This is a topic I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about, starting around age sixteen or so when I realized it was possible to have more than one person in bed at the same time.

I’ve never really obsessed about it.  Fantasized, yes (who hasn’t?), but all in all, I always figured that I have enough trouble as it is, trying to please one and be pleased by one person, without having to worry about a third set of parts.  Not to mention hands and feet.

And yet, I’ve always been a full proponent of consenting adults do as consenting adults want to.

As George Carlin said, if you want to dress up like Bugs Bunny and blow the cat, who’s to say it’s wrong?

And think how good the cat must feel.

Always said that if people want to do it and both people are in full agreement on having another person share nooky time, then they should do it.  As long as each party is into it 100%.

But therein lies the catch, my friends.  Everybody has to want it the same amount.  Used to be, back when I was not rapidly approaching forty, that I would say that anyone who can’t imagine a world where there are people out there who can get involved in a threesome and go their separate ways was limited to say the least and downright closed-minded at worst.

In fact, I kept looking for those people.  Not necessarily because I wanted to ask them to join me at Swingers’ World around the corner from my house, but because they interested me.

Like chimpanzees, who, unlike us, will basically fuck anybody as long as the alpha male isn’t watching.

But wait.  Know what?  Know what the results of that nearly two-decade informal, anecdotal study has taught me?

There just aren’t those people out there. 

I met a few, sure enough I did, who told me that they and their spouses were totally into it.  Men and women (more women, actually than men) have told me that it’s no problem.  Sometimes it’s the neighbor, sometimes it’s somebody from the gym, an occasional prostitute, and-yes-I even met a guy who had two sisters in bed.  Swear to God.

None of those situations ever turned out for the better. All of those relationships wound up crashing.  It’s debatable, like Nicolas Cage’s drinking in that Las Vegas movie, what started it all:  the menage-á-trois, or the bad shit that led up to it, but one thing is for sure:

Every one of those relationships I’m talking about failed after the threesome.

 

So yeah, on some nooky-nooky sucky fucky level I really am into threesomes.  Theoretically and practically, I could see myself doing it.  Thought a lot about that triangle position I saw in my first ever real hard core porn movie.  That will never leave my head.

It’s what I’ll be thinking about if I ever get into a bad car accident or fall down some stairs drunk, and everybody stands around with me in a coma debating whether they should pull the plug and also wondering what the hell I’m thinking in that hospital bed, with me lying there with a shit-eating grin on my face.

I’ll be thinking about the triangle:  me supine, two women forming the upper arms, waggling their tongues in and out of each others’ mouths.  You get the picture.

Doesn’t mean I’m going to do any of that out here, in the real world, ambulant as I still am, thank the devil for that.

I still value my marriage enough right now not to even suggest it.

‘Cause I know that would be the end.

Sincerely Yours

Wag the Dad

Wait.  There’s more.  Read what Angie has to say here.

Or you could also check these out:

New Year’s Advice for Women

Faking Orgasms Should Be Unconstitutional

Look Busy.  That’s All That Counts.

{ 14 comments }

Age differences in relationships. When is it acceptable? When is it unacceptable?

Some time around my late teens, when I saw the movie Dazed and Confused for the first time, I started worrying.  I began to wonder about the ideals of sexual attraction.  I began to ask myself whether the ideal age of women I was bound to be attracted to would continue to change as I got older.

What if I get older, but the women I’m attracted to stay the same age?

I’ll be one of those men.  One of those older men in their twenties, hanging around gas stations and the high school smoking spot across the street, buying the occasional bottle of Mad Dog or pack of cigarettes for teenagers.

I’ll get busted, and they’ll put my name in the paper.  The one over-twenty-one-year-old in the town weekly amongst a sea of unnameable minors.

I think what fueled my consternation was the fact that my best friend at the time had seemed to have gotten stuck around the age of 14.  When he was 14, his girlfriend was 14.  When he was 16, his girlfriend was 14.  When he was 17, his girlfriend was 14.

We’ve since lost contact, unfortunately, but I’ve heard he’s on his third marriage, and all of his wives have been 21 or 22.

Huh.

Anyway.  I’m happy to say that this has not happened.  While the age range has increased, I’m still in the general ballpark for what would be considered the norm for my age.  I’m turning 38 next week, and I’m pretty much attracted to women between the ages of 30 and 45.

