Tag Archives: Dating

In the Mix: The Top 5 Ways Deejaying Is Like Pushing Up

She's smiling now, but watch what happens when you stop playing Beyoncé.

She’s smiling now, but watch
what happens when Beyoncé stops playing.

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So, your boy has been spending a lot of time talking about and listening to DJs lately, not to mention spinning myself, and it’s got me thinking. Something about the whole process of manipulating the wheels of steel just seemed so familiar. All of the attention to detail, the tiny adjustments, the electric thrill of the perfect mix…I couldn’t help feeling that I’d been there before.

Then one day, staring down at my Technics’ hypnotic twin platters, it hit me. In what other situation does one commonly find themselves putting on a show for an audience that’s often tentative, skeptical, or completely disinterested? If you answered “teaching at a public school in the United States” you get partial credit, but that’s not the response that I wanted. On the other hand, if you said, “kicking it to a woman,” you are correct!

And yes, I’m a straight dude, so this is written from that perspective. You can either substitute your preference where applicable, or fucking relax and appreciate my genius in all of its temporarily gender insensitive, heteronormative glory. Your choice.

Now, without further ado, I proudly present the top five ways that deejaying is like pushing up.

5. Preparation Is Key – A former DMC champ told me that there’s always something that he could be doing to prep his next set. This means finding new songs, checking out the next venue, basically anything to make sure that his next gig is as smooth as an alpaca’s ass. The same is true if you’re trying to get that P.Y.T. on your team. If you’ve got friends in common, find out about her background and interests. If you’re out at a bar, notice who she’s with and how she acts. Any of this intel could mean the difference between keeping her dancing or sending her running for the exit.

4. Stay in the Groove The groove is an abstract concept that roughly means a coherent, consistent, rhythmic flow. Like the stream of a conversation, once it’s moving along a good DJ does everything in their power to keep it rolling. It’s the same way with you and your next lady love. If you’re talking about where she’s from and she’s opening up, stay on that track until you can blend in a topic on the next deck that’s complementary. Don’t be a dummy and throw out some crap about how you hate her hometown because the girls are such airheads. It sounds obvious, but left on your own some of you dudes couldn’t feel the groove if you were a needle on a record.

3. Hone Your Recovery Tactics – Even the best DJs face glitches. The record skips, you drop the next song off beat, or that new version of Seraktor freezes right in the middle of your set. Still, it’s not the glitch, but your response to it that can make or break you. You made a joke about the phrase “Christian Scientist” being a worse oxymoron than “compassionate conservative”…only to find out that she picks up the Monitor on the way back from her Young Republicans meeting every week. Don’t go cowering beneath your decks. Cue the next track and get that bad boy pumping. Put a wrinkle in your brow, lean in, and intensely whisper, “REALLY? Well, I’m always looking for smart people to challenge my assumptions. Let’s talk about it.” Oh. Shit. Hear that? That’s the sound of you taking the party to the next level.

This is either a party or the Zombie Apocalypse. I'm a glass half-full type, thus I included it here.

This is either a pic of a bangin’ party or the Zombie Apocalypse.
I’m a glass half-full type, thus its inclusion here.

2. Read the Audience – You’re throwing pure audio gold out the speakers. You’re a vessel of divine musical artistry, touched by Apollo himself. The problem is that the crowd thinks that you’re just plain touched. While there’s something to be said for challenging people with unique sounds, if you go too far off the deep end you just might drown. Things are no different with that young tender. Sure, discussing the finer points of critical race theory might cement you as an intellectual in her mind, but did you ever stop to think that she’s not interested in your brain at 1:15 AM…after her third vodka gimlet? With all due respect to Lupe, you gotta dumb it down, homey. There will be plenty of time for brain later. (See what I did there?)

1. Remember the Fundamentals – Sometimes showing off is entirely appropriate. If you’ve got a killer turntablism routine, by all means unleash the Kraken on them bitches. Case in point:

But what good is it to play records using only your eyebrows and right pinky toe when the songs aren’t beatmatched and the selection has no logical flow? Similarly, it’s great that you wowed babygirl on the dancefloor when you broke out that Matrix backbend move and held it for three minutes while simultaneously doing the Kid ‘N Play Kickstep with her…including the entwined leg hop thing at the end. Kudos. But see, you dropped the ball at dinner when all you could talk about for 30 minutes was you, you, and YOU. A DJ can play an entire three hour set without using a single effect or beaming videos directly into the crowd’s brains, but if the music is tight and the transitions are smooth, everyone will love it. And guess what? She’ll be closer to loving you if you just display some common courtesy, make her smile as much as possible, and let her know that you’re feeling her. In other words, keep the basics front and center.

