Thursday, November 19, 2009

Prostitution - The Truth

National TV interview-
Sex worker: "Dr, do you have a loving sex life with your wife?"

Dr. P.: "Huh ... Of course! But, we are talking about prostitution --"

Sex worker: "I'm not a prostitute. Off camera, I am free. If anyone here is a prostitute, it is your wife. You buy sex from her with your income."

[You read it hear first.]

Friday, November 13, 2009

A while vs. awhile, and other bumbling stumbles

When “awhile” is spelled as a single word, it is an adverb meaning “for a time” (“stay awhile”); but when “while” is the object of a prepositional phrase, like “Lend me your monkey wrench for a while” the “while” must be separated from the “a.” (But if the preposition “for” were lacking in this sentence, “awhile” could be used in this way: “Lend me your monkey wrench awhile.”)

I studied grammar for a while, but it didn't even stay in my head awhile. I understand no deeper than noun, verb, and "really, 'awhile' is an adverb?" It takes a lot of reading well edited text to actually recognize mistakes, elsewhere. Then the conundrum is "Something is wrong, why is it?" Unfortunately, I don't read much well written work anymore. [There's another one--anymore, or is it any more?] Finally, time, neither butcher, nor shifter, sees language change.

Is someplace a word? Somewhere? Someplace is informal for somewhere, but formally should be two words. Adverbs...

Two others are fond of being switched around:
Then and than.
Who and whom.

Then, there is: that and which, which, or is it that, follow after something...

I even see weigh and weight butchered. What do these two have to do with the subject I am on?
Regarding detours, here's one I've wanted to test Spellcheck on: He sighted the site for which he cited [author's] text. Now, mix 'em up.

Here's a killer. Lay, lie, laid, lying, lain. Who's lying? Who lied? And, what is it in sex, laying, or that chickens? Put those in a sentence. Just go to the Free Dictionary and type "laying".

Enough! My head is spinning.

Music Video (x+ rated)

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Wednesday's Words #3


I am a private person. Even with my partner, fantasies are drastically censured. The closest others see my genitals outside of intimacy is in the exam room or in day surgery. This is about those visits, to the doctor.

There is a shift from modesty to clinical indifference once the door is closed. Usually.

My first experience with prostate exams was with a doctor who preferred me on my side, on the table, in a one-knee-high position. To this day every exam I don’t recall the doctor’s desired position is predicated with “what position do you want me in?” This question has elicited a couple chuckles. The first doctor is the only one who wanted anything other than the military ‘spread those cheeks’. Rather, all, but one, who will be discussed later.

The biggest embarrassment in this procedure was cleaning up the lube, afterwards. Yuk! I learned to accept the proffered single tissue and grab the box in the same motion. I also, know that anal sex is no fantasy. Remotely, perhaps, a prostate exam during bedroom-bath games will drift into dreams.

With age grew the concern for cancer. Father and grandfather, suffered the consequences of prostate cancer. My grandfather was my first experience in witnessing the process of dying. At the age of eight, I was primed for a lifetime of death. I share the same concerns every female has with breast cancer. Supposedly, medical advances minimize physical issues with incontinence, but it was me who collected all the catheters, drain tubes, and penal clamps my father needed for fifteen years after his prostate surgery. The full annual regimen began at age 35 for me.

But cancer isn’t the subject, here; just a catalyzing agent.

The exam includes the two coughs (if there are two testicles) and proverbial inspection of the moles on the glans. I’m covered toe to scalp, even there with moles. Wait, the cough goes with a physical.

Okay, now the exceptions. Two female doctors; well, one was a third-year student, have dealt with my package. Both convince me that the opposite sex need not be involved with the physical manifestations of my various problems in the crotch area.

The first, a looker, lanced a boil right next to the perineum. She even made me go through a special surgical appointment for the next day. It felt like her intent was transsexual modification. She was draped in scrubs, mask and protective eyewear. I was lying, draped in sterile paper sheets; one precariously balanced on the personal jewels. I had the added embarrassment of a hospital gown. Why do female nurses want men in hospital gowns? Just drop the drawers at the necessary moment.

Well, scrotum, then pole would not cooperate and insisted on falling between my legs and concealing the presumed object of her intentions. The paper drifted into several places. Her nurse, also female, also sterile, made a couple modest attempts to realign the miscreants after Doctor realized she needed two hands to perform the operation.

