To Be Fair, Love

To be fair, I never really knew how to love. Love was just something I felt when the chemicals danced. I’d say to her, in a breathless, straining gruff, “I love you”, and in the beginning she’d smile ear-to-ear, hugging me tighter than I knew how to expect. Years later she’d respond in kind, eyes never leaving her magazine, as I graze toward the door in a silent suspension, waiting for just a little more. Love was given and received generously, as a child would serve tea to imaginary friends at her party.

Men understand love, at first, as giving our self physically. We push inside of her with the pure motivation of acceptance and vulnerability. We stray from temptation as it lays wanton before our newfound confidence. We often do as she suggests to ensure mutual satisfaction. When the chemicals dance there is no way but up.

What’s amazing is the complexity of being in love with somebody. It’s free to everyone. Like fire, anyone can pick it up and use it, yet there is no manual. It can warm the coldest of nights or level the most beautiful of buildings. Love is God, in that everyone believes in it but no one has met it. Love saves lives and love kills.

I don’t know how to love because I did it all for me. Men aren’t usually malicious, we just have intentions. Angles, perhaps. There was always something in it for us. Woman have angles too, but those run a more destructive course. Men project their fantasies on women, causing them to constantly refine and anguish. Women, however, find men they desire and try to change everything undesirable about them. And this is the template that life pounds every couple out through, because we know no other way. Some of us get on with it and some of us get over it.

When a woman dates a man, his life freezes still. He no longer matures because he has officially been accepted as who he is. Only single men develop, but merely as means for survival. The taken man has been validated in his current form. If he drinks nightly with friends, spends weekends in the garage and watches sports loudly, this is who he will be for the rest of his life. She will always love his teddy bear hugs, the scent of his collar, that night under the big oak tree, a bottle of wine with their favorite song and the true love they carved in stone. But she thought he would just stop partying. She thought he would want to spend weekends with her instead of his toys. She thought he would change, or that, through arguments and long cries, he would banish his habits for her. Unfortunately, they aren’t habits. They are him. He is that man; the same man she chose to be with.

I never knew how to love because my development was suspended every time I tried. Therein lies my narcissism with every couple I meet that weds before the age of twenty-five. They can’t tell the difference between the chemicals and a true partnership, one that will eventually weather the storm of monotony. They haven’t grown enough, or explored all foreseeable interests, and soon will have nowhere to grow but apart. Like bamboo shoots in the marsh, they will eventually need to compete for the same air and light, just to survive.

Love is intangible, yet it’s the only thing I have blind faith in. I’ve seen it work with others. I’ve seen their selfless giving and authentic concern for each other. I’ve seen their passion roar for years and then fall to a faint simmer, both of which were enough. Of course I’ve been all of these things, but never all at once.

I have seen love and it is meek; lying naked along the estuary, bringing a calm to the tide no mortal could ever fabricate.

The Power To Change

If I had the power to change anything in the world, I wouldn't do a thing. Because it's not my responsibility. And when I say that, I mean it in a surrendered, but realistic, way. The problems the world faces are bigger than we think.

First off, why? Half of you think life is predestined. Some of you think you're in God's 24hr puppet show. Well, outside of LollipopSuperFuckingGreatLand, in reality, there is no plan. It's not predestined because we humans have the power of choice, which ranks up there with our cool ability to think about those choices beforehand. Plus, there is no God, and even if there is one, read the fucking book. He's usually the cause of disasters, not the hero. Kind of funny, huh? He'll help you off the sauce and then flood your city. That wacky deity.

Secondly, how will anyone learn the hard way if somebody else is always cleaning up after them? I'm so tired of talking to people who are comfortable taking financial risks or who live a dependant, inept life because they can call mom and dad to bail them out. These are the same assholes that think that just because they drop off a few shitty old shirts at the Goodwill or befriend a black person that they have done some type of civic duty. See, that is what the government and religions and the media have done to any true attempt to help humanity. They've dumbed it down for you.

Save the planet? Easy! Just throw some of your trash in a different dumpster, we'll recycle it. Don't buy these dangerous products. Instead, buy these "safe"ones. And don't forget to buy these pills to make you feel better. Drop off a couple sixty-cent cans of beans in the barrel to stomp out hunger. Buy more hip, useless shit painted red to wipe out AIDS. By a hat with a pink ribbon on it and consider breast cancer dead. Seriously, you people believe this shit? Do you even wonder where your money goes?

Now, I'm not downplaying the significance of these gestures. I'm merely pointing out that they give a false sense of actually helping something or someone to those who participate. These conscientious citizens are subconsciously convinced that helping others is a non-contact, minimal responsibility, no-sweat feat with Jesus' stamp of approval. And they blindly trust these organizations with their money. Worse than that, it reinforces the idea that people should get something in return or be rewarded for pulling their own weight in this organic machine. We have created a culture in which the "Drive Thru Convenience" mentality has been applied to helping our fellow man and maintaining the environment's health for our children.

Lastly, the planet is designed to maintain species and cycle them in and out of the eras at their own risk. It's a landlord that doesn't mind if you fuck the place up because everyone moves out eventually, plus the apartment has a self-cleaning feature.

If all the hungry get fed, all the diseased and blighted survive, and the old live longer, then there will be no place left for anything. Crops will be bled and then built on. Our precious nature preserves and golf courses will be sacrificed. You will be forced to sell your summer home and all restaurants with immediate seating will no longer function as such. Basically, there will be nothing here but healthy, co-dependant retards wandering around, eating all the goddamn food and fucking out of sheer boredom. It'll be college all over again.

The next chapter...

It's now clear to me that I am damned to live alone. In my excess, I have alienated virtually everyone that I love. Those I've wished to love most likely smelled my plague, like rats sense disease, and were content being my pal. It's only in my most painful low that I can see up to a world filled with disaster and emptiness. Through my morbid intrigue of horror, I watch my self driving anxiously down the highway to hell toward a closed exit ramp in a burning car. The road is paved with my good intentions, each one in dire need of repair.

If you're interpreting this as a "poor me" pity party, a silent cry for help or a case for attention, piss off. It's a blog, for Christ's sake. The digital toilet in which we shit the current events we've consumed and eventually flush when they are no longer of value. This is my dump and I'm taking it.

As for the bed I've made and will now sleep in, it's cold and built for two. In my attempt to exorcise my demons I've grown closer to them. They are to me a comfort now, like an abusive spouse you wouldn't dare leave for a long walk through a vast wasteland of singles. Millions of hearts in the world that can't seem to find a good enough match to settle for. And why, if the bottle is cheaper and the devastation less apparent.

I hate it when people quote divorce rates to me because I don't fully subscribe to marriage in a traditional sense. Lumped in with all the Eharmony success stories are all the grown-apart high school sweethearts and forced unions for the sake of a bastard child. The numbers are skewed. Besides, marriage is based in religious values, and most religious people have loaded values. Plus, everybody is fucking each other whether anybody knows or not (just check the soaring number of global AIDS cases. These people weren't just rubbing elbows).