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Boomerang Booty: Is Ex-Sex The Right Move?

I woulda done it too, Marcus.  I woulda done it, too.

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It’s been said that nothing beats vagina except new vagina, although the language used is generally rawer than that.  I don’t know whether it’s the mystery of the unknown, appreciation for subtle variances in individual lovemaking styles, or the ego rush from the idea that one more woman let us play genital peek-a-boo, but all things being equal men adore that new-new.  But there is an exception.  Sometimes, we get a yearning for something more familiar.  Sometimes, we want some ex-sex.

Fellas, we’ve all been there.  You’re between relationships, or maybe you’re dating but there’s nothing serious going on, or maybe you’re pretty deep into something new, but you haven’t had “The Talk” yet.  Whatever the case, you’re out and about having a few drinks and up pops one of your ex-girlfriends.  She’s rocking a black leather bustier with lace around the top, some skintight, lavender leggings with white polka-dots, and those studded black stilettos with the gold heels that you made her leave on that time y’all got creative.  Juicy.  When you roll over to greet her, she lets her right arm hang around your waist for at least 10 seconds after you hug hello. Shit is real, son.  Operation Booty Reclamation is in full muthaphuckin’ effizect.

“Lately I thought back,
When we made good love.
Listening to some Marvin Gaye,
All night long.
Now I want that old thing back…”

– H-Town, “Knockin’ Da Boots”

Like I said, we’ve all gone there, so I can’t blame you.  What I can do however, is equip you with a framework for analyzing whether your next trip down memory lane will lead to blissful nostalgia or to searing regret.  To that end, here are five factors to consider before next engaging in ex-sex:

  1. The Common Sense Factor: Was it good in the first place? If not, why expect a miracle now?  You still can’t polish a sexy-looking turd, gentlemen.  Spandex ain’t gonna help her throw it back in the sack…although if she keeps on the studded heels it might do a little something.  Seriously though, sexual chemistry can’t be manufactured, so don’t waste time barking up the same boring ass tree.
  2. The Rihanna Factor: Has the good girl finally gone bad?  If the answer is yes, then this calls for an exception to the conclusion reached via factor one.  One’s sexual expressiveness and appetites can improve, after all.  For women, this might happen during those experimental days in college, after their first surge of real independence in their mid-20s, or in their 30s when they finally get comfortable with their own sexual engine and learn to really let that baby open up.  If you happen to re-encounter your ex at one of these crucial times, then congrats!  You just hit the Pum-Pum Jackpot!
  3. The Suicide Factor: Are you over her?  Be honest.  We may not like to admit it, but men can have just as much trouble moving on as women.  If you’ve still got internal bleeding from the breakup, tread carefully the path to the boudoir.  You’ll likely find yourself hunched over in the shower, babbling incoherently, and crying your accursed eyes out faster than you can say, “pussy-whipped.”
  4.  The Douchebag Factor: Is she over you?  Don’t be an asshole.  If you know that she’s still got major love for you, please reconsider using her as practice for the Jackhammer position.  Look, for every two women who can handle sex with no strings attached there are like 327 who can’t.  Chances are that every one of your bourbon-empowered pelvic thrusts will serve as a battering ram, demolishing her already crumbling psyche. I don’t care if she begs like an unholy clone of James Brown and Mars Blackmon, DO NOT dance the mattress jig with this woman or you might push her over the edge.  And that brings us to…
  5. The Homicide Factor: Is she crazy?   Sure, unbalanced types are some of the sexiest creatures walking the planet.  Why?  Perhaps they arouse the same thrill-seeking drive that makes little boys jump off one story roofs onto pissy mattresses. But just like pissy mattresses, these women are dangerous, which is probably why you broke it off with her in the first place.  Now you’ve got the itch to get scratched again, but I implore you to back away from her Mouth That Cannot Bite…unless of course you’re not terribly fond of your nipples and testicles.  ‘Cause she’ll cut them off…and FEED THEM TO YOU IN A PÂTÉ.

