Why I Laugh At Boobies

I was exposed to horror movies at a very young age, and it’s had a lasting effect. Seeing the Jaws 2 at 6, Jaws soon after, the Exorcist at 10, and Psycho at 11 changed my life.

I cannot go in the ocean today and not think about Jaws.

I cannot get in the shower and not think about being attacked by a nut job dressed as his mother, with a knife.

My parents took me to see Jaws 2 while we were on summer vacation at the Jersey Shore. This was before Snookie and the Situation were even BORN. In all their wisdom, they thought it would be a fun movie for a little kid to see, in the theater, while staying at the beach. “Have fun in the water tomorrow son!”

Soon after, at my aunt’s house, on something new called “HBO” I saw Jaws. I was warned it was going to be scary and asked if I could handle it. What was I going to say? I was good until fisherman Ben’s head pops out of the bottom of the boat with the eye protruding. Scared the Hell out of me. I was then decided I couldn’t handle the rest of the movie so I was sent to bed. Alone. Show a kid a movie, scare the Hell out of him, and then punish him.

Exorcist was actually part of a movie marathon. One of those all day/all night BBQs where the parents eat and drink and the kids hang out. Our neighbors had this new thing called a VCR. Played movies on tapes. We started with The Howling, then Alien, then King Kong 77. That’s a lot of movies. Then the moms showed up and wanted to know what we were watching. Then suggested we all watch Exorcist. Told us it was scary, asked if we could handle it. What were we going to say? Still the scariest movie ever. That night after we went home was probably the longest night of my life. Everything was the devil or that possessed chick coming to take me away.

The 80s horror movie explosion coupled with movie channels on cable TV was a boon for the corruption of my innocence and my desensitization to sex and violence. Halloween movies, Friday the 13th movies, Nightmare on Elm Street movies, as well as any number of formulaic knock-offs with a killer and teen sex.

My mom held the VCR remote, and controlled the universe. Whenever there was a particularly gory killing, she’d utilize the remote to relive, reexamine, and review. As VCRs and remote functions improved, so did our examination of the slasher killings. Mom was the queen of the remote, and could capture details with pause, rewind, and slow mo, that the best CSI labs couldn’t get.

We would watch every killing in gruesome detail, over and over. However, when the inevitable sex scene or boob shot came along, my mother would frown and make me cover my eyes. Funny thing was, I was cool with the scenes, and it was my Mom with the issues.

My Dad hated horror movies. On movie nights when we were going to watch one, he’d get up, mumble something like “enjoy your crap” and wonder off to bed. Of course, it could be 5 minutes, or 50 minutes later, and he sex or nudity could only last for 5 seconds. That was the time he’d come stumbling out for a glass of water, or to the bathroom. He’d stare at the TV and groan “what the Hell are you watching!?”

To this day when I watch a movie with my Mom, she still tells me to cover my eyes if there’s nudity or sex. I tell her I’ve actually seen real boobies up close. Of course now, I might be more uncomfortable seeing this stuff with my Mom than when I was a kid. I was watching a horror movie with my father-in-law a couple of years ago, and a fairly graphic sex scene came on. I told him “sorry, I had no idea…” He said, “It’s OK, I like boobies!”

So I suppose in some way, all this has desensitized me to violence on TV and in movies. Nothing really fazes me, not even the news. Now that I have kids and dogs, sometimes violence towards kids and animals bothers me. Even if the kids or animals are evil.

I can’t watch breaking bones or dislocating limbs, real or fake. That DOES bother me. I’ve never seen the Joe Theisman broken leg clip all the way through. Probably because I’ve dislocated my knees so many times, so I can empathize a little more.

Nevertheless, I still giggle when I see onscreen boobies. Plus, I still call them “boobies.”

Stewardess Sex

For us boys out there, I think a stewardess (or a steward for you other boys out there) would be interesting to have sex with.

The foreplay would be particularly interesting.

Before you began, you’d have to please pay attention to the safe sex lecture, all reinforced by two pointed fingers.

