that! » sexy sex

Knowing that your ten-year old is comfortable with you sexuality….

paul — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 02:46:30 +0000

Sometimes I think my daughter would make a fantastic fundamentalist Christian.

Beautiful Girl: “Dad, you like boys?”

Dad: “Err, yes, honey, I do.”

BG: “Right.”

Dad: “So… why ask?”

BG: “Well, I was wondering….”

Dad: “You can ask me anything, sweetheart. Go ahead.”

BG: “Who do you like better, Edward or Jacob?”

Dad: “Oh man, I thought you were going to ask me something serious.”

BG: “This is serious.”

Dad: “I don’t really like either of them. They’re both too young for me.”

BG: “What?”

Dad: “I’m old enough to be their dad, you know. I’m really not attracted to boys that young.”

BG: “I don’t get it.”

Dad: “You know, Bella’s dad?”

BG: “Eww, yeah. He’s mean.”

Dad: “He’s cute.”

BG: “Oh that’s disgusting. And I just don’t accept that.”

Dad: “I beg your pardon?”

BG: “You have to like either Edward or Jacob.”

Dad: “Why?”

BG: “That’s just the way it is.”

Treatments for a broken heart…

paul — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 06:18:26 +0000

Exercise.
There’s nothing better than getting in touch with your body when you’re feeling low. I enjoy going for a run. For that extra resistance, I knock out my ex with some rohypnol, take off his clothes, and drag him along behind me.
Remember that drugs and porn don’t work.
They have, however, earned me enough money to get a good therapist.
Kick a puppy.
Don’t slut it out of your system.
That’s just offensive to sluts and takes the fun out of being a slut for its own sake.
Hug a friend.
Some of my friends have massive knockers. I can convince them I’m depressed enough, and gay enough, that they let me cry into their cleavage. A real good sob leads to that wet and warm feeling.
Write a list of all the things you can do now that you’re single.
For example: Lee, Michael, Sarah, Ramon, Jeremy, Stuart and Michelle, and then on Monday, Alexis, Hoa, Pedro and that guy who sells coffee outside Melbourne Central station.
Remind yourself of your own worth.
$150 in-calls, $250 out-calls.
Consider it an opportunity for growth.
Tell the story of your broken heart to your children every night. Add a moral to the story, so that your experiences will help them grow as people. The moral I like to use is, “Don’t have kids.”

Am I showing already?

paul — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 11:32:20 +0000

So last weekend I was the only single guy under forty at a mate’s wedding. I can’t say there are any real drawbacks to it. They place you right at the back table, which gives you freedom to do whatever you want, like having a nap during speeches and whatnot, and you’re close to the bathroom, which is handy when the fish in balsamic sauce and asparagus comes out (the same balsamic vinaigrette and asparagus found in the hors d’oevres and entree). And for some reason men with girlfriends have decided that they don’t dance in Australian country weddings, so all the pretty girls had to dance with me.

I’m not sure what it is though, as much as I’m a sucker for love, and even bigger sucker for free food and booze and pretty girls whose boyfriends don’t dance, I think I am allergic to weddings. I wake up the morning of every wedding I’m invited to with a thumping headache and massive nausea, which leads to me staying away from food while looking for headache remedies (such as booze), which leads to even bigger headaches and greater nausea. The previous wedding I attended was MFEW’s (my favourite ex-wife’s) mother’s wedding. Rushing to the toilet every forty seconds wouldn’t have been so bad if it wasn’t me who was actually officiating the ceremony. I think in the end though everybody was relieved how quick and simple the ceremony was, and how sooner everyone could get to the all-important free booze and food.

So for this wedding the signs appeared early in the morning, so I doped myself up on as much paracetamol and codeine that I could find. I don’t why people say overdosing on such stuff could be harmful. I had about fifteen of each during the day and I felt fucking terrific! So terrific in fact, that I played games with everyone at the wedding. I was having so much fun. I had this little project, you see, that involved the groom’s brother, who just happens to be my best friend, who also just happens to be living with his super brilliant girlfriend, who both have just happened to decide that getting married is not their thing. So my little project was to be as friendly as I could with everyone at the wedding, introduce myself to all the relatives and old uni mates of the bride and groom, and tell them all how they should approach my best friend and/or his girlfriend and ask them “So, when is it your turn to get married? You’re such a lovely couple.” Being so super friendly and outgoing and charming I could not lose in convincing everyone what a brilliant idea that is to do.

But then when dancing with my best friend’s girlfriend (did I mention men with boyfriend’s can’t dance?) I kinda let it slip that I had this project. I think I was doing the twist at the time, because that’s what you do when all members of the wedding band have decided that when they grow up they want to form a wedding band and do nothing else for the rest of their lives but play fucking awful sixties tunes to bogans in suits. Anyway, said girlfriend told me she was actually relieved that I had such a project, and not at all surprised, and that she too, had prepared a repertoire of appropriate responses to said question:

Oh my, am I showing already?
Oh yes I can’t wait, I’m just have to get permission from my pimp first.
As soon as same-sex marriages is legalised. Any day now. Yes, I tuck it in. Nobody can tell.
We’d like to get married, but I’ve always dreamed of honeymooning in the Mediterranean, and I’m not allowed to leave the state.
Well, my boyfriend has conferenced with my other personalities, and he’s decided he’s not ready for a United States of Tara thing.
That is such a lovely thing to hope for, but, you know, as soon as this wedding is over, it’s back in the box for me.
I’m only 14!!!
We talked about it, but since we’re half-brother and half-sister, it wouldn’t be such a great idea. By the way, don’t tell his mum. We want dad to break it to her soon.