Hey, when done responsibly, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with a visit to the booty archives.  Pick that shit up off the shelf, knock the dust off, and enjoy.  Before you do it though, take a second to think about the risks that go along with those 15.4 minutes of pleasure.  You may be better off hooking up with somebody new.  Or here’s an idea: how about some action with your current girlfriend?

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The Thirst for Closure

“Why don’t U want me? Is it cuz I’m always following U? U look good in green, BTW.”

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I need closure like Republicans need scapegoats.  In all likelihood, it’s a manifestation of my overall obsessive-compulsive tendencies (I need to finish things). Or maybe it’s a control thing.  Whatever the case, my response to failed relationships is a prime example of this phenomenon.

Here’s a case in point.

I’d been dating this woman for a couple of months.  We’ll call her Shortstuff.  Our Date Quality Score averaged at least a 7.5 out of 10, and although we hadn’t done the do yet, by the fifth date the sexual tension was as thick as a Georgia stripper’s…accent.  I had high hopes that this one might go the distance.  I’m talking at least four months here, maybe even five.

One week, we saw each other two days in a row, then didn’t speak for about four days.  Then, as luck would have it, I was standing on the subway platform with one of my best female friends when I saw Shortstuff emerge from an arriving train.  In a matter of nanoseconds, I went from excited to shocked because I noticed that babygirl wasn’t alone.  To my chagrin there was a big, black, 7′ 15″, oak tree muscle bearing dude behind her.  Mind you, Shortstuff is like a 5′ 4″ Asian woman, so the juxtaposition of those two bodies was not at all ego-affirming.

With that said, after emitting an audible gasp (some of my manhood may have left my body with it), I managed to smile and say, “Hi.”  She hesitated on the stairs, awkwardly greeted me in return, and then got swept up in the steady forward march of Terry Crews‘ understudy.  I ain’t like that shit at all.

I let a day pass before reaching out.  Not that I was playing games, but I thought that it would be in poor taste to hit her up so soon after seeing her with another guy.  I might as well scream, “You’re not banging him, ARE YOU?!”  Nah, son.  The kid can’t be going out like that.  Word to Rob Pattinson.

I hit her on email first.  Nothing.  Waited another day, then called.  Voicemail.  I was down to my third and final card: text messaging.  See, it’s only after the third time that you’ve been ignored that you know for sure that the party’s done.  That’s the Rule of Three.  If somebody reaches out to you three times, you’ll get back to them if you really want to do it. I don’t give a fuck if you’re in a coma, you’ll telepathically contact a muphuckin’ psychic or some shit.  Feel me?

Finally, she responded.  Supposedly, she’d been so busy at work that she’d just been exhausted over the last few days.  After washing down the bullshit with pig urine, I told her that it was fine and that she could just hit me when things got less stressful.

If Shortstuff got in touch with me, Rihanna did.  And since I haven’t been spotted on a beach somewhere in the Mediterranean eating euphemistic Barbadian birthday cake, you know that didn’t happen.  This is when my need for closure kicked in hard.

I knew that she was done with me, but I didn’t know why, and that info was just as crucial to my sanity.  Was it because there was a four day, contactless gap between our last awesome date and our meeting on the platform? Was it because when she saw me, she saw me with a girl?  Or, horror of horrors, perhaps it was because she’d decided that she’d have a better chance of creating her long-desired branch of the Blasian master race with a black man who looked like he was bred for…breeding?  I.  HAD.  TO.  KNOW.

I exercised the nuclear option.  (Don’t worry, I can write that ’cause she’s not Japanese.)  I sent her one more text message, informing her that I’d really liked getting to know her and hoped that we could keep in touch.  Yes, I used the past tense to infer that I knew it was over, hoping to spur a counter-reaction if I’d assumed incorrectly.  And yes, I included a smiley emoticon to let her know that the note was written in a wistful mood, tinged with optimism.  In short, I pulled out all stops in the final thrust for answers.

She didn’t respond.

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White Girls Have More Fun

Yeah, I know Maya Rudolph ain't white, but she passes better than Tim Tebow. So, whatever.

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Let me begin this missive by admitting that what follows is probably going to offend you.  I say that off top for two reasons.  First, I want you to know that I’m self aware enough to understand the delicate nature of the topic that I’m addressing.  Second, calling out the offensive nature of a piece semi-shields the writer from any subsequent fecal downpour.  It’s kind of like saying, “Hey, I told you that this one might make your ass itch.  Don’t blame me if you read it and got upset.  Matter of fact, I’m mad at YOU for reading it…inconsiderate bastard.”

