Fleshbot and Be the Bing

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot gives it up for the money shot, in honor of Friday’s Global Orgasm for Peace.

I was able to take part in the global O after all. In the process, I gained a newfound appreciation for booty calls. Thank you, caller.

Speaking of finales, my previous post concludes my series on sex camp. That’s right, friends—three months later, I’ve finished my tale about a weekend in September. I hope you enjoyed the ride.

Yesterday, Bridget came over. We gossiped and wrapped a bajillion presents for the kids. My bags are packed and now, I am off to eXmas.

Wish me luck.

I’ve packed a small gift for my ex. It was tough to decide what I should give her, if anything. Even when we were married, we had an agreement not to trade presents so we could focus our resources on the kids.

Each year, I broke my promise by giving her jewelry. Each year, she stayed true to her word, giving me nothing in return.

Now, it just seems too pointed that I not have a gift for her. The trick is: what to give? I don’t want to give anything too expensive, as she is just as likely to throw it out. I don’t want to give anything that may be construed as conveying a message, as she would just as likely throw it in my face.

I decided to give her the book Overheard in New York. She might refuse to read something weightier, but how can she refuse such a funny, slender volume?

The gift is packed, but my suitcase is lighter for the omission of one item.

Two years ago, I was surprised when my ex and I had sex at Christmas.

Last year, I packed condoms in the unlikely event that history would repeat itself.

This year, I wouldn’t fuck that jerk if my dick was on fire and her cunt was filled with sand.

Time is funny like that.

Now, as I face eXmas, I am resolved to remain cool and unflappable. I won’t let anything get to me. In short, I will Be the Bing.



Sixty-four years ago next week, Bing Crosby’s house burned to the ground. No one was hurt, but he lost everything. When called with the news, he was quiet for a moment, and then asked:

“Were they able to save my tuxedo?”

Really, given the situation, what else could one possibly say?

I’ll keep that phrase in mind this week. I’ve got a few other mantras tucked away.

I know that in the upcoming days, I will feel things that, in the interest of keeping the peace, I really shouldn’t express. I’ll feel sorry for myself. I’ll feel angry about sitting nice in the face of bullshit. I’ll be horny.

To help me stay strong, I’ll think of Betty Boop, chicken salad and the Masked Man. I’ll repeat to myself these simple phrases:

One: You're not so sweet to me.

Two: I want you to hold it between your knees.

Three: Wash him up and get him ready.

I would like to leave these mantras for you in the form of a personal film festival. It is impossible for me to despair when these clips play in my mind’s Cineplex.

Happy Holidays, all.







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