One of you lies spread-eagled on the bed. The other stands perched on top of the television. Can you get hooked up in a single leap? Lube is essential here. If you master that, have your lover lie spread-eagled on one bed while you run and spring off the other one to get more altitude.
Motels are an ideal place to play spy. You may want to avoid using live ammunition, though.
Isn't the pool just begging for a 3 a.m. skinnydip? Chevy Chase did it, and he got to see Christie Brinkley naked.
Don't waste the money on the vibrating bed. Head to the laundry room and sit her on the corner of the washer. Cheaper, lasts a lot longer, and it's way more powerful. Plus you can do a load of laundry at the same time. Can the vibrating bed do that? I think not.
Go fuck in your car anyway. That'll show 'em!
Balance the complimentary chocolate directly over her clitoris. Let it melt. Only lick the drippings off, leave the main candy alone. See how long she can take the gentle teasing.
On one memorable stay years ago, we picked up a two-quart jug of baby oil and ended up using the entire thing. We could barely stay connected; it was a giggly, exhausting struggle just to have sex at all.
Call other rooms at random and see if you can exchange spouses.
While you're having sex, play a wildlife tape of monkeys fighting, just to see if anyone dares investigate.
Amuse the help.
If room service is available, you owe it to the poor bored people downstairs to order something they can talk about for weeks after you leave. I recommend asking for a bunch of those little canoe-looking cakes you use for strawberry shortcake, a hacksaw, a single stalk of celery, a small pool pump, a copy of Hiney Heros magazine (last month's issue), and 50' of garden hose. Ask them to please hurry and to just leave it outside the door.
Explain that you're technically not peeing in the pool, you're peeing off your balcony and it's hardly your fault which way the wind was blowing.
Bring along your own maid's outfit and wander into other rooms.
Be sure to make faces at the mirror, just in case.
Get up early in the morning and replace all the complimentary newspapers with copies of Barely Legal.
Maids have a pretty boring job, so it's a nice gesture to liven up their mornings by presenting them with something a little different in the realm of wet spots. Move around a lot, make some art. You've got a queen-sized canvas there, use it! Squirt food coloring into some body lotion and coat yourselves with it before you start. A masterpiece!
Call down to the front desk and ask for a teeny, tiny little favor. Tell them you can't explain why, but you'd really, really appreciate it if they could send someone around to your room in exactly 17 minutes to bang on the door and yell, “Honey, the chicken is done!” If someone actually does it, moan loudly.
Don't use the Do Not Disturb sign. Instead, throw back the coverlet, sit up, hold a bottle of champagne ready, and when the maid enters the room, look up and say “Darling, I've been waiting.” Alternately, the same scenario, but wearing a leather harness.
Sit in the motel bar getting good and plastered before taking her hand and saying loudly “C'mon honey, we don't have much time before my visitation time is over.”
If the manager comes to complain, refuse to come out until John Walsh shows up.
Tip very, very well.
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Take the Bukkake Challenge!
[Scene opens as the camera tracks through heavy white drapes over white French doors. We enter a brilliant white bedroom, luxuriously furnished in white and silver. Violin music is playing — low and sensual. A stunningly beautiful blonde woman is lying across the bed, legs crossed at the ankles, arms outstretched, head propped up on a pillow. Her makeup is impeccable. She begins talking as we reach the foot of the bed]
PROSTATIA: Hi. [licks lips] I'm Prostatia Jones, porn star and part-time waitress. And I'm here to offer you the Spraybellite Challenge. You know how easily mascara smears, how easily lipstick smudges, and how tough it is to get those messy stains off your cheeks without ruining your blush. Well, Spraybellite's new BukkakeTM line of makeup can handle anything you can throw at it. Just watch!
[The background music segues gracefully into a fully-orchestrated rendition of the theme from “Deep Throat” (arranged and performed by Vanessa Mae). A naked man enters from the left. He is large, muscular, and obviously very interested in Prostatia, or at least portions of her. He begins stroking himself very quickly.]
PROSTATIA: Can your makeup handle this?
[She immediately turns just in time to catch massive dollops of thick ropy fluid all over her face. She turns, smiling, making sure she's completely coated. When he finally subsides, she turns her dripping face back to the camera.]
PROSTATIA: You girls know what to expect now, right? Wiping, drying, washing, cleansing, moisturizing, and then starting all over from scratch in time for the next scene, without even enough time for a quick toot. Well, you might be surprised.
[Another naked man strides in and hands her a small towel. Prostatia draws it across her face once; she is once again immaculate. The second man also begins stroking himself. More men enter the room.]
PROSTATIA: See? Spraybellite's BukkakeTM can handle anything! When you do as many sex scenes as I do every day, you need makeup that can bounce back when you do.
[She spins around to take another faceful. The towel makes short work of this as well. There are now six men around the bed, with more coming in.]
PROSTATIA: Whee! And Spraybellite's BukkakeTM can do a lot more than this! Mud, cole slaw, body paint, urine, whatever you need to get off your face right away, Spraybellite's… glub…!