Finally, when I thought I might start laughing instead of finding the scene irritating, I grabbed the sheet, adjusted it, and pulled the intruders away from the action.  Fear of sharp implements near the jewels is a permanent given. I was also fearful of a pending fart adding further complications.

The lance job was only half-assed. Neither Doc nor attendant caught a drop of bloody puss, and I was sent home after several minutes of amateurish bandaging. Several months later the boil went away, after a few lancings on my own.

A few years later, under another provider, PA Rich took care of a mirror image boil. He snapped on some nitrile gloves and opened up an exacto knife while I dropped my drawers. “Hold your package away.” Cold alcohol, then a sting with immediate relief completed the procedure. I wore a Kotex pad home. No tape was involved.

The third-year student I could understand. Other than personal flings, she was learning, training to handle the clinical aspects of opposite gender genitals. The provider was a university group and I had a rapidly growing, itchy thing right at the cusp of number two pucker. I couldn’t see it, so I killed a work day, went into the big City, finally found my destination among a mile long train of medical buildings, and signed a consent form to have students look in on my personal problems, or shadow the doctor.

The doctor introduced his blond companion, all business-like. Other than the gorgeous Asian Dr. who dripped sex and had me desperately controlling male urges when diagnosing TMJ a month earlier, this girl had me really nervous. I was in a huge room wearing a glorified apron (gown), while she and Doc probed, discussed, and had me roll several times on the table. Finally, Doc announced “a wart!”, only in gibberish. They left the room, closing the door.

A minute later, Blondie returned wearing gloves and holding a tube of KY jelly. She furtively commenced an anal inspection with me fully exposed to the 15-foot wide hallway. I dismissed a thought to advance her education by pointing out my double sized prostate. I thought she might consider it male bravado.

Doctor interrupted the exam, sat down to discuss further visits; then saw the hallway with the steady stream of staff and patients. Blondie blushed and yanked the curtain. I pulled it to the wall until I couldn’t see the hall. She remembered her gloves while I wiped the paper tissue on the table. I was gushing while they talked, then we talked, then they left. I found the box of tissues, in a drawer before dressing.

Two weeks later I had a new primary doctor far away from any school program. A month later, the itchy wart disappeared.

I am destined to deal with female doctors as more sexist barriers are toppled, but I’ll vigorously defend my own sexism in special areas of the medical profession.

Monday, August 10, 2009

His/Her's Conflict Lists

The man's guide to what a woman really wants when she says...
(Not written by me)(Stolen from some chick's blog)

"We need" = "I want"
"It's your decision " = "The correct decision should be obvious by now."
"Do what you want" = "You'll pay for this later."
"We need to talk" = "I need to complain"
"I'm not upset" = "Of course I'm upset, you moron!"
"You're so... manly" = "You need a shave and you sweat a lot."
"This kitchen is so inconvenient" = "I want a new house."
"I need wedding shoes" = "the other 40 pairs are the wrong shade of white."
"I heard a noise" = "I noticed you were almost asleep."
"Do you love me?" = "I'm going to ask for something expensive."
"How much do you love me?" = "I did something today you're really not going to like."
"I'll be ready in a minute " = "Kick off your shoes and find a good game on T.V."
"Is my butt fat?" = "Tell me I'm beautiful."
"You have to learn to communicate." = "Just agree with me."
"Are you listening to me!? " = "Too late, you're dead."
"Do you like this recipe?" = "It's easy to cook, so you'd better get used to it."
"I'm not yelling!" = "Yes I am yelling because I think this is important."

Why we secretly hate Men...
(Stolen from some chick’s blog. The same one)

1. Your ass is never a factor in a job interview
2. Your orgasms are real. Always
3. Your last name stays put.
4. The garage is all yours.
5. Wedding plans take care of themselves.
6. Chocolate is just another snack.
7. You can be president.
8. You can wear a white shirt to a water theme park.
9. Foreplay is optional.
10. You never feel compelled to stop a friend from getting laid.
11. Car mechanics tell you the truth.
12. You don't give a rat's ass if someone doesn't notice your new haircut.
13. The world is your urinal.
14. Hot wax never comes near your pubic area.
15. You never have to drive to another gas station because this one's just too icky.
16. Same work... more pay.
17. Wrinkles add character.
18. You don't have to leave the room to make emergency crotch adjustments.
19. Wedding Dress $2000; Tux rental $100.
20. If you retain water, it's in a canteen.
21. People never glance at your chest when you're talking to them.
22. The occasional well-rendered belch is practically expected.
23. New shoes don't cut, blister, or mangle your feet.
24. Porn movies are designed with you in mind.
25. Not liking a person does not preclude having great sex with them.
26. Your pals can be trusted never to trap you with: "So, notice anything different?"
And finally . . . . . .
27. One mood, all the time.