I'm looking forward to meeting all the intriguing single people with their uneducated, self-centered observations and asking them, "when was the last time a gyno scraped all the finger nails and Nuvarings out of you?". It's almost a lost cause to imagine a single woman with a good job and no freak baggage. Were this the blame game I'd have veritable host of targets: Asshole guys, pedophile uncles, Hollywood's image distorter, religious dereliction of prevalent contraception/sexual acceptance information, and the list goes on until there just aren't enough fingers to point with.

And maybe I'm part of the problem. Maybe, in my agonized writhing, I failed to remember how I negotiated a girls trust for a chance to party. Maybe, in my flailing tantrum, I misplaced the memories of neglecting the people I love to fulfill selfish needs. Maybe, but perhaps that's what it really is all about. Being selfish. Maybe years ago, before the "divorce rate" spiked, people were better together because they were less selfish. We are all empowered nowadays to be independent, outspoken young consumers chasing our dreams. But what happens when everyone is chasing their dreams and not working toward a greater good? When we all want to be socialites, actors and reality-show contestants, who's going to take care of the sick? We've all lost sight of how the power of family and giving keeps the world balanced. I guess we're just expecting all the fat and ugly people to do it.

Here I wallow, festering in my own reconstructive impotence, trying to grasp the greater meaning to save the world and maybe land a date with a nice girl. What a feat for an asshole guy like me. They speak of being up Shit creek without a paddle, but they fail to mention what it's like when your canoe flips over.

Should I stay or should I go?

Should I stay or should I go?

In my late teens, I had a propensity toward travel and change; I thirsted to know more and couldn't stay in one place very long at all. But after a stint in college and a trip halfway around the world, I came home and settled down. I now had an inclination to nest, which was well intentioned, I just didn't have the tools necessary.

It's funny how normal people try to act manic, when those of us who are manic just wish to act normal. My attempting to assume the role of "working stiff, loving husband, proud father, and active family man" seemed to falter somewhere between my need for being needed and my want to fill the vacant nighttimes with more than just holding a sleeping angel. I was like a developmentally challenged six year old trying to put the square peg in the round hole.

Now I'm an emotionally-developmentally challenged twenty-something living in a town strewn with hearts I was given and broke. I held each one like Lennie held Curley's wife, stroking their soft hair, but comfort gave way to fear, and when they got spooked I broke their neck. Figuratively, of course. And quite frankly, the bodies are starting to smell.

I don't know if it's the small town thing or if I've really created some type of delusion that people see instead of my true being. In the last month, some of the people I feel closest too not only thought I was still seeing someone, but a few of them didn't even know I'd been dating someone for the past couple years. I realize she hadn't been out with me in some time, but I always spoke of her well and freely, assuming people had stayed abreast of all our turmoil. I now understand that the few who cared knew me. The rest were just there for my entertainment and not my comfort.

So again, I've considered moving ("Oh, the moving thing again?" my coworker blurted out with a type of arrogance that intimated that this was my latest try in a secession of failures. Which, in effect, it is.) away from this town and trying to start over somewhere else. And for once, it doesn't seem like a bad thing at all. Hear me out:

1. I need new friends. I don't mean this derogatorily toward my current cohorts. Perhaps I should specify by saying I need new close friends. It seems the few people that know me the best, and that I feel I can talk to candidly, fall into the categories of "too far away, "too self absorbed" or "are my ex-girlfriends". I need to meet new people that I can create a circle with, much like I had in Lansing or Kalamazoo. This town seems too small and too full of itself; it has lost it's humbleness, in my eyes. You know you need new friends when you're sick for days and the only person who stops by to help is your mother.

2. People here have preconceived notions of me. I don't want to go on and on about how wonderful of a mate I can be, because I don't believe I'm perfect. I have much to learn about both patience and application. Plus, I've tooted my horn in previous blogs, both mine and others. Here is a small excerpt from a candid letter that should suffice the argument:

Walking my neighborhood, this evening, I finally realized something so insanely valuable, yet perplexingly obvious, that I can't imagine how long I've gone without this knowledge. I am a good boyfriend. Truly. Deeply. Finally. A shadow in the dust and ashes of yore, I have emerged a viable contender for hearts in today's exhausted, free-agent-style market of love.

Here are my Statistics: At least five nights a week, for fourteen months, I commuted 40 minutes both ways to be with love, if for only an hour. For six months, I made sure love had the freshest, most unique flowers biweekly; always a tasteful assortment with a single red rose as it's center piece. At least twice, I alone pushed love's SUV between 20 and 60 feet, up ramps even, because it was past fumes and because I cared. Once, I took out a small loan so that love and her family could have the greatest Christmas possible. Through blatant selfishness from love, through indirect threats of bodily harm from an ex-husband, through consistent distrust, even through a miscarriage, I tried.

And this was one relationship. Sadly, though, I can't imagine anyone in this town could ever take me seriously. First off, I performed comedy onstage for four years; you'd think women love humor, but its a one-way ticket to the friend zone. Secondly, the only time people see me is when I'm drinking with my boorish (or boring, depending on the night) drinking buddies. And lastly, my only other mating traits are not something I can do publicly. A guitar playing, poetry/prose writing, funny-man movie buff with a penchant for karaoke? One of these posers gets churned out every ten minutes in America. But, in another town, nobody has to know that that's my steez. Most importantly, I can focus on finding someone who will accept me as I am and not how they have viewed me over time. My losses over the years make me question my effort (i.e. start being an asshole instead), but without a town full of constant reminders, I could begin again.

3. I need to date more than an empty bar stool. I can only assume that my leaning toward nesting-type women is the manifestation of two things: a silent cry out for change in my besotted life and my understanding that the nesting type are among the cleanest, most stable women on the market. At my age, there is no doubt that this is still my demographic, but I need to hone the search down a little finer. If my life shall involve a cocktail out every other night, then I need to find someone who will join me (this is key, because most of my relationships started this way, but my partners trailed off and eventually held it against me). I need someone with common interests; someone who will play guitar with me, watch indie movies and talk politics with me. Someone who isn't waiting for me to change, they just want to walk with me everywhere and grow up together.

This seems a bigger task than it is. Perhaps the bigger task is pulling myself away from the unbelievable apartment I have, the networking I've accomplished and the copious ideas with colleagues that I'm just a college-try away from performing, filming and selling. All because I've boxed myself in here for so long.

Most haven't faulted me for staying; they understand that I have been happy and do not judge my choices. But now lies an even greater evaluation: Am I best to take this show on the road, leaving this one-horse, sleepy-bedroom town and all it's heartache behind? Or should I stay and continue to test my metal in a low opportunity area, praying everyday that a dame, with similar interest and in her late- twenties, gets off the train here only to saddle up next to me at the bar and let me buy her a drink?

What am I looking for?

What am I looking for? The perennial crux that challenges every human being. I stare at it now like a wasted freshman sizing up his next failure in life lessons. I know what I want, but it's nothing within reason. They never really tell us to be reasonable until our early twenties, and then we pull back the curtain to see our nightmare. If I had a niche or a child or anything tangible I'm sure I could find purpose. All I have, though, is memories and they equal dick in the real world.