[She is interrupted by another shot in the face. The other men are starting to jockey for position. Prostatia grabs for the towel but it's a bit damp, so she makes do with the coverlet.]
PROSTATIA: Cough! Um, Spraybellite's BukkakeTM is there to help protect your delicate skin from anything they can offer. Just… blub gurk…
[We can no longer see Prostatia behind the wall of men standing around her, but we can see their arms moving furiously and we can hear her over the music.]
PROSTATIA: (shouting) Just look… ack… look at this testimonials! Whoop!
[CUT TO: a beautiful Asian woman walking out of a massage room, carrying her robe. She is covered in spunk, but smiling a dazzling smile.]
HOOTCHIE: I'm Hootchie Mintrale. I just love Spraybellite's BukkakeTM. With the time I save not having to reapply makeup between spoogings, I've doubled my income!
[A quick swipe with a convenient dress shirt and she's sparkling new. A potbellied man enters; she waves him into the massage room and turns to us with a wink before following.]
PROSTATIA: (voiceover) And BukkakeTM isn't… gulp, gulp… just for professionals!
[CUT TO: A seedy biker bar. A ring of large burly bikers, all facing inward with their pants down, breaks up. As they move away we see a young girl kneeling on the floor. She appears to have taken a cream pie in the face. And the chest, and shoulders. And hair.]
JIM: (from offscreen) Honey? You ready to go yet?
[Rather than panicking, the girl runs to the bar and swipes her face with a bar towel. Instantly she's fresh and wholesome, just in time for a Richie Cunningham-type of guy to come in the bar. He is clean-cut and wearing a letter sweater. He embraces her.]
JIM: Hey, you look great. Ready to go to my parent's house for dinner?
[She nods happily. He hugs her again and gives her a big kiss on the cheek, then starts to pull her by the hand out the door. The bikers wave.]
JIM: Say, is that a new perfume? It's very musky.
[She stops on the way out the door and gives us a sly smile and a thumbs-up.]
{CUT TO: PROSTATIA. She is alone on the bed, submerged in a soupy puddle. Perhaps 15% of her skin is visible; the rest is covered in goo. Another naked man comes in carrying a garden hose and begins to hose her down.]
PROSTATIA:
Cough, cough, ptui! Whew! I could never have gotten the “Most Prolific Slut” award without Spraybellite's BukkakeTM! Splut! Spraybellite's BukkakeTM line of cosmetics includes everything you could ever want: foundation, blush, mascara, eye shadow, lipsticks, the whole works, and in all your favorite colors! Made with Spraybellite's patented mix of the finest makeup ingredients and urethane. Try it and see! If it doesn't wipe off with a damp cloth every time, we'll give you some more of it! That's the BukkakeTM Challenge!
[The hose is turned off. Prostatia is once again perfect. She stands and walks away from the bed as two men come in wearing thick rubber gloves and begin rolling up the bedcovers. They squish. We follow Prostatia to a small table, which is displaying some small bottles and a wire brush.]
PROSTATIA: And if you order now, you'll get a year's supply of Spraybellite's BukkakeTM Primer, Spraybellite's BukkakeTM Remover, and this lovely cleansing brush.
DIRECTOR: (offscreen) Prostatia! I need you on the rock star dressing room set in 5 minutes!
PROSTATIA: (smiling) No problem! (whispers to us) Not with Spraybellite's BukkakeTM! Remember, when you want your face to look as good as it can, you want BukkakeTM.
-------------------------
Stop Saying “Sucks”
Friends and neighbors, I am here to tell you of a social evil so chilling, so widespread, that most people don't even realize the dangers involved.
I am speaking of the term “sucks.”
Now I want to stress that I have no problem at all with that word being used correctly, to mean to draw something in by or as if by suction, as in “she sucks harder than the bilge pump on the Titanic.” This is fine and good, and I approve of this usage whole-heartedly, especially if I can verify its accuracy from personal experience.
But more and more of late I have heard the word “sucks” used as a term of disparagement, to imply that something is of inferior quality (“this administration sucks!”) or to be repellent (“rap sucks!”) or to express contempt (“recapitulationary theories suck!”). Since the early 1900's such phrases as “sucks to them” have been popular, a forerunner of the current “sucks to be you.” Painful events were considered “sucky,” possibly because they caused one to suck in one's cheeks. And finally, today, it has become so widespread that the word “sucks” can be used on children's programming (“Bert, you suck!”).
It has even developed degrees of badness. Witness the many variations and conjugations that have sprung up:
suckadelic Something that sucks. Example: “That undescended testicle is so suckadelic!”
suckage To express extreme displeasure at the situation at hand. Example: “Oh, total suckage! You were that close to making it to the bathroom!”
suckalicious It sucks to an alarming degree. Example: “Bummer, man, that tapeworm is suckalicious.”
suckfarm To suck in a major way. Example: “Suckfarm! It bit my other leg off!”
suckfest Something that sucks deliberately and for an extended period of time. Example: “The Protestant Reformation was one long suckfest.”
suckitude A measurement of how much something sucks. Example: “The suckitude of that malignant tumor is beyond belief!”
sucktacular Something that sucks so much that all other forms of “suck” are insufficient. Example: “That televangelist ventriloquist is seriously sucktacular!”
