Escutcheon Depilation

I'm usually not prone to spontaneous acts of metrosexuality, though I did watch the first 2 twilight movies back to back last night (honestly, I don't even understand how Edward has a team). I don't use hair product, I shop off the rack, and I seek cures for neither my manis nor pedis. However, following an essay involving discussions of my mouth being schlager-plundered and the merits of freebootying with this one begs certain questions.

Have I lost my irrevocably innate ability to exude extra testeronni? Am I slipping out of my unquestionable manliness? Have I not just questioned it?

No, I'm simply slipping out of my fire spurned hairy briefs. Those who know me have heard my rails against the pubic prunings, and have also borne witness to the burnt umber bungle that is my jungle (did that read?) Alas, with the stink and sweat of outdoor travel, and the fire dangers in nearby forests rising, I have decided my summer attire will be worn over a shorn scrotum. Yes, I have shuffled off those coital curls, those phallic follicles, those amber waves of brain. And to be honest, I still don't see the appeal.
To begin, I just have to say that this session went much better than my previous attempt at manscaping. Last time I was terribly drunk and more, and went at myself with a pair of nose hair scissors. If you're squeamish, stop reading now, because there was an injury.
I nicked myself early on, just in the general area above the shaft. It bled very slightly, so I continued. Then there was a another nick, this one more in the undercarriage, the scrote tote. It also bled, but again, lightly. So I downed my glass of whiskey and continued, working my way around the shaft, until... (I'm pausing to see if my sphincter will relax, but it doesn't seem to be helping)... I took a hit. A bad one.

How bad, you're probably not asking but deep down yearning to discover through clenched eyes, teeth and buttocks? Well, I saw the tiny piece of flesh fly away from the snap of the scissors, joining it's brethren of toenails and dandruff below.

That one was a bleeder. I had to masturbate with Neosporin for weeks.
So this experience had nowhere to go but up. I was completely sober, aside from exhaustion and what seems to be a gradually welcoming bout of cabin fever, and was working with electric clippers as well as tiny scissors. I felt safe within the confines of the National Forest, remembering that old Indian tale about bears and wolves and pretty much anyone else steering clear of pubic hair from men who dine on tuna and ramen alone. I got started, and things were going well.
As I was beginning to see the merits of such acts of self imposed emasculation, I hit a snag. Literally. But the scissors fixed that, so I went on until I hit another snag. I had reached the inside of my thigh, and there was no clear delineation of where to stop. Obviously, the thigh itself should be the natural border, but it was difficult to decide exactly where to just end things completely. During the flourishing of spring, the foliage would just naturally blend together, a seemingly flawless floral transition from gathered shrubbery to scattered brush. But now, within the throes of a dark, impending winter, the landscape had lost all sense of balance. Nature had turned to chaos.
And it wasn't just the thighs. It was awkward on all fronts, and backs. My happy trail had become more of a so-so grassy path, and the only saving grace on where to provide the cut off for the upper peninsula was the indentation from my belt. I optioned for a half-hearted fade into the thighs, filling in the gaps with eucalyptus and apple blossoms. That brought us to the perineum. I don't see the need to go into any sort of exquisite detail there.

Beneath my trousers was perhaps not the most elegant example of genital feng-shui, but I managed.
By and large the job was done. I left Eric Stoltz’s beard on the ground and dove into a nearby stream to evict the stragglers. It was very pleasant at the time, and left me with a sense of relief as I crawled into the cab of my truck for another night's well deserved rest.

And now, several days and powderings later, as I look down and scratch the haunting flashbacks of my 4th grade nothings, I am once again filled with doubt and remorse. I remember why I took so much pride in my mane, and wonder why I threw it all away on a cheap, beer induced whim (okay, so I wasn't sober).
I always said that if I were dating someone who preferred the area be cleared, then I would have no qualms about doing so, as it would have a gainful purpose. But in the meantime, I didn't see the point in keeping up such non-appearances. Once random girl from the bar is undoing your belt, she probably won't be deterred by an unkempt ball fro.