I've seen a hundred movies about some fucko wandering the terrain, working odd jobs and searching for his calling. But how am I to relate when the ending is always happy? I mean, even when the protagonist dies, it was for something honorable. The main character apparently sweats it out all day between the margins of what the movie shows, because the movie wouldn't show something boring. But they always end up with a magically beautiful answer. The dream job, the dream girl, or anything that is the farthest away from how life really works. Two hours sobbing through sludge to step out into a parking lot of nobodies who aren't happy and will never get to do what they dream. Tell me, what's noble about working sales for five days, fifty-five hours a week and coming home to the massive void that is loneliness? If I die tomorrow, the schmucks looking in my casket and buying me bad flowers really don't have much to say except, "he was always nice", "he was so funny", or "his personality made up for dick".

I refuse to look at it like destiny. There are too many fucking people on this globe and not enough crises to accomplish. Fate is man-made like religion and Fruit Rollups. I am not here to man one of the six billion decrees someone or something dreamed up. This isn't Touched By An Angel. It's not even Quantum Leap. I'm no better than the kid scooping my ice cream or the woman commanding the multinational corporation down the street. Or am I? You might say the kid curling out frozen sugar is content because the prom queen is blowing him. Or you might instead tell me that the CEO has a twenty bedroom house and a car outweighing my net worth. Which leads me to my next point.

The new message in America is "do what makes you happy". Well, to do that you need money. That's it, folks. You need enough money to not have to shovel other people's shit. Then you can pursue whatever the fuck you want. So maybe, therein lies the answer. I'm looking for money. With a extreme financial lead I could live an existence based on my ordinance. Only in the unfairest of worlds can trash like Paris Hilton drunkenly meander the city, breasts accidentally ablaze, leading television shows and cutting shitty pop songs. Meanwhile, I'm surrounded in talented, benevolent humans pushing a heavy pencil daily so that they can spend one week a year occupying a suite in the Bahamas Paris wouldn't even shit in. Why, because they drew the wrong straw?

I'm not trying to assume a life I didn't earn, I merely wish to highlight the flaw in our society the pushes one of us over the other through luck. Bitterness is irrelevant; it's the idea that what I'm looking for is not what I need, it's what is available. It's what I can afford and will bring me more happiness than the rest of the possibilities could. Right?

Great. Sounds good. While I'm at work tomorrow I'll remember the douches enjoying the cash I deposit from my till. I'll imagine their genetically engineered kids studying in good schools and doing the good blow off of stripper asses. I'll fantasize about their trophy wife and how she whines at five o'clock socials with the girls about how her gift basket venture is so tiring in its intricacies. And after I whack off to the imagined trophy wife in the work bathroom, I'll pull some paper towel from the dispenser which was recently refreshed by the mother of the stripper whom the rich kid is doing blow off of. I'll return to my seat and retain my role as a cog in the machine, where in between customers, I'll try and figure out what else I'm looking for.

The Ten Minutes After Great Sex

The ten minutes after great sex with someone you love is the single greatest moment in life. There is something about those sweet, damp minutes that resonate a lifetime.

It's the closeness. Laying side-by-side, resting your faces on each other in a synergetic embrace. Separated by exhaustion but holding one another's hand as if rain chased you under the porch and implored you to taste each other's lips for the first time.

It's the purity. Unashamed of the love you have made, the effort you have given. Unabashedly flaccid and reviewing the uttermost personalness of the depths of your soul that you consigned just moments ago. Having given all you can and allowing the quivers to reassure you.

It's the darkness. With no intensity left to rush you, you can gently finger the curves that have been forgotten. Discovering, through touch in blackness, the beauty that may have been negotiated by light. You can breathe each other and fantasize that you are anywhere in the world, from a beach-front villa in Spain to an ancient castle in Scotland, absorbed and inspired by the journey as the breeze pours over your skin.

It's the finality. You can slowly puff down, relent the charm and just be, with nothing more to earn and no one left to impress. It's the time where you forget that work is six hours away and laugh about the madness of it all. It's the granulate of eternity where you aren't too fat or too tall. You fit just right, and perhaps it's the only time you ever do.

It's the only time I can ever truly feel normal. Out of the scope and accepted, in a cocoon of soft pillows and softer flesh, infinitely justified as me.

Mainstream American music is a tattered teddy bear being sodomized

Mainstream American music is a tattered teddy bear being sodomized by a retarded orangutan. Due to the teddy bear's inability to move itself from the path of danger, the process will continue until someone moves it. Either that or the orangutan will take five to eat bugs and fling poo. But even then it'll be back around soon.

Music today is void of any originality at all. The same three bar chords are arranged in a slightly different manner and played as backdrop to "I'm angry at my mom" as opposed to "I want to do your mom". New Country (and I stress New, i.e. post 1987), New R&B (post 1993), Rap (post 1997) and Modern/Alternative Rock (post 2000) have all been purchased by Satan, sold to the advertising phallus, reissued with scratch-n-sniff groupie stickers, and drilled deep into our skulls with limitless air play that is not due to it's popularity, but do to the depth of the pockets pushing it. Remember kids, just because a pop singer is on your TV, radio, lunch box, cereal box, ringtone, and favorite sitcom as a guest star, doesn't mean they have talent or that the music is good.

As a consumer in these fine United States, I consume many things fed to me by the Man's ad cronies. I mean, don't you want to know when the newest, most improved anything is available? I think they should make it right the first time. It's unavoidable, however, so we man up and buy the products we remember. But there are those of us who seek the product that actually work, regardless of how catchy the commercial. You may consider me a heretic to commercialism, but I think any human being who has ever heard a non-radio cut from Bright Eyes, Fiona Apple, Gnarls Barkley, Minus The Bear, Down, Blue October, Gemma Hayes, Trey Songz, Joe Firstman, Motion City Soundtrack, Patty Griffin, Death Cab For Cutie, The Shins, The Used, or Wilco knows that the blood of true music still flows, it's just difficult for the average consumer to find the vein.

All this is mere tripe to my biggest beef: Cover Songs. They are out of control. It seems as though the retro idealism has finally reared its true ugliness, and it's in the form of hundreds of unoriginal fucks making money from somebody else's musical legacy. All genres, all decades, and all... okay, 99%, are horrible. Don't get me wrong, I love covers. When I'm at a concert, I want to hear two or three live cover songs from my favorite artist. Or, when a legend like Cash makes a disc like Cash, and it's the most bad-assed covers album ever, I cream for the day it's in my sweaty palms. Annie Lennox barely pulled it off with Medusa, but even that is pushing the envelope labeled 'Good Taste'. It's not easy, but it is possible.

So as not to come off as merely a complainer, I have developed a list of rules that the FCC should install immediately in order to preserve our rich musical heritage (it's not like the FCC does anything good anyway. This could only improve their image). These rules are not meant to oppress nor were they established to segregate. They merely increase the price of artist property rights from purchasable to obtainable. Meet these simple requirements and you are on your way to murdering any song that Michael Bolton hasn't yet.

