Hardcore Porn, Roaring Twenties Style

I was speaking to a friend today who was recommending a porno movie. She said. “It’s fantastic! It’s a porno version of Alice in Wonderland.”

“Uh-huh” I replied, only half paying attention. Ever since I saw the porn remake “The Lord of the Cock Rings” I guess I’ve just been cynical about hardcore adaptations of mainstream films. Oh well. I guess you can only capture the magic of “Forrest Hump” and “Saving Ryan’s Privates” so many times.

“No, I’m serious.” My friend insisted. “It was a really good. I think it was made in the 20s.”

That snapped me back into awareness. Suddenly my “History of Film” class from sophomore year of college vaulted to the front of my brain. As I recall, talking pictures weren’t introduced until “The Jazz Singer” in 1927. What the fuck kind of pornos were they making before that?

Then my imagination kicked in. I was suddenly deluged in images of grainy-black and white sex scenes. John Barrymore, the male lead, is wearing a bowtie, suspenders and has a cane leaning up against the wall. Bent over the canopy bed is Louise Brooks wearing an enormous hoopskirt and garters. The piano track from Charlie Chaplin plays wildly to the action. The actors’ mouths move as though speaking and suddenly the screen cuts to bold white letters on a black background.

“Oh baby! You’re the king! Smack my ass! God, you hurt so good!”

I was still struggling with this imagery so I asked my friend, “Are you sure that it was made in the 20s? You realize that back then they didn’t have color? Or sound?”

“OK, fine. I guess it wasn’t the 20s. I think it was the 40s.”

That didn't sound right either, so finally I went on the internet and looked it up. I was having trouble picturing pornos similar to "Gone With The Wind." For the record, the porn version of Alice in Wonderland had been released in 1976. I guess she was close. After all, what’s 50 years when weighed against the history of man-kind?

I have a friend who collects 70s porn. He contests that it includes some of the finest films ever made. I’m not as big a fan of 70s bush as he is, but I must agree that his collection includes some very entertaining films. And not just because of all the cheerleaders and pizza-girls they had in various stages of undress. See back then, I guess the porn industry assumed that they were making legitimate films. As a result, they subjected audiences to the most horrible acting, dialogue, plot and production values the world has ever known. Remember the films shown on “Mystery Science Theater 3000”? Anything from the 70s is about 800 times worse.

My favorites were the ones that tried to cross horror and porn. Like the one about the cheerleaders captured by Satan-worshippers. Or the one about the girl whose snatch was possessed by a demonic spirit. It spoke and everything!

Ah yes, those were the good old days before astroglide, silicon, and shaved testicles. What a minute, what the hell am I bemoaning again? Look at how fare we’ve come! I figure by 2015 all our porn will be digitally created so that the actors and actresses are completely flawless. And they’ll have crazy camera angles, like scenes out of “The Matrix.” Also, they’ll be downloadable straight to your brain so you can participate.

I guess the point of this post is to lift the spirits of us downtrodden individuals who sometime feel as if the world has gone to shit. If you ever have any doubts about how far we’ve evolved as a culture, just picture May West’s first sex scene.

Enjoy, bitches!

Tom Can Suck My Dick

From what I understand, people are really into wasting their lives on My Space. I still think that I’m missing some hugely important piece of information about that site. I keep expecting to suddenly find out that Tom is cult leader who has enslaved the minds of anyone that’s ever visited.

Back in November, I was finally hauling myself out of the soul-crippling depression surrounding my last break-up and was getting ready to launch myself at any female I could find. Through the process of elimination, I had narrowed it down to three realistic candidates. All of them had My Space accounts and talked about it obsessively. So finally, in a decision based about 60% out of boredom, I signed up for an account. I’ll be honest: the other 40% was so I could look at pictures of hot local girls.

