Ho Like A Seven

     "How hot is that girl, on a scale from 1-10?" It's a question I'm certain I've been bombarded with on downright countless occasions. Typically, I throw out numbers somewhere in the range of 4-6, 7 if you're a 6 and I think I have a chance to sleep with you. 8's & 9's are predominately reserved for models, and thanks to an old friend named Brad F., nobody gets a 10. "Only one girl gets a 10. She is the hottest girl you've ever seen in your life, and she's a mute. Once she talks, there is an automatic point deduction." Harsh? Probably. But that is the bar and until it has been cleared, there's no reason to raise it. The best grading system I've ever known was the late comic Patrice O'Neal's method of utilizing 3 tiers: 

1-10 for unattractive women.

11-20 for your average women.

21-30 for truly gorgeous women.

(A more detailed explanation of this scale can be found on his cd, Unreleased on the track, "Better Than You" beginning at the 13:27 mark.) For the purpose of this blog post, I'll be using the 1-10 scale we're all accustomed to.

     Years ago while at a bachelor party, two women, a blond and a brunette were hired to "entertain". Neither woman was particularly attractive but the brunette was much more attractive than the blonde. So let's say they were a 5 and a 3 respectively. At the beginning of their performance, the bulk of the men focused their attention on the brunette because of the obvious disparity in attractiveness. However, as the night continued, a g-spot vibrator found itself in the middle of this pandemonium and eventually, in the middle of the blonde's inner labia. A twist of a dial and several plunges later, it's monsoon season. Within seconds, it was as if someone pulled the cord on the bird's tail during the Flintstones opening theme because ALL attention was centered on this hag with the nifty parlor trick. The more she squirted, the more money piled near her. The more it piled, the more the brunette picked up. She could because she was no longer busy dealing with attending to needy gentleman. They were busy being astonished by the woman whose vagina water conjured up references of early nineties Starburst commercials. A very important lesson was learned by me that day.

     "How could he/she be with her/him?" A question that before the night of that bachelor party I couldn't possibly wrap my head around. People dating out of their league and achieving. Seal gets Heidi Klum? If the natural order of things truly existed, even fairy tale publishers are laughing you out of the office if you try to pitch that chaos.  So how does one make up a three or more point disparity without being able to sing like Seal? I don't have a clue how women pick them but I'm sure money and status help. I do however know what most men do.

     Most men have two grades (physical appearance and sexual prowess) but we typically only discuss the appearance grade and that is to the advantage of the informed female. Men do not average out to get their final score for a woman. They drop the lower score of the two. So in the case of the bachelor party, while the brunette looked like a 5, the blonde that looked like a 3, ho'd like a 7. If a decent fella is with a complete wreck of a woman, and it's not a sugar momma situation, there's a great possibility that she is deliciously filthy. We are in the home stretch of 2013 and pretentious people might want to get a clue that the sexiest word in the English language is an enthusiastic "okay". "Don't" and "won't" are your prerogative and your wishes should be respected, but the presumption that your significant other won't search for or find "can", "will", and "Wait, people DON'T do that?" is thought process at best reserved for Disney princess movies.

  Ladies, drop that holier than thou attitude and put your man in your mouth, you prudes. Guys, at least let her put the vibrator near your asshole. It won't make you a sissy. Because at a certain point, the barely tolerable guy in the office that can finger your girl to an orgasm that sends her world crashing down like limbo in Inception or the custodian lady that can start at the tip of a 7" and end up Eskimo kissing your man's belly button is going to garner far more attention than you're going to be able to defend against. Don't just look it. Ho like it.

The Two Women I Let Stick Their Fingers In My Mouth

     Regardless of circumstance, there is something to be said about the touch of a compassionate woman. This post highlights two of those touches & the women behind them. 

     Before my emotional breakdown, I had never heard of Temporomandibular joint dysfunction (Heretofore referred to as TMJ). However, since I was on a warpath to fix every single tangible issue that I had, a massage where I freaked out turned into a dentist appointment...which eventually became research into this issue. This is where I found out about Cranialsacral therapy & one of its practitioners, the incomparable Judy Bolton, LMT.

     Judy is a star. Period. End of discussion. She is a beautiful woman in her mid-40s with boundless enthusiasm. She's travelled the world and shops at Whole Foods and rides a bike and is nothing short of an enthralling conversation every time we've spoken. If you leave Judy's presence and feel worse than you did when you came in, it's because you're a sociopath. She cares and you feel it in her touch. She helped me learn how to relax, to focus, and to embrace my empathetic nature which are things I've always struggled with. Thanks to Google, we know each other. 

