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Posts tagged sex
Walking into my first speed-dating event, if I had to sum up atmosphere in one word, it would’ve been, “A room largely full of awkward people.” If you gave me an additional word, I would’ve added, “Holy fuck, some of them look downright painful.” Time would eventually prove this hypothesis largely true, but we’d already paid, put on clean underwear and shown up. Might as well give the nervous-looking ladies a shot.
Poseidon, DayWalkerTalker and I were each given a number upon check-in that corresponded to the table we’d start at. After four minutes, the fellow leading the evening would slam a tiny gong and the gentlemen would rotate one number up. I was assigned number one, with number two and three going to Poseidon and DayWalkerTalker respectively. Both of these bastards jumped with delight at the notion that they would be meeting each girl before me.
What that unfortunate ordering really meant was that each time I’d sit down at a new table, the girl already was displaying a look ranging from suspicion to sheer terror. After allowing me to say hello, she would immediately inquire about some outrageous lie one of my preceding friends had kindly spun.
Turning thirty is incredible for a number of reasons, but mostly it’s a flimsy excuse to get completely blacked out during dinner before forcefully grabbing each of your friends’ genitals (regardless of gender) and shrieking, “I want to fuck this!” At least that’s how I rang in my third decade of existence. Just ask Odysseus, whose balls are still smarting from my iron-fisted grip, months ago.
Thus when Zeus celebrated the arrival of his dirty thirties last weekend, I anticipated more of the same shenanigans, since we selected Atlantic City as the destination for the revelry. Friday night brought a lavish dinner followed by clubbing, and since I was there under a thinly-veiled guise of work, everything was comped. I can put down my fair share of alcohol, but by the time the third bottle of vodka hit our table, it was clear we’d need to share the spirit love.
Venturing into the crowd, a trio of blonds immediately stood out. Approaching, I was beaten by a juicehead Guido, his obnoxiously large tribal tats visible from space. As he perspired upon them, I heard him repeatedly offer them shots. The girls reluctantly accepted and he charged off to a nearby bar. After he left striking distance, I sauntered over. “Want some free alcohol right now?” They quickly nodded followed me to our table.
The other evening, I had a date with a Brooklyn girl I’ve been seeing occasionally. The night started perfectly fine with a lovely dinner at some trendy new restaurant followed by drinks at some trendy new lounge. Around midnight, the yawning started for both of us, induced not by boredom but by sheer exhaustion, as she’d been out until 5am the night prior and I’d just returned from a week long jaunt to Cali. After she’d stifled a fifth yawn, drinks were downed and we made our way back to my place.
There was constant kissing caressing and fondling in the cab, elevator and hallway of my building and when we got inside, we didn’t even bother turning on lights since clothes were being unbuttoned and a hasty retreat towards the bedroom was well underway, a trail of carelessly strewn garments falling in our wake. Condoms were retrieved and it wasn’t terribly long before they were employed.
When I moved into my current apartment, I assumed I would be the first creature to have sex on my balcony. Which hasn’t happened. Not even close, actually. So, naturally, I was quite saddened to find these two going at it this afternoon.
Freshly back from Iceland’s capital city, I’m thoroughly enjoying the little things I took for granted. Such as having a proper nighttime, with a sunset and the whole nine yards. And not having to stagger out of watering holes wasted to blinding sunlight at 3am. Most of all, I’m enjoying the warm comfort of American women, considering Odysseus perhaps surmised it best with his one liner in the airport: “Iceland - Where the women are as cold as the glaciers.” Or something along those lines. I’m drunk and having a hard time remembering.
The gist is, we met some of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes upon and they were polite and responsive…to a point. That point typically ended up being when the drinks we’d purchased for them arrived. Or when the odd man in our group inquired in dead earnestness if they were ovulating. Nothing drives away a stunning girl faster than asking where she is in her menstrual cycle.
Each girl was more breathtaking than the last and you’d find them in the most mundane of places. The leggy Nordic goddess who took emptied the trash bins at the airport? A 10. The spritely minx behind the cookie counter at our hotel’s buffet? An 11. The bubbly blonde buxomly spinning cotton candy at the mall? A 12 (one extra bonus point for her confectionary skills.) So Poseidon, Odysseus and I all tried our usual banter and charm and wit. We really exude none of those qualities, so in actuality, we huddled in a corner and stared blatantly while each quietly imagining the various ways these girls could fit on our tiny hotel twin beds.
