Monday, February 25, 2008

Barbie's Puke!

By popular demand, here it is: Drunk Barbie as interpreted by my eight-year-old daughter, Lillie, after her unauthorized reading of Tucker Max.

This is a detail of a larger drawing. I’m not sure what the story concerns, but apparently, Barbie arrives home to find that voice balloons are claiming ownership of the house. To make matters worse, Barbie is hammered—you can see the cocktail in her hand. “What have you guys done with my house?” she wails. “Oh guys, no you don’t!” That’s when it happens.


Barbie's puke!

And it’s chunky.

Barbie's now ready for her dream date with Tucker Max.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

Fleshbot and Pop Memoirs

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot draws a deep breath before plunging in with those who take risks.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find Jocasta has some fun dressing me up before showing me what’s under her dress.

Bridget offers a helping hand to my sickly self by picking up my daughter at school. There, for the first time, she encounters . . . my ex wife!

Speaking of fun, I’m having loads of it this week. The kids are on break from school. It’s too cold to go out unless absolutely necessary, so we huddle close at home, warmed by the constantly buzzing Xbox. It’s tough for me to get things done when the kids are home—I swear to God, it’s like they require feeding every five hours or so—but I am at my computer as often as I can be. A large family made me and I made a large family, so I’m good at tuning out noise when concentrating.

Yesterday, though, I was distracted by Lillie and Collie giggling. I listened and heard Lillie shout, “That’s the beauty of alcohol! If you can’t remember it, it didn’t happen!”

“Hmmm,” I thought. “That’s not appropriate.” I went to investigate.

Lillie was bouncing on my bed reading Tucker Max to her brother.

“Lillie, Lillie, Lillie,” I clucked, taking away the book. “Now, this is not something for you to read.”

“You’re reading a book about beer!” she giggled. “And alcohol!”

“I know, it’s so bad!” I agreed.

“So why are you reading it, Dad?” Collie asked.

I put the book on a high shelf. “I had heard it was funny.”

“It’s funny if it’s about beer,” Lillie laughed. “Beer is funny. Beer!

“There are those who would agree,” I nodded. “For some people, that’s all it takes.”

Near as I can tell, Tucker Max is one of those people. I’m currently reading popular recent memoirs, and so my friend Janie suggested I take a look at I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell. It’s the memoir of a self-described asshole who drinks with his buddies, picks up women for casual sex and tells all in a blog. Sounds right up my alley, I thought.

I liked that the book is popular. So popular, in fact, that I bought it not at a bookstore, but at Urban Outfitters. It was stacked near clothing and furniture, all part of the décor of the well-outfitted urban dweller.

My memoir reading list also includes Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, which I bought in an airport. I asked the cashier where to find the book, which I misremembered as titled “Eat, Pray, Live.”

“Love,” she corrected, taking the book from a large pile behind the counter.

“Oh, thanks,” I smiled. “I guess you sell a lot of these, huh?”

“Tons,” she said. “I don’t usually care what Oprah says, but she’s right about this one.” A woman standing to my side nodded vigorously.

“Oh, you’ve read it, too?” I asked.

“It changed my life,” she smiled.

These were shining endorsements. I plunked down fifteen dollars and started the book on the plane. I could quickly see why the book resonated with so many readers, especially Oprah’s viewers. Gilbert’s memoir opens with her divorce in New York State—hey, I’ve had one of those!—and her plucky decision to spend the next year in pursuit of happiness. Gosh, I did that too! However, my identification with her could end there, as she makes the decision to go about it as a celibate. (Well, to finish the comparisons, we’re both skinny blondes.)

Gilbert travels to Italy in pursuit of pleasure through food, to India in pursuit of spiritual bliss, and to Indonesia where she hopes to unify body and spirit. Now, these are not the kinds of things your real best girlfriend does, but throughout, Gilbert writes in such an endearing, ingratiating tone that you can’t help but think, over and again, “You go girl! That’s just what I would do, too!”

With that memoir still warming my girlish heart, I picked up Tucker Max. I was truly stoked to be spending time with a dude who promises, on the book jacket, that he is a real jerk whose only value is his willingness to tell us about his amazing acts of debauchery on his blog and now, his book. We’re promised raucous drinking, piss-poor behavior and misogynous sex.

Now, this may not sound like someone you’d want to have around, but if he’s as bad as he promises, this could be a lot of fun to read about.

