV Torture Time. The old man was trying to teach me something. And really, it’s one of life’s most valuable lessons, if you’re a boy.

When there is no clear avenue to porn, you just make your own. A little visual stimuli, a glass (or 8) of wine, a penis, and a quick jack-it of the imagination. Boys don’t have a word for this process, but I believe that this is what women refer to as objectification.

My response? And how! Because porn is expensive – objectification is free. Actually, it’s better than free. It’s like arts and crafts for boys, without all that girly arts and crafts stuff.

It might not be the real thing. And I’m told on a near-daily basis that it most certainly is not love. But in a pinch it’ll do. Because there really are some things that you can make – by yourself and for yourself – and out of nothing at all.

Gosh, my kids are gonna be soooo fucked up.

If you missed part one of this charming, gripping, mildly offensive tale of pain-sluttery, and one of the primary reasons I am such a tool - fear not. Go read it, pay your respects to the rest of the BSB Posse (also known as the Positively Sex-Positive

And now, as Promised, An Overlong Interlude: AOL girlfriends

Before I get to the ass-shattering three-way confrontation between me, ugly stick, and Missy, I feel I should first provide a little insight into what led her to this moment.

Missy and I met on the internet, during my brief mid-90s flirtation with America Online. It had been suggested to me through my tight-knit community of ne’er-do-wells that AOL Girlfriends were really easy to get. (Granted, the caveat was that they were somewhat difficult to get rid of, but that was a problem for later.)

And it really was that easy. AOL chats were the pre-junked progenitor of Craigslist. They were usually populated with scores of frustrated housewives who had just discovered the internet, and, from there, further discovered that there were scads, even oodles of other frustrated housewives around the world who dreamt of being spanked and trained to respond to endearing nicknames such as ‘cumgobbler’. It was sort of a game of shooting ducks: the chat would be all abuzz for a time, with witty repartee the likes of “I throws a big ‘ol water balloon at U LOL” and “U R such a BRAT! LOL!” The ducks would be picked off one by one, as they were trolled, baited, and cajoled into a series of whirlwind romances that generally consisted of “SMACK SMACK U R A BAD GIRL”. But it made them happy. In that short time, the internet evolved from YKINOK to YGINOK (Your Grammar is Not OK).

One night, I was merrily taunting the constituency of a kink-friendly AOL chat, as I was wont to do when no one wanted to have sex with me. If you ever felt the need to disrupt an AOL chat, all you had to do was drop some Pynchon on them. Or some Pat Benatar. As long as you typed in complete, coherent sentences, used proper spelling and employed the odd rice-grain of punctuation, you were guaranteed to confound at least half the room.

Shortly after clearing yet another chat with my clever (and accurate) usage of semi-colons, I received an IM from a user under the nom-de-dom-me of HardButt99. Which immediately made me think that I was getting hit on by a dude (the price to pay for splattering my genitals all over AOL; my goal at the time was to eventually teabag Steve Case).

Once again, you are what you IM. And me, a top with more than a passing fancy for pain-sluttery, well, I was only too happy to jump into the leathery-assed world of Missy. After a couple of hours canoodling within the IM box, we somewhat recklessly agreed to meet later that evening. At Denny’s. Turns out I was her post-munch date.

We spent that evening drinking burnt coffee and talking in hushed voices about the dark art of those who hit and those who get hit. She neatly identified herself as someone who got hit, but not enough, never enough, and not lately. I myself was not presently hitting anyone, and as such was quite pleased to offer a smart and expedient remedy to Missy’s predicament. Or so I thought anyway. A date was made for the following afternoon at her apartment, where all sorts of hitting would commence.

It took over a week for my hand to heal. Not only was it bruised, but I actually managed to spank off most of the skin on my palm. And several of my fingernails fell off. All told, it hurt. A lot.

I should add that I am a rather sadistic little bastard – when given the go-ahead, I like to hit hard, and I like to do it for quite some time. And I did. But it was like spanking a pickup truck that had recently been set on fire and not yet cooled off. She wasn’t just tough; she was just Ford-tough.

Also I feel I should add that while I enjoyed Star Trek as a child, I was more of a Star Wars fan at heart. As such, it only took about seven dates for me to realize just how much I loathed the life’s work of Gene Roddenberry.