1. A song must be at least ten years old to be covered. This rule is almost exclusively in response to the instant regurgitation from R&B radio directly into Country radio. Oh, and that song that Leeann Rimes and Trisha Yearwood put out within months of each other; that breaks all the rules. If you are going to cover a song, make sure it's a song that's not still fresh in the minds of your audience. If you are an All-4-one or Brian McKnight, keep your shit under lock and key. Choose something from another era and make it your own. Or choose something obscure and rock it on the radio. Do not take something written three years ago by a band you "want to pay tribute to". Thats want concert covers are for.

2. You must have at least three previously released LPs. Two EPs will make up for one LP. This rule is in place to save your reputation. Nobody cuts a cover off as their first single and lives to tell about it: the aforementioned Leeann Rimes, Tiffany, Alien Ant Farm, etc. Try showing off your talent for creating music right out of the gate. The worst thing that could happen is that you showed the world your soul but failed to do so interestingly. It still makes you a true artist, though, and that is something to wear with pride.

(I considered including the clause, "with one Billboard Top 100 song per two albums," but the charts are just as skewed and easily purchased.)

3. The covered song must be from a different genre that your own. An R&B artist can't redo an R&B song that much differently than how it was originally done. There is not much room for musical movement, which makes it sound the same as the original, which ultimately defeats the purpose of remaking it. But a Modern Rock artist has a different path to take that same R&B song, with new rhythm and instruments to pave the way. Country and Soft Rock have always smoothly transitioned from R&B, but there is so much more to be done. The only song I grant clemency to is The Gourds rendition of "Gin and Juice". It is both brilliant and a trailblazer.

It's everywhere, I know this; movies are being remade, television shows are be reestablished. But consider this thought: why would you try to remake something that was already done well once? Try taking something that wasn't done successfully - a B-side song, a flopped movie - and make it better! Your margin of error increases dramatically, and if a fan has not heard or seen this obscure piece before, than you pay more tribute to the artist through discovery and recognition by new fans than by slaughtering their legacy with a piss poor attempt at the same great fame.

In the meantime, help keep American music good by controlling your cover usage. Only you can prevent yourself from ruining a masterpiece.

The Shocker: Fallacies and Repetitive Motion Injury

For the last five years there has been a sexual craze sweeping the youth of the nation, much like armband tattoos and pink male polo shirts, only more humiliating and painful. Week after week, I see guys of all ages speaking of the "The Shocker" and displaying it with a great pride in their knowledge, and each time I grow more despondent in relation with this decade's contribution to the sexual revolution. You see, reader, I was one of the pioneers of this movement in the mid- to late nineties. I created, defined and successfully executed my own patented move that I had also deemed "The Shocker", but alas, somewhere on the bridge between my bedroom and the worldwide fad machine it was lost. Now, all that we have been left with is an affable fraternity brother nickname and the promise that women will enjoy this gnarled digit move as much or less than a mammogram.

Allow me to begin by explaining what this current phase actually entails. To form the current incarnation of the Shocker, you would lay your hand out flat and vertical, as if you wanted to shake someone's hand. Then you bend your ring finger down toward your palm and secure it against the palm with your thumb. You would move this monstrosity toward the ladies two-in-one crevasse; first place the pinky finger in her anus and finish by depositing the top two combination in her vagina. This, the egotistical and ill-fated male brain thinks, will bring her pleasure. Yes, because anything poorly thought out and perpetuated by college boys must be pleasurable, naturally.

Now I shall systematically destroy the myth of the Shocker as you know it, but I will not leave you without a Friday night signature move. No, no, reader, I will bring you a solution from the deep, mysterious vaults of the Turner Sutra. This wisdom is based on hundreds of years of knowledge and has been translated, nay, channeled through my body and placed safely into my Vault of Copula, where it shall remain until the world is ready. All I ask in return is that you please keep this knowledge in your heart and do not allow it to seep into the trendy fabric of commercialism that so often soaks up tiny bits of truth such as this, rips them free of earnestness and tosses them aside for the next fortune cookie wisdom to be consumed.

- - -

In performing this Shocker I have described above, you will notice two things. 1. It is more awkward and strenuous than bathtub shower sex, and 2. It is not pleasurable at all. Here is my reasoning:

Bad Architecture - The framework is poor. If she took off quickly to the right, she could break three of your fingers and potentially steal your class or secret-decoder ring.

Lack of Agility - This position does not allow for the dexterity necessary for create quality sensations. Unbeknownst to your precious Maxim, she feels with all 360 degrees of her chocha.

Boring - Where is the shock? The penetration might feel powerful, but she could recreate this sensation with results tenfold by purchasing the Rabbit or Dolphin vibrators, which incidentally would be cheaper than hanging out with your bitch ass.

How can we change this, you ask? By tuning up the weaknesses and attempting something both effective and ergonomic. From deep inside the Vault of Copula, a family member in the artistic, sexual styling known as Tongue-Foo, I give you... er, I introduce to you, The Shocker!

Hold your hand out flat as if your where asking your bitch for money while simultaneously giving her a place to put it. Bend your ring finger and pinky finger toward your palm. Secure them both with the base of your thumb, i.e. the bottom right part of your palm itself. As it secures, your thumb should naturally stick out forward just above and between the index and middle fingers. Looking directly at your fingertips, a la Three Stooges eye poking, the product should resemble the plugging end of an electrical cord, as your fingers are the prongs and your thumb is the grounder. This can be a wonderfully successful move based on one vital need: her button and your finger need to be properly lubricated. Now you have the pose and can understand where part of the name stems from. But to understand the rest you must take position.

Nothing done in front of your lover's eyes could be as truly shocking as what could be done as she lays on her stomach or on her side, facing away from you. Therein lies the shock. Here are two possible setups:

You are nudely spooning with your lady love, pre-sex, and she is grinding the sweet grindings of love against your manhood. As you are caressing her, you walk your fingers down to pink pages. Excitement should lubricate the front, so all you need to do is spit on your thumb, rub some saliva on the button, and then "plug in".

As things have progressed, you find yourself orally satisfying your companion. If she is on her back you need to roll her over, but do so gently. As soon as she is on her stomach, start tonguing her starfish so as to accrue the necessary amount of lubrication. After sufficient plunging of the tongue, put your thumb on the button and "plug in".

- - -

By opening the door to the Vault of Copula, and sharing with you the secrets of the Tongue-Foo, I have given you an insight that places you eons ahead of your nearest sexual rival. And there is so much more to be understood. Carry this knowledge forth, placing it safely in the same pocket as your prophylactic, and DO NOT, under any circumstances, share this knowledge with anyone whom you wouldn't let plow your sister. Enjoy!

If You're Lazy And You Know It...