Until we got drunk. Then we all grew some balls and began talking to anything of the female gender passing by. The resulting conversations were a mixture of hilarity and oddity. None ended in anything remotely sexual. From these chats, a sizeable dos and don’ts guide of how to navigate Iceland’s bombshells was born.
(The following laugh-out-loud-worthy tale comes courtesy of Telemachus. If you like it, then you should put a ring on it follow him on the Twitter, because his hilarity continues there.)
I’ve been besties with Jesse Consopalis (nobody said the Greek names had to be ancient) since first grade, and our moms have become besties as well. Like most red blooded American males, neither Jesse nor I can reliably pick out gifts for post-menopausal women and thus resort to celebrating holidays by occasionally taking them out for dinner and drinks. Jesse and I generally slug beers and talk about sports, hot chicks, work, and if we’re really boom-crushing it, sporty hot chicks we work with. Meanwhile, the moms drink like they’re 21 again before convincing themselves that some man that held the door or ordered the same drink was secretly trying to hit on them because they’ve “still got it.” Everybody wins.
This Mother’s Day, we raised the stakes. Jesse, Mama Consapolis and Mama Telemachus came to visit me in Vegas. The moms got a free limo and upgrade to a killer suite at a swank new hotel. We went out for some trendy drinks and dinner. We humored the moms by retelling the same 5 stories they have heard thousands of times yet still can’t accurately tell themselves.
The moms retired around 1am, which Jesse and I naturally took as our cue to flip the switch from “social drinking” to “Nick Nolte on the set of Blue Chips” boozing. Pounded beers. Triple fisted. Chased shots with tall glasses of the same liquor we just shot. High-fived like Obama in the Situation Room the whole time.
Her: Taking muscle relaxers at work
Her: I think I’m already addicted. I love them so much.
Me: Always fun. Wha’d you get?
Her: Flexeral. I’ve had it before.
Her: I got so excited when the doctor wrote it down.
Me: HA! I hope you yipped with glee.
Her: They gave it to me last time when I threw my back out banging the giant.
My best friend that’s a girl is undeniably incredible. Let’s call her Alala, to keep it in the Greek deity family (she picked the name because it’s the personification of the female war cry. And she loves a solid war cry.) She and I were out in Los Angeles together recently and after one late night of revelry and some slight debauchery, the group of five of us retreated to her hotel room where we proceeded to pour her entire mini bar down our throats before we took to her balcony overlooking a main LA street. That’s when shit turned awesome.
The balcony was situated just above and beside a major club, with another popular bar a stone’s throw down the road. Both were approaching closing time, so the foot traffic below our drunken perch was steady. Spurred on by her natural bubbly-ness, which only intensifies with the addition of liquor – and a little encouragement from us, Alala decided to bestow gifts upon passersby in the form of hysterical conversations. And the occasional drink mixer pouch or magazine. (Yep, she tossed both down at various points.)
The first group was a dud; just a gaggle of bros who wanted to come up and hang out. But they didn’t have much of a problem standing on the street shouting up to a group of strangers at 3am, which was all the reassurance Alala needed. Down the street, a t-shirt clad man was staggering from the bar across the wide street while traffic whizzed by him with alarming closeness, horns blaring. “That boy is going to die,” Alala said, matter-of-factly in between puffs on her cigarette. Amazingly, he made it to our side of the street and just before he reached us, Alala reached out to him.
“Sir,” she yelled in a tone of mock seriousness. “You nearly were killed! You need to be more careful.” Which prompted the man to respond that he was perfectly fine. Which led to his attempting to show us just how “fine” he was by walking back out into the middle of the four-lane street and performing a backwards handstand of sorts. Which led to us screaming that he actually was going to meet his demise unless he came back to the sidewalk. Which led to him eventually obliging.
Caught up with Neil Strauss the other evening. It’s a rare treat to hang out with him, as he resides across the country out here in Los Angeles, so it’s always great to hear the cool things he’s doing and what’s coming down his pipeline. I heard all about his new book, Everyone Loves You When You’re Dead, which is a crazy memoir of sorts that chronicles his mind-blowing celebrity interviews over the last twenty years. There’re some amazing lines in there. Buy his book. I promise you won’t regret it.