“Prior to entry, please notice the breasts (pointing to breast), as well as the nipples (pointing and rotating fingers near nipples).”

“In the event of an erection, a condom will be available in the drawer in the nightstand by the bed.” (If you’re at her house, maybe it will fall from the ceiling as pressure rises).

“Open the condom like this, and slip the condom onto the penis, like this.”

“In the unlikely event of condom breakage, please withdraw the penis as soon as possible, leaving all belongings behind.”

“When finished, please exit carefully and quietly.”

How I lost My Virginity to My Wife’s Best Friend

Not every guy can say he married his dreamgirl. I can. I think a lot of guys fall in love with a girl, with being with a girl, or having good sex with a girl. I fell in love with my girl 14 years ago. Ok, maybe it was lust at first sight, but lust is a start.

What’s a “dream girl?” A working definition may be useful. A dream girl is a girl, that particular type of girl, who is beautiful, fun, smart, intelligent, and sexy. Someone you can’t be without, someone you can’t live without. Someone you want to spend the rest of your life with, build a future with, and have a family with. Someone you put above all others, love above all others.

My wife is my dream girl. Always has been and always will. She is not only the best thing that ever happened to me but the best thing in my life. She also drives me crazy. More on that later.

We met in college. Junior college, but an ambitious student has to start somewhere. I’ll never forget the first time I saw her. She had just been elected to Student Government, and we were working summer registration together. She sat sidesaddle in a chair, shorts, Oingo Boigo t-shirt, ponytail and bangs I still love. Looking positively damn cute. That’s what I remember the most. How damn cute she was. She reeked cuteness.

I wanted her, bad. I couldn’t talk to girls in general, but had to talk to her. I grasped for something in common to break the ice. Sort of like how I broke the ice with the high school mascot in history class one day by telling her she had a “big chest.” You know subtlety. It’s an art, even if it looks good in a tight sweater. And it did.

I introduced myself, and asked her about her shirt and Oingo Boingo. I find comfort in talking about music; it’s one of the few things I know well. So I guess it was Oingo Boingo that ultimately brought us together. Thank God it wasn’t a New Kids on the Block shirt. We might have never spoken.

I made it no secret that I was interested in her, or so I thought. Apparently, this was all a mystery to the object of my affection for almost 13 years. Everybody else knew…she’s always been stubborn though. Most people thought we were a couple. I should have known she’d never date a guy that wore Wrangler jeans, and had think Run-DMC glasses. What I’m sayin’ here is that I had no style, can’t ya see?

Our first big hangout night was right before Halloween. I was working at a video store. Allright, watching pornos between customers is hardly work, but I was paid for it. She and her best friend came down to the video store and picked me up. We had hung out some at school but this was my first real time out with them.

I hadn’t done much socializing of the usual type in high school. Never went to many dances, parties or football games. Never really hung out or cruised. This was a new experience to me. This was quite a social event for me, my coming out, so to speak. I did what any new young social climber does with young friends—I interpretive danced. I did the PeeWee Herman in the backseat of a VW Rabbit to “Tequila.” Danced, not tossed off.

I didn’t get out much.

Our friendships progressed from there, and being the shy type and not knowing how to express my feelings, I slept with her best friend. That’s the way to a girl’s heart! I was still a virgin, and I think they thought in some strange way they were doing me a favor. I’ve always gone about things in a roundabout way.

Depending on whom you talk to, I won or lost a bet. I was getting paid (or laid) for B-52s tickets. I was the only one of the group with room on the credit card Citibank had deemed a necessary part of the collegiate experience. They were her favorite band. The initial plan was for us to put our three tickets on my credit card. It was a New Year’s Eve show, the plan was that we would all go and have a great time.

My Mother put the nix on that action. New Year’s was too dangerous. I might be killed. True there are many drunk drivers on the road on your typical New Year’s Eve, and a car is not a toy. It’s not like I was going to be walking down the freeway or riding there and back on a big wheels. I would have been careful. Really. Anyway, I was “too young.” I also had an 11:30 PM curfew until I was 20, but that’s a different story. Their roof their rules.