So the lesson here is to be sure of purpose when taking definitive action. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Measure twice, cut once, or don't cut at all. Your dick in your hand is worth feeling your bush.

Susan Ursitti-ing: (usually not) A Stand-Up Routine

We need to talk about the butt fucking. Now I know this can be uncomfortable, so we'll just have to find a way to ease gently into it. I'll start off with some light fingering of ideas I've been tossing around in my head for the past week.
So, I've got a roommate. You guys have roommates? Yeah? It's great, you can split everything; the bills, the groceries, chores, whatever. You've got someone to talk to, you're not lonely. The other great thing about roommates is that you can blame them for anything embarrassing that you have lying around your place. Say you bring a girl home from the bar, and it's going well, and she starts looking around...

"Oh, is this your DVD box set of Twilight?"
"No, no. That's my roommate's. He likes that shit, I don't..."
"What are all the used napkins and tissues next to the computer?"
"Oh shit, that's my roommate. Yeah, he's disgusting, he's always doing nasty stuff like that. I think he’s been sick. I don't even know why I live with him, really."
"Wow, is this a framed, autographed picture of you and Robert Pattinson?"
"No, no. No, that's... my roommate's just really into photoshop, and he thought that'd be funny, and he put it in a heart shaped frame, just to mess with me, you know? Yeah, he put the glitter and the little jewels on it; he even put on some lipstick and kissed it, the fuckin' weirdo. Can you put it down now, please? You're smudging it."

Wouldn't it be great if you could just keep doing that, with everything? Anything embarrassing, the whole night:

"Oh, you know what? This is actually my roommate's penis. That's why it's not doing so well. You know, you live together, things get mixed up. Just the other day, he accidentally wore my Pink FLoyd T-shirt."

The girl calls you a few weeks later.

"Well, technically, it was my roommate who gave you herpes. You were the one who insisted on continuing, so... yeah, he's been spreading that shit everywhere. He's out of control. Don't worry, he's got the name of a good doctor for that, very discreet. I'll get the number from him."

No, that could never happen. You can't mistake your roommate's penis for your penis. Guys have a very close, complicated and deeply personal relationship with their penis. It's the only penis in the world to them. It's funny, a lot of guys will get all freaked out and disgusted by the sight or thought or smell of another dude's cock, but they rely on their own for everything that guides them in life. We have the one, the uber-penis, and we're shocked that you could ever entertain the notion of tackling another man's... tackle. If a woman ever cheats on a man, it's not the kissing or intimacy or anything else that bothers us. It's the fact that somehow, on some level, you didn't think that our penis was enough. Everything we've based our entire way of life on, all of our beliefs, shattered, because somehow the uber-penis just wasn't delivering. It fucks up our entire world view.
The uber-penis makes all the important decisions. It warms your hands, and creates a global stigmatism causing the majority of the world's problems. Seriously, most of the issues threatening humanity today stem from a man's insecurity, which like everything else is directly tied to the abundance of his anatomy, the bulge of his brain, the plethora of his penasia. You women have some power here, because you ultimately are the judges in said standards of girth and largeness of labial luge logs (did you know that only ex-boyfriends have tiny cocks?) If women started a whispering (eye) campaign about how small dicks are all the rage, then the world would finally be ripe for your taking (after you defeat the Chinese.)

We don't want to know about other dicks. It's just terrifying for some men. All the borderline homosexual thoughts are frightening, yet we know they’re intriguing. I've been involved in several conversations with men where this phrase was said:

"Man, I would just be gay, if it wasn't for the butt fucking."

Really? That's the ONE thing that's keeping you back, the fucking glass ceiling that limits your potential gayness? Anal?
There are so many things to explore here, but I'll try to be brief. Let's just glaze over the obvious, which is that the one thing keeping you from being gay is that you are NOT gay. You are (supposedly) straight, and therefore don't need to clarify or justify anything beyond that. What about liking women? That kind of keeps me from being gay. Tits and vagina, there's some appeal there, right? You've gotta like women somewhat.
The funny thing is (well, maybe not funny) that these are usually the guys who desperately want to fuck their girlfriend in the ass. So it can't be that they find the act of butt fucking so off-pudding...