I would say I was interested in the site for all of two weeks. I’m really puzzled by the people continued to be captivated by it longer than that. I mean, sure it’s moderately entertaining to personalize a page and cyber stalk hot girls that don’t really exist…but how much of that can you really take? Essentially it’s a painfully slow site, riddled with technical problems are over-run by narcissistic losers! Like me! Seriously, I know that no one will find my page in the least bit entertaining. I’m just too lazy to take it down. Also, I like having an extended profile up for the people who read this blog: you know, one last ditch effort to scare anyone who’s interested in the psychopath that writes this shit.

I keep hearing this theory that My Space is a fantastic place to meet singles. I guess that might be the case if I were looking for a girl with absolutely no personality. For a while I was into combing the local profiles to find a hot single girl in the area. Then I realized every single one had the same information:

Hi, I’m 24, single and great music is my LIFE. I’m into everything from Nick Lachey to Daniel Powter. I even like classics like Eminem and Nickleback.

I’m into obscure movies and hate mainstream cinema. I’m sorta a film nut. My favorites are:
Pretty Woman
Wedding Crashers
Princess Bride

I love to dance and go out to my friends. A huge shout out to my sista Denise! Best friends 4evah!

Then there are pictures of 15 girls, obviously taken about 5 years ago with no description about whose profile this is. And maybe one of the owner wearing a giant cowboy hat, Wrap-around shades, a scarf, a wig, and a ski-mask.

If we eliminated every single profile that contained the information above, we’d be left with 50 members: bands and porn stars that would spam each other mercilessly. Essentially, My Space is exactly like a cell-phone with a camera: completely irrelevant.

Twice a week I get the following messages to my account:

• Hi hottie! I just started a web-cam. Maybe we can get together! http://watchslutsfuckwhilewestealyourcreditcard.com/
• Hey bro. I’m the singer for “The Chuck Finklestein Experience and Bar-Mitzvah Band.” We’re doing a killer set in your area, so come check us out!

So my question is: what exactly is the big attraction? What’s the big mystery that I’m missing? And what’s the deal with the people that have 900 billion “friends” on their list? Here’s a news flash: “friends” are people you actually speak to in what I like to call “real life.” Unless you’re running a business here’s a good test of how big an asshole you are: the larger your list of friends, the bigger dick you are. By that indication, we get an idea who’s the biggest dick on the planet. I’ll give you a hint: he’s the creator of the most pointless site on earth.

Fuck you, Tom!

Cell Phones

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Working Girls

There are some professions that are just sexy. I was thinking today about employed women that I find hot and decided to start compiling a list. Here’s the top three:

Cheerleader: I know it’s obvious. But there’s just something about those short skirts, high kicks, and vacant personalities that makes you want to show them the real meaning of “human pyramids” “splits” and the “dismount.”

Stewardesses (stewardi?): After thinking this one out, I’ve decided that they’re so attractive to men for two reasons: one, women in uniform are hot, and two, you know it’s only a few days before they’re off and moving again. Plus, there’s the fun of having her demand unlimited access to your “cockpit.”

Nurses: I’m pretty sure that this is just one of those professions that SEEMS a lot sexier than it actually is. Partly it’s because the uniforms aren’t nearly as hot as the porno videos make them out to be. And partly it’s because they’re working 18 hour shifts with lunatics, drug-addicts, and gun-shot victims. Still, the pros include that they have a thorough knowledge of how the body works, the fun of “oral thermometry” and “hernia exams” not to mention easy access to morphine.

There were a bunch of occupations that missed the cut, but are still worth mentioning. They include: sexy catholic tutor, cop, French maid, and Shania Twain. I had a friend who had a poster of Shania hanging on his wall. He was a punk rock drummer. The first time I saw it I said, “Why the fuck would you hang that up? You know she’s a country singer, right?”

“I ain’t interested in anything coming OUT of that girl’s mouth, bro. If I was dating her, the only thing you’d hear out of her was [insert choking sounds here].”

The occupation thing works both ways, though. While the above professions add to a woman’s appeal, there are certainly a few ways to bring home the bacon that can work against you. They include:

Hog Farmer: Sure, it might seem hot to date a girl whose living depends on sausage handling. But there are few romance killers stronger than the inescapable aroma of pig-shit.

