Pugsley: aka, the Sausage.
Lori: Loves Pugs. Writing. Food and Fashion.
I was merrily scrolling through the TV Guide channel tonight with my clicker and at first glance I thought the movie, "the Savages" said the Sausages. Then I scrolled down a bit further and misread "the Forsaken" as the Foreskin.
A few hours later I was on the yahoo homepage looking at the days top 10 popular searches and I thought it was really odd that #7 was deep throat. Only upon a 2nd closer squinted look at the monitor did I realize that it wasn't deep throat at all....it was strep throat.
Not sure what all of that means, but I have a couple strong theories.
Posted by Lori in Daily , Neurotica , Observations , wordplay at 1:53 AM permalink Comments (8)
The last post got me thinking about kissing. Of all the things I miss about having a boyfriend, kissing has to be the thing. Yep, it’s the kissing I am missing. The face burn, the intimacy, the hot breathy sweetness of a kiss.
When I am with somebody I am into, all I want to do is kiss and taste. Too many people are in a rush to move on to the next body part. Why? I personally would be happy kissing for an hour or longer just to start things off.
Kissing is highly erotic, it’s a prelude to what is about to occur. Did you know that lips have more nerve endings than almost any other body part, except for the clitoris? I always think of a tongue as a phallic prop and how he kisses is a preview of what he plans on doing with it later. If he keeps it slow and gentle, I will be all over him...
I can start daydreaming about kissing mid-afternoon and by the time I get home I am 75% turned on. It’s no secret in the world of women, the longer the foreplay, the easier the climax. And better chance for more than one.
The last guy I kissed did something cool. He took my hair and held it back off my face while he was kissing me slowly. Mmmmmmmmm. Of course I had him pinned down to the couch and it was falling all over his face, maybe he was annoyed and just trying to keep it off? I’m not sure, but it seemed Hot at the time. He was good kisser but I wish he wasn't in such as hurry to get to the next phase.
What is often forgotten in the throes of passion is that in order to build a fire, you have to start with a small burning flame and keep feeding the fire to make it grow. First some twigs and newspaper, then a match, some kindling and after a while, you’ll have a raging inferno on your hands.
But not everyone is good kisser. Have you ever had your face licked by Golden Retriever? This is some men’s idea of kissing. Licking up your face like they have their head in bowl lapping up cold water on a hot summer day. No, slobbering and drooling on our face is not a turn on, it’s sloppy and we don’t like it. Likewise, so is face sucking, cramming your tongue down our throats, and please for the love of God NEVER, I repeat NEVER hammer your tongues in and out like a Jack Rabbit. If that's how you assault our mouths what will you do to our.......
First date kissing is also bad because it mostly comes off as cheesy. A peck on the cheek is okay but unless you are 100% she will reciprocate it’s best to not even try it. Kissing is intimate, would you expect a lady to be intimate with you on the first date?
So I wonder, is it the frogs that are the tongue thrusters, flicking them in and out wildly like they are trying to catch a fly? Is it the Princes who can make me weak in the knees and gush with one good kiss? Whoever I end up with, he must be a good kisser for certain.
Where is my Prince with the full pouty lips and boyish grin? And how many more Frogs will I have to kiss before I get him?
Lately, I’ll be sitting at work, in traffic, or at the doctor’s office waiting. And I catch myself constantly chewing gum, sucking on pens and straws, or biting my nails. Even the biting sarcasm of my words has become an oral fixation that’s reached new heights. Anything I can lick, suck, nibble, gum, bite, or chew. And it always ends in a thought of you.
Only it’s never a happy ending. Is it my Dear? It’s an unquenched thirst, an unrealized desire. My appetite for everything has grown out of control. There is an abysmal emptiness that I’m trying to fill. It’s so strong that I have to keep checking the corners of my mouth to make sure there are no visible signs of panting or frothing that might give me away. That somebody might see exactly what you’ve done to me.
I’m at the party now, standing over the buffet table feeling wolfish inside. Waiting my turn with a deep seeded hunger that centuries of time will never be long enough to satiate. I’m staring at the spread lain out before me, a banquet of colors, textures, and smells. A veritable feast for the senses and I am overwhelmed with a ravenousness desire to taste, realize, consume, swallow. To nourish that part of me that hungers for you.