And it can be, if done incorrectly. You know there's poo in there? Fucking poop! You thought looking at your dick as Prom Queen Carrie was bad the first time, try feeling some shit with it, and then having it soft serve its way down your shaft when you pull out. I'm sorry to be so graphic, but that's precisely the risk you're willing to take.

So it must be butt fucking another dude that's the problem. I'll put aside the argument that being a catcher would be uncomfortable, since every guy who has homo ass-pirations thinks he would automatically be a top. And let's skip right past the fact that a man's g-spot or a-spot or just a spot is up his ass, and it therefore should be quite enjoyable once understood.
I just wonder why that's the go-to singular reason. What about intimacy? Are these guys saying that they would be okay cuddling with another guy? Holding hands? Bathing? And what about his penis? How do you mediate the dueling uber-penii? How do you solve a problem like Maria?
And what about kissing? Guys, have you ever kissed another dude? I mean, really? Like a deep, sensual kiss? Let me tell you a story.

A friend and I took a couple of girls to a gay bar one night. The agenda here was to let the girls go get free drinks and dance and have fun, then be the straight guys waiting for them when they're drunk and horny from dancing all night. All you have to do is hang back and kill time. So my friend and I go to play pool, and we meet a couple of fellas. They ask us if we'd like to play teams, and being the open-minded young liberals that we are, we graciously accept.
And we have an awesome time. These guys are cool, they insist on buying us drinks, we're shooting the shit, shooting pool. After a few hours the night is dying down and we're getting ready to leave. Now, I'm not a complete asshole (?) I know the guys are interested, and I know we've kind of been leading them on. I have had many great conversations with really cool guys that I didn't realize were flirtations until halfway through, and I've always tried to be as honest and understanding as possible. I may have been drunk past such courtesies this night.
So I walk out of the bathroom and one of the guys, about 35, good looking, not hot, a little below my level, is standing at the bar calling me over. I walk up and he's ordered us a couple shots of Goldschlager. Being the cheap drunk that I am, I accept. I take the shot and intend to leave. Then, as I put the glass down, I notice his intent.
He's standing at a bit of a lean towards me. His head has a slight bob to it. There's a glint in his eye, and a smirk of gentle self-satisfaction on his face. And then he goes for it.
Now, there was probably only a second or two of actual time that passed, but somehow, my brain was able to process all of the following thoughts:
"Oh shit, here it comes. You know what, it's fine. He's really nice, he bought me a bunch of drinks. He wasn't pushy or abrasive, he spent his whole night talking to me. There is absolutely no harm in letting him have this moment. I know I'm not interested. I know it doesn't have to go any further, and who knows? It might be nice for me too, it's just a kiss. People just kiss at the end of the night, and they move on. You can deal with this. Why not?"
And I realized that this is the exact thought process that girls might go through at 1:50 AM every single fucking time they go out.

So he does it... and it's fucking amazing!

No, it... I was going to say that it's probably one of the worst kisses in the history of gay kisses, but that seems offensive in too many of the wrong directions. It was like when Lea Thompson kissed Michael J Fox in Back to the Future, or when you put on someone else's underwear. You just know that it's not right.
His mouth didn't open very much, and it was like he didn't even have lips, just facial hair that bristled against mine and made these awkward sandpaper sounds and brought visions of sagebrush and tumbleweeds to my schlager-fucked brain as he just pulsed his fat, squishy tongue in there and barely moved it around. I mean, aside from it just feeling incredibly awkward, he was also just a lousy kisser.
So I backed away, thanked him for the drinks, and turned around to see my friend and our dates watching in agape-ed awe...

Now, I don't feel bad about this. I've been that guy, and he was fine going home and jerking off. He'll regret spending all that money on shots, but that's just how things are done. Ladies, I encourage this behavior. You've got it coming, and so do we. So enjoy your free drinks, and our gentle defeat.

Or, go let our roommate fuck you up the ass, if that's what you're both into.