Fortunately, there were commercial breaks. Which presented Missy ample opportunity to soliloquize. To hear Missy tell her tale is like watching a soft-focus profile of an Olympian who has spent nearly every waking moment of her life training for a very specific event. There is the requisite montage of glossy-eyed obsession, the inevitable setbacks and heartbreaks set to Berber’s Adagio, and then there is the defining moment, that brief shimmering half-a-jif on the Olympic stage where she gets to find out if a life spent on the balance beam or St. Andrew’s Cross was worth it or not.

According to Missy, much of her early childhood was spent combing the neighborhood for other children to spank her. Actually, it sounded more like terrorizing: Missy, delivering a furious flurry of white-knuckle noogies to the neighborhood boys until they agreed to provide her with a bit of Nurse-Chapel’s-naughty-doppelgänger style chastisement.

Eventually she found she had to constantly scout out new neighborhoods, as the children who took on her dares/demands/threats of great physical violence generally found themselves rushed to the ER with broken hands and fingers, and were subsequently barred from playing with ‘the weird girl’. As she grew older, her fascination with spanking only intensified, as did her love for replica Starfleet uniforms. Into her early adulthood, she had burned through several dozen dominata, often leaving both their appendages and egos severely bruised – unlike her ass, which remained as white and non-compliant as a dried pool of Elmer’s glue.

My own relationship with Missy was not forged on any sort of love, but rather a series of enhanced ‘I-dare-you’s and the staggering refusal of my ego to accept defeat. I even started going to my local gym to increase my cardio, hoping that I would win out through a combination of persistence and volume. Unfortunately, my McClellan-esque vanity only led to a series of losses so grave that even Lincoln would have removed me from my faltering command. The General Lee of Missy’s posterior always lived to fight another day.

This time, however, would be an ass-beating on the scale of Gettysburg. The only difference was that I would finish the job there.

Act III. An ass-wrinkle in time

Missy opened the door and greeted me with a half-yawned “bah,” which I inferred to mean, “Why hello there; please, come right in.” She pointed to the bundle under my arm. “What’cha got?”

“I made something for you,” I said with all the gravitas of a disgraced ronin come to regain his honor. With a panoramic flourish, I unsheathed the ugly stick, letting the wrappings fall to the floor and assuming my best Toshiro Mifune pose for effect.

“What. The. Fuck. Is. That,” she stammered, taking a step backward. I wasn’t sure, but I think she attempted to make the sign of the cross.

“This, my dear Missy, is the ugly stick. And I’m going to beat you with it.” The ugly stick gurgled its assent.

There is a scene in the course of every action movie that signals the end of rising action. This is the exact moment when the outcome of the story becomes clear, that good (or ugly stick) will indeed triumph over evil (or leather-butt). This of course is the climax – the close-up instant when the film’s heavy realizes their impending undoing. Missy’s beady little eyes widened into somewhat less-beady little eyes. Her lips pursed, as if trying to work up enough bravado to call me a pussy again.

The beginning of the climax, through the eyes of the heavy, usually plays itself out much like the five stages of grief:

1. Denial. You will not hit me with that ugly stick. If you do, it will not hurt me.

2. Anger. If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me, you pussy.

3. Bargaining. Join me, and together we will rule the galaxy as Leather-Butt and Weird Dude. Join me – it is the only way.

4. Depression. This can’t be happening; it isn’t fair – I don’t deserve to be beaten with the ugly stick.

5. Acceptance. I am ready for what is coming; but if you don’t mind, please allow me a moment to kiss my ass as I know it goodbye.

And thus it was agreed upon; Missy would be hit with the ugly stick immediately. I secured her to the bed, mumbling something about where no man has gone before; she said nothing in response.

Not knowing the power of the ugly stick or the demon that now resided within it, I brought it down with only minimal force. It sounded like a thunderclap.

She yelped. And immediately recomposed herself.

“Is that the best you’ve got – you pussy?”

The demon gurgled again; stirred from its ancient rest and infused me with its dark power. In an instant I was transformed from run-of-the-mill Weird Dude into an instrument of pure chaos and ass-smiting. I raised the ugly stick again, as it commanded me.