But there is someone else ahead of me in line. She is lingering there selfishly over the smorgasbord of my want. I get anxious that she is taking so long. I'm filled with an impatience almost as unbearable as the hunger welling up inside. I watch her taking repeatedly from that which I crave more than the basic human urge to feed. I fear she will take so much that there won’t be enough leftover to gratify my needs…
Then finally it is my turn, the moment I have been waiting for but concealing in secret gluttony. As hungry as I am, I don’t dive right in. I start out soft and slow. Gently I begin to imbibe and nibble with controlled, temporal movements from hand to mouth, letting just the tip of my finger graze ever so lightly onto the wetness of my lips. Pressing them there for a moment, letting a throaty moan of pleasure escape after the first taste…Mmmmmm
I tease myself with just a cold appetizer or two, knowing full well that lingering over each sublime stroke and juicy sampling will only compliment the next flavor as it flickers on just the tip of my tongue, a couple times before I let it enter my mouth fully. When the chilled ration meets the wetness of my hot breath, it melts upon entry and liquefies, making it easier for me to swallow.
The slow, deliberate taunting and teasing builds up my already mountainous greed. Eventually it will take me over when it’s time for the main course that I want more than anything else in the world. My yearning begins to swell and engorge. But I know how much greater it will satisfy me if I can make it last just a little while longer. Yeaaahhhh....
I try to pace myself….but now that I’ve had a little taste, it's made me crazy for more. I move to another part of the table to partake of a different course. I pause for a moment savoring its warm soft texture and luscious shape. I want to consume every inch of it sucking, swallowing, sloshing around in my mouth, lapping up the juices, building and building until my body temperature rises and I start to lose control....
My appetite has reached its voracious peak….I am fixated on the yearning to overindulge. Intoxicated by the tastes, flavors and scents leaking out, dripping onto my hands as I navigate them to my lips, now filling me, feeding me..savoring every drop until it becomes more urgent, frantic, then slow, faster and steadier, more and more. Pressure mounting harder and wetter about to erupt in the final feast of lips and flesh, hands and hair, salivating and savoring every last bite of delicious fever until the great release explodes in my mouth and fills me so full that I can't take anymore… Yummmmmmm....I might need a smoke to help me digest it all..
I've reached a point in my life that I never thought I would reach. I am tired of talking, tired of words, tired of speech.
I don't want to talk about it, don't want to form a plan. Too much plotting removes the urgency, destroys the passion. It kills the moment that I want to live in, takes me too far away from who I am.
I don't care if you're busy, don't want to hear can't or won't. I only want you to show up at my doorstep because you will fucking explode if you don't.
My desire is deep as an ocean. My doubts as black as the sea. My certainty as rich as the Earth’s sweet soil. My honesty pure as can be.
I hide it well but I’m tired of hiding, I don’t choose to live my life that way. I don't care what you have to give up to get here. I want you at night, not in the day.
I want you to crawl through barbed wire to get to me because that's how strongly you feel. I don't want you to worry what tomorrow may bring, only that tonight we'll be together -- and for once it will be real.
And when you get here, I don't want any words to be spoken. I will make that clear before you're barely through my door. But if you don't want me that badly, then I don't want you at all anymore.
I’m not interested in playing the girl card "If I have to tell you, then it doesn't count!" Bullshit. I'm not afraid to give you instruction if you aren't too proud to take every ounce.
We are so much better than that, which is exactly why I want you. But I'm tired of talking. Tired of wanting. I don't want words for once in my life. I want action. I want you. I'm sick to death of playing nice.
Then after I have you, I'll want the words again. I will run back to them like a bullied child on the playground runs home weeping to his mother. For comfort. I will need them to help me make sense of it all. To immortalize you with my pen that is mightier than your sword. And once I've had you, I might not want you anymore.
But tonight it's only you I want to fill this aching desire. Only if you make it fast, before the offer expires. I pray you make it snappy with these words I am baiting. Don't let me down, don't keep me waiting.
I’ve been reading the book For Women Only What you need to know about the Inner Lives of Men. The material was taken from surveys and interviews the author conducted with a thousand men -- mostly married, Christian men. The book came recommended from a married friend who was still shocked to learn about the inner secrets of men’s thoughts and feelings. I was excited going into the book. Would I finally learn the key to unlock the mysterious door of what really makes them tick? Would I discover that one secret that has been eluding me year after head scratching year?
But reading I kept having the same thought chapter after chapter. Was I born with the wrong sex organs? Am I really a man trapped inside a woman’s body? I mean I feel exactly the same way they describe these men to feel. I crave respect, I am visual, I feel like an imposter half the time, I am outwardly confident but secretly insecure, and I think about sex often. Okay – the provider thing was the exception I couldn’t really relate to, unless you count my need to take care of Pugsley above all else. Maybe it’s because I have been single for so long, or that I have spent a substantial portion of my adult life studying men. Maybe it’s that I was raised in an all male household and was the only girl on our neighborhood block. Maybe it’s because my body produces too much of the chemical testosterone, I only know that I somehow understood all of these things intuitively about men that the book affirms. What’s odd is I can equally understand the female struggles of coming to terms with it all. I guess I have a global view.