Supermarket

paul — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 13:24:47 +0000

So, yesterday I’m at the supermarket, right. And I go to the check-out counter, and I present the cashier with a frozen pizza, 2 litres of diet coke, a Men’s Health magazine, an FHM, and a big box of tissues. And she says to me, “You must be single, right?”

So I day, “Umm, yeah. How did you know?”

“’Cause you’re fucking ugly,”she says.

Back on the horse

paul — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 12:27:25 +0000

MFEW (my favourite exwife) and I had lunch together the other day. She kept on asking me about who I’m hooking up with, if I’ve gone on any dates lately, whether I’m doing boys and girls, you know, the usual polite conversation that two exlovers talk about. She was surprised when she heard that nobody’s having any fun around me, and I’m not doing much to invite it really. But given that I work full-time, study full-time and have two kids, maybe I should have some more complications in my life. Maybe it’s time to get back in the saddle, especially since of all people, my ex is encouraging me to do so. But I think there are some other signs that it might be time to go out and see people:

1. I’m developing a crush on Graham Norton.

2. I’m having conversations with the tree in my backyard.

3. I’m afraid to buy a pet, only because I start thinking about what the pet would look like when it’s found eating my eight-day old dead corpse in my living room after choking on chorizo fettuccine.

4. At times, out of the blue, I start wondering what Wendy Harmer is up to these days.

5. I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, momentarily convinced that I’ve physically regressed and my voice is breaking all over again.

6. Steve Carrell starts making a lot more sense.

And worst of all,

7. I refer to the last time I had sex as the “Howard years”.

I’m not anti-gay, but…

paul — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 11:52:48 +0000

So everyone knows I’m a little queer. Well, about twenty years ago I was, now I’m a big queer. Like, I like girls and that, really like girls, but I’ve also enjoyed the company of men. I used to wear the label bisexual, but I’m tired of that. Like, all the men I’ve met who have told me they’re bi: you know they’re totally gay; they just have neglected to tell their wives about it. So I prefer the term queer. Nobody really knows what it means per se. Whenever someone asks me about my sexuality I simply say, “Well, Dad. I’ve never shot a deer. I’ve never been to San Francisco. But I have enjoyed a Bacardi and lime, and, sure, I’ve packed fudge before.”

Now, having tasted the green grass on either side of the fence, I have to say there pros and cons. And a lot of the time I can see where homophobes are coming from. Like, without sounding totally anti-gay I should point out…

….that the naked male foot should never be up in the air. It should be planted firmly on the floor, or at the most tucked away in a corner where no one can see or smell it. If you think just because we’re doing the horizontal tutti frutti you can feel free to put that ugly thing on my shoulder or in my face, then I think I have the right to bring out the can of industrial strength air freshener.

…that some guys should try out a new word, and it’s called “good”. Homos, try it in a sentence some time. Here are some examples. This pie tastes good. That movie wasn’t so good. You look good in those hot pants and angel wings. You don’t have to use the word fabulous all the fucking time. In fact, it’s pretty much made everyone else afraid of using that word. I think straight men should reclaim the word. I challenge all AFL footy players to adopt the word in ordinary linguistic practice. “So, good game today?” “Oh yeah, the start was pretty ordinary but-ah, but-ah, at the end of the day, when the full forward picked up his game (good on ya Jono) it was fabulous.”

…that I am constantly surprised how long it takes for a pair of lesbians, once they decide to break up, to actually fucking get off their arses and do it. Like just last week, right, I saw an old mate and I said, “Jane, I heard you broke up with Barb last month. Sorry to hear that. You living alone now?” And she replied, “Nah we’re still together. Like, we’ve stopped talking to each other, and we’re not having sex, which is fabulous of course… but the couples’ Pictionary tournament starts in a week, and, umm, we haven’t yet decided who’s getting the Doberman and who’s getting the hanging garden, so we’ll be sticking around a little longer. Man, rip it off! Get it done! Break up girls! It’s not like she’s the last lesbian on earth. Shit, every third girl I meet in bars tells me she’s a lesbian, eventually, so it’s not like a drought.

I shouldn’t judge though, really. Like, I haven’t ever been with a guy long enough to, you know, actually do the break-up thing. But I reckon if I guy says “I’ll call you Saturday”, or starts making plans with you more than two days in advance. Then I think that’s a break up. Because, like shit man, he’s already bringing his new boyfriend to that date.

Oh, and if you think I’m being a little homophobic, let me say this: Over-population, Margaret Thatcher, global warming, nobody has money any more. It’s the heteros what did it. That, sir, concludes my investigation.