I gave the tickets to the girls. We had no money (thus the credit cards), so the girls decided they would barter with what they had available. That’s right…sweet lovin’. The most precious of commerce. It was decided that her best friend would sleep with me in exchange for the tickets. Not sure if they drew straws, or if the friend was taking one for the team, or they felt sorry for me being a virgin at 19. I suspect they felt sorry for me being a virgin at 19.

The flower of my virginity was precious, my most precious possession. I wouldn’t just give it up for anything; it had to be a special occasion.

Either way, it was decided that my future wife’s best friend would de-virginize me. It was touching and beautiful. It was over in a few minutes, and I think she burned me with a cigarette while we were doing it. It was probably my fault for not balancing the ashtray properly on my back.

Her instructions were helpful though.

“No, that’s not it…right there. Are you done?”

It took about that long for the flowerpot of my virginity to break open. Maybe two minutes.

So it sort of broke down like this: three B52 tickets, $100. A t-shirt for the guy whose Mom wouldn’t let him go: $25 (which they bought with money from the 3rd ticket they sold before they show). Your future wife holding a glass to the wall hearing you lose your virginity to her best friend: priceless.

Sex Is Like Pizza

Over the years, and relationships, I’ve learned not to put sex first. This has allowed me to appreciate other things, beyond pure sex. I’ve learned that sex should enhance, not dominate a relationship. Plus, there’s always masturbation. I like to call it “training for battle.” When they get the call, my boys will be ready. Some of them might not make it back, but they’ll put up a good fight.

Tears me up to think about it.

Someday there might be a knock on my testicles, there will be bad news. His fellow sperms will know he put up a good fight though. God knows I’ve killed enough of them already one way…or another.

I gotta tell ya though, women are like rocks. My wife is like a camel in the desert, doesn’t bother her at all. Sure, a woman will rip off your clothes, tell you to spank them and pull their hair, but it’s like “Clap on, clap off” for them. No pun intended. When a woman is in the mood for love it’s a beautiful thing, but if the wind changes direction, all bets could be off. You’re looking at an often narrow window of opportunity. It’s like the Millenium Falcon jumping into hyperspace. Everything has to be perfect for Han and Chewbacca. It’s the same for women and sex.

Guys are different. I could be on a two wheeled cart dragging bloody stumps behind me where my legs used to be, bleeding from a massive headwound, barely conscious. I’ll still want to get laid. It’s my duty to spread my seed, procreate and pollute the Earth with my offspring. My duty to bust that booty!

Getting aroused for a woman is like planning a multi-national invasion or a space shuttle launch. Everything must be perfect, all the planets must be aligned. One wrong move and you’re cutting the blue wire instead of the red on a ticking time bomb, there may be no chance to make it out alive. You could take out the whole block, or the city itself.

Guys are much easier by nature to arouse. Your sleeping next to your girl and she moves in her sleep and you’re ready. She moans in her sleep, you think she’s saying “take me now big boy.” A sigh and a butt wiggle will set us off. We’re like special forces, ready to go in anytime, anywhere, at a moment’s notice. If only we could sometimes perform our mission without detection like special forces.

To me, sex is like pizza. Pizza is always good. There are all different kinds of pizza and a million pizza places, but it’s all good.

It’s pizza for Godsakes.

Some pizza is frozen, some is fresh. Some pizza you drive an hour for, other pizza gets delivered to your house. Sometimes you just want a slice, sometimes you eat a whole extra large pie yourself. That’s right, I said “pie.” That’s what we call it where I’m from, New York.

Somebody’s always gotta try and top your pizza. Everybody knows where the best pizza is. I say, find a pizza you like and stick with it. When you’re younger, you’re going to want to try a bunch of different pizza places, and you probably will. I encourage you to find your pizza and stick with it. Loyalty is good.

