Monday, March 30, 2009
Raise your voice
Yesterday I was reading Dlisted, my main go-to site for celebrity e-bitchery, and laughed out loud when its author Michael K. wrote that Ashton Kutcher is the type to "give his peen a 'voice' while you're trying to blow him." Not only does that sound about right concerning the bedroom habits of the insufferably juvenile Mr. Kutcher, but it reminded me of the infrequently discussed but nonetheless relevant topic of talking on behalf of your genitalia and I felt compelled to weigh in on the matter.
Years ago, when I lived in beautiful Tacoma, Washington, the City of Destiny, I banged this dude who would translate for his penis while we were getting sexy. Specifically, he referred to it as "the boy" or "his boy," and wanted to relay its opinion to me throughout our drunken fucking. We were doing it and he said something like, "My boy feels great." Initially I was confused about what he meant and ignored it. However, he continued in this vein with comments like "Damn, my boy thinks you have a great pussy" and "the boy isn't going to last much longer if you keep going like this," and then attempted to engage me about it. He said something completely idiotic like "my boy wants to know if he's the best you've ever had?" I laughed in his face and responded with something like, "Tell your boy to shut up and fuck me."
This dude was definitely the Ashton Kutcher type. I knew him from around the Tacoma bar scene and from my interactions with him at such storied establishments as Hank's and Magoo's, I knew that he hung drywall or did construction or something and his life's ambition was to take surfing lessons. He had a tattoo of a sun with an ankh or a yin-yang or something along those lines on his upper back, even though he was the farthest thing imaginable from an eastern mystic. He also had an armband tat of some fake-me-out Celtic design and a Chinese character (that I like to think was the symbol for "tool") on his ankle like a damn girl. I had been at his apartment one time and he had taped torn-out pages from the Victoria's Secret catalog all over the walls by the toilet. I have no problem with dudes who keep their spank literature in plain view. In fact, I respect the brazen attitude of a dude who will leave his stack of Hustlers next to the john in plain view. However, taping ripped out pages of Heidi Klum selling 2 for 1 Angel bras for $49.99 as bathroom decor is a whole other level of douchebaggery, and cheap douchebaggery at that. Can't you at least buy a Maxim or something if you insist on decorating your bathroom with softcore jerk-off material? If this guy weren't cute in a Tacoma kind of way (meaning just okay) and I hadn't consumed half the stock of Sapphire gin at Magoo's that night, I probably wouldn't have seriously considered bagging him or his United Nations tattoos. In fact, my friend MillerTime had a crush on him and I wasn't going to go there out of deference for our friendship; however, she wasn't at the bar that night, and he was moving to Florida the next day. I figured that she'd never get her shot, and I might as well not let the dick go to waste.
Unfortunately, I didn't realize I'd be getting color commentary courtesy of "his boy" about the awesomeness of my vagina and its compatibility with said name-bearing penis. He didn't even stop when I laughed at him. In fact, he kept babbling on about "his boy" without saying anything in particular. It was like listening to Dick Vitale call our one-night stand. Then after "his boy" finished the job and retreated to its resting state, he bitched at me for smoking in my own apartment and plugged my toilet! He was a real charmer.
Since then, I've fortunately not come across anyone who said such asinine things on behalf of his penis during sex. I have had other guys say some silly stuff, like demanding that I compare their cock to smoked meat, shouting "DRAINAGE!" while ejaculating on my ass, or promising that I was about to be "split in half by (his) big, black snake." Luckily, however, I've never had another dude either attempt to interpret for his penis or assume the guise of his penis and chat me up. I don't think there is any way to make that hot.
Oh the other hand, I have successfully managed to talk with someone's genitalia myself, so I should never say never. A while back, I was banging this dude who set the tone by turning on some Skinemax original programming prior to us hooking up. I usually go straight to the internet for my porn because I don't like to trifle with any boring softcore bullshit, so I hadn't seen anything in that genre for awhile. It turns out that it's not the "Red Shoe Diaries" that I remember, which was sort of fake-classy (at least it referred to its actresses as "glamour models") and rarely showed much besides tits. Today's Skinemax, however, showed constant, close-up, full-frontal pussy shots and Randy Spears was in it! However, there still was not any real fucking in it, and the acting was TERRIBLE. Not that I expect an Oscar-worthy performance from the cast of "Co-Ed Confidential," but given that half of them are actual porn stars, I would expect them to at least believably simulate sex. There was one chick pretending to give a dude a blow job and her head was bouncing around so vigorously she looked like a damn jack-in-the-box. I started ranting indignantly about this, and after a few minutes, the honey took matters into his own hands and asked why I was wearing so many clothes. That reminded me that I did not go over to his apartment to critique the acting on Cinemax, and got down to business.
However, I couldn't get over the shoddiness of the travesty on television, and continued to jabber on about it while we were hooking up. Granted, my statements on the matter became much more terse, but I wasn't going to rest until I had vented. So I said something like, "This is what a fucking blow job looks like," and started fellating him between brief statements excoriating the unconvincing product that Cinemax was selling. I finally shut up once we started actually fucking, because only then was I distracted enough by my imminent orgasm to get over my critical disappointment in today's original softcore programming. Afterward, we were chatting while waiting for the dude to recharge, and he said, "I was really impressed with the way you were able to carry on a conversation at the same time as giving me head. I wasn't even annoyed."
"Uh, thanks," I said, then I noticed that Wild Orchid was now on Skinemax. "Hey, young Mickey Rourke! Now that's hot."
My dude was undeterred and continued, "Seriously, feel free to argue with my dick any time. It was a great blow job, and you made many excellent points."
"And you only made one," I said, grabbing his dick and realizing he was good to go again. Mollified, I proceeded to spend the rest of the night doing him with no complaints. Now, thinking back, I realized what a fine line there is between talking to and for your genitals. Talking to is clearly hot and sexy when done correctly by a pro ho like myself. Talking for, however, is just not okay. Ever. Fellas, if I want to talk to your cock, I will. Otherwise, tell it to keep its yap shut and just do its damn job. So let it be written, so let it be done.
Labels: perversion, ranting, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts, weiners
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