“By the power of Grayskull,” I shouted, and swung the stick as hard as both I and the demon could muster. As I swung, I could distinctly hear the disembodied voice of George Takei yelling, “warp nine!” It was like striking the death-blow to the Romulan warlord who for so long had terrorized the peaceful inhabitants of some dismal M-class planet and their weekly BDSM munches.

Impact.

Have you ever hit someone so hard that you were afraid you’d not only broken the submissive in twain, but cracked the space-time continuum as well?

This fear was immediately answered as an orb of light manifested itself in Missy’s bedroom. Through the fissure of time, space, and freshly-mangled posteriors, I could plainly see Genghis Khan, the Marquis de Sade, and Captain Picard looking in on us. They oohed and ahhed at the state of Missy’s ass.

“Dude, that’s harsh,” pronounced Khan.

“Sacre bleu!” exclaimed de Sade.

“Can I borrow that thing to stop the Borg?” asked Picard.

Missy, for her part (and her part was kinda important) was still frozen in shock. The topography of her ass rippled like a planet newly forming, as if struck by the Genesis torpedo itself, and a thick, multi-pronged series of welts began to rise and thicken.

I started to feel bad for her, but again the demon compelled me otherwise. I raised the ugly stick and shook it over my head, grunting triumphantly like a Tusken Raider about to lay the smack down on a hapless red-shirt who had wandered into the wrong movie. Wrong movie, right ending. And again I brought it down, this time with all the intensity and wounded fierceness of a blogger having taken offense at something wholly inconsequential to the rest of the universe.

And the space-time continuum further shattered around us. Worf, Patton, Alethea, and a young Mṻller joined the already-assembled throng peering in. Already the place smelled of garlic and tofu-sweatsock stew.

“GIFF HER ANUTTER SCHOTT!” cried Mṻller, shaking his fist.

“Captain, the Borg are closing in!” grumbled Worf.

Patton hurled a litany of racial and intergalactic epithets, and punched Mṻller in the mouth.

“I think I invoked the wrong demon,” Alethea said, waving her wand-stick at no one in particular.

And finally Missy spoke. Well, she didn’t actually speak; not in any language known to man – it was more of a tightly-wound confluence of divergent shrieks, sirens, screams, squeals, and screeches – as if every slap ever delivered upon her ass was suddenly and indelibly registered.

Imagine if you will a bear with its leg caught in a trap being repeatedly punched in the testicles by Joe Louis while an army of vampire bats bit its ass. That’s what her shrieking sounded like. That’s just a guess, though.

And then Missy went catatonic. This wasn’t sub-space; this wasn’t anybody’s safe place – this was a transcendental banishment. This was the phantom zone, twilight zone, and the New York equivalent of the zone of alienation, where in some dark recess of your soul, you’re always pissing fire at Love Canal.

The ugly stick gurgled again, speaking to me in tongues. It said something about conquering the world one bared ass at a time – but first it would annihilate Missy’s ass forever.

Well, it would have. Except that Picard snatched it away from me with a stiff British “yoink!” (As my Trekkie grandfather used to say, “A Frenchman in command of the Enterprise? Fuck that shit.”) And as soon as it was out of my grasp, the portal closed – time and space were restored to their proper order, except for the Borg – who I could only assume were literally having their cybernetic asses handed to them.

I looked down at Missy. She was still in shock.

“Um. Hey,” I cautioned. “Are you, like, okay?”

“What’s my safeword again,” Missy mumbled, barely audible.

“Tiberius.”

“Okay, thanks. Tiberius.”

And with that I had burned through yet another AOL Girlfriend. From that moment forward, I resolved to:

a. never construct another WAD

b. never ask a Wiccan to invoke a demon

c. never trust a hippy vegan polyamorist

d. not date any more girls with faulty pain-receptors

e. cancel my AOL account

f. stop watching so much Star Trek

I heard from Missy about a year later. She had hooked up with the shifty-eyed pyro from the BDSM munches, and was enjoying a rather incendiary romance with him. She had also relinquished her duties as head munch-master, to a gung-ho Gor slave whose name was entirely unpronounceable, who moved the munches from Denny’s to IHOP, a move that eventually led to Missy’s leaving the group and forming her own splinter cell, back at Denny’s.

She called me up some time later still, notifying me that she was now a dominant, and would I like to come over to be beaten by her and then enjoy some forced-bi with her shifty-eyed pyro, followed by a lovely repast at Denny’s?