Coke Mule: The hotness of knowing that her ass is well practiced in being violated by huge condoms is canceled out by the fact that if you punch her in the stomach an entire cartel will drag you ass-first through a cactus patch.

Abstinence Councilor: Sure I could make a cheap joke here about the hundreds of guys she’s probably sucked off or had pound her ass, but I think my readers deserve better. So I have two words for you: Seventies Bush. Girls who don’t believe in premarital sex also tend not to believe in trimming the hedges. Seriously, we need an 11th commandment like: “Trim that shit.” Considering that Cleanliness is next to Godliness, there are an awful lot of religious abstinence councilors apparently bedding down with Satan.

It's a partial list, but if you're a lonely Hog Farmer who makes a few bucks smuggling H over the boarder in your colon and you’re wondering why you have trouble finding a man, you might want to consider a new profession. Then again, we men are pretty shallow. If you really thought you’d miss the feel of a condom in your small intestine, you could just spring for breast implants. Because the moral of the story is that we men tend not to have too many rules when it comes to dating. And the few that we do have are made to be broken. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a very sexy abstinence councilor.

The Best $50 Ever Spent

Male friendship is a weird thing. Girls never randomly tackle their friends across the table as a joke. Girls don’t seem to find it funny if their friends color on their faces in permanent marker. And no matter how openly girls chat amongst their friends, there is NO way that the conversations are anything like the ones guys have over a few beers.

Example: I was playing cards last night when one of my friends asked who at the table had ever performed a “Spiderman” on a girl. I had no idea what the act entailed, but I immediately envisioned some superhuman balancing act involving a rope, spandex, and the creative use of the term “web shooter.” Well, I was part right.

The “Spiderman” is when a man finishes in his hand, makes a fist and then hurls his “web” at the girl.

“That’s GREAT,” commented another of my friends. “Have you ever given a girl a ‘Chicken Cutlet’?”

A “Chicken Cutlet” is when a man who is having sex with a woman on the beach removes his “chicken” and “breads” it with sand before continuing intercourse.

Hey, I’m beginning to wonder how I managed to survive this long without knowing this kind of shit! Obviously I’ve been doing something wrong.

Another blatant example of the strange companionship that men develop is the extent to which “Breaking and Entering” and “Assault” are tolerated. I have a friend who bet one of our buddies (let’s call him ‘Hans’) that he wouldn’t drop-kick Hans in the chest. The practical outcome of this bet is that if my friend ever does launch himself feet-first at Hans, he then has to pay Hans fifty beans. It may sound like my friend got the raw end of the bargain here—if he had shut his mouth he could have conceivably planted two steel-toe construction boots ankle-deep in Hans at no charge. However, think about it this way: we have just put a price on a potentially fatal assault charge: $50. And none of us wonder “if” Hans will ever have to be paid. We all know it’s simply a matter of WHEN.

I picture it going down like this:

At 2:30 in the morning there’s a knock at Hans’ front door. He fumbles with a bathrobe while bleary answering it to see a Fed-Ex delivery man holding an envelope.

“Priority delivery for Hans. Sign here, sir.”

Without thinking, Hans signs, tears open the envelope and stares blankly at what appears to be a check for $50. Then, just as the realization dawns and the terror grips his face, two feet horizontally enter the door and plant themselves squarely in his chest.

That pretty well covers the "Assault" portion covered by male camaraderie. What about the "Breaking and Entering," you ask? Well, I have a dear friend who will be returning to town after a three month business trip. He rooms with three guys who are in our circle of cohorts, so the ideas have already been suggested regarding a “welcome back” prank. Among the better ideas I’ve heard so far are:

• Lacquering gay porn to all four walls and the ceiling
• Hiding a number of devices around his room that beep every 5 minutes or so
• Filling the entire room with packing peanuts
• Adding a layer of catsup packets underneath his sheets
• Releasing a swarm of locusts/fire ants/snakes in his linen closet

If anyone else has some particularly fiendish pranks, please let me know. I guess what this really underlines is that with friends like these, I’m not sure that I can handle anymore enemies.