Look, I can only expound on the truth as I see it.  And well, to be honest, lately I’ve been thinking that white women have a helluva lot of truth on offer.

Eh-hem.  Now that half of you have thrown your computers out of the window in fits of rage not seen since the CW cancelled “The Game,” I’ll continue.

When I say I’m seeing truth, I’m really talking about truth of being.  That is, living life in a way that is consistent with one’s authentic self, which leads to greater enjoyment, AKA fun.  I gotta say that in general, white women seem to be having more of it than their black counterparts.

OK, let me not overstate this.  I’m really talking about a specific part of living life, the part that has to do with love, sex, partying, and general good times.  Whether or not white girls are better at achieving positive work life balance or expressing their own political preferences vs. those of the patriarchy are for another writer to consider.  This is “Recognize & Realize,”  not “Feminism, Poetry, Pop-Culture, Sex.”  (Not that anything is wrong with that, in case the owner of that blog, Stephanie, actually reads this.  I mean, some of my best friends are feminists…)

I should also clarify things by saying that my comments are probably only applicable to educated women, too.  (Incidentally, educated in this context means having secured or on track to securing a college degree.)  Why?  Because those are the women with whom I’ve spent most of my time.  I’d be lying if I said that I could speak to the ins-and-outs (no pun intended) of blue-collar Beths and Bernices, ’cause well, I haven’t really gone there…that much.  All I know is that pound for pound, educated black women have way more stick up their butt, and like the late Bernie Mac said, “I don’t mean that in no nice way.”

A woman's body language can be so hard to read.

Beginning in high school, through grad school, and beyond, I’ve been amazed at the ease with which white women seem to live in their own sexual skins.  Hanky-panky doesn’t necessarily have a freakin’ timetable associated with it in Becky’s books.  It’s like you just say the right thing (or shut the eff up), pull the right levers, be there at there at the right time, and you’re off like a prom dress.  Ridiculously refreshing.  But dude, you could be trapped with a bougie black woman on an island after a zombie apocalypse has decimated 99.9% of the human population, and she’ll still make you wait ’til like the 4th date before she tosses off that grass skirt.  (Do y’all even realize how hard it is to make a coconut martini with REAL coconuts?)

I actually had a black woman tell me, after following up a very steamy initial encounter with a night full of nada in my bed, “You’re a great cuddler.  I wanted to do more, but I can’t go out like that.”  What the shit?!  Did the Great God of Blue Balls threaten to strike her down unless she sacrificed my testes on his nocturnal altar?  What kind of (un)fuckery is this?

Well, noted sociologist E. Franklin Frazier identified the roots of this problem back in the late 1950s.  In his seminal work, “Black Bourgeoisie,” Frazier let it be known that the black middle class was playing the assimilation game – hard.  Because they wanted so badly to be accepted by white folk, they actually tried to culturally OUT-white them.  This cut across multiple aspects of life, including the realm of morality.  As such, we developed the idea that a lady must never give in to desires of the flesh until – I’m guessing here – she can be reasonably certain that The People’s Slut Court would find her not guilty.  I’d argue that assimilation’s conservative grip on their panties is still quite robust and shit, 50 years later.

Meanwhile, white women found the pill in the 60s and never looked the fuck back.  I have to stop here and say that black men bear at least half of the fault for this, with all the “slut” this and “ho” that.  Dudes, if you continue with the double standards, you’re only gonna continue fucking yourself.  Literally.  But sistas, you gotta meet us half way.

Understand that no one is looking for the “Girls Gone Wild” experience.  OK, some people are, but those people are all named Colin and under the age of 25, or they’re over 35, named Eugene, and are registered sex offenders.  What is cool is the idea that folks can get together and feel free to let their hair down, do what they wanna do on their own terms, get it crackin’, or not.  ‘Cause by the way, the “not” can be cool too, sometimes.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, somewhere out there somebody just let out The White Girl Yell.  Whooohooo!

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F*ck Girls’ Night Out: Part II

Were you listening to me, or were you looking at the woman in the red dress?

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Last time around, I wrote about the stresses of navigating the choppy seas and treacherous winds of the infamous Girls’ Night Out.  If you’ll recall, I made mention of the darkness that is the dreaded Circle of Death, a terrifying feminine fortress that has dashed more men’s hopes than Obama’s first term.  Oh, that circle may look harmless enough, but be ye not fooled.  These sirens‘ greatest joy is to toy with a man, leading him ever closer to their shores until, before he knows it, his ship is splintered on their estrogen encrusted rocks.