Note that there are no minor degrees of “suck.” Either something that sucks is really bad, or it's much worse. Now, ordinarily this sort of thing wouldn’t bother me. Language changes, English more than most, and I am a firm believer that a language that does not grow with its users will die. But this change bothers me, a lot.
See, I've always considered “sucks” to be a good thing. A lover who sucks is a lover to treasure. If I describe my wife as “suckalicious” or “suckadelic” I am offering the highest of praises. And I sincerely hope that at least once in my lifetime I will be privileged enough to attend a “suckfest.”
Why are we allowing that most hallowed and desirable of sensations to be used as a derogatory term? Do you want the lovers you meet to already have the subconscious certainty that “suck” equals “yuck?” It's enough work just convincing them that sucking is good in the first place, without making it tougher for everybody. I can tell you that if my own wife ever develops the notion that “sucks” is solely a bad thing, I'm going to come out there and beat the crap out of each and every one of you. I'll certainly have enough nervous energy for it.
Let's restore “sucks” to the noble height it deserves. Avoid using it in such a cavalier, dismissive manner. Don't let your kids use it, refuse to allow coworkers to use it in your presence, ban it from your partner's vocabulary unless it's meant as a kind offer or urgent demand. Spread the word, Stop Saying “Sucks”!
Hell, why not take it the other direction? Start using “sucks” to describe something unutterably good. “That hot fudge sundae really sucks, Emily!” he said happily. Turn it into what it deserves to be, the highest accolade you can give. You'd want to find the lover that sucks the most, wouldn't you? Why not extend that attitude towards everything else? The suckiest singles of 2002. The most sucktacular job you've ever had. The Academy Award for the Most Suckitude by a Supporting Actor. Tell someone you love that you think they really suck, and make them feel proud of it. Take a stand now, while there's still time, and make a difference that can result in deep satisfaction for all of us. Spread the word! Tell your friends! Go door to door, it's legal! Set up a stand outside the local grocery store and hand out pamphlets. We have to save this wonderful word from falling, irrevocably, into despair.
Because to let it go would make a sadder world for us all. And that would really suck.
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Boutique Encounter, or Why I Hate Writing in Second Person
You see him for the first time by the skirt racks in St. Laurens, the last place you ever expected to meet a man. Trendy, elegant, expensive women, sure, but the only men you've seen there are the nervous boyfriends and husbands who follow their womenfolk between the racks like oversized children, asking every few minutes if their ladies could for god's sake finish trying on every damn thing and pick something so we can leave, now, please. Those men you've seen plenty of times, and you always get a little thrill out of watching them squirm in this hallowed feminine environment. Jolene, the sales manager, makes a point of leaving exactly one small, uncomfortable, backless chair by the changing rooms to give them somewhere to sit, surrounded by billowing, lacy pink curtains and verdant ferns, with not a speck of masculinity in sight. Few of them manage to last the smallest part of a good shopping run; 45 minutes of watching their women try on every color of the same brand of top seems to be the most any of them can take before they bolt for the nearest bookstore, CD shop or electronics outlet, mumbling about meeting up in the food court later. And you thought guys were supposed to be tough.
But not this man. He's strolling between the racks, idly letting his hand drift across the fabric like he really enjoys it. You pick up the blouse you were looking at and hold it against yourself before the mirror, using the reflection to scope the guy out without being caught. The clearance racks don't attract him in the least, he heads straight for the silk dress display and looks at the labels. So, now you know. Gay. Damn shame, too, he's a mouthful. Tall, broad, dark, strong. You let yourself fantasize about him and his hands for just a moment, safe in his homosexual reality, and you feel your knees go weak at the thought of those strong arms holding you motionless… And then he looks your way, and your eyes meet in the mirror, and you know in the pit of your stomach that not only is he definitely not gay but in that one glance he has already taken you for his own and now it's just a matter of time before he claims you. And you both know that you want it.
Suddenly nervous, you hold the blouse closer, realizing as you do so that your nipples are tight, tight, and they're poking out even through the additional layer. His eyes smile at you, and then they dri
ft downwards to set the tips of your breasts afire with their touch.
Yes, they do.
No, that is not hokey, it feels just exactly like that. And now he's coming over, so get ready.
He walks confidently over to you, looming over you by inches. Your heart pounds as he reaches up to touch your face. His thick fingers travel over your lips, over your chin, and down your throat. You take a single deep breath, anticipating the plunge. With one finger he lifts your chin to bring your lips closer to his, and you close your eyes as you feel his leanness pressing against you. In just seconds your body has heated and moistened to an incredible degree and out of nowhere you're ready to follow this stranger anywhere he wants to take you.
Oh, yes you would. You did that UPS guy that one time, didn't you, and he wasn't half as hot as this guy. Oh, bullshit, yes you did. This man is the dope and you're ready to do him in the changing room, so just listen.
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