What is it to work as hard as possible for that which you truly want the most? Most of us never know because most of us never try that hard. Now don't get me wrong, I've tried to achieve an assortment of tasks, goals and pleasures. I even accomplished a few. But these were not daunting milestones, no, those fell into my lap. These were projects that required my charm, talent, and a flare for the rational, but not one ounce of true, hard work. I have never worked a hard day in my life. I have helped build a house, run a hotel, cooked, baked, served, peddled films and jeans, decorated, designed, acted, directed, concierged, footballed, and sold. Oh, how I have sold. But being even this accomplished (restless) does not necessarily dictate my character. I have never prepared for anything. I never learned something so much as to be great at it. I have never examined a subject and then dissected and explored its inner workings for an informed assailment to complete my thesis. I don't even know what I just said.

Everything that I know I learned because I liked it. It has crossed my mind that maybe I just haven't been exposed to much, but as far as I'm concerned, I've been overexposed and then put back under the lamp. Its just that nothing sticks. All of this began occurring to me in college when I quickly realized that I didn't have the slightest idea how to study. I glided through high school on Cs, blow-off classes and a winning personality. If I had a test, I would open the book the night before and stare into it for about six minutes or until my eyes crossed, and then I'd wonder where to begin. Within five minutes of that I'd be playing video games or making lewd insinuations to the giggling voice at the other end of the phone. But in college I found that you didn't work during the classes, you just listened to a toupe-d whoopee cushion drone on for two hours and then went home and worked. This was a slack-ass proof system. My endless nights of boozing and debauchery proved unable to penetrate and sustain life in the walls of that collegiate institution.

I don't blame my parents for not pushing me enough; there is quite little else a single mother can do when faced with a forty-hour work load and a husband on the other side of the world. The problem is, and was, myself. I have no work ethic and have never really had one. I go to work now and bust my butt there. Long hours and longer weeks spent working continuously. But its just the motions, and I'm going through them like Tic-Tacs. What I am seeing now is that its the things I have passion for that I need to focus on. I'm not going to quit work and move to New York, rent a small hole and starve until I act. I'm starting small. For instance, I am gaining some semblance of discipline the more I play my guitar. Why am I playing it? Because I want to. I don't make money, just music, therefore I have no reservations about pace and product. And I think about playing constantly, which is helping me stay focused. From this feat alone, I have mustered the ardor to better watch my cash, choose salads, turn the TV off and keep writing and reading. You'd be surprised how much of your identity gets lost when you're in the daily grind.

Now, a lot of you reading this probably think this is elementary stuff. Good, great, fuck off. Don't forget the flaws you've buried deep beneath your accomplished facade. You are the wankers that can't relate to cult comedy and have trouble holding even trite conversations whilst remain interesting. Allah blessed you with all of the brains and none of the splendor. But I digress. You have finished or are completing school. You have degrees, career goals, and the gumption to earn them. Good for you. Be happy and never look at it as a burden. Continue your path to mediocrity but always understand that there are a great many people who may not share your knack for math and science, but through person attractions find the beacon that draws their calling to shore.

Yes, perhaps there is a greater purpose for me out there. I just hope I hear it considering my video games are too loud and I ignore calls while making lewd insinuations to my girlfriend.

Amore like burning: What I have learned in eight years of love

Amore like burning: What I have learned in eight years of love

This is a graphic and unmitigated look at my failed love life over the last eight years. It's not here for you to judge, though I'm sure many of you will. This is merely a tool to help me accept the mistakes I have made and learn from them. None of us are perfect. There is no guide on how to love and no authority on earth that could write one. All we can do is lick our wounds and remember the bitter taste. The pain is obviously not enough to transform me, therefore I am reduced to written expression as a fighting chance at personal objectivity. I place it here in hopes that you may get something from it.

1. I don't know myself.

After two years of slowly deteriorating the six year relationship we had built, Jessi and I separated. The pain at the time was soothed with a newfound interest in Allie. But what I have come to understand now is that I was worse to Jessi than I will ever allow myself to feel. There were a few times that I strayed and even more when I flirted publicly. This was in no way with malice toward her, I was merely attempting to maintain an image I created in art. By acting this way, I felt as if I would receive the same response socially as I did on stage. With a low self-confidence and constantly in search of new affection, I forgot what was most important to me. She was the woman I loved and wanted to spend my life with, and you would have never known it from my actions or my words. I lived with one foot out of the door, always looking for something new. I was never fully comfortable with myself. I took for granted the woman who loved me for who I was and professed her undying love for me. Young and stupid, in retrospect, I gutted our love with incendiary flames, like falling asleep with a lit cigarette in my mouth.

2. My heart heals slower than it seems.

I honestly had no idea that Allie was even remotely a rebound until I finally understood my deep restlessness concerning the unfinished business between Jessi and I. Sparked by this inspiration I paraded my happy facade before my friends and family thinking that it will never hurt me if I didn't let it. In essence, I wasn't ready for a relationship and I put Allie in the awkward role of my escape when I was oppressed by what I felt at the time was an overall hatred for me by my peers. She became my shield, my refuge and my antidepressant. She should have been none of these, just my love. Everyone, including her, from day one told me to be alone. They said I needed it to be exorcised and complete. But I couldn't let go of Allie, no matter the trials, because once more I was afraid to be alone, and I didn't want to lose her in the event no one would ever love me again. I clung tight and squeezed the life from her. I had exhausted one of my few remaining friends, all in the name of fear.

3. My lack of self-confidence has destroyed the majority of my relationships.

During a conversation with my friend Joe, I came to the realization that I hated myself so much that I unknowingly pushed everyone away. Since I have been obese, beginning in the tumultuous middle school years, I have been sensitive of my weight. Unable to take my shirt off in public and distrusting of my average penis, I covered it by taking on a suave persona to sway anyone from imagining that I could be as fragmentary as I was on the inside. I separated sex from love so as not to allow anyone close enough to judge me.

Many years ago I had an ex-girlfriend that, after a misunderstanding ended us, began telling everyone that I was a bad lover and had a small penis. She and I never had sex and I believe she never even saw my penis, but nonetheless I was devastated that people may look at me through that mirage. When Jessi finally gave me the time of day I yearned for, I let go the facade, but not enough to allow true happiness. I felt even uglier and much fatter than the years before. Jessi rarely went out to have fun without me, and I would say the most awful things in an unnecessary attempt to make sure she returned to me that evening. I would ask her not to sleep with everybody while she was out because I thought that it would secure the chances, when in actuality I was destroying her trust for me. Saying this filth in jest was probably just salt to her already aching wound. I philandered so that my friends didn't think I was weak, another meaningless venture. I couldn't be happy with her because I was unhappy with me. She was the first one who ever made me truly happy, which is where the pain I felt later on rooted from.

I found someone else in the middle of Jessi and I's time together, but fear made me walk off of that also. I left Jessi for eight months to be with Amy B. I was in college away from Jessi. Amy B. was that someone who could physically be there, not be three hours north. I needed her to keep me sane and she did. I was at a very low point in my life and she saved me. I have always been indebted to her for that. But after just a month of being together she found out that she was heading to Japan for school. I pushed her away and fell into the dark again. After leaving school I headed out to Palau to clear my head of woman and find my roots. I couldn't relax though, because thoughts of both Jessi and Amy B. danced though my head nightly. I drank them away accordingly but it proved futile. I chose to fly to Japan and decide once and for all who to be with. After the most amazing week of my overseas life, I knew Amy B. was to be the one. That was when the fear set in: How do I love across an ocean, where should I live and wait, what about her staunch Christian family, etc. On the bus to the airport she laid in my lap and cried deeply. I stared out the window and wished I had enough moxie to blindly launch into the unknown with true love. But instead I relegated myself to feeling like uneducated street trash that had no place being with a woman that good. Within weeks I was back to Jessi and comfortable again. Complacent, but comfortable.