I politely declined.

“You pussy,” she said.

Sometimes you just can’t win.

a love story in three acts and an overlong interlude

ACT I. You pussy!

“Hit me harder, you pussy,” she grunted, teeth her face twisted in a rictus of utter contempt. In the heat of the spank, she as submissive took on the demeanor of a Klingon warrior preparing to die in glorious battle (and pontificating endlessly on the pursuit of honor).

In other words, she wasn’t kidding.

This had been going on for the better part of an hour. There was Missy, my Worf-like warrior of the submissive arts, bound spread-eagle on the bed, her unblemished ass poofed up in the air like two sourdough boules. Well, two sourdough boules that had been spanked, whipped, cropped, paddled, strapped, caned, switched, stamped, stomped, and otherwise assaulted for approximately 51 minutes, yet betrayed absolutely no signs of either marking or proofing.

And then there was me. If Missy was a battle-tested Klingon warrior, I was Wesley Crusher. With a paddle. I was doing all the hitty stuff, yet I was the one who was dying. My arms felt like pipe cleaners that had been daisy-chained into a bad Shibari demo and then set on fire by the opportunistic pyro that inevitably crashes every BDSM munch at the local Denny’s. (You know that guy; the one with the wild eyes and an over-flicked Bic who’s dying to light the arms of all the girls aflame. Because Denny’s managers love watching their diners immolate.)

“Well?” she demanded (and she was quite the demanding little thing, even for a submissive). “Are you gonna hit me again or what?”

‘Or what’ was feeling like the better option. Once again I conducted a unilateral invasion of her toybox (Missy did not travel light; whence she went followed a coffin-sized trunk, a veritable hope-chest of dildos, dongs, vibrators, ass-smashers, and wet-naps) looking for WADs (Weapons of Ass Destruction), but finding only instruments to torture normal humanoids with.

“Are you sure you were born with nerve endings?” I asked, my chest sagging like the ass-end of an overweight cat trying to launch itself onto a higher surface.

“Bah,” she harrumphed.

It always wondered me that she used ‘bah’ so frequently as a term of dismissal. In all my life, I had only encountered two other people who employed this term. One of them was the Incredible Hulk, who ‘bah’ed his way through the Army, Air Force, Marines, and each state’s National Guard in the comics of my childhood. However, Missy hadn’t yet called me a ‘puny human’, so at least I still had that going for me. That and I have a strict ‘No Green Chicks’ dating policy.

I looked down at her. She wrinkled her nose at me and snorted. Missy was a lovely girl, part mutant, part munch-organizer (kinky munch organizers, by the way, are the only reason Denny’s is still in existence in many towns), and all cranky, all the time. Standing at a squat 5’2” in her regulation Starfleet mini-skirt (Missy really liked Star Trek), with beady little Hobbit eyes, she was the sort of girl who safeworded only for potty breaks and snacks. Otherwise she had a tendency to taunt her respective dominanta the way a drill sergeant dresses down his cadets. And for the record, it’s not bratting when it comes out sounding like R. Lee Ermey.

Missy didn’t top from the bottom; she bullied from the bottom.

To say that Missy was a pain-slut is to suggest that Missy actually felt pain. Which she did not. The term ‘leatherbutt’ comes to mind, but really, that is an insult both to leather and butts. What Missy had was some sort of indestructible organic metal alloy, like the stuff Wolverine’s claws were made of. Missy was the original Buns of Steel.

“So you’re not gonna hit me again,” she grumbled.

Fearing that my health insurance wouldn’t cover Tommy John surgery (a.k.a. Spanker’s Elbow), I thought it best to call an end to this particular beating, as I was the one soundly beaten.

“Um, no, I think I’m done.” I fashioned a thick leather strappy thing into a makeshift sling and collapsed onto the bed beside her as she finished gnawing her way through the restraints.

Missy regarded me with a disdainful eye, the way a cat gloats over a stray bit of lint that it has successfully hunted and killed. She rolled over, snatched up the remote, and flicked on Star Trek. It wasn’t the sexiest of BDSM rituals, but there it was. It’d beat her. She’d call me a pussy. I’d get tired. And then we’d watch Star Trek.

“Ooh, this is a good one. It’s got Ferengi in it.”

I gasped out my agreement that Ferengi were indeed the hallmark of any good Star Trek episode.