Anyway, it’s a good thing that men and women are wired differently, and have different sex drive levels. You don’t need 30 kids running around the house, unless you’re trying to get yourself some reality show. Second, you’ve got stuff to do. If your wife wanted sweet lovin’ as often as a guy, nothing would ever get done.

Now don’t get all offended, but being gay would be hard for me, besides the gay bashing and anal sex part, and my ass rule. Listen, I like to shop and dress nice and drink wine and hang out with the boys. When it comes to my ass however, nothing goes on, in, near or around my ass. I don’t even like to touch it, much less have someone else touch it. Pooping is fun though.

Gay men are men first and foremost. They’re going to want sex all the time. It’s like the law of the jungle, and the gay bar is wild kingdom. Don’t be the gay zebra straggling along at the back of the herd, because I guarantee there’s a gay cheetah waiting to pounce on you and take you down, or at least into a stall in the men’s room.

Try having sex when you get a dog. If you plan to have kids, you’ll probably get a dog first. It’s like the tester kid. Your wife or girlfriend is testing you. The dog sex thing might become an issue. When you’re fellin’ all lovey you can’t kick the dog out, it’ll scratch to get in anyway. They’ll either already be in there asleep at their master’s feet, or you’ll have to let them in.

Don’t look over at the dog during sex, it will disturb you. It’ll be looking at you trust me, wondering what the Hell you’re doing to Mom. Some dogs just stare, others growl, some do that head twist thing like they don’t understand. Just hope you don’t have an attacker. That’s the last thing you need. Not only because it can be painful, but if you get used to a pit bull locking jaws on your ass while you’re doin’ it…it’s just sick and probably illegal. Probably legal in California though.

Don’t have the friendly dog in the room either. You could be goin’ at it and suddenly feel a tickling down at your balls. Sure, you’ll probably think, “damn, baby’s gettiin’ FREAKY, she’s been readin’ the COSMO. How’s the DOIN’ that, I can see both of her hands!” You don’t want to come to the chilling realization that it’s the friendly dog teabagging you. The worst part is going to be deciding whether or not to let him FINISH or to shoo him away. You can give him a red rocket later for payback.

After you’re finished, the dog may be traumatized. Put yourself in his paws, he just saw and heard some strange shit. He probably won’t make eye contact for a while, and may run and hide when you walk up behind him and put a hand on either shoulder for a few days. The best approach is to soothe your animal, talk assuringly and tell him something like “I wasn’t hurting Mommy, she liked it.” If that doesn’t work you could always try doggie style, wear his collar during sex or use references like “giving the dog a bone” when talking about sex.

The old biological clock can put pressure on you to settle down. In some cases it’s a biological timebomb ticking away. She’ll say her eggs are rotting. That doesn’t make up for all the wasted sperm in all those kleenexes over the years now does it? If they could extract donations from old kleenex down at the sperm bank, there would be many rich men. Talk about a get rich quick scheme!

I suggested to my wife that we could harvest her eggs with a turkey baster and freeze them. Be careful though, you don’t want to accidentally down the precious cargo when stumbling around the freezer for an Eggo. Egg whites, ONLY please. Donated, human eggs can fetch up to $20,000. That’s a high price for you mistaking little Donny’s future for a frozen oyster shooter.

The human female only produces a set number of eggs in her lifetime. I don’t know if it’s a dozen pack, but if it was, not as many guys would be settling down.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for test driving a car before you buy it. You have to take the car out of the lot, and around the block a few times. See how the ride is, see how the cushions feel, how much pounding the shocks can handle. I’m not saying to put a 100,000 miles on it before you buy it, just get some idea of how she handles.

I’m sure our parents were the same way. I bet your Dad still washes and waxes the old ride every once in a while. Sure, the colors faded and the fenders are a little dinged. The headlights may be dimmer, but the old ride will still get you there. It’s all about reliability.

That rides going to be in your garage for a long time once you buy it. That’s a one car garage, by the way.