Then I told him about this blog and all of you. I shared some of your questions, your fears, and the topics you write in venting or lamenting about. And then asked Strauss if he’d be into sharing his thoughts on your concerns. He was into it, so let’s consider this an exclusive, from the writer of The Game to you. I know the bulk of the people who read this are women, and I know self-esteem and confidence is a big factor in their lives. As a byproduct of those issues, it’s often harder to meet or approach a man. So I asked Strauss how a girl should pick up a guy.
Ryan Seacrest is the man. Ignore the haters who mock him, the gay rumors that swirl over his personal life and the lame questions he’s forced to ask pathetic contestants on Idol. He’s funny, charming, straight, and awesome. He’s easily the best wingman I’ve ever had the pleasure of spending an evening with. Because he got me laid.
I was in Miami a few years back and met up with a friend who was headed out with Ryan for the night. When we got to the table at the club, the booth was a shitshow. Randy Jackson lurked in a corner seat, looking more like Jabba The Hut, given his then-largess and penchant for clunky gold chains. Simon Cowell was perched on a back banquette, one-size-too-small shirt in full effect, manboobs on display, ever-so-slightly bopping his head to the deep bass beats filling the room. His face looked like he had just smelled a fart; a look he would retain for the duration of the evening.
It’s every pubescent male’s dream to sleep with a girl who graces the cover of Playboy magazine. As sexual novices, we’d repeatedly thumb through issues we stole from someone’s dad’s stash, borrowed from friends, or bought with a deepened voice at the newsstand. Inside those well-worn pages was the holy grail of erotic awesomeness. The photographs were studied in depth; each inch of the models scrutinized then committed to memory, forever etched into our impressionable, horny little minds.
Which, unfortunately, meant when I had the opportunity to date a Playmate a few years back, I couldn’t get past my inner fourteen year old. The one who was too enraptured with the title that accompanied the woman I found myself sitting across from. I wasn’t smooth, I giggled constantly and just generally fawned over her. Which is precisely why we didn’t date for long (that and her social climbing). Or ever have sex. Putting her – or any woman - on a pedestal is the quickest way to ensure any attraction she may have harbored for you will rapidly disappear.
So last year, when I found myself at dinner with five Playmates (none of whom were the one I’d previously dated), I had low expectations for how the evening would play out. I did not anticipate it ending with naked playmates splashing around our villa’s pool, followed by the most insane sexual experience I’ve ever had. And I don’t mean that in the good way. It’s best summed up via a series of do’s and don’ts to a sexual liaison with a Playmate.
“If it’s the girl on the left, she’s beautiful,” my friend Telemachus spoke quietly, as he stared over my shoulder between dangling balloon strings. I wasn’t sure it was her. It looked like her, though after five scotches, a few Percocet and only a bite of a pizza slice, my vision shouldn’t have been trusted. It was New Year’s Eve, three hours until midnight, and we were standing in a tapas bar in the Cosmopolitan hotel in Las Vegas. Around us floated fifty models, a few top club owners, some low-flying helium inflatables and the alarmingly creepy (and sweaty) Pauly Shore.
It’d been a long time since we’d last seen each other in person. I’d seen her sultry stare and bared midriff for Victoria’s Secret in their catalogs and on the runways, her ass on billboards for a top denim company blanketing NYC, her glowing smile in stores at the mall when I went home to my parents. She was everywhere. However, it had been a year since she – let’s call her Vicky - introduced me as “The Asshole” to a friend, who had nodded sympathetically before leveling a hateful stare in my direction. We hadn’t spoken since and surely things couldn’t go worse than that.
In hushed tones, I quickly explained our history to Telemachus. How she was a top fashion model from LA. How we’d met at Sundance several years back and completely hit it off. How we had mind-blowing sex in the hot tub, steam shower, and on the pool table. How she’d just dropped down on me when I couldn’t find a condom, moderately easing my extreme STD paranoia with repeated claims of being clean. And finally, how I’d nearly hit a tree while driving afterwards when Vicky revealed she’d been sexually assaulted twice as a minor and contracted herpes as a result (though she claimed her doctor told her it was completely out of her system, which I believe is medically impossible.)