I enjoyed the book for its Christian undertones and Biblical references of how God intended man and woman to be together. What I think I liked most about is that it isn’t about trying to change men from these inherited behaviors, it’s about how understanding these revelations are meant to change us and how we can be more accepting of them. It’s about how we should love the men in our lives for who they are and not who we want them to be. How we should support them, not try to change them. To encourage, not to critique. To understand that temptations are a reality in their world and to put yourself on his team to help him win the fight.
Key points
Men Need Respect – It is more important for a man to feel respected than loved. So how do we help them achieve this and still feel loved in turn? Basically, we as women want to build them up instead of tear them down. When a man has someone at home who believes in him and is supporting him, he will be able to go out and conquer the world, coming home satisfied, everyone is happy. It's a win-win.
Men are Secretly Insecure – Despite their “in control” exteriors, men often feel like impostors and fear that their inadequacies will be discovered. What we can do: “It’s about sending the man we love into the world everyday, alive with the belief that he can slay dragons" says author Shaunti Feldhahn.
Men are providers – How his need to provide weighs him down, and why he likes it that way. Encourage and appreciate him. Being a support means helping to relieve the pressure they feel rather than adding to it. No matter how far we have come over the last centuries with women in the workplace, equal or greater pay, the biological fact hasn’t changed --- Men are hunters, women are gatherers. They just want to club the buffalo over the head and drag it back to the cave for the women and children to feast on. It’s their job and it’s not intermittent, this is a constant burden men feel.
Men are Visual – A man has a mental rolodex of sexual images that creep into his head either purposely or unintentionally without warning. Images from a porn flick two years ago or images from the hottie he just saw at Home Depot on the paint aisle. It’s normal and has no bearing on the devotion to their wives or girlfriends. If the stimulus is there (great body in a tight outfit) so is the response. The good news is it’s not necessarily always about sex when a man looks or that he would act on it given the chance. It’s comparable to admiring the beauty of a great painting.
I think I would have enjoyed the book more if they took it a step further and explored what truly interests me which is the underlying question, Why are men really like this? My theory goes back to simple biology. If our sole purpose for being here is to reproduce our DNA, and women spend months carrying the child and then going through the painful act of delivering it and years raising it, then of course she is going to be selective in choosing her mate. But what about men?
Women want one man to fill all of their needs. Men want every woman to fill their one need, to spread their seed. They almost can’t help it, it’s a biological fact. From a place deep down in their mammalian brains, a man’s one driving force is an inherited desire to populate the earth with their offspring. I personally walk through my life with this understanding which helps me keep it all in perspective.
I am however left with a couple questions that I would like clarification on.
Do men really think of sex every 3 minutes? Are there any men out there who will admit to it if it's true? Does the amount of time they spend thinking about it vary greatly from say the age of a teenage boy to an adult male in his 30's?
Next up - Reviews of: Men In Love, Woman on Top, and Female Masturbation.
A little Food For Thought - Last night in my dream -- I was smoking a doobie and frolicking on the lawn with Brad Pitt. He cheated on Angelina with me while she was off somewhere tending to Maddox. I love how reading these sex books are so liberating to my lascivious ego....
“Take off your clothes and get up on the table”, she instructs me. A beautiful brown skinned 18-year old Brazilian girl with the face of a cherub and the body of Anna Kournikova. She’s been performing bikini waxes since the tender age of 13 in her native country where it is as common a practice there as it is here to visit Walmart. Her mother taught her, and her mother's mother taught her. Imagine a generational grooming and coifing technique passed down from her ancestors that they moved here to perform and get paid damn good money doing it. You Gotta Love America! I know all this because she makes small talk as she is busy working away on me. Needless to say, she is somewhat of an expert at her craft. She is so young and soft spoken yet there is something very commanding about her, powerful. It might be all the sharp instruments that she grips and employs within inches of my nether regions. First, she works on my eyebrows so I am lying there totally naked from the waist down for a good 20 minutes as she powders, waxes, aloes, and plucks my brows into a perfect shape. Not too thin, not too thick with even peaks and valleys in all the right places to accentuate my heart-shaped face.
The girl is truly an artist which is why I endure the pain and suffering she inflicts on me. The hot lamp is shining down brightly, it feels like I’m in a tanning bed it’s so hot. Indian Flute music is playing in the background and her long black curly hair with red highlights is brushing against my bare legs, tickling me. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. She is very hands-on, up close and personal. Her face only inches away from my target areas. She smells like bananas as she leans in closer to me, I think it must be her lip-gloss or bubble gum. "Okay, we ‘er done wit' your eyebrows now.” She moves down to the lower end of the table, grabs my legs and places them exactly how she wants them for optimal access, into a wide spread position. She blankets her hands in a cloaking of talc powder and rubs them all over me, prepping what is the canvas of her masterpiece. I think I might have a crush on her.