Even if you’ve got Travolta’s moves, look like that kid Eggs from Trueblood, and are a certified mack daddy, you might still get totally crossed out.  This leaves a lot of us handsome, skilled dancer types scratching our heads.  “I was polite.  I smiled.  I didn’t stare at her breasts (that much).  Why did she diss me?”

To fully grasp what’s going on here, you’ve got to understand the basic structure of female social group dynamics.  Surprise, surprise, they’re strikingly different from those of males.

Male social groups are organized pretty much like fighter squadrons.  They can execute coordinated attacks, but are completely willing and able to break apart as necessary to accomplish the current mission.  On the other hand, female social groups operate using a totally different configuration.  More often than not, they’re arranged like teams of escort fighters aligned with a single bomber.  Those escorts will fight tooth and nail to protect that bomber, and would rather crash and burn than lose it to the testicularly endowed enemy.

Each group member has a role to play in the sociosexual war, and though the lyrics change from crew to crew, the song remains the same.  Here’s a quick rundown of the usual cast of characters:

  1. Prom Queen –She’s fine and errrbody knows it (including her).  She’s been showered with male attention since junior high and getting hit on is as common for her as misspelled signs are at a Tea Party rally.
  2. Big Mama – Who run it?  Yep, you guessed it.  Big Mama is the matriarch of the group, and while she may not have absolute authority, her opinion is so influential that it’s de facto law.  Basically, she’s the U.S. and her crew is like the U.N.  They can do whatever they wanna do…but there will be consequences.
  3. Runner-Up – She’s kinda cute.  She’s got spunk.  Still, line her up next to Prom Queen and Big Mama, and she’s just not quite there.  Maybe it’s something really small, like her left eye is kinda sleepy.  Or perhaps it’s a glaring deficiency, like a chest so flat its freakin’ concave.  At the same time, she always manages to come up short in battles for leadership: Big Mama’s beak just keeps on pecking the bird shit out of her.
  4. Gotta Man – Who cares.  Kidding.  Her relationship status makes her a wildcard.  She could be your best friend, encouraging her girls to enjoy life to the fullest, living vicariously through them.  Or she could be a spiteful ass hater whose unhappy relationship causes her to view all men through shit colored spectacles.  Dicey.
  5. Ugly Betty – Yeah, so…the name pretty much says it all.  She may be a straight sweetheart, or an acid spewing bitch, but regardless of the multifaceted and richly textured personality within her, we know one thing for certain: babygirl is as ugly as the black unemployment rate.

Wherever she goes, Prom Queen is the center of attention.  When she’s around, heads turn, eyes widen, tongues wag.  The spotlight shines steadily on this scion of Venus and more than a little on anyone around her…which is why her friends are so fiercely protective.  She’s one bangin’ ass bomber and they’re her zealously protective escorts.

If some dude comes along and snatches her up, they’re afraid that they’ll have to kiss the attention leftovers goodbye and prepare for a long, cold winter.  That ain’t about to go down, at least not without a fight.

When a dude enters Prom Queen’s airspace, the escorts immediately fly into defensive formation.  Instead of clearing out to give you room, they remain half an arm’s length away, shooting mind bullets indiscriminately and hoping that the initial barrage alone is enough to dissuade you.  Assuming you bravely continue, they’ll move on to such battle-tested tactics as Intermittent Interruption, in which they make excuses to fuck up the flow of your conversation with crap that not even their nosy ass mother would care to hear.  “I think I found a new spin instructor.  Cortez is fabulous!”  What?!  The fuck outta here with that buuuhlshit!

Anyway, if all else fails, they bring out the big guns.  That’s when someone nonchalantly says, “It’s corny in here.  Let’s go.”  That person is usually Big Mama, and Runner-Up and Ugly Betty are almost always down to follow her nut-crunching lead.  At that point, you can only hope that you’ve fired enough well-placed shots to disrupt communications between Prom Queen and her escorts, enabling you to separate her from her crew and finish the job.  If not, you may as well say your prayers.  ‘Cause you’re gonna die.  When your plane crashes.  Metaphorically.

And that’s too bad.  I really wish women would understand that their pretty friend need not be their only path to attention from the opposite sex.