The Old Fart’s List ( A partial)
(NOT stolen. Written by me (pateinduced).)

1.“'We' secretly hate men" because those are self-imposed rules. (See above list.)
2. Her list of complaints is a mile long.
3. 90% of the list is her problems. Nothing I do will fix them.
4. Fix one thing and she’ll change her mind. Fix two and I’ll be changing the first before the second is done.
5. Do one chore, and she thinks you’re hers the rest of the weekend.
6. Why is “dinner out” the time to rattle off a year’s worth of projects.
7. It’s my office; not her storage room.
8. The guest room is MY bedroom. I can now claim it.
9. I’ve survived PMS (barely). Why is menopause my fault, and a permanent phase?
10. It’s a marriage of convenience, now. Her’s.
11. It’s her dog—she brought the damn thing home. Why do I clean up all the barf, shit, pee, feed it, and have to take it to the groomer Saturday morning?
12. She can scream insults at me across a store. Why am I upsetting customers if I grumble under my breath?
13. Quality time together is spending 4 hours in Kmart searching every shelf for an item she hid two days ago, and has forgotten what it was.
14. She’s had 35 years to learn that FDS feminine spray smells like that grad student who must have saved tampons, in place, month to month. (Proof removed. Too gross for even me.) I don't care if Grandma used the shit.
15. I go to the store every month and look through an entire aisle of feminine pads for ultra-super-absorbent-whooper-doopers, so she won’t get pregnant, for stocking ahead. (A superstition) Like she’s not going to need them for another 15 years instead of 15 and 9 months? Don’t worry. There won’t be 21 more kids.
16. Who ever called her thingy a prune was being too nice.
17. Why do I have to jump to her beck and call?
18. I’d rather swear at other drivers, than her. But it doesn’t matter.
19. She watches a home decorating show and is an expert.
20. She’s had four dining tables. Buy cardboard the next time; or recycle the nice one saved for the 28-year-old single son, hiding in the pool room, downstairs.
21. According to her, I never do anything for her. Okay, I won’t.
22. If she wants dollar store junk for decorating, I won’t spend a fortune for a house.
23. I want a blanket, not a bed spread that can be used for a sleeping bag in Alaska during the winter. (Remember, I have my own bedroom.)
24. Her haircut would pay for 4 of mine. But she uses two mirrors and dog scissors to fix hers when she gets home.
25. I will never ask, nor expect, a barber to trim my nose hairs. She thinks I should go back to have it done.
26. A secret no hair stylist knows: washing my neck will not get her a bigger tip. There is a rhythm of scissors and comb that is pure bliss for a man. Only barbers know how to do that.
27. Crown Victoria is the required car for over-69-year-old couples. They drive themselves. Or, appear to.
28. Why does an old fart drive so slowly? Malicious obedience to her waking up every 15 minutes and yelling “slow down!”
29. He drives slowly because she's the one who multi-tasks. At least he maintains a steady speed.
30. Every wedding anniversary is an achievement. Rather than jewelry she’ll lose, she should reward him for surviving with shop tools.
31. …. And, at number 31, a nice break from further depression … If no one will claim that fart, it has to belong to one of the ladies and therefore, is obnoxious.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

HNT #1 - Thong Dreams

...well, maybe, in mid-winter. Sexy? A good pair of thongs, from Nordstrom's and well into their 3rd season. Peripatetic symbol.

Rev. 2009-11-15

Thursday, April 23, 2009


The other day I woke up and realized I have a whole life that is my own. More loves and lovers than any one person could imagine satisfying, more games and fantasies than one person should ever admit to or play and act out, more curiosity than a dead cat. All of it is sharing space with a lifelong album of experiences, some prurient some not, maybe, 70/30, and 22/7.

Mostly an effort in discipline, the fact is there may be no more than this post. The blog may fade from memory for want of inspiration. Betwixxed, it will eject the things that catch my morbid fancy; or, that I can catch and pin-down into legible type. Maybe it will prove useful to me.