It’s not. It’s boring.

Max tells us, over and again, that he is a funny writer with funny stories to tell. “Hilarity ensues” is his favored cliché, usually preceding a story that never gets very funny. The problem may be that he is too impressed with his outlandishness to get the joke across.

For example, in one outing, he brags to his friends that he could fuck a girl met through his blog. (Apparently, people do such things.) His friends dare him to do so, and not one to pass on a dare, Max meets up with a woman who likes his blog. The woman is pleasant, we’re told, but there’s a problem—she’s fat. Undaunted, Max has sex with her. Afterwards, he’s mean to her, throwing her clothes out a window and telling her to go find them.

Now, this is cruel, no question. Max convinces us that he’s an asshole. But the second condition—that he’s funny—doesn’t come to fruition. Because the joke is simply this: he fucked a fat girl and he was mean to her. Get it?

I don’t require comedy writers to be kind or moral, and I think good comedy can be written about anything. But there are no laughs in the posture that cruelty and boorishness are so funny in and of themselves that a writer needn’t be concerned with timing, language or any other elements of comedic storytelling. If Max wants us to hate him, I’m game. But if he wants us to laugh along, he needs to be funnier. Otherwise, he’s just another drunk asshole.

Maybe he could use a better editor. The book reads like he hit “print” on his blog. Characters are reintroduced in pretty much the same words each time, and there’s poor flow from tale to tale.

Still, as Lillie knows, some people will just find beer funny. Apparently a lot of people—Max’s book, like Gilbert’s, is a best seller. We can only imagine that like Gilbert, Max is changing lives.

Here’s a sidebar on fate. As I paid for Max’s book, Madeline looked over and asked, “Are you seriously buying that?”

“Yeah,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “It’s popular, it’s a memoir, I’m reading it. Why?”

“No reason.” She looked casually at earrings. “I’m glad I didn’t fuck him.”

I was taken aback. “You were going to fuck Tucker Max? When was this?”

“Oh, a while ago. I saw that he fucks women he meets through his blog, so I thought, hey, why not?”

“Well,” I asked. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because I found your blog, silly,” she laughed.

Thursday, February 21, 2008


Look at my pork. So much pork.

You know what I'm going to do with it? I'm going to pull it. That's right; I'm going to pull my own pork.

When I just can't pull it any more, I'm going to put that pork in my mouth. My wet, hot, hungry mouth. And baby, I'm going to swallow that pork so good for you.

Saturday, February 16, 2008

Training of O

Dana De'Armond

Fleshbot and Winter Fire

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot gives ‘em what they want, but only because they know how to ask for it. Or better, to demand it.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me in the woods with Lynsey, surviving on tits and biscuits with a side of mouse head.

Jocasta commends my fingers and shows us how to tie a cock in place.

Lily looks back on a year of living somewhat dangerously, and finds I am more fun than a box of matches.

Speaking of stalking, those of you who are really devoted to chasing me can get a running start by registering for Winter Fire, which takes place in Washington, DC March 21-23. I’ll be there along with a number of my friends. This is the city mouse cousin of the country mouse sex camp Dark Odyssey, with great classes, awesome vendors and cool perverts. And folks, if you haven’t seen a hotel conference area transformed into a dungeon, well goodness, you haven’t experienced surreal décor.

If you have any questions about attending, feel free to drop a line.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Abby Winters



Happy Valentine's Day, from my feet to yours.

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Fleshbot and Comfort Socks

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot shakes a tail feather for ass, glorious ass.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me rocking Wendy. Bridget finds that I’m ready for my close up and realizes that love can take many different directions.

Ass and love . . . now, that reminds me of the best deal I ever made. About twenty years ago, I made an offer to my girlfriend Pablo. I suggested that we swap socks. I would give her my favorite pair, and she would give me hers. She liked this idea, and we fucked on it.

I’m afraid I came out well ahead in the trade. Pablo got a nice pair of socks, and they were indeed my favorites. But the pair I got were like no socks I had ever seen. They were long and thick and had no heel. They were each much larger than any human foot. Anyone who wore these socks would vanish into them.

This week, I have the flu that’s going around. I’m with my kids, which you might think would be hard, but actually, it’s for the best, as I’m not very good at being sick and having them around keeps me from moping. Plus, my son Jason had the bright idea of borrowing season one of Heroes from a friend and we’re hooked. I keep a lid on the kinky applications of superpowers concocted by my fevered mind, though they are nothing special, really—I mean, I can’t be the only viewer who wants to drop the lash to the indestructible cheerleader, can I?