Drinko De Mayo and Ehren's Guide To Roadside Assistance

Have you ever seen the T-Shirts that say, “Everybody’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day”? I have an idea for shirts that read, “Everybody’s an illegal immigrant on Cinco De Mayo.” Maybe I could get “Now clean my toilet, Pablo” on the back.

Mmm…classy.

I’ve stopped being entertained by these meaningless drinking holidays. I still think if you’re using 1862 Mexican Victory at Puebla over the French as an excuse to drink, you might be reaching. Don’t get me wrong, I think Mexican General Ignacio Zaragoza Seguin was great. But are you really going to tell me that you HAVE to rush out and down 28 Tequila shots in his honor? Let’s not go crazy, people.

You should all know that I’m drunk as I write this. Hey, I’m proud of my Mexican-American Heritage! No less then none of my ancestors are from Central America.

You know, I was just thinking: the Irish have a drinking holiday, and the Mexicans have a drinking holiday…where the fuck are the Russians on the celebrated drinking front? They should be all over this! They should have a “Drink-Because-Stalin-Said-It-Must-Be-So” Day or a “Curse-Those-Capitalist-American-Pigs-Because-They-Have-Food” Day or at the very least a “Drink-Vodka-Because-Tomorrow-We-Go-To-Siberian-Prison-Camp” Day. Actually that last one sounds more like an eight-day holiday.

The more I think about it, the more fun this idea sounds. I can imagine it now: drinking limitless shots of vodka in enormous furry hats while eating endless bowls of Goulash and Borscht. The best part of the night? Community bar tabs. Want to get an idea why The Soviet Union fell? Try getting 300 drunken people in fur hats to split a bill evenly.

What am I talking about? They already have a Russian drinking celebration. It’s called “Weekdays.”

Maybe we Jews should have one too: Drink Because You Feel Guilty Day!

Speaking of drinking, I think it’s time that I confess to everyone that I have discovered the ultimate roadside assistance kit: Southern Comfort. What the fuck are the rest of you keeping back there, road flares? If I’m ever broken down on the side of the road, I’m going to do the only possible constructive thing I can: get completely toasted.

Over the years, I’ve slowly expanded my Road-Side Emergency kit. Currently, it consists of:

• One Liter Bottle of Southern Comfort
• One “Fun-Sized” Bottle of Jack Daniels
• One Pack of Playing Cards
• One pornographic magazine

I’m always looking to expand my kit. Unfortunately, I think if it gets any larger I’ll have to take out my spare tire. I LOVE my emergency supplies. At this point, I might start looking for bogs to drive into.

“Sir, this is the eighth time this month we’ve fished your car out of the river.”
“You don’t know me! Shaddup! I love you, man!”

Let me tell you, the way I know I’m REALLY fucked is when I run into an emergency where my kit doesn’t help. At that point, we’re probably facing a meteor heading to destroy earth.

I guess what this underlines is how different people can be. Tonight, millions of people will get shit-faced in the honor of some dead Mexican general. I’ll get hammered in honor of a faulty head-gasket. Saludos a todos mis hermanos!

Ballad Of The "Easy Rider"

“I want you to know that I love and respect your boundaries. You should know that I would never cross a line that could damage the trust you and I have built together.”

“Yeah, but--”

“Seriously, honey. You know I love you, right?”

“OK, do you--”

“I feel as if we’re just two bodies with one soul.”

“Uh-huh, I’m still not going to let you go bareback.”

Who says that men are incapable of being sweet? I think the dialogue above proves that men can be every bit as eloquent and open about their feelings as women—given the right motivation, of course. No, as beautiful as the lines above are, I can’t take credit for the conversation above. I was at work yesterday, when one of my friends called me to recount the conversation above. She was the “lady” (and I use that term loosely) in the exchange above.