The wax is dark green and sweltering hot, it actually feels really amazing going on. There is something oddly erotic about all of this which causes the slightest bit of unrest. But, the native flutist and burning eucalyptus candles are very relaxing so I close my eyes and just go with it. I am starting to feel warm and peaceful but at the same time, I’m cringing inside anticipating how the heated wax will feel being extricated from the most delicate parts of my womanhood. She starts on the outside and works her way inward. Oh Dear God, does she have to go “Inward”? Yes, I remind myself that is why I’m here. I dread this part but am always so glad when it’s over. For those of you who haven’t experienced the “Brazilian”, it is like no pain you have ever felt before or will feel again. The good news is the pain only lasts seconds and then disappears completely. One of my girlfriends has to take a Xanax with a Martini chaser before undergoing this barbaric treatment. Not me, I wince and hunker down with each pull of the dreaded strip as she gets closer and closer to the target zone. I am okay with the outer regions; the skin isn’t so sensitive there. But I start to get panicky when I feel her begin to lift and separate the inner skin. Until I can feel the hot wax going on, overlaying the supple folds, closer and closer with her applicator directly onto what feels like.....the clitoris. Why?....Why is she applying wax there??? The last time I checked, I didn’t have a hairy clitoris!! The truth is I am not even that hairy if you must know but I like the way it feels to be hairless, it’s cleaner, more hygienic, not to mention it makes things more shall we say, sensitive. She puts a leg up on the table so she is partially straddling me. She is very thorough and really applies herself to her vocation.
With the spotlight shining down on everything the Good Lord gave me and her face just inches away from it all.....she works in circles, slabbing piping hot wax onto places that some of my most intimate of partners haven't seen in this much detail. Then covering it over with a fine strip of linen, rubbing it on with her fingers and leaving it sit there for what seems like a full 5 minutes. It starts to feel heavy....like it is becoming a part of my flesh.....making me think it will hurt like holy hell when she goes to rip it off!! But she leaves it there to seep in as she moves to an "outer" area where she starts surgically removing ingrown hairs. This actually hurts worse than the waxing. She takes razor sharp tweezers and begins prying ingrown hairs out from under my skin. I didn’t even know I had them. It feels like needles are being injected as she lectures me about the importance of daily exfoliation and the type of loofah I should use. She stops, goes back down and gets ready to rip off one of the uh, “inner” strips. There is about a 7 second delay as she pulls the skin back taught (instead of making one quick pull like you would to remove a band aid) she makes several slow motion pulls back, so I have all that time to dread what is about to happen. I am wincing before she even makes the final tear and then, “ EEEYYYOOOWWWW!! Am I bleeding!?!?!?” I squelch out at her..."It feels like I’m bleeding!" It’s even worse than I imagined, but it’s brief. Very brief. “You okay?” she asks and pat, pat, pat, she pats the pink swollen skin like a mother would pat her newborn baby’s bottom, then she blows on it to cool me off as she moves on to the next side. Methodically and rhythmically, repeating this process about 8 times in places I didn’t even think I had hair. My hands are sweating profusely and my legs are starting to cramp up after 35 minutes of this sheer torture.
“Almost finished!”, she assures me as she places a caring hand on my inner thigh and leaves it rest there a couple seconds stroking it back and forth to comfort me. “Look!” She says, as she takes a hand-mirror and proudly holds it there so I will see that the end result was worth all the pain. One eye is open and I peak through a timid squint, and then getting a glimpse of the new lesser version of me, my eyes POP to get a better view, Holy shit....it was TOTALLY worth it! This girl is the fucking Picasso of Body Waxing!! And…just as I start to feel better, “Almost done!” She chirps....What does she mean “Almost”, it looks done to me...there is nothing else left to remove!! Or so I thought...... “Flip over onto your tummy and spread your cheeks apart!” OMG…Why? Why? I don’t have any friggin’ hair there!!!! I hesitate...Please don’t make me.....She repeats, "Go on, flip over!" She is in total control and I am submissive to her. It's clear that she has to be firm with her clients during this part of the procedure. So I do as she says and flip over onto my stomach, spreading my posterior as far and wide as I can to the point of total humiliation and em-bare-ass-ment. She starts poking and proding making sure there are no strays....I am just praying for it to be over soon. And next thing I know, “Ok, You’re all done now, I hope your boyfriend likes it!” I look up at her sheepishly, feeling like we just shared something special together and a little bit sad that I have to leave now. Checking out, I add on a 25% gratuity and book my next appointment with her for the following month. I exit the salon craving a cigarette and some sushi for lunch. And I’m walking with a whole new spring in my step.