4. My need for attention is a poison to my partners.

I was given another chance at love soon after Allie. Amy W. was far and away the partner I'd been looking for all of those years. Someone who understood my humor, and this is no easy task. She was someone who had flaws too, which allowed me the opportunity to forgive someone else instead of always being the forgiven. We had many common interests, thoughts and bonds. But again, my appetite for the attention of others proved fatal to my relationship. I began spending more and more nights out on the town. She was welcome to join but was not interested in partying at the volume that I did. There was no straying, just more intoxicated flirting and long nights away from her. She couldn't understand why I didn't want to spend time with her. I didn't see it in that way, but my explanation that it wasn't me avoiding her but me needing to hang out fell upon deaf ears. She just wanted me home. Luckily I walked away before hurting her any more than I already had. I heard the cries but still couldn't see how I was hurt her. At the time, the idea of changing that part of my life for her was unacceptable. A fool and his addictions do not part easily.

5. I am the reason that I am here; it is my fault.

Micki pretty much sums up all that I could ever want out of life. I stumbled into her arms soon after Amy W. She encompassed every wonderful aspect her predecessors held, as well as offered a future that would have been paradisaical. She was positive, sincere, and most importantly, supportive. I could spend eternity relating the hundreds of hours spent together in bliss, but it will suffice for me to simply say that she was my best friend ever. But being older than me, she possessed insight about my issues that I could not garner myself, nor could anyone my age or younger.

Fate had it that our time together was amidst turmoil in both our lives separately. This meant that I rarely could spend overnights with her. So I defaulted to my usual routine of late nights and sore mornings to fill the time we couldn't be together. This brought about an environment of distrust. I walked into this relationship with the preexisting stigma that my persona created, but it didn't help that I consistently placed myself in questionable situations and never connected the dots to how it might have potentially affected my relationship. As her heart sunk deeper every night I ran with the wolves, that insight she had of me rose closer to the top. She began calling them like she saw them, every last relationship faux pas I committed. Unfortunately, a man of pride as foolish as mine would never recant. But instead of sheepishly burying my chin in my chest and kicking my feet, I turned it around on her. Not intentionally meaning harm, I saw what seemed like her flaws for not understanding and flung them back at her. I didn't realize I was doing it. I just thought that I had insight too or that maybe my lifestyle was justified considering the situation. But all the rational in the world couldn't replace my poor choices and inability to be alone. I made one mistake too many and found myself escorted to the door.

These words and actions now bounce around inside my head, tearing me apart with wicked remorse. It may only subside when I prove to myself that I am better than this and will never do it again. But this is a goal not easily achieved. If life affords me eight more years, I just may overcome my issues and began again.

We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are.

"We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are."

-Anais Nin

It's amazing how we view the world through constricted eyes, unknowing of how to react to the diversity lining life's wake. Eyes that have only seen and experienced that which has been placed directly in front of them. We understand the things we see to represent that which it aligns with first in our memory. The instant you see a growling dog in front of you, the image rides the brain's electricity around your hard drive searching for the quickest association. This image will attach to a specific experience you have had before or have heard about from someone else. That is when it enters what I call The Thinking Process. The product of this process is a conclusion, and from that conclusion you create a reaction, which, in this case, would include you either soiling yourself or remaining calm.

In the realm of behavioral science, the way someone reacts to a new situation is a discussion for another day. Just as well, I will not be considering the "fight or flight" argument here because it would complicate what can stand alone in an theoretic discussion. It is the conclusion I am concerned with, not the reaction, because a reaction is to a conclusion what a "bang" is to a gunshot. To pose this analogy in my hypothesis' question: why would someone experience a live gunshot but consider it a toy gunshot? Why can we only see things with our labels and not see them for what they truly are?

After the image has been captured, it enters The Thinking Process. During this process the image is fitted for its conclusion, but there is only one filter between seeing and understanding: perception. The memory that is matched with the image is chosen because of their perception of what this image actually is. Let us use an example: Two women hold hands as they walk along the sidewalk. It would be easy for me now to say "what the normal person would think" in this situation, but that is an idea I wish to dispel. What I would think in this situation is in direct link to my experiences and knowledge. If I spend the majority of my maturation with lesbians, I might be more inclined to assume that these two women are lesbians than to consider any other possibility. And everyone else will draw their own conclusions based on what their perception is.

How is love affected by all of this? Consider the average person, with limited experiences and short-sighted expectations, learning to grasp, tolerate and commiserate with a society loudly entrenched in a social, sexual and spiritual battle with the moral establishment. How will individuals fair in the war of self-understanding and acceptance of others? Only their reaction will tell. But on a less overwhelming level, how is one able to cast aside their dogmatic ways to find content in someone whom they love but cannot relate to?

Being a human being with history logged in your subconscious, you have formed an opinion about the lifestyle that you lead. Everything you consider right is based on that history. Though you may never have actually experienced a 'perfect life', it is what you subconsciously yearn for. But, more over, you attempt to live a lifestyle based on your perception. You know this 'perfect life' like clockwork from following a hero, like a father or mother, or external influences, such as the movies or books. And not only do you know it intrinsically, you also know that anything outside of it is wrong.

I have created a detailed example of star-crossed lovers, so as to better apply our theory of perception and it's troubling effect on reality and, in our case, love.

Man Y. You have lived hard and memorable: experiencing too much by fifteen, sliding through school on your ass until it expected something back, searching the world for excitement but only finding what was comfortable, dating a flock of normal women who all eventually succumbed to your proclivity for nightlife, settling for a mundane job and existence. You have spent eight years in relationships more out of fear of being alone than out of love. Many years ago you quietly placed all of your talent and dreams in a closet and forgot them. Now you have the opportunity to rekindle a self you lost years ago. But alas, love (i.e. Woman X) appeared and dominated your life. It was everything you could have ever imagined, but you questioned whether that was because of your penchant for monogamy or because of her. Your expectations of her were low, but her's were high because of what she expected from the 'perfect life'. You tried to change these differences but they were hardwired and she found your progression too slow. A series of breaks, issues and separations ensued and now you finally have your time and your bed to yourself.

Woman X. You have experienced the complexion of life: moving cross-country at eighteen, failed loves filled with warning signs, the disastrous marriage that bore two wonderful children, and the uphill battle of feeling validated in a world that doesn't care. Just as you were finally breaking free, when you were so close to finding yourself and had rediscovered the secrets to fulfilling long forgotten dreams, love (i.e. Man Y) appeared and dominated your life. It was everything you could have ever imagined, though not quite in sync with the map drawn many years ago when you traced your hero. And though the relationship was flawed, it is possible that you never truly let his love into your world. You considered his social needs excessive and expressed often how they created trust issues. Whether it was bitter independence or just scar tissue, you let go before the expectations of the 'perfect life' were met. A series of breaks, issues and separations ensued and now you finally have your time and your bed to yourself.