Keep in mind I said attracted to.  Which is different from women I can say I find objectively attractive.  That runs the gamut from legal to upwards of 65.  Depends on the woman.

So in thinking about this topic, I have to say that I really don’t have any limits.  Kind of like abortion: not for me, don’t want it to be illegal.  Know what I mean?

Aside:  there is a legal age adults, and all adults – regardless of sex – need to stay above.  Tired of hearing about horny female librarians jumping into the sack with 12-year-old boys and everybody going about saying “what, don’t you think he enjoyed it?”  I’m willing to bet that some 12-year-old girls who’ve slept with thirty year old men enjoyed it, to, but that’s not the point, is it?  The point is that we have societal standards, and those say that you can do whoever you want, as long as they’re over 16 (or 18, depending upon the regime).

A few things before I keep meandering:

1)  I do find it strange when I see men born when Elvis just came into fashion hanging around with twenty-somethings.  I guess I’ve always mistrusted the motivation.  What can she give him?  What can he give her?  The answers are numerous, and obvious, from great, trophy sex to money to father figurehood to whatever.  But who the hell am I to know?  I say leave well enough alone.

as long as:

2)  It’s OK for women to do it, too.  This whole cougardom thing has been around the media for the past few years, and I say more power to that.  My grandmother used to say what’s good for the goose is good for the gander, and if she were still around, I’m sure she would embrace that concept as well.  If the goose is going to hang out with goslings, then who’s to say that the goose can’t?

Am I clear on this one?  I’ve always held the opinion that love is hard enough to find when you’re sexually oriented towards other humans.

There’s no need to throw ageism into the whole mess, now, is there?

Now go and read what Angie said.

Sincerely Yours

Wag the Dad

Did you find that lacked a certain oomph?  These don’t:

You Have a Nice Ass.  Would You Like To Have a Cup of Coffee With Me?

Faking Orgasms Should Be Unconstitutional

A Funny Thing I Heard From the Gay Folk

{ 15 comments }

My neighbor’s wife is on a diet and now she not only will not have sex with him, she consistently tells him how she’d be better off without him even though she apparently doesn’t mean it, and now she has started censoring the four hours of TV he has after all the chores he does (wrong, of course).

She doesn’t work outside the home, he works fifty hours a week. He watches the kids when he’s home because she is insane housecleaning lady who refuses to allow him to pay for a cleaning lady, says he’s incompetent when he tries to clean, and sees his watching the kids as goofing around and not helping around the house.

But now he’s starting to internalize it, and refers to himself as a loser. To make matters worse, she keeps asking him why he can’t be more like me or my other neighbor, thus planting the seeds of a wedge between us.

I’ve thought quite a bit about this.  I really have.  Rocketing back and forth between Vienna and Bratislava on final business trips before my big job change, I’ve had precious little time online.

What I have had has been time to think.

Having been privy to Angie’s response to this question prior to composing mine, I also have something of a home team advantage.

I keep thinking I should tread lightly, and carry a big stick.

What Angie wrote is by far the most balanced of the two posts you’re reading regarding this topic.  I’ll just get that out of the way up front, so as not to lead anyone into thinking that what I am about to say is going to be even slightly objective.  And Angie has taken the time to address both sides, carefully and thoughtfully, and my manhood gave out a big fuck yeah when she wrote about the feminist bullshit about being dominated by men for centuries not playing a role in today’s relationships.

The thing that I kept thinking about, though?

What happens when you’ve tried all of that and it doesn’t work?  I’m talking from the man’s perspective here.  It seems that the answer would be to just leave.  Haul ass.  Get out.  A father kids don’t see as often is better than a father who teaches his kids that it’s O.K. to remain in a relationship where your balls are sent through a meat grinder every night.

Right?

Wrong.  Well, yes, right, if there are no offspring involved.  But I did not need to be told that, and I’ll bet our sample man didn’t need to, either.  So wrong, because kids are involved.  Why?

Two things:

1)  And leave your kids alone with that bitch?  Fuck no.

2)  I’m not sure what’s currently on offer in the visitation rights department in the United States, but in this country it’s two weekends a month.

Two weekends.  And that’s assuming your ex-wife doesn’t try to convince the court or the social worker that you’re an alcoholic, a gambler, a foreigner, or just plain lazy.

