…from s3x. Print it out and tape it to her mirror, guys.
61 thoughts on “Health And Beauty Benefits”
Guys, you need to face facts: no matter how much sex she gives you, it will never be enough. And women don’t appreciate finding a “more sex is good for you” article taped to their bathroom mirrors, being that they have been getting that rap from guys ever since they started wearing training bras. Even if it is true, it pisses them off. I, an official woman (it’s on my driver’s license) tell you this.
(Sits back and waits for the inevitable “You’re wrong Andrea you dried up old prune my woman has a sex drive equal to and even surpassing mine.” No she doesn’t, she just knows how to fake it so you’ll quit complaining.)
PS: at work that article is blocked under the category “p0rn.” Oops!
Yes, but Andrea, I rather suspect that, as an official woman, you also enjoy a good 76.43% of the time the fact that your man slobbers uncontrollably over you. I’m not saying it isn’t occasionally annoying to have to wipe the drool off your shoes, but, really, would you want to live with a fella who didn’t even have the urge to tape that article hopefully to your mirror? Who was perfectly capable of being merely annoyed when you walked, wearing just your underwear — and your old ratty mismatched underwear at that — between he and the instant replay on the HDTV? Who would simply crane his neck to see around you, instead of having his poor helpless eyeballs drawn with an instant magnetic clang of infinite force to your perfectly shaped ass?
Well, the comments battle has been engaged…
In most posting duals on TT one of the combatants is unarmed, not so here….Reaches for the Popcorn.
I think that Andrea is at at least a slight disadvantage here, not having read the article. Not that it’s an excuse for the outcome, of course. She brings whatever happens on herself. 😉
“Yes, but Andrea, I rather suspect that, as an official woman, you also enjoy a good 76.43% of the time the fact that your man slobbers uncontrollably over you. ”
That drooling and slobbering stopped when we got his dentures fixed. (Wonders what to call her imaginary man now. Thinking of calling him “Winthrop Heatherstone III.” Or Jake.)
And I would never wear ratty underwear in front of Mr. Heatherstone. In fact, the thought that a woman goes around in front of her spouse in her undies is… ooh, I’m getting a bit of a blush. Do the modern young ladies do that? The hussies!
In any case, all my underwear is in perfect condition. I get my corsets and bloomers custom made and they are handwashed by my maid, Consuela. Who is completely legal!
(Starts designing her imaginary mansion. Let’s see, chintz curtains in the morning room… Winthrop’s study will be paneled in dark-stained mahogany — his cogars stain white plaster frightfully…)
Argh — I meant “his cigars.” I’m just going to do what he does and call them “havanas.”
Oh, no, Andrea. Remember how you said our wives had just learned to fake it? Your lucky stiff — oops, sorry, did I say that? Er…drat — has also learned to fake it.
He wears his sunglasses more often than strictly necessary, to conceal the lustful crazed gleam in his otherwise eagle eye. He has practised using his peripheral vision to detect the slight initial acceleration of your spine as you turn towards him, so his gaze can nonchalantly ski-jump off the exquisite paraboloids in your silhouette soon enough to preserve plausible deniability. What? I was looking at that spider web in the neighbor’s fence just past your…er…just past you. Did you know spider silk has ten times the strength of steel? Fascinating!
He has trained himself, through long hours of cold-water bath immersion and study of certain secret old texts of the Templars, not to flinch when a stray eddy in the air brings the chemical insanity of the scent of your skin or hair to his nose. Or, if he does twitch a little, like Galvani’s frog wired to Volta’s chthonic pile, wondering if you might…touch an arm…lean gently against a shoulder — he has excuses prepared. Goodness! Is that the time? I had no idea!
His lasting refuge is when you walk straight away, because without your being able to see behind you he can abandon Spartan discipline and slip greedily into the poco a poco symphonic sorcery of your hips and legs, because God gave that one pure gift to man — how a woman looks walking away — as a true keepsake of lost Paradise.
In any case, all my underwear is in perfect condition.
Oh dear, I feared as much! Mercy!
How dare you! My Winthrop is a perfect gentleman. I refuse to believe all those stories about his school days. He was Head Boy and would never have countenanced such activities. Why, I’m told that not once did they ever find an unauthorized female on campus while he was there.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go consult with our gardener, Jack, about a problem with aphids in my aspidistra. (Where did I put that key to the handc– that is, the greenhouse door…)
Jack? I don’t know Jack. But what man does, where the female of the species is concerned.
