Wednesday, February 10, 2010

A WINNING PERFORMANCE... on your knees.

Due to the high demand of requests for advice in the sack, I’ve decided to write a lil’ blurb on this hot topic.

Some people think it’s pathetic that I have a lower call-back rate after just kissing a guy post-date, than doing the infamous no pants dance. Whatever.

Let me tell you something… all the magazine articles (in Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire, etc.) you’ve read like: “How to Please Your Man” or “100 Ways to Make Your Dude Cum Like a Fire Hydrant” are all, 100% BULLSHIT.

I once read an advice column that said, “when you are going down on a guy, he will like it if you tickle his asshole with your finger. “

If your man is into that, my apologies… but I just think that’s fucking sick. And to be honest, I really don’t want to ruin my manicure with dried feces. OPI and manure is not a particularly winning combo.

Magazines WANT you to FAIL at pleasing your man, and WANT you to humiliate yourself so you’ll buy their shiesty magazine the next month when you are dejected and single. I REPEAT: Inserting your fist, finger, dog biscuit, etc. inside their anus, is CROCK advice.

For starters… you don’t have to be a pro at pleasing your man from the get go. However, we will cover the first step to keeping your man, and keeping him beaming like a San Francisco gay pride parade… THE BLOWJOB.

Personally, I hate giving blowjobs. I hate choking on their shaft, my neck hurts after 5 minutes, and the taste of semen isn’t exactly a strawberry milkshake.
However, I’m fantastic at giving them (I’m a good actress), and I know how to get a BJ done QUICK (which is what we all want, right ladies?).

Cardinal Rules:
(You might roll your eyes at how simple these rules are, however, it’s necessary I need to reinforce).


- I find it easier to blow a dude when he’s standing up and I’m on my knees. If he’s lying down, be aggressive and tell him to stand the fuck up! You are performing the job here, not his ass.
- You don’t have to do jumping jacks and cartwheels before giving head, but act as if you really want to go down on him. A frown will surely make his dick go south.

NOW THE GOOD STUFF:

1) Always keep their dick wet. Spit on it, lick it, put some edible lube on it… dip it in butterscotch… I don’t give a shit, ALWAYS keep it wet and comfortable! Use that tongue!

2) No guy wants to stick his penis in a hallway, that’s why you keep it wet, but use your lips to suction the cock at all times.

3) When you are not keeping your lips glued to his dick, just lick the head , and stroke his shaft gently while staring at him. I know it’s a little uncomfortable looking into his eyes when you have a cock in your mouth… but men love, LOVE, LoVe this.
- This move is also clutch when you neck begins to tire from the bobbing action.
- Warning: Do not do this move for more than 90 seconds, otherwise he’ll get bored and probably stuff his bratwurst or minidog into your throat.

4) ABSOLUTELY DO NOT USE YOUR TEETH!!! We are not cutting, shaving, or chewing carrots here.

5) HANDS ARE KEY in this maneuver. By NO means should your hands not be apart of this process. Stroke the shaft (not in a death grip, and not too loosey goosey). If your hands start to cramp, and/or you’re bored, lightly touch his balls or graze your fingernails in his inner thighs, while he’s still going to town in your mouth.

6) Still bored? Take his dick out your mouth, use one hand to stroke, and start playing with your clit. If his dipstick goes limp, he’s a homo.

7) SWITCH it UP! If he usually cums in your mouth, tell him you want him to cum on your tits, neck, or all over your face. If you decide on the latter, make sure a) you close your eyes and b) it’s the end of the night so your makeup isn’t fucked.

8) When he is shooting a load, play with his sack gently.

9) When the job is done, lick the tip of his cock while still grazing his inner thighs/sack. This is when he is the MOST sensitive, and when he most appreciates a (blow)job well done.


This information may be a tad overwhelming, but have no fear… this is a science. I’ve proved this hypothesis with many experiments.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

MY FIRST DATE IN LOS ANGELES (Part 1 of 3: The Beginning of the End)

Some might call it a fluke. I’ll go with another word: typical.

In order to determine whether or not I should move to Venice Beach, my friend since 13 years-young, Alexandria, invited me down to Los Angeles for the weekend. I deemed this an opportune time to not only check out a few places to live, but for the drinking/smoking shenangians, and the debauchery that usually ensues.

It was July 3rd. Within 24 hours, I locked down a garage turned bedroom to rent for $1100 per month. Sweet. I was going to live with three other dudes, and share a grungy bathroom sans bathtub.

“The hell with it,” I thought. “I’ve lived in a dorm, I’m 22. I can deal.”

This was going to be one hell of a ride.

Now, July 4th was something else. Alexandria, two of her friends and I were fucking around at a block party on Catamaran Street. Five blocks full of booze, grinding, people in costumes, deejay booths setup in driveways, coke draped porta-potties… it was an utter clusterfuck.

We were dancing to techno with homeless people, slurping down vodka infused beverages in Dasani water bottles, chatting with the has been teen idol/sexpot Andrew Keegan, smoking intense amounts of marijuana, etc., etc. The glorious combination of alcohol, pot, sunshine, and fist pumping, made my make-up sweat off in puddles. The perspiration was beyond grotesque, as my sweaty hair curled up in mini ringlets once I took a break. I looked like a disaster.

After three hours of nonsense, the sun was finally set, and a nearby restaurant was surely going to be pleased with our patronage. Munchies, yo! The four of us pranced into Gaby’s, a Greek/American Restaurant, footsteps away from the beach, with a mission. Mission Possible: Not one fry left behind.

The bimbo hostess sat us down next to the sidewalk, with only a teeny fence partitioning us from drunken passerbys. With ranch and ketchup drenching my lips, I look up from hovering over the plate to see three stooges clinging on the fence, attempting to talk to us.

“Can I help you?” I ask, still chewing on my Chicken Shwarma Pita.

“Uhhh… uhhhh…” One of the guys responded with such wit.

“If you’re lost the beach is that way.” Alexandria chimed in without making eye contact.

Suddenly, I felt someone groping my shoulders. I jerked back to find the good looking one of the crew giving me a massage. I have him a quick, manly head nod, and continued chowing down.

A fat-astic meal and a massage in one? Venice was looking up.

Five minutes went by…

After fingering the remnants of ranch off of my plate, I wiped my hands in my napkin and turned around to find the mysterious creeper still caressing my back.

“Um, hi. I’m Stess.”

“Ben.”

“Nice to meet you. That felt good, thank you.”

I turned around to start packing up my purse.

“That’s it?” Ben retorted.

“What do you want? A tip?”

“Your number would be nice. I’d like to take you out sometime.”


Hmmm. I drunkenly thought to myself, “if this guy is willing to give me a massage without an introduction… why not?”

Alexandria and company were getting ancy, so I quickly jotted my number down on a scrap off the paper placemat, shoved it in his fist, and dodged out of Gaby’s.

10 minutes later, I received a text… “Hi! It’s Ben! Great meeting you, meet me out for a drink later tonight.”

I didn’t respond immediately. Let the games begin…