Sex, swearing, vulva slapping, and gargoyles: this entry rated "N" for "No one anywhere is allowed to read, so stop right now, you little pervert."
08.28.2003

I once thought it was odd that I was not the world's most sexually exuberant human being. I didn't feel odd, but whenever the subject came up, which around the kind of people I hang out with is quite often thank you, I would be told knowingly that a) I was frigid, b) I just hadn't found the right man/woman/vibrator yet, or c) I was lying. However, I'm more than willing to help out a friend and sex them up if they feel unsexworthy. I feel no qualms about rubbing my parts against other people's parts if it makes them happy. It doesn't bother me any, and I find it quite enjoyable in other ways. It just doesn't sex me up. As long as those up whom I sex don't mind that I'm not all orgasmic, and as long as they don't get it into their silly heads that this means they must be lousy sexmuffins, then there's no problem as far as I can see.

I'm not even a regular masturbator. First of all, the yen rarely strikes. Now, because there is no yen, there's no way I can trade on Nikkei. Wait, that's not right. I don't feel like I'm missing out on anything. Ah yes, that's it. If I had lots of yen, and I didn't have sex, then I'd be seriously sexually frustrated and would likely be pulling my pants down to rub up against rough surfaces at every available opportunity to release pent-up sexiness all over the place. But I don't. I still pull my pants down at every available opportunity, but that's because I love the breeze on my naked bumcheeks, and not because I'm aiming to slap my vulva around. I'm actually the type of person who has occasionally stopped halfway into masturbation because I'd rather be sleeping.

I've come to accept that as long as I'm not sexually frustrated, and as long as I'm not sexually frustrating others, then just because my sexy bits are idling instead of revving their sexed up motors doesn't mean I'm odd.

Not that I would mind being odd. In fact, I'm occasionally informed that I am odd, but oddness is not something that those who are odd can perceive within themselves. You can't say, "You know, I'm an odd duck" and expect to have people believe you. If anything, you'll just look pretentious and boorish, which is decidedly unodd. Leave the odd alone. Put the odd down and back away from the monitor and no one will get hurt. You can feel safe sticking odd onto your forehead only if everyone you have ever met points at you, giggles, and says, "Bloody fuck, but you're odd."

Which brings me back to sex.

When it comes right down to it, people are just too damn hot. I don't mean that people are too damn hot in that they're so incredibly sexy just the idea of getting all sexed up by them completely satiates me, thereby rendering the actual act of getting sexed up irrelevant. I mean they're actually too damn hot. When I'm getting all sexy with whoever happens to be giving me that good lovin', I usually start to feel uncomfortably warm. The only place I can think of that might make a truly pleasing sexed-up environment is a walk-in refrigerator. With a canopy bed. No, I'm not menopausal. Excuse me, but if someone shoved you in a room that was heated to 37 degrees Celsius and told you to do 300 jumping jacks, you'd feel stinking hot and anything but cozy. In fact, every summer there's always a day where everyone is walking around all slumped over, moist, fanning themselves, muttering "too damn hot, too damn fucking hot", and usually that day's temperature is, surprise surprise, 37 degrees Celsius. People die of heatstroke when exposed to 37 degrees Celsius for too long. There. Now you have yet another way of dying to worry about during sex: heat exhaustion.

Perhaps with other people, all those sexy hormonal responses turn off the internal temperature monitor in their brains. Maybe I'm the only one who has a little Smokey the Bear in my head waving his arms frantically screaming, "Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole!" when I get naked with people. Whatever the case, even if it is a close personal friend with whom I'm playing fiddle the faddle, I have no qualms, not one iota of shame or remorse, in shoving them out of/off of/away from whatever surface we found handy while hissing "Out demon! Begone, thou festering cesspit of hellfire!" immediately after having finished fiddling faddles. Nothing personal, you understand. They're just too warm.