     Cranialsacral therapy is most akin to chiropractic treatment in the sense that the end game is to properly align the bones of the body. Where chiropractic shoves the bones (primarily of the spine) into realignment, Cranialsacral therapy is much more similar to the board game "Labyrinth" where you maneuver the body like the playing surface to allow the bones to settle into place correctly. It's pretty simple, very methodical, and painless...with the exception of the pure shock that courses through ones veins with when she puts on surgical gloves and says, "Okay, it is time to realign your jaws!"  Though I don't panic, I certainly do have reservations. But she hasn't done me wrong yet so I just hunker down and open up; at which point, she begins to pull.

     She pulled up, down, forward, from behind the molars, from the sides of my bicuspids, she just freakin' pulled. She pulled where I had to move my tongue out of her way. She pulled where I had to make sure not to bite her fingers. She pulled to the point that I felt like the Maitlands trying to scare off the Deetzes before calling in Beetlejuice. But through all of the discomfort, I could hear her calm, I could feel her care. I knew I was okay. I paid her fee, I tipped her generously, and I left a new man.

     

     When you're dealing with social phobias, getting through them feels like trying to stop drowning with ZERO ability to swim. When you're smart enough to justify them, then hyper analyze all of the possible negative conclusions with the sole intent of self-sabotage, only to accept that your best bet is to not try to get over them and stand pat at social leper, at a minimum it expedites the process because you become fatigued that much more quickly. That level of fatigue is the feeling that comes with every day of knowing I am thirty one years of age, I am a virgin, I have no prospects, and I am horrified of failure to the point that I refuse to try. So if I even get in a relationship, I don't know HOW to have sex with a reasonable level of skill. If I do it poorly, the person I've invested this effort into will want to leave, which will put me back to square one. Fast forward to the previously mentioned warpath and I come to the perfectly reasonable conclusion that the best way to put an end to this vicious cycle was to bang a hooker. A Google search or two later, I found out that the proper locution of that expression was to "Have a date with a companion". After some research (Clicking "I'm feeling lucky") I came across the fabulous Christie.

     Christie is also a star. It didn't matter that my fantasy request for her to wear pumps, stockings, and a garter belt went unfulfilled. It didn't matter that 30 minutes into a two hour session, my penis decided to do its flawless impression of the life span of a flower via time lapse photography. It didn't matter that during a moment of simultaneous oral/digital stimulation, my lack of attention sent a finger in the one place she made it clear she wanted nobody to go. It didn't even matter how much I insulted her by asking if she doesn't cater to men of color. All that matters in that room is her client and in that time period I may have been her client, but it felt like I was her "boyfriend".

     Christie was also a "form letter". What I mean by that is she has loved enough to convincingly fake real love. So a person who hyper analyzes can be stuck with a lot of question marks: "Was I really any good?" "Did I actually please her?" But then the most important question comes up: "Who gives a fuck?" So regardless of what she actually felt, I know what I felt, and I felt she did everything in her power to see to it that I had an incredible time and I'd see her again in a heartbeat.

     I'm a ho. I have no qualms admitting to my ho-ish nature or the fact that I enjoy ho-centric activities. Because of this, I prefer a certain level of reciprocation and Christie was very recipricolistic (not a real word, can't care) in her ho-ing. So at some point in the middle of one of her countless spectacular blow jobs, I asked her to place a few of her well manicured digits inside of herself and then allow me an opportunity to sample her natural flavor. Which in real time definitely sounded much closer to, "Put your fingers in your fuckin' pussy and let me suck your juices off!" (I don't claim to channel John Keats when consumed with lust.) She, like the lady she is, obliged and in turn I transformed into equal parts Gomez Addams and Cookie Monster. If it was on her person, it was kissed, licked, sucked, tasted, lightly bitten, and/or devoured with infinitely more enthusiasm than proficiency until my out-of-practice jaws grew weary. My time with her ended without a proper denouement but through everything, I could feel her care. I was unbelievably relieved to have that albatross gone from my life, I paid her fee, I tipped her generously, and I left a new man.

     
     What makes those women special has very little to do with their fingers in my mouth. It has everything to do with their passion for their chosen careers and more importantly the way that their compassion for their clients shines through in the work that they do. I'm sure the same could be said for nurses and even people who work at McDonalds' drive-thrus (like this black guy named Ronald who always had a giant smile on his face and remembered me every time I drove up...but thankfully never put his fingers in my mouth...). Appreciate them. Tell them thank you. Let a silly, little, oblivious to the cataclysmic state of worldwide affairs ray of sunshine find its way into your life. How bad could it be?