I recommend for your consideration Neal Stephenson’s ruminations on Victorian restraint and sex. A crude paraphrase is that discipline is the focussing of power, and the narrower the focus the fiercer the heat, so to speak.
Or perhaps: beware Lord Peter Wimsey unmasked as Mr. Rochester, there between the nodding leafy rows of hydroponic cotyledons and tomatoes in the greenhouse. You might come back disheveled. Consuela can help tuck your hair back up, though.
I feel rather like I did when I attempted to discuss Virginia wines with one of the warehouse guys where I work and he told me about the delicious new beverage he had found: Bud Lite with Clamato. In other words, chastened.
On the other hand, it’s probably the correct beverage to drink with corn dogs.
Then we have come full circle, for none are so chased as the chaste.
And let us not enitrely eschew the chiaroscuro charm of the Clamato chaser in your chased chalice, less from phthisic charity than the chthonic chromosomal chrestomathy. Hybrid vigor, you know. Prized in the genes and the greenhouse.
Besides, he’s probably from Betelgeuse and those are the first two ingredients of a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster. Woo hoo!
Mercy, Carl, my glasses are all steamed up. Must be your reference to the twitching of Galvani’s frog.
Do carry on.
“And let us not enitrely eschew the chiaroscuro charm of the Clamato chaser in your chased chalice, less from phthisic charity than the chthonic chromosomal chrestomathy.”
I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.
Okay, so I read it. And this just wrote itself: I swear, the keys on my keyboard just started going up and down all by themselves:
Karen staggered into the bathroom after finally forcing herself to quit hitting the snooze button. She could hear Carl in the kitchen, whistling and clattering about in that annoying way he had. Karen sighed. Why had she married a morning person again?
Karen was not at her best before noon.
Turning on the bathroom light, she reached for her toothbrush, only to be brought up short by the peculiar appearance of the mirror. She blinked and rubbed her sleep-clogged eyes, and realized that there was an oblong of paper taped to the surface of the glass. She leaned over the sink and peered at it. It seemed to be a printout from a web page. A moment passed. Then she reached up and pulled it off the glass so she could read it better. When she was done she looked up at her reflection. Then back down at the sheet of paper in her hand. She carefully placed the paper on the counter and continued with her morning routine.
In the meantime Carl, on his second cup of coffee, listened for the sounds of his lady love as she moved about the bedroom. Soon she would be in the kitchen. He poured her a cup of coffee and prepared it the way she liked, placing it next to the full healthy breakfast he had prepared (eggs, bacon, whole wheat toast, marmalade). He also poured a cup of orange juice.
He hoped she liked the article he had printed out for her. He knew how careful she was about her figure. She jogged every morning, and went to the gym after work three times a week.
Karen came in the door. Instead of her jogging sweats, she was already dressed for work. Carl was puzzled. “You’re not going jogging today?” It was sunny out, and the temperature was cool but not too cool.
Instead of answering, Karen reached out. He saw that she had the article printout in her hand. Before he could say anything, she had put it over his face, securing it to his forehead with the tape. He heard Karen say, her voice fading as if she were walking away, “So, I’m not healthy? My skin’s in bad condition? I’m not comfortable with my body? I need to worry about how much semen you produce? I’ll say I do — I’m the one who does the laundry!” The sound of a slamming door punctuated the final sentence.
Warily, Carl lifted the paper from his face. “Honey?” There was no answer. Karen’s breakfast lay untouched on the table. He heard the sound of the garage door, and then the car pulling out of the driveway. Then it stopped. After a moment the kitchen phone rang. He got up and answered it. “Oh, and darling?” said the voice on the other end. It was Karen. “The chocolates had better be Godiva. Not Russell Stover. Godiva.” Then silence as she ended the call. There was the faint sound of tires backing down the driveway, then going up the street. Then silence once more.
Carl sighed and wondered how he could have married such a humorless woman. He rose from the table, went into the bedroom and opened the gun safe. After removing a handgun and a single bullet, Carl went to sit in the bathtub for the last time.
Karen returned home 10 hours later, and five minutes thereafter she was calmly reviewing the insurance portfolio and bemoaning a lack of chocolates.
Ooookay, Titus. (Backs away slowly.)
I mean, Godiva chocolates aren’t that expensive. Is there some past chocolate-related trauma you aren’t telling us about?
Of course, on the way to work, Karen noticed that her right thumb-nail had in fact chipped for the um-teenth time. ‘My stupid nails’, she thought, ‘They always crack. Gawd, I wish they wouldn’t do that all the time’.