  • Big Mama, channel all that aggression toward the man at the bar who you’ve been eyeing all night.  Use those huge balls of yours for good, not evil!
  • Runner-Up, realize that to somebody in the room, you’re actually a Prom Queen.  Stop doubting and own your strength and beauty.
  • Gotta Man, let somebody else grab a little piece of happiness, even if you fucked yours all the way up the wrong end.  Be a cockbooster, not a cockblocker!
  • Ugly Betty, I’ll level with you.  Yours is not an angel’s face, but maybe you do have an angel’s heart.  Let it show.  Oh, and usually the ugly girls get like at least one freakishly dope body part, so accentuate the hell outta them breastesses and/or that derriere.  It won’t hurt.

Feel like I missed something?  Want the conversation to continue?  Drop a comment below, hit me up on Facebook, or follow @scissorspeaks on Twitter.

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The Love Menu: How to Eat to Live

"Ohhh. I thought you were using 'breakfast in bed' as a euphemism."

You are what you eat.

Everybody’s familiar with that phrase and, to some extent or another, can see the truth in it.  If you spend your time eating a bunch of crap, you’ll look like a bunch of crap.  If you consume only the finest food and drink, treating your body like a stone temple, you’ll look like a god…assuming you get your vegan ass off the couch and into the gym.

The thing is, the same axiom applies to dating, too.

People walk around so forlorn about relationships, wondering why old boy ain’t actin’ right or why homegirl is driving them up the wall.  They sit there confounded and confused as to why they either can’t find anyone at all or why the relationships that they do end up in always seem to blow up quicker than a new Israeli settlement on the West Bank.  Love is a 24-hour diner with a huge assortment of options, but they’re not feeling it at all.  The problem is that they don’t know how to eat to live.

As with any diner, you’ve got four types of dishes from which to choose: Appetizers, Entrées, Desserts and Junkfood.  Anybody that you meet is gonna fit into one of those categories.  Unfortunately, the Love Diner doesn’t actually tell you which option goes in which group – you’ve got to be able to sort the muphuckas yourself.  Lucky for you, I’m providing a cheatsheet to help you figure out what’s what the next time you’re feelin’ kinda hongry.  (Look it up on Urban Dictionary or something.)

Here’s a description of each menu heading and what it translates to in the realm of romance:

  • Appetizers – These people serve two roles.  When you’re young (or inexperienced), they get your feet wet and well…whet your appetite for love.  If you make the wrong choice here, it’s not that big of a deal ’cause you’ve still got lots more eating to do.  But, if you’ve been in the game for a while, you might be interested in an appetizer, too.  This is somebody who you enjoy spending time with and is pretty damn tasty…but not entirely filling.  That’s OK though!  Only a dummy would expect to get full off an appetizer…right?
  • Entrées – For those of you who’ve never been to a restaurant (yet miraculously have computer access), or who have problems with extended metaphors even when they’re about as subtle as a whore from Ipanema, this is the main course.  This guy or gal is what you’ve been waiting on all night.  Do yourself a favor and order something substantial.  Even if it doesn’t have the most gorgeous presentation, it might just hit the spot.  Plus, I always find that food that’s too cute usually doesn’t fill up the plate or me, and that will only leave you longing for…
  • Desserts – Yum, yum, yum.  Who’s got a taste for something sweet?  For some people, dessert is their favorite part of the meal.  In fact, it’s just so damn sexy that some folks even have it first.  I ain’t mad at that.  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with indulging in a little French Vanilla, Butter Pecan, Chocolate Deluxe.  Shit, even Caramel Sundaes is gettin’ touched.  Go ahead, lick the bowl.  But see, the thing about dessert is that it may taste like heaven, but you ain’t gettin’ no real sustenance from said delectable delights.  Oh, and need I say that if you eat too much sweet stuff, you might get sick?
  • Junkfood – This is a category that causes lotsa people lotsa problems, usually because they don’t even realize that they’re eating this crap.  Why?  Because some ladies and gentlemen fuck around and order junkfood as their entrée!  Oh, this greasy, crunchy, saucy stuff tastes great and can certainly sate your appetite.  Lord knows I’ve eaten so much pizza, spicy chicken sandwiches and french fries that you’d swear I was still gettin’ free public school lunch.  But yo, the shit ain’t healthy.  Are the big laughs and good sex worth all of the screaming and pure, unadulterated, high blood pressure inducing fuckery?  Methinks not.