Two.  Weekends.  I take my kids to bed every night.  I read them at least two books.  Apiece.  Oftentimes I wake up with them cuddled next to me.  I take them to school and kindergarten, every day.  I take them out to ride their bikes, I make them popcorn when they want to watch movies, and I hound them with math problems so they don’t wind up working somewhere with a boss named Lenny.

And I do that shit every fucking day.  I’m supposed to be satisfied with four-five days a month?

I once had this argument with a purveyor of Angie has deemed “feminist bullshit”.  Know what she said? She told me I don’t own my children.  How dare you, she said.  You have no right to consider your children your possessions.

In other words, I have no right to think that my children should grow up with a father who is present.  As long as those goddamned checks keep coming in, he can go suck his own dick the other 26-odd days of the month.

So my answer’s gonna be a bit different.  Here’s what you gotta do.

You have to rise above it.

 

You have to come up with a way, in one profound moment while you’re licking your wounds, huddled behind the shower curtain in the bottom of the tub, to get your ass out of this mess.

You do this with your brain.  That’s the thing she’s been telling you doesn’t work correctly while you spend 50+ hours a week running a successful team of software developers, or grease monkeys, or accountants.

You find something to say to her, something objective, that shows how ultimately wise you are without criticizing her or belittling yourself.  Because arguments and power struggles in a love relationship are often not even about the relationship itself.

It’s situational.  You’re frustrated about the situation, and so you take it out on your partner, because that’s the easy way out.

To cut this short, I’ll just give you an example.

A few years ago, about eight months into our second kid, my wife and I started arguing.  A lot.  All the time.  Every day.  In front of the kids, behind the kids, and to the left and the right.  We were arguing about many of the same things our proverbial dickless and iron tits here are arguing about.  And yes, we probably would have gone down that path if some dumb bastard (me) hadn’t had a nicotine-fueled misfired neuron caused by a (probably) near miss with a cerebral aneurism.

I paused in the argument, held up my hand, and said:

“You know what?  We aren’t arguing about who has to clean up the cat shit.  We’re arguing about the fact that neither one of us signed up for the jobs we’re doing right now.  I never wanted to be the sole breadwinner stuck in a job that fucks my soul in the ass daily, and you never wanted to be a housewife.  You have a law degree, for chrissake.”

For once, she didn’t respond.  She looked at me in a way that made me, for the first and only time in my life, feel like Jesus.  Or Buddha.  Or Jerry Springer.

“Go on,” she said, and for that brief moment I saw that horny twenty-one year old I fell in love with.

“Um..uh…well, yeah.  I was just saying.  That’s what we’re arguing about.  We’re dissatisfied with our current roles, and we both feel that the other one is to blame.  But it’s not us.  It’s the kids.

“So let’s kill them.”

Just wanted to see if you’re paying attention.

“We hate what we have to be right now.  You’re a housewife, and I’m Ward Cleaver.  It sucks.  But you know what?  It’s temporary.  It’s only gonna last a few more years.”

And you know what my wife did?  No, she did not kick me in the balls.

She hugged me.  Then she said:

“That was awesome.  Thank you so much for saying that.”

Tame the beast.  That’s all I’m sayin’.  Maybe that’s the better way.

Sincerely Yours

Wag the Dad

You liked that, didn’t ya?  Well, then smell the glove:

Sex, Toes and Videotape

Why Is Prostitution Illegal?

Don’t Pray For Me

{ 45 comments }

This is easy.

When deciding how soon to have sex with a new date, I use two rather simple but effective psychological formulas to determine my course of action.

For the sake of simplicity, I’ve organized these two decision-making steps into a crude flow chart you can print out, cut out, and carry with you in your wallet/purse/thong.

That’s it. Granted, I haven’t had sex with a woman other than my wife since the first Clinton Administration, but I believe it was the same process back then, too.

But then again, sex has always been kind of like food to me: the more rules and regulations you apply, the more utensils you need. the more it starts looking like a hobby and less like a whole lotta fun meant to be enjoyed between two or more consenting adults.

Don’t make it out to be more than it is. It ruins it. Trust me. I have had lots and lots of sex.

Sincerely Yours

Wag the Dad

{ 12 comments }