In part one of this unasked-for glimpse into the sexual persona of one Snarling Misanthrope, it was concluded that Indiana Jones was responsible for said Misanthrope’s stubble-beard. In part two, Bruce Willis and his too-bene-for-Italy hairline of Sicily were given their just due. So, without further ado, we humbly present the end of this romp of sexual weirdness. And like any descent into the gaping maw of madness, the end takes us right back to the beginning…
Part III: The Whipround - An Old Dude Randomly Whipping Stuff
But the package was incomplete. There was one crucial component missing. The accessory. Every budding young archetype needs one. Luke Skywalker had a lightsaber. Toshiro Mifune had a katana. Chuck Norris had a gun and Kung-Fu ninja shit. Neil Young had a guitar and a wall of sonic feedback.
I tried them all on. Swords were clumsy; and as a recovering comic book nerd, I was pretty sure that walking around with a giant ninja sword was not going to earn me any points with the ladyfolk. Guns were, well, guns. I never had a real fondness for weaponry, and the notion of ever outfitting myself in camouflage was far out of bounds; thus I strutted about in my acid-washed Levis. And my attempts at playing the guitar were met with something that, if unleashed upon the world, would certainly have signaled the death of music. (Had I only been plying that craft in the mid-90s, when suburban white kids playing out-of-tune guitars was briefly considered haute.) MORE>>
What do you do, when you, a married, muddleheaded, mild-mannered, child porn-snifting, self-loathing ne’er-do-well, just really, really need a few robust kicks to your jimmies? Why, you pick up underage girls online, politely get them to blow you, and then assume the position: on the floor, splayed on all stubby fours (with a towel underneath you to catch any drip-off; the British do tend to be overly considerate), hold back the twig, and take a few stiff ones in the berries. A bit of panting, recollection; nary a trace of self-reflection, save the wag-wag of the stumplike, mottled thing bobbling and bad-jobbing it between your fish-belly legs. And again, with the kicking, and the “Oh, my danglies!”
Oh. And then your pedophilic ass gets arrested and put on trial. It must suck to be the only pedophile on your block who has to call the cops because the kids won’t stop pestering you for sex.
Related, in a kicking-only sense: Cuntbusting!
The ruddy glow that registers on a fair-skinned person who has just achieved orgasm: Her face and neck were well-cumsplotched after our marathon fuck-fest.
cumsplotched, cumsplotched, cumsplotches
to provide orgasm; to mark with cumsplotches
the ruddy glow; spots; stains; colorations as a whole which denote cumsplotchiness
the act of cumsplotching; to cumsplotch
to bear physical evidence of cumsplotching: After an hour of lotus petals-to the metal, Jasmine was cumsplotchy with perspiration and delight.
Online dating sites seem to pop up like politicians in a brothel. The deluge is seemingly endless so how do you navigate the influx of online self-promotion opportunities? Here are a few new (and not so new ones) that you may have missed.
Sweet on Geeks
Complete with a banner ad for Mensa, this site promises to hook you up with the hot geek of your dreams. Of course this isn’t really a new idea and we’re a bit surprised how messy and non Web 2.0 the design is (can’t these geeks do better?). Yeah, we’re still signing up.
Crazy Blind Date
As if people living in really great cities didn’t already have enough perks, the makers of OkCupid have started a site that will guarantee to get you stalked faster than it takes for Dominos to deliver a pizza - IGD at its finest. CrazyBlindDate doesn’t show you profiles or pictures, just some fast and dirty demographic data about your potential match and then it thrusts you into the real world. Don’t forget to pack your condoms and mace!
WooMe is speed dating for the internet. We tried it and concluded that talking to a complete stranger on webcam is about as pleasant as talking to a complete stranger in any contrived singles dating setting. It sucks.
Oh, and AshleyMadison.com isn’t news to anyone but the world’s largest infidelity dating service now has 2 million members. The press-release reads like an Onion article: “This massive and wide-spread growth means that attached men and women can easily connect with other like-minded adults in their local area, making Ashley Madison the #1 site for extra-marital affairs.” I wonder what the #2 site is. . .
As a child of the 80s, I am in no way immune to the Hentai-tentacle of pop culture fuck-choking me into the reference-dropping Purgatory that is the blogosphere. And boy howdy, I couldn’t be happier about it. Anyhoo. In the first installment of this weird, psychosexual tract, I related to you, dear reader (citation needed), how Indiana Jones made me want to grow a stubble-beard, and how thus I tumbled, prickle-faced into adolescence.