In studying these examples, we can find obvious instances where perception affected the relationship. But in regards to our thesis, we must ask ourselves, "could they ever see one another for who they are"? She might be able to embrace him if she could let go of her need to fulfill the requirements of a fantasy life. He might be able to fill the holes in his heart and have a great supporter of his talents if he could grow out of his habits. But where is the decoder, the potion that will open their eyes to the possibilities and put their minds at ease? Tolerance would not work in this situation because it is a band-aid that falls off. What we need here is a pure understanding of who each other really is, because they are ultimately no different from one another. When you scrape away the details, all that remains are two people who cannot see each other for anything other than what they think. The Thinking Process is producing a black-and-white conclusion from a color image; a right-and-wrong conclusion when judgment is irrelevant.

Even though these are two people with different past and presents, they could logically share a future together. But first, they must remove the filter from their Thinking Process. In fact, we all need to remove our filters and see the world for exactly what it is. Our perception of images must be disconnected from our previous experiences. We can no longer be cloud by greed, intolerance and ignorance. We can finally enjoy this earth and begin rejuvenate its richness. And, for the sake of love, we can avoid punishing someone for another's crime. Losing the filter will refresh our understandings of normality and make the playing field level with attainable goals.

I realize that this was a long and tiring biopsy of a quote. However, it is the conclusion of my Thinking Process. I'm sure that for each individual the quote brings about different feelings altogether. After reading the quote again, what does your filter leave you with?

The Hitchhikers Guide to Anal

The Hitchhikers Guide to Anal

In the real world, there are three types of anal sex that people have. Each of these three types are expansive and supersede all other categories (i.e. heterosexual, prostituted, first timers, and even those 'On The Down Low'). We will not include homosexuals because their options are a little more limited, therefore defeating the theory I am presenting. These types are not translated for sex, race or religion. They encompass all peoples worldwide that, at any time of their life, enjoy a little butt play. Most importantly, none of these three divisions describe the action itself. These sectors are based specifically in this thesis: why exactly is this act of sodomy taking place.

My reasons for choosing these particular classes are based on the idea that when people come together it is to enjoy any combination of each other's company, conversation and/or genitalia. But, butt sex is a deed of a different delicacy. Very few people come home regularly and let a partner start pounding their pooper (these people do exist, however, and will be covered under section one). Considering these two points together it is obvious that there is much more to the action of anal than just "sharing" or "enjoying. There are reasons why we chose to forgo the highway and take the dirt road home. It is then, when we look farther than the sex itself, that we can begin to extrapolate the many possible motives for giving up the red sock on any given night.

Provided we all agree that anal sex is a fairly common practice in heterosexual relationships, we also must understand that it is still the subject of ridicule worldwide. This stigma hails from the transition of power that occurs mentally when it is done either forcibly, regardless of the persons sex, or when the recipient is verbally emasculated for bearing what is traditionally a female role (i.e. men penetrate, women get penetrated). These overbearing pressures that religion has placed on all men to 'not be so fucking gay' has paved the way for the small-minded and unadventurous to feel greater than someone else because they would never try something considered illegal, sinful or unnatural. All I ask is that while reading this, please sidestep the knee-jerk reaction to revert back to fifth grade humor and accept what has been done since the beginning of time, when men figured out that it does, in fact, fit in there.

Section 1. "I do it to please me."

Some people just love it. There are only three orifices on a woman (two on a man) that are generally receptive to pleasure from penetration. The oral and vaginal holes have been well documented in today's media and in pubs throughout the world. These ass folks, however, enjoy the satisfaction of a foreign object in their respective bums.

These are partners that know what they want sexually. This is something to be lauded, dear reader. The average person is either afraid of it, discomforted by it, or unable to fathom it. Just like the woman who puts clothes pins on her labia or the guy who slams his cock in the door repeatedly, this gang put aside those fears to try something new and ended up liking it.

Enjoying anal sex is not easy news to break to a new partner. Because of the stigma, it is something better brought about in the throes of passion where it can be disguised as kinky and daring. If in the first night your new partner is already riding your bumper, you can plan on being labeled accordingly.

Section 2. "I do it to please him/her."

Most women are pleasers. They would love nothing more than to give the man of their dreams whatever he would like. If it would fulfill his fantasy or spice up your love life? Sure, you'd take one in the trunk. Some men would even take a finger up the ass during a good blow if it meant making his princess happy. But you won't really like it. In fact, you'll be happy that your rear is facing him so that he can't see the display of anguish painted across your face.

Call them what you will: giving, naive, dedicated, gullible. But it is always much more complex than that and differs from couple to couple. If one person is really pushing for anal, love can sometimes be the lube that brings purple to brown. We must not underestimate the pull that love can provide us. Just by being the object of someone's affection, you have access to everything that they may deem less important that the relationship itself.

Giving is human nature's way of keeping us connected and supported as a species. Just remember that when it comes to somebody knocking the bottom out of you, you may be giving up more than a little pain and blood. You may be giving them unnecessary power.

Section 3. "I have ulterior motives."

As we have just learned, not every one truly enjoys anal sex nor does everybody do it simply for sacrifice. Therefore, the rest of society has been amassed into this category: those who do it for personal gain. Just like all illegal substances (Fourteen American States, Puerto Rico and the military had sodomy laws until the ruling in Lawrence v. Texas) it is a commodity to the connoisseur.

You can simplify this section as people who treat anal sex as a product, not an experience. Perhaps they want to degrade their partner. Maybe they just want to be able to say that they fucked someone in the ass if later asked. They may even be using it as a bargaining chip in the market of love. Concerning all of these alternate uses of anal sex, the one thing that is for sure is that pleasure is not the endgame.

Considering how focused the previous sections were, this remaining faction is considerably more broad and diverse. I have chosen three specific type to address so that you can better understand the general persuasion of section three.

The Hook: Being that anal sex is something not applicable to all intimate exchanges, that extra twist of freakiness and devotion can keep someone around in a relationship that has gone awry. Sometimes, as a last-ditch effort, the brown starfish will be offered up in hopes for a continued partnership.

The Line: "But it would make me feel so good." The whine heard 'round the world. On any given weekend you can hear it soar around the globe, through every time zone, in hundreds of languages, like eager fans at a ball game doing 'the Wave'. This execrable, hapless argument is meant to sway those from section two into surrendering their fudge factory. Sadly, the batting average on this phrase is high and continues to knock them out of the park.

The Sinker: These are the inconsiderate partners who want to experiment but don't have the respect to ask first. This is the guy who, when he falls out of her vagina, purposely attempts to replace it on the opposite side of that thin, skin wall. This is also the girl who sees her partner enjoying the blow job as an indication that he would also enjoy a well-manicured digit jammed up his dry, virginal ass. For some seasoned couples, placing a thumb on the button is an endearing way of reinforcing each other's sexiness. Even in those instances, however, prior discussion and consideration for personal wishes are regarded.

