I don’t like to be too autobiographical in what I write because, as a professional, I need to keep a certain amount of distance and, as a fearful human being, I’m afraid of gaggles of internet hooligans learning too much about me. You should see some of the messages I got when I was working over at Cracked – apparently something in my words really lends itself to the idea that I’m a fan of fisting. But I digress.
There comes a time when it becomes clear that it would be both a service to myself and my readers to share the odd tidbit about myself. Like my fear of hobos and the way in which I have a marked distaste for Canadians. I mean really, maple syrup and beavers? That’s gayer than everything Sweden and the Netherlands have going for them combined.
But in the interests of sharing myself with you, the public that loves/loathes me, I figured I’d get into the nitty gritty of me by making love to you. With my words. Ahh, thought I was going to say penis, didn’t you? Ha, no. That would take far too long. If even only 100 people read this, that would take a couple hours for me to finish and I don’t have that kind of time. I’m a busy man, I run this site and have a small dog whose poop I need to clean up. No time for marathon sexual liaisons with strangers in my day. Maybe on a weekend, if you made me some eggs or whatever. But probably not.
That said, you better grab a cold drink and a pillow to knead, because here comes the ruckus.
To start with, I need to set a tone. Back in my younger years when I could get out of bed or a chair or off the toilet without grunting, I tried my hand at being a real man about town. Which is to say a manwhore. It lasted exactly one day and got me nowhere. Turns out if you want to be what the kids 3 years back called a “playa” you really need to have a good mix of charm, looks and physique. Man, do I have none of those. I write horribly inappropriate things, like this, for a living, so charm is lost on me. As for looks and physique, if the Pillsbury Dough Boy got a bit of a tan and some tattoos and became near sighted, we’d probably be mistaken for one another fairly frequently.
Knowing this as I do and accepting my own limitations, I’m forced to set the stage in some other way. I find pretending to have cancer to be a real mood enhancer, if a somewhat morally reprehensible way to ensure some booty. And by ensure I mean not ensure. Confusing way to put it, I know.
Another crafty set up for any romantic tryst is, of course, low grade prairie vodka. They make that stuff by the barrel out there and it costs like $10. Sure it can strip paint, but it strips inhibitions just as easily. A half dozen drinks into the evening and I become a real interesting guy. My stories of the turtle I had as a child, this weird rash, and my cat’s cleft palette are epic rimrockers that have them on the edge of their seat. As an added bonus, if she gets really wasted, I can try to convince her I’m a more desirable person with glasses like Stephen Colbert and play off that.
I’m what you call a coward, so putting the movies on a lady (or a pile of her clothing that still smells like her which I’ve borrowed for the evening and arranged around some pillows to give the vague impression of a human shape) is no easy task. Often there are many awkward glances and occasionally a finger in the eye. I find the best way to go about this is a pratfall. Chicks loves slapstick anyway and I like to think Chaplin was getting tail hand over fist.
Since a banana peel on the floor would be too conspicuous, I tend to just not clean up my own mess. That way, as I’m walking by her to sit on the sofa so we can watch One Tree Hill, I can stage a little stumble and collapse on top of her. If all goes as planned I may jostle a boob or brush my tongue against some collarbone. That’s like third base.
If that fails and I inadvertently break her arm or bruise a kidney or whatever, there’s always a chance to help EMS workers lift her onto the stretcher and grab a bit of heinie.
Getting the Job Done
Once I’m primed and ready to pounce like a lithe, sexual panther, I so do just that. Or I did once. I broke my dick. I don’t recommend it. But other times I find that having the lights turned low, some Enya playing in the background, and a bit of sobbing really make everything flow like the mighty river Ganges. And, like the Ganges, things are quite unsanitary. No bull sharks eating corpses though, so take that Ganges!
Naturally the assumption at this point is that I’m embellishing for comedic affect since that’s sort of my job. After all, I’m not Jewish or black so why is anything I have to say funny in any way? But lucky for both of us a childhood replete with alcoholic relatives and a deranged grandmother who tended to leave me out with the dog at night ensured I suffered enough trauma during my formative years to not only have intimacy issues, but hilarious ones. But I digress again.
Assuming my junk isn’t broken and we’ve actually gotten to launch point, things tend to work best quickly and efficiently. I’m forced to assume porno is done with a series of mirrors and stunt doubles along with Michael Bay style sexplosions because, and I’m not ashamed to admit this, I can’t do that shit. I tried once. Broke my dick again. Plus I got a wicked migraine. No, it’s tortoise style for old Ian – slow and steady wins the race. Or, if not win, at least cross the finish line with a modicum of respect and sure, maybe I can’t look her in the eye, but when she takes an extra $20, I know she earned it and it’s all alright.
Feel free to take a shower, have a smoke or dig into a bowl of post-coital chili. You just got done by Fortey.