“Look at you,” she gloated, “you look like you just got beat with the ugly stick.”

At which point inspiration struck. It’s like finding the answer to ‘what do you get for the person who has everything?’ Gift cards? I was pretty confident that no amount of gift-card giving would sate Missy’s one true desire to feel a beating.

And I had the answer. The one that Rumsfeld and Cheney never imagined: if you can’t find the imaginary WMD/WADs, then you have to make them yourself.

I would build an ugly stick.

And Missy would be the one who got beat with it.

ACT II. The Lyin’, the Witch, and the Lack of Any Wardrobe Whatsoever

But first I needed some help. I I drove over to the house of my Wiccan priestess bondage queen friend Alethea, who herself built nearly every piece of furniture in the home she shared with her husband, her boyfriend, her girlfriend, his girlfriend, his boyfriend, and a gaggle of dirty naked hippy couch-surfers who seemingly were deposited on this earth to do nothing more than mooch cigarettes, lube, bondage rope, and the genitals of anyone passing by. These were the first polyamorists who had bumbled into my life, and I regarded them the same way Nixon regarded the Free Love set in the 60s. The only difference between the poly people and the Free Love movement seemed to be that, studying the newsreel, the hippies seemed a little less miserable. And they were all vegans, the lot of them, which lent Alethea’s house the unmistakably eye-watering aroma of rotting garlic. All in all, this house was both the wet dream of every sex-blogger ten years later, as well as the vividly realized fears of every jowly godbag.

Alethea was sort of the Home Depot of the local BDSM scene. Her garage was a veritable Acme of do-baddery, from the mundane (homemade floggers), to the slightly less-mundane (homemade catheters), to the not-at-all-mundane (her ‘magic circle’, where she retreated to summon the assistance of wind goddesses, friendly demons, and tofu recipes).

“What do you need to build?” Alethea asked while casting a moon-spell to dispel a little bit of the stink of a non-vegan.

“An ugly stick.”

“Ooh. You’re still dating Missy, aren’t you.”

Alethea lead me into her garage. She was a hippy in two senses; of course she was a filthy pot-smoking, indiscriminate sex-having hippy (which unfortunately did not include me); also she was extremely wide-hipped – she looked like an R. Crumb drawing brought to red-headed life, minus the hip street lingo.

It also didn’t hurt that she wore a tool-belt like no one else on earth. It was more like Batman’s tool belt, really; that is, if Batman was a weird Wiccan free-love chick. From her hippyness hung hammers, screwdrivers, vials of hair, semen, coke, throwing stars, and whatever pixie dust she had gathered from the latest Wiccan swap-meet. Judging by the irises of her squatters, I’d have to say that it was deeply narcotic, whatever it was.

The problem was that I had all the technological skill of a crackhead trying to fix a teleprompter with a box of Crystal Light mix. In seventh grade, I was forced to construct a bird feeder in shop class by a surly German named Mṻller, whose motivational technique consisted of approaching a boy, shrieking at him in the way that only Germans can, “BAH! I AM GOINK TO GIFF YOO A SCHOTT!” Yes, Mṻller was the other person in my life who employed ‘bah’.

This shrieking of disapproval immediately followed by the shot itself – a stiff jab to the arm which usually produced a bruise in the shape of the Fatherland. If nothing else, seventh grade is the beginning of the end of childhood, because a boy will learn the meaning of stress through the difficulty of operating a band-saw with an angry German screaming at him and punching him into sniffly-nosed conformity. It is because of Mṻller that I later memorized the opening speech from Patton. Needless to say, I abandoned a possible career in the woodworking arts as soon as the semester turned over.

Nonetheless, I had a few rudimentary ideas. I was already aware that neither wood, nor steel, nor plastic, nor leather had made any sort of impression on Missy’s invincible ass. But what if I combined these things into a single unit of pain-delivery?

“You’re going to need to reinforce it,” Alethea mused, scanning her reserves. “Steel-on-wood-on-leather.”

“Okay,” I nodded.

“Though that still might not be enough to make an impression on Missy. How about I invoke a demon and try to trap it inside the structure of the stick?”

And here I was afraid that I’d have to ask. Alethea was very sensitive about her magical abilities; she didn’t share them with just anyone. It probably helped that Missy owed her money.