Later that day, she checked her calendar to see it there in big, red letters, staring at her like a hungry wolf stares at a wounded rabbit: 2:00 PM, Dr. Martin, Root Canal. ‘I hate my teeth’, she gritted to herself, idly checking on the current price of full dentures.
About ah hour after that day, she got that normal ‘2:30’ feeling that was coming on more and more these days. ‘Must be the mattress’, she thought as she yawned again and drank her 5th diet coke of the day.
On the way home, she was listening to her favorite afternoon Oldie’s show when the Dee-Jay read the very article that had been left on her mirror. She made fun of some of the items, but Karen took notice of #s 6, 13, and 14. She laughed out loud at #11, though (she thought: ‘If that was true, Janice down the street would weigh about 50 lbs’). Maybe she had been a little too hard on Carl.
When she arrived home, she was surprised to see his car home so early (he’s usually at the gym now, right?). She opened the front door and immediately saw the roses in a vase on the light-stand. ‘Wow’ she thought, ‘it’s been years’. She also noticed the subtle aroma of sherry and spices, mixed with a hint of shellfish. “Carl,” she smiled as she walked into the kitchen, “is that cream of crab soup? You know that’s my favorite. And you even poured me a glass of Pino. I thought you had forgotten”.
Instead of answering, he swept Karen into his arms, planted a big smoochie on her forehead, and apologized for the morning, explaining that it was supposed to be a funny, little joke.
Well, with the kind of day she had, she said she was sorry, too, for leaving like she did. Of course, the ‘make-up’ part of this story was so nice that she wasn’t even mad when the soup boiled over an hour later.
hmm. I’d have to say that Karen is either irrational or maliciously misconstruing Carl’s intentions with regard to sharing the article in order to emotionally geld him (which Titus made quite visceral).
The article and your story isn’t about how a woman might need to fix her skin, be more healthy, etc., its about the joy a man feels about providing happy excuses for increased intimacy. As Mr. Pham has so eloquently put it, the man finds great pleasure in intimate contact with his partner, whether visual or physical.
In Carl’s perception (from your story) there are 3 possible interpretations of Karen’s actions: 1) she’s made an irrational judgement that he shared the article with her to fix her glaring flaws, 2) she’s made an irrational judgement of him that he shared the article with her to convince her to fulfill his purely carnal desires for more passionateless sex, that he considers her only an inanimate sex object and she isn’t doing her job (he’s so insensitive), 3) that Karen has made a rational judgement as to Carl’s motives, but is maliciously trying to hurt him anyways.
I think Karen’s interpretation is more likely to be 2), considering her actions and my witnessing too many females corrupt self image. However for Carl, given the reality of Karen’s actions and his obvious adoring treatment of her, can’t fathom 1) or 2), and is thus left with 3) as the most rational answer, and in a worst case scenario, the dramatic results Titus mentioned.
Where IS this anomalous Carl who thoughtfully prepares not only breakfast, but DINNER for his working lady-love, she of the chipped nails and rotting teeth? Does he also hand-launder her hosiery?
(I must reassess my theory that the inhabitants of La-La Land consist mainly of Liberals.)
+5 Funny, T.
Maybe the rest of you alt.sex.stories.transterrestrial fans are taking your T too dark? Maybe this fellow Carl — odd, old-fashioned name, that — was just getting ready to take a stroll to his neighor’s. Lady A frequently spent time in the greenhouse at that hour, and she’d suggested she might teach him to tend her garden if he taught her to handle his gun.
Lady A, while past 40 — years, and pounds overweight, due to a weakness for Godiva chocolates — had a delightful warmth of manner, ready smile, and steel-trap mind that Carl found pleasingly stimulating, after the long years with his tort lawyer and big-time Democratic donor polyester pants suit wearing wife Karen, who was so tiresomely fanatical about recycling, both her fourteen per day decaf mocha grande Starbuck’s styrofoam cups and the ideas of the 1970s. Sure, she’d kept her wasitline by running nowhere in the gym for hours, but if she’d expressed an original or non-narcissist thought any time in the last 20 years, it must have been while he was in the john or asleep.
Lady A had laughingly proposed running off to Alaska to kill their own food and raise a free-range bonus baby or two, and today Carl might just consider the idea seriously.
Ugh. No bebehs. We can raise some orphaned wolf puppies instead. We can train them to hunt for us.
Andrea, is that a capitulation?
Andrea, please say it isn’t so.