So, there you have it.  Now all you’ve gotta do is make sure that you order the right meal at the right time.  Sure, at some point you’re probably gonna need a nice, fairly healthy entree to get the job done.  But damn, that don’t mean that you can’t grab some cakes and pies from time to time or get you a couple of appetizers to go!  Sheeeeeit, they got a Two for $20 special up in this piece!

Know what you’re eating and why you’re eating it.  Then you can enjoy your meal for what it is without starving yourself, i.e. taking a sex sabbatical, feeling guilty or leaving the table hungry.  Bon appétit!

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Sex Sabbaticals, Unicorns and Other Lies

Don't cheat yourself...treat yourself.

The ability to lie to oneself about matters of sexuality is one of the most captivating aspects of the female psyche.  Accomplishing that requires a degree of mental fortitude that most unconflicted, straight men simply cannot achieve.  We do alright when it comes to lying to women or other men, but we just don’t give enough of a shit to pull the wool over our own eyes.  But women…women are different.  You really want to believe the BS that you’re selling to everybody else.

I think my favorite example of this amazing mental wizardry is the sex sabbatical.  You might not be familiar with the term (I may have just coined it…gotta look into that), but I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept.

The idea is that a woman gets so fed up with men that she decides to give up sex for some amount of time.  Actually, that’s just the sex sabbatical in its weak form.  The strong form dictates that the woman gives up dating altogether.  In both cases, she approaches this commitment to revirgination with the utmost gravity and dedication, like an addict just starting the march up the famous 12 Steps.

Unfortunately, just like her drunk and drugged counterparts, our heroine is just one false move from falling down those steps and bustin’ her ass, or in this case, having her ass busted.

Given the right stimulus, you will gone ‘head and get you some.  A little Riesling, some Adele playing in the background, just the right combo of kisses on your neck and pressure on the inside of your left thigh…and you’re off the wagon.  But hold on before you sign up for rehab, babygirl.

Sex is fundamental to the human condition.  We quite literally need it, not just as a species, but as individuals, and denying our desire for it is futile at least and self-destructive at worst.  That’s why the whole sex sabbatical phenomenon is a big, fat, blueballs-inducing shame.  But who would put themselves in that predicament in the first place?

There are only two types of women that would arrive at the ridiculous conclusion that they should forswear sex.  The first one isn’t capable of maintaining consistent relations with men in the first place, or as one female friend of mine said, “she ain’t on a steady d*ck diet.”  That’s a classic sour grapes scenario of course, and for the purposes of this entry, not worth discussing.  The other kind of woman is different though.  She’s on a quest for power.

For some reason, real or imagined, this woman feels that sex has been her personal gateway to pain.  As such, her mission is to regain control over her emotional life by blocking all entry to her Hidden Valley, thereby cutting heartache off at the pass.  The problem is that this is a shortsighted measure.  Men absolutely need to be responsible with women’s feelings, especially after nastytime.  Y’all are delicate, and shit.  But would Mr. Voltron have been any more sensitive if he hadn’t already slayed your robeast with his blazing sword?  Childhood anime references aside, if you didn’t have sex with him, would he have treated you differently?

I think not.  Holding out on sex might keep a ravenous man well-behaved for a while, but it’s not going to change who he is fundamentally.  If dude is an unkind, inconsiderate prick, keeping him away from the goods ain’t gonna make him appreciate you more—it’s just gonna make you excruciatingly horny and ensure that he keeps regularly banging that waitress at Applebee’s.  I mean, he’s gonna keep doing that regardless (ummm…he’s a prick), but at least you’d be getting some action, too!

Oh, and I interrupt this entry to bring you a very important news bulletin: not every guy you date is an asshole.  The man sitting across from you might be a really cool person who sees you as a whole being, not just a piece of pie, waiting to get cut up.  So, while y’all may not end up together over the long haul, there’s no reason why you both can’t enjoy a little desert before dinner.

Look, it’s obviously not a cool situation when the bull’s been dragging you around so long that you don’t even wanna ride the muphucka anymore.  Who wants to get yanked and jerked around ’til they’re dizzy, then thrown down hard to the ground?  OK, men…don’t answer that.  Seriously though ladies, you can’t get the pleasure without the pain.  That’s the price we pay to live life fully.  So when it hurts, you just gotta brush yourself off, grab them horns with both hands, hop on top, and ride ’em, cowgirl!

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Filed under Relationships, Sexuality