So we set about constructing this technological terror. I was careful not to include any exhaust ports big enough for a womp-rat. We started with an endoskeleton of steel, which was then be-slatted with long planks of cherry wood spanning out in a fearsome semi-circle. If Hollywood ever decided to create a new horror film villain who dispatched his teenage victims with a modified rake, we had the perfect weapon for him. It looked like it was capable of multiple decapitations in a single stroke.

Before we set about covering and adorning it, Alethea pulled up her cloak (never attempt magic without a cloak) and pulled out a trusty wand-stick. A bit of pig-Latin later, and she assured me that she had indeed conjured a demon into the frame of the ugly stick. At which point her husband and several of his consorts arrived, and she excused herself to conjure up a pot of boiled tofu and sweatsocks.

In her absence, I did my usual half-assed routine of taking a perfect, near-elegant design, and making it look like it had been rolled in a dirty ashtray. Bits of leather were glued on and then triple-wrapped in a codicil of thick black electrical tape. Sort of like Brandon Lee in The Crow, without the looking-cool part. Seriously, a kid born without arms or legs could have done a better job using just his teeth and a little well-blown snot.

I two-fisted it like my own twisted take on Excalibur and lifted it up. It made a lot of noise – weird, otherworldly kind of noises. It was the sort of fucked-up voodoo thing you could see Tom Waits shaking onstage. I raised it up over my head, as if ready to part the skies so that I through the ugly stick may receive my power from the gods. It was a total ‘by the power of Grayskull’ kind of moment.

It weighed approximately 8lbs, and looked like something Death might carry if he forgot his scythe. It was a cross between a trident, a baseball bat, and Darth Vader’s penis, assuming it wasn’t burned off. I went inside to show it off to Alethea, whose initial reaction was that she’d invoked too strong a demon.

“Somebody’s gonna get hurt,” she said, shaking her head as she dropped the vegan approximation of an eye of newt into the boiling pot of tofu and sweatsocks.

Which was precisely what I wanted to hear. I said my goodbyes, careful to thank the goddesses, wind, moon, and stars, and then proceeded to trip over a pile of dirty naked people slithering all over each other like some sort of sex-positive Mayan death ritual.

And then I raced toward Missy’s.

To be continued…

Every contact sport worth engaging in has its two-minute warning.

Football has a flurry of whistle-blowing and a commercial break. Baseball has the seventh-inning stretch, which is comprised mainly of waiting in bathroom lines and singing songs. Basketball has the doubly-entendred shot clock. Soccer has…well, whatever soccer has. But we’re sure it involves dark lager, body paint, and a fair bit of rioting.

And then there’s marriage, along with its semi-retarded second-cousin LTR, who between the two of them have perfected what may be sport’s finest and most equitable two-minute warning.

When it comes to sex, the two-minute warning is signaled by the shoulder-tap. The shoulder-tap is a two-pat tap, performed in quick succession. This tapping means that it’s time to wrap this fucking thing up – you’ve got two minutes; make good use of them. Either get it into the end zone – you know, score already – or make do with a field-goal attempt (turn over and jack off). And if you have to punt or take a knee, so be it. But keep in mind that there will be no further time-outs or commercial breaks. And there will be, under no circumstances, any 2-point attempts (meaning, if you try to stick it in her ass, she will go all Jesse Jackson on your ass – there will be no reparations here – only nut-cutting and the subsequent telling of the tale to Bill O’Reilly).

It’s like the buddy system – she taps, you nod, perspire, and wrap it the hell up already. And when you get the tap – and you will, eventually – you can’t whine or complain about it. She’s not going to take it under review, she’s not going to put any minutes back on the clock, and she’s certainly not going to put up with you continuing to play under protest. That, dear reader (citation needed), is a penalty which you do not want to incur. Because no one wants to forfeit when they’re already ahead.

And you’d do well to finish in the allotted two minutes, as there will be no overtime, no extra innings, no instant-replay. But if you try to push for added time, there will most certainly be sudden death. If you’re really lucky though, she’ll turn her back or turn on the TV so you can have a free-throw.

But that’s a sport of a different sort.

And there’s no time limit on that.

This post originally appeared at Junkbuzzed.

Tags: intercourse, junkbuzzed, shoulder tap, The Snarling Misanthrope

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