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This concludes my thesis on human behavior and its connection to anal sex. I hope that this piece has helped you better understand exactly who you are and who the people around you may be. Each of these sections not only relates to the bedroom but also to particular personalities. Maybe you'll find more or less compatibility with your partners based on personal booty issues. In the event that you are confused by someone's forwardness, remember that nobody can be truly caring and drop 'the Line' to knuckle your guilt into submission. People definitely show their true colors when it comes to getting something they want.

If you don't care why people do it but would love to know how to blast ass safely and effectively? Check out Sue Johanson's website at www.talksexwithsue.com. She is the most prominent and easy-to-understand sex educator in the world.

Now lube up and hit the entrails!

Zen and the Art of the Threesome

Zen and the Art of the Threesome

For Chance, because I worry.

Some people are naturally outgoing. Exhibitionist. Swingers. Porn stars. But the average person is reduced to only ever fantasizing these possibilities, sometimes with the aid of the aforementioned, and not ever actually live the experience. In the event that this opportunity arises I have collected and collated rules that will help enhance the experience as well as lay the groundwork for future reprisals. Even players in the Superbowl need coaching.

Threesomes have an invisible energy that you keep afloat by sharing freely and evenly. All persons should be down for the fun, and all should be ready to play, share and watch.

Before you jump in, keep in mind that you may have to look at these people again. The chance of happening upon two strangers that will simultaneously blow your mind is slim-to-none, and Slim just fell off a cliff. Many exciting excursions of this magnitude result in lost acquaintances, friendships and even loves. It always starts as a harmless impulse, with cheeky reminders at midnight and teddy-bear inhibitions at the thought. But when it comes to go time, did you iron out all important issue between you and the group? Did you discuss anything before you downed a case of Milwaukee's Best and forced a bottle of Boone's Farm on the two chicks you met at work? No, you didn't. So read up, follow the rules, and go down in history as the first effective poly-poon pleaser. Actually, second pleaser in history... after me.

The Rules

Rule 1: Relax. No, seriously, take a deep breath. The less pressure you feel, the less you'll fuck it all up. You don't have to act like this is all natural and that you are an orgy specialist, but you also shouldn't over-worry nor over-excite because it is all unnecessary by the time your there and you will still be a stud, Stud. Consider this...

A young bull and an old bull stand at the top of a hill that overlooks a farm. On this farm are twenty beautiful cows. The young bull looks excitedly at the farm and says to the old bull, "Let's run down there and fuck one!" The old bull takes a deep sigh and says, "Let's walk down there and fuck 'em all."

Rule 2: No loved ones. (* If you can not adhere to this based on previously committed actions or vows, then move on to Rule 3. Just make sure you adhere to the Rule 2 Loophole.) Lovers, girl/boyfriends, spouses, and all other people that we screw regularly, just get in the way. And I don't mean them specifically. The bond that you share with someone holding that capacity in your life is in for a massive shock when its introduced to an "open sex" experience. We are all jealous by nature. In your haste, Flash Dickspeed, do not forget to imagine the image of your partner having sex with someone else besides you, because they are going to actually see it and deal with the memory for the rest of their life. If you can avoid the innate thunderstorm of jealousy and fear that follows, do so by fulfilling this fantasy with friends and strangers.

Rule 3: No home field advantage. It is always wise to use a neutral playing field. Hotels are the greatest tool you could utilize for this event. They are cheap, anonymous, and sterilized... mostly. You can choose anything from a hot tub to a king-size heart-shaped bed. But more importantly, in the event of a bad trip, you don't want to have to look at your bed and sheets and be constantly reminded of the weirdness. If anyone is to have the advantage it should be the person who knows everyone the least.

Rule 4: Girl(s) rule the fantasy. Threesomes are like traffic: For the best ride, fit and flow. Women have a great gage for the mood necessary to have the most exciting time. Trust her instinct and follow her lead. Don't try to create your own fantasy because it's already happening. And please don't even attempt to utilize the phony shit that happens in porn. Porn is pro wrestling on beds. The characters are larger than life and talk to each other in ways no real person ever should. Just because two people want to have sex with you simultaneously doesn't mean that you are above treating them with the same respect and graciousness you would were you just playing a game of Parcheesi.

If the girl(s) want you to be cocky and condescending, be it. If the girl(s) want euphoric sweetness, provide comparable reciprocation. Understand that, mentally, this is much more difficult for women. The just don't separate love and sex the way that men do. Therefore, the more control the girl(s) has/have, the better things will be during and after.

Rule 5: Sharing is caring. Spread the love evenly. If you lick one, lick the other. If you suck one, suck the other. Anything anal should be shared too, just spray it down before passing it on. Keep in mind that this point is specifically designed to help you not only pull off actually pleasing them, but give you some fabulous word-of-mouth advertising. Because, after all, we want them to tell their friends. Or bring their friends. If for some reason this turns into a full-time business, consider coupons.

The only physical actions that this rule does not expect you to share are those agreed upon previously or if you are adhering to the Rule 2 Loophole. Otherwise, don't just give one facial. Give two.

And now...

The Rule 2 Loophole

So, you've gone and got yourself emotional involved before experiencing your first mnage trios? Sucker. Here are the tips that can help you lubricate your transition from a successful relationship to a successful relationship with "a secret".

A. ALL attention goes to your female loved one. This is not you and your partner fucking someone, this is you and someone fucking your partner. Unless her fantasy is to be a voyeur, sit back and enjoy what actually happens when girls go wild. And when your time comes, always touch your female partner first and last.

(This rule helps cut out all the hacks that are trying to 'legally' get some side pussy. They are the lowest form of puke. If they can't be satisfied within the relationship they are in, they shouldn't punish their partner for it. Threesome are for those genuinely curious and sharing.)

B. Set ground rules. And I mean rules that aren't just your partners saying "Okay, sure. Whatever you'd like, honey." Rules that create boundaries. I'm definitely not saying to plan the whole thing out. No planning needed at all, just set limits. Maybe even offer a safety word or touch. If she wants to see you do everything to the other girl except penetrate her, you need to know that walking in. Otherwise you will be walking out alone.

C. Hotel room, hotel room, hotel room. 'Nuff said.

D. Talk about it afterward. When it comes to couples, communication is the number one rule for relationships, so it should automatically carry over to the love life. You don't have to relive the night, just find how each other feels about it.

To help soothe any questionable feelings, describe how sexy your partner looked while they were in the moment. Tell them what part of the night was best and explain how it made you feel when you saw them doing whatever. BUT only talk of your partner and their actions. Don't bring up how great the other person was because that wasn't the point of the exercise . That third person was just a new toy to play with and leave, not a snap-on adapter for your partner. Everything you talk about should pertain directly to your partners beauty and enchanting glow before, during and after the event. If couples high-five afterward. The rest struggle to find balance and serenity for weeks.

Enjoy. Soon you should be on your way to a wicked hot night and a drama-less life afterward.