Seriously, though, I know I’ve said a lot of stupid things in the past, and I’m sure that I’ve tried far more idiotic arguments, but come on…how could anyone think that one would fly?

“Yeah, well my boundaries end with you not wearing a condom.”

“OK, I respect that. But if you ever change your mind about that, I want to be the first person you call.”

Somehow, I have difficulty imagining someday receiving a call from a girl that goes:

“Hey, Ehren. How’re you doing? Uh-huh. How about that weather? Oh yeah, I just wanted to let you know I’ve decided to stop using rubbers. Ta!”

Here’s a tip for Mr. Prince Charming. If you’re really going to suggest that a girl you’ve known for all of a week give up on latex-burn, you may not want make jokes like:

“I started to write out a list of people I’ve slept with, but then I realized that I already had a copy of the phonebook.”

It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.

I might be the only guy in existence who doesn’t think that wearing condoms is that big of an inconvenience. Yeah, it doesn’t feel as good, and it kills the mood when you have to get up and sort through your bedside drawer, but in the big picture is that really such an enormous inconvenience? Maybe it’s just me, but given the choice between latex burn and burning discharge, it’s not even close.

I’ve been with a few girls who, when a condom wasn’t available, said, “It’ll be ok this once. Just pull out when you finish.” Bitch, I can’t even remember my name the instant before I orgasm. I don’t even feel pain! How the hell else do you think I could support your fat ass? There’s no way I trust myself to remember to pull out.

Believe me, sex is important. Once I walked 2 miles through the snow in Mid-January…in Buffalo to get condoms. I almost lost a toe!

At any rate, back to the story I heard yesterday. The punch-line is that a day after telling my friend that he loved her not once, but three times, she called his cell-phone.

“The number you have dialed has been disconnected. No further information is available.”

All I can say is that this is a man who obviously has his priorities straight. They are in order:

1. Sex without condoms
2. Finding lots of girls who will have sex without condoms
.
.
.
47. Sincerity
.
.
.
108. Cleanliness
.
.
.
7,981,630. Paying phone bill.

Tattoos: Why Not Just Ask That Guy At The Bus Stop To Give You Herpes Instead?

Today at lunch I sat across the room from a shapely redhead: cute face, nice body, low-cut-top and a tongue-ring. She flashed a look at me over her sunglasses in that way women do. It’s a look that seems to say, “If you can’t impress me from across the room in 4 seconds, I’m mace-ing you next time you make eye-contact.”

I was checking her out…but not because I was attracted to her. See, she had a banging body, a great face, and perhaps the ugliest tattoos in creation covering her arms and shoulders. It started at her elbow and was solid ink all the way up to her collar-bone. The tips of what I assumed to be flowers rose out of her tube-top and ran up to her neck. I’m sure she thought it was the hottest thing in the world, but all I could think of was the red asses on those baboons in the zoo.

I think, if done correctly, tattoos can be really hot. Unfortunately, in the history of the entire world, only eight people have gotten it done right. Here’s the problem with girls who have a hot tattoo: they see it, decide it looks great and then they decide to get another. And then two more. Pretty soon, they’re getting a life-size depiction across their face and chest of Gene Simmons shitting into the mouth of a chimp.

The maximum number of tattoos that a woman can have and still be considered hot is three. After that, you’re a pair of busted leather pants away from blowing bikers behind a truck-stop Denny’s.

I hear so many people say, “It’s art! I’m just expressing myself!” They don’t hang the Mona Lisa an inch from a giant, sweating, ass-crack. And think about this: if you have a Rembrandt, a Picasso, and a Pollack, you wouldn’t cram them all onto one, six-foot wall in your house. While each might be individually pretty, they all conflict with each other in close quarters. It’s too much for the eye to take in.

Also, for something that’s supposed to be a true expression of one’s individuality, I see an awful lot of ugly, generic tattoos floating around. Here’s a tip: getting a flower, star, moon, heart, or unicorn in the small of your back doesn’t really express who you are. Unless, of course, you’re trying to say, “I have no taste.”