As we watch, I curl up in bed in my official sick clothes—pajama bottoms, an oversized t-shirt and Pablo’s old socks. Pablo and I lost touch years ago; she never forgave me for marrying Lucy. Still, I think she’d be amused that all these years later, her socks still have the power to heal.

Saturday, February 09, 2008

Keep It A Secret

While us dodgers live in two-thousand-three-land on Blogspot, the kids are making it happen on YouTube. Give a shout to the Bisexual Kid, out since age twelve and putting up advice for anyone who needs it.

And yet, some things don't change. Visit me in nineteen-eighty, and I'd tell you the same. One, tell your parents and come out. Two, on the funner side, don't tell your parents so you don't freak them out and you can still have sex in the basement.

Thursday, February 07, 2008



Saturday, February 02, 2008

Fleshbot and Shhh

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot crunches numbers and squishes a few folks by throwing even more flesh into the fray.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me ever open to new things.

Eden looks up at me mid-sex to ask if I’ve developed something of a foot fetish. I remove her toes from my mouth and sheepishly confess it to be so.

Jocasta stops by with rope, sex toys and a timid ass in need of reassurance.

Bridget . . . well, Bridget makes Muppets sing.

Erotic romance author Celia Kyle offers a review of this blog at A Cheeky Changeling, kindly saying that yours truly “writes damned well about the damned sex. Damnit.” Thanks for that, Celia, and beware of low-flying unicorns.

February has arrived and with it comes the official close of my birthday month offer to get off forty-five people. This final week pushed us well over the finish line with the help of the good members of the Bukkake Social Club. Eliza and William dreamed of putting on a live sex show for an audience of naked men. As it happens, I know many naked men, so I called together ten to watch and stroke as our exhibitionist couple “yummed” and “yes, babied” their way through a steamy turn in my overheated bedroom. Eliza, dear Eliza, took a terrible drenching at the dénouement.

There were some participants whose birthday month requests will be realized in coming weeks. Never fear, the fun continues—we’ll just go overtime and surpass projections, that’s all.

Now, it may seem odd to say this after acknowledging that I’ve seen to the sexual pleasure of over forty-five people this month, but I’ve been enjoying some solitude lately. My city refuses to come out from under gray overcast skies, and groundhogs report more to come, but for now, that’s no special bother to me. I’m content to wear black, drop the volume and muse, allowing space for winter’s melancholy to settle while reaching for the cigarettes I don’t smoke. As long as I’m not actually smoking, might as well make them Gauloises for effect. Filterless. In black and white.

Hang on one moment while I turn off the pop radio and put on some Leonard Cohen.

Brooding doesn’t come easily to me. However, solitude does, though in my life, I must make an effort to create it. Part of that comes in knowing how to make time to be alone and passing on offers of company, but more so, for me, in taking care about the company I seek when I am not alone, and in what I choose to do with others. Plenty of people require much from me as a lover, listener or actor in their personal dramas. Normally, this suits me—I would like to assert my abiding aversion to interpersonal drama, but it shows up enough for me to accept that I allow more than I believe I want. It’s as if my stomach constantly complains of lactose intolerance as my hands shovel in spoonfuls of ice cream. If drama truly made me sick, I’d be less indulgent of it. But I want to be someone who can sort through conflicts and make sense of them, to resolve them. And in order to do that, I must allow conflict to be presented.

Still, at times like these, I need to show the drama queens to the door. They can come back. I’m not changing the locks. But I do need to listen to my own voice for a time, and my own voice can be rather quiet by contrast to those around me.

This attitude plays out in curious allowances and changes. For example, I am more selective about what I will permit as concerns. My ears are willed to close on certain cues. Ask me now, and I can tell you that I know nothing at all about Tom Brady’s ankles, and I won’t check to be sure I correctly spell “Hukabee.” I know that these things won’t matter in a few days or weeks, and so I won’t be bothered by the shrill anxiety around them. Ephemera wash away. Likewise, I parse carefully on personal matters, asking more frequently, “Is this really a concern for me right now? And if so, do I really need to address it on anyone else’s timetable?” I recognize that taking on someone else’s priorities comes at the expense of time for my own, and for now, I’m a tad selfish of my resources.