Part II: The Addison Effect
A dark period had begun. I was misshapen and miscast: all sinew and voice-crackling; and still no stubble-beard, no matter how hard I gritted my teeth and willed the hair-lodes in my face to activate. I’d figured it would happen Manchurian Candidate-style: with the pressing of a button, the agent is activated; everything goes kablooie. Alas, there were no buttons, and, in the fashion of man-children everywhere, I began the terrible ritual of preemptive shaving. This of course is done at first without the benefit of shaving cream or even water. Razor meets face; razor wins. And Mother raises her brow at all the telltale blood-blots across her eldest son’s face. MORE>>
In the spirit of how not to express yourself on Craigslist, we humbly present the following PSA, for your hump-day edifaction:
Well, it’s not as sexy as a proxy-fight, but it’ll have to do: the man-boobed titans of online transaction are at it again – Craigslist (in the peace-symboled trunks, representing Sexual Transaction) countersued eBay (in the red shooting star trunks, representing the Transacting of Everything Else) on Tuesday, claiming eBay broke antitrust laws without respecting safewords or leaving roses on the table. Apparently it has something to do with the introduction of a third (and possibly virtual) partner, some slut named Kijiji, who, according to eBay, has a much nicer ass. Meanwhile, Craig is sullen and depressed, eating tubs of Rainforest Crunch, and only coming out of his poshly-bungalowed bunker to toss off the odd commencement address, stating that he’s too tired to save the world anymore. Can you do it? (Don’t despair, Craig. Your hairy, non-lactating nipple of human weirdness will always be first in the breast pocket of our hearts.)
As for the sexy: in other ‘Who Knows Your Shit, Baby’ news, financial shock-guru and widely-assumed V lizard Carl Icahn is planning another of his shareholder coup d’etats, this time the object of his obsession being Yahoo (which wants you to know that it doesn’t spy on you quite as much as Google does, but, all the same, they’ll be happy to send you up the Yangtze river if you’re a Chinese dissident, or gunk up your junk with adware and spyware, or double-dip your card for their ass-wipe personals service). Yahoo’s loggerheaded fringe is unhappy with the company in the wake of their bungled negotiations with Microsoft, as well as its continued spiral into irrelevance; Icahn is a railroad tycoon in railsplitter’s clothing (assuming that railsplitters have gold cuff-links). This should be fun.
I miss the arrivals gate.
It’s an arcane icon in this era of checkpoints, carry-on restrictions, and the ubiquitous snaking lines of Shoeless Joes slouching towards screening; but a compelling one nonetheless. An arcady overfilled with clichéd characters: the ugly American tourist, the barking businessman, the saffron-wearing religioso of the moment, and of course the omnipresent hordes of carnal provocateurs. The stuff that hard-cock hyperboles are made of: concourse bars, cheap hotels, and a supersonic getaway to a far-off, distant time zone. Before casual encounters went Craig-wise, any motivated Miss Lonelyheart could have her pick of the deep freeze, kill two birds with one stone while awaiting a missed connections to Des Moines and all points mundane.
But with the new sheriff in town, we’ve started flying the fuck-free skies. No more quick-change girl Fridays pressing against the velvet cords, car keys in hand. No more pre-flight nearly-coital interludes in secluded corners. No more quick-dash, 100-meter sprints from a cinematic liplock to the final boarding call. Nothing says ‘cut-the-schmaltz’ like an AK-47, a tap on the shoulder, and the injunction to ‘Move along, please.’ Yes, it’s safe to say that the honeymoon is over and the romance is gone. MORE>>
An Old Dude Randomly Whipping Stuff
I recently viewed the teaser for the next Indiana Jones movie. It didn’t particularly excite me (although the notion of an evil, Baroness-like Cate Blanchett will be quite enough to separate me from my cash), but it did bring back a cache of memories.
You see, dear reader (citation needed), when I was but a wee young hatchling, there were three things that I associated with Manhood:
2. A high hairline.
3. A whip.
The first and the third of these can be attributed to Harrison Ford, primarily in his Indiana Jones guise. Yes, I was – and still am – an uncloseted Star Wars devotee, but, true to its eunuch-like creator, the world of Star Wars to me was utterly devoid of sex. Gold bikinis were nice, but that was Luke’s sister, man. There is no teh sexay in that. MORE>>
The grimy mass of the sex blogosphere served up to you on a platter. Or paper plate, as the case may be. . .
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #132? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
“A bill outlawing the possession of “extreme pornography” is set to become law next week.”
M is for Mine
“You comment on my wetness.”
The Story Behind the Waxing
“I tend to go to people that I trust really know what they are doing when it comes to my pussy.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Keeley Hazell Regrets
The sadistic impulse
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See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.