I had the urge to get a tattoo once. Then I decided I’d just buy a new T-Shirt instead. Bam, problem solved. No needle, no fat sweaty-guy strung out on crystal meth hunched over me in the back of a store somewhere, and no regrets. Tomorrow, next week, 50 years from now, I can always go out and buy another shirt. I know what you're going to say. “I know what’s cool! I wouldn’t get anything tacky tattooed on my body!” Really? 20 years ago I thought jams and parachute pants were cool. 15 years ago people thought Vanilla Ice was cool. For some reason, people keep going to see Brendan Frasier movies. Seriously, Brendan, give it up. You’ve proven that you’ll do any script that falls in front of you. I heard that you thought your kid's copy of See Spot Run was your next project. Hard Core Porn actresses have done less humiliating things in front of the camera.

My point is, if you’re looking for a way to permanently mark up your body, consider Herpes: it’s cheaper, easier to get, and you can share it with your friends. Plus, in 50 years when your belly sags down over your genitals, it’ll look the same as that lame-ass heart you got on your navel when you were 19.

Why Buy The Milk When You Can Fuck The Cow For Free?

I was thinking today about people who get married before ever having sex, and trying to weigh the pros and cons for both sides. On one hand I admire their commitment, on the other it seems like a weird sort of goal. You wouldn’t buy a car without taking it for a test drive, would you? No, that’s an unfair analogy. Try this: You wouldn’t buy a car when you don’t even have a license.

Maybe I’m missing the whole point of the exercise. Sure these days it speaks volumes for your self-control, given the seemingly limitless supply of sorority girls and date-rape drugs, but the end game is still you rolling off an unsatisfied girl after two strokes on your wedding night. Or, for you ladies, bleeding while holding a traumatized guy and wondering what all the fuss was about.

I guess maybe this comes down to a fundamental difference between how people view sex. I’ve never just viewed sex as recreation…even when it was for no other purpose. I always go into each encounter trying to learn something new. I figure girls are all different, so no one thing is going to work for everyone, but by the time I get married I’ll be able to rock my wife’s world. Have you ever seen the old Kung Fu movie: The Seven Deadly Venoms? Basically, there are a bunch of different martial arts styles. I think of each woman as a master who knows one form of Kung-Fu, and my whole purpose is to learn. When I get married, I’ll be DEADLY in bed. I’ll be a master of all seven styles.

I’d be interested to know what percentage of people who saved themselves for marriage end up having affairs. One might think that it would be low because people who avoided temptation in the past can probably continue to stay the course. But maybe it would be higher due to the greater chance they’re having bad sex in marriage. Sex isn’t the most important thing in a relationship, but it’s a real good indicator of how a couple is doing. Because bad sex means (barring medical problems) there’s no communication, bad sex leads to no sex, no sex leads to resentment, resentment leads to temptation, and temptation leads to cheating. And we all know what cheating leads to…other than herpes, I mean: shattered trust. And when the trust is gone so is whatever relationship you had.

On the other, I’ve noticed that people who have a lot of bad sex tend to completely forget that good sex exists. This number’s probably dramatically increased with those who’ve only ever slept with one person. Like I knew a girl who said that oral sex was disgusting. And she meant receiving! THAT’S the kind of thing that worries me about people who save themselves for marriage. You don’t even have a clue about what’s good and what’s bad.

Sometimes I think that’s why religious types tend to marry much earlier: they have to save themselves for marriage, while every fiber in their body is telling them to go fuck like rabbits. Something’s got to give. If I were saving myself, I would have been married at 20. I have no idea how anyone waits longer.

I don’t mean to knock the people who do it. The fundamental rule about sex should be: don’t do it unless you’re comfortable and sure. And I’m sure it’s going to make the person you end up with feel extra special that you saved yourself for them. But in the end, I’d rather do a job right then do it first.