Not just warm, either, but warm, moist, and a little on the gamy side. Unfortunately, as sexed up body parts go, my nose is rarely an active participant. If anything, my nose is the angry drunk in the back of the room who keeps heckling and throwing bottles at the stage. You can imagine how distracting that can be as me and my sexbaby are honing our killer routine, as it were, and my nose is making farting noses under its armpit and yelling "hey, who the fuck had an animal die up their butt, huh?"

I got to thinking about all this sex stuff because while I was in a bar after work yesterday, relaxing with a nice and icy beer, this hideously ugly middle-aged man sitting next to me at the bar remarked how much he wanted to have sex with someone but couldn't find anyone to have sex with. Actually, what he really said was, "Fuck, I wanna fuck fucking now fuck! Fuck! Where are all the fucking fucks? Fuck it all!" Now certainly, his expansive vocabulary may have had something to do with his beached willy, but I doubt most potential fuckpartners made it as far as listening to what this stupendously hellish-looking man had to say. I thought to myself, "That's sad." Not sad pathetic. Sad boo hoo. This led into me thinking about my own sexiness, or lack of, which then got me thinking about the sexiness of ugly people. This, in turn, led me to a mission, a mission to sex up the world, to leave no stone unsexed, to spread the sexy love to all who want and need it, no matter how facially distorted, acned, fat, squat, wrinkled, sagging, or lopsided one may be.

Now you may not be as breathtakingly gargoylian as this anonymous drinking buddy of mine -- I think his name was Gackerhackedup, or maybe Ted -- but one day, some day, you too will be ugly. You may have already had your moment of ugliness in the sun. Perhaps at this very moment you are basking in your 15 minutes of buttugliness. Whatever the case, your skin will spot, your tits will reach your knees, your balls will drop further and further while your penis will shrink into a stubby, wrinkled nubbin, your eyes will go all squinty, your nose will continue to grow throughout your life so that if you live really long you'll have a monstrous shnozz, you'll get a spare tire that could fit a monster truck, and/or you'll develop huge eyebrows or ear hair of the kind that scares young children into grabbing their mother's skirt, saying, "Mummy, mummy, make the mean monster face go away!" You will become ugly. Oh yes. You will.

Taking our universal potential for ugly freakishness into consideration, I've come to the conclusion that being too particular about the appearance of those with whom we fuck harms no one but ourselves and the poor ugly person we reject. After all, some day, one day, a day perhaps already past or soon to arrive, you too will be an ugly sexless person.

I think that the easiest way to prevent any more gruesomely ugly people from crying in their beer moaning "fuckity fuck fuck, fuck it!" and the most effective method to prevent rejection via ugliness from scarring the lives of all of us, is this:

I propose that we all, every one of us, should vow here and now to have sex -- vivacious, bouncy, exuberant sex -- with at least one ugly person before we die. Some of us already have. Some of us are thinking right now, "Well, there was that one guy with the mole on his cheek, he was sort of ugly." No. Nada. *GRONK* Disqualified. I'm not referring to slightly unattractive or a little homely here. I mean ugly, the kind of ugly that has 3 syllables: "uhh-ugh-LEE!" Beauty is only skin deep, to be cliché about it. Well, so is ugly. Ugly often hides a really fun lay, not to mention a sparkling personality. But let's just stick with the fun lay for now. If you fuck an ugly person, and not a pity fuck either but a genuine git down mama, jostle me 'til I scream "Right off the monkey bars, baby!" all-out fuck, and the fuck-an-ugly vow is sworn by sex philanthropists the world over, you can rest assured that in your moment of ugly, when you feel at your most vulnerable while also experiencing a throbbing ache in your loins, you too can find a really good lay at least once before you die.

This is Smoog, the sexless wonder, caped crusader for the layless ugly, signing off and wishing you all a sexually explicit long weekend.


make idle gossip (1 comments so far)

come hither - back off


Last 5 entries:
01.14.2007:Finally, a support group we can all get behind
01.09.2007:The City That Ever Reeks
01.08.2007:Waiter, there's a uterus in my soup
01.03.2007:Long Lost Mummy of Nefertiti Found in Smoog's Apartment
12.30.2006:New Year's resolutions we can actually keep



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