Sexlexia

I was reading the headline news today and it appears that illegal immigrants are holding some sort of protest rally. I don’t really want to get into a debate about the politics of the matter, but doesn’t it seem like a monumentally stupid thing to do? If you’re living in this country illegally, why exactly would you want to draw attention to yourself? If INS was smart they’d be waiting with helicopters, nets, and about 50,000 trucks. That’ll teach you to stand up for your rights, Pedro! FYI, rights are for people who pay taxes. I wonder how patriotic these people will be the first time they have to go to jury duty.

I’d be more politically correct, but I doubt anyone who’d be offended can actually read English.

OK, now on to good stuff:

I had a little while to look back over my scribblings here, and I have to say I’m pretty shocked about the sheer number of words I’ve put down inside of 5 months. Who knew I had that much going through my head? I was thinking of compiling a “Best Of” list for people who are new, so if anyone has any suggestions or any favorite posts, please let me know.

Also, it was a landmark month for me in terms of traffic. I’ve never had a blog or website before, but for the first time I had over 1,000 hits in a month. A super huge thanks to everyone who visited…Also an incentive: I vowed if I ever got over 1,500 in a month I’d actually spend some money on the site and make it attractive. So congratulations, bitches! You’re two thirds of the way to making me spend precious beer money.

It’s been a while since I wrote, and I’m sure people have been wondering where I disappeared to. I wish it was something dramatic like, “kidnapped by a futuristic species of alien women who need an earth man to teach them how to love” or “engaged in a deadly game of cat and mouse with pirates of the Volcanic Rim” or “hunting the deadliest prey of all: machete-wielding gorillas.” Unfortunately, it’s nothing nearly that cool. I’ve been dealing with writer’s block. When I first started my angry rants here, I hadn’t written a creative thing in about two years. I had plenty bottled up. Now, I guess the ideas are a little harder to come by. At any rate, I intend to keep up with the blog more reliably from here on out. The temporary plan is to write once a day, Monday-Friday.

What’s behind my writer’s block? Simple: I’m DYING for ass. I’ve gone from pathetic to desperate to just looking to penetrate something with a pulse other than my hand. I know, as sexy as Ms. Right is (and, sometimes, her Swedish half-sister, Ms. Left), things are looking bleak. I’d like to tell you I couldn’t write in my blog because I was solving world hunger or curing cancer. Unfortunately, it’s been nothing so selfless or noble.

Whatever else masturbation is, there are two things it’s not: productive or deeply satisfying.

Don’t get me wrong, there are nights when I just want to finish up so I can get some sleep…but generally, the difference between my hand and a woman is like hitting a homerun in batting practice compared to game seven of the World Series.

I’m not sure if anyone else is like this, but my sex drive varies based on the season. Basically, I have two levels of sexual frustration: Ultra and “Rabbit-on-angel-dust-and-Xtasy.” I wish I knew why I go through months where recovering senior citizens, burn victims, and amputees suddenly seem “kinda hot.”

What sucks is that I never know when the urge to spread my seed goes from life-damaging to “criminal.” If I did, I could at least plan to take that week of from work and do nothing but masturbate till I got calluses. I know, I know, things would be much easier if I lived with a steady girl. But what you’re missing is that when I’m like this I go from “moderately entertaining and occasionally charming” to “deranged lunatic.” I go CRAZY. My usually weak game deteriorates until I’m about as witty, personable, and fun as a lobotomy patient. When I get like this, I suddenly remember what it was like to be a teenager living in a perpetual catch-22 of sex: I want sex because I can’t get it and I can’t get sex because I want it.

That’s right my friends, I’m afraid I’ve been struck by the deadly illness I call “Sexlexia.” Symptoms include inability to function, maintain conversation, or do anything productive because of a lack of ass. The cure: half a bottle of Jack Daniels, whipped cream, fuzzy hand-cuffs and two bi-curious airline stewardesses.

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: as soon as they make a patch-substitute for sex, I’m there. In the meantime, it looks like I have a date with two girls tonight: Ms. Grabby and Ms. Squeezy. And they’ve both been VERY naughty.