Damned frog….
“Andrea, is that a capitulation?”
Um, no. To what?
“Damned frog…”
Frog? Kermit, is that you? Darned exes don’t know the meaning of “it’s over!”
Ryan:
“The article and your story isn’t about how a woman might need to fix her skin, be more healthy, etc., its about the joy a man feels about providing happy excuses for increased intimacy.”
And being totally clueless about the fact that women are bombarded with men “providing happy excuses for increased intimacy” night and day and can get as tired of it as men get tired of being constantly nagged to talk about their “feelings.”
Clown nose off here. I said this on my blog, I’ll repeat it here: men and women are different. Here is how: sex makes men feel better; women have to feel good before they have sex. By feeling good I mean “feel reasonably happy and content.” Now I am sure you’ll accuse me of generalizing but as much as I am sure you are all individual snowflakes totally unlike anyone else ever, we can’t talk about basic human nature without generalizing. So in general, if you get the urge to tell your honey “Guess what, sex is good for your heath! Hint, hint” — quell that urge. It’s not anything she hasn’t heard before. In fact, it’s one of the oldest get-her-in-bed tricks in the world. “You don’t want to have sex? You might be… frigid! Frigidity causes dyspepsia which causes ulcers and premature facial wrinkles! Then no man will want you and you’ll die a lonely old maid!” (A lonely old maid of ninety-six who kept her faculties and most of her physical abilities to the last, and left her millions, unspent by the spouse and children she never had, to the ASPCA.)
96 years with no spouse or children? For me, I cannot imagine a more lonely existence.
Sorry, Andrea. Known of too many women who have to not merely “feel reasonably happy and content” but have to have everything dang near perfect. Got a whole snowdrift of the precious little flakes. Most of them used bait-and-switch to nab their longsuffering spouse, one of the oldest get-him-in-marriage tricks in the world. “You want to have sex? What do you think this is, an adult relationship based on vows and stuff?”
He tapes it to the mirror, it’s not a silly suggestion, it’s a humorous veil over a serious warning.
Thanks, Carl. BTW, I am still laughing at your reply, +5 to you, sir.
Very well stated.
“96 years with no spouse or children? For me, I cannot imagine a more lonely existence.”
That’s because you’re not me. Most women would agree with you too. I admit I am unusual. But not everyone needs another person to “complete” them. And it’s even possible to live without sex! It’s harder (no pun intended, so stop that snickering I can hear in the back) for men to do so than women, but it’s not an unusual notion — Catholic priests and Buddhist monks are supposed to at least try to stay celibate. The great thing about being a woman, though, is you don’t need an excuse like belonging to some special religious group to refrain from sex. True, people who are enslaved by the current all-sex-all-the-time culture get bent out of shape about the idea. But that’s their problem. It’s great not to be a slave to pop culture.
Hey, now! I wake up, head to the gym, then return and prepare coffee so that my dear wife may awake to a fresh cup of joe with cream – every morning I am not out of town on business! And i also cook dinner 2-3 nights a week. Of course, she is usually tired from raising all those sons….
The oldest saw in the book is that men use love to get sex and women use sex to get love. I think that, to me, the most puzzling aspect of modern womanhood is how many women seem to resent their near-infinite ability to give pleasure to the man they claim to love. This is one reason men tend to feel unloved by their wives. Most men I know simply can’t fathom why their “lover” is unwilling to do simple, obvious things that their man finds to be powerfully enjoyable. Most men assume that if they could trigger in their wives the sort of immediate, visceral, fulfilling enjoyment that THEY feel, well they’d be walking around in their undies all the time. I suppose it is inevitable that one gender has to take a somewhat less enthusiastic view of an activity that provides unlimited joy, pleasure and fulfillment, otherwise couples might spend hours in bed pleasuring each other every week, and wouldn’t that be an awful fate to endure?
I don’t know what’s with Andrea, but every woman I’ve been with has been open to sex whenever I want it, and their only complaint has been if I’m not hitting it often enough — once a week seems to be the bare minimum expectation. Five times in a day has typically been the limit, but only for physical reasons.
Men have an obligation to make sex interesting to women, women have an obligation to not say no unless they have a damned good reason. Sex doesn’t just make men “feel better,” it is an all-consuming drive. Don’t eat anything for a couple days and then look at and smell your very favorite food and you’ll start to understand what sex is to men.
Karen sounds like quite the unreasonable emotionally blackmailing bitch. Intentionally misunderstanding things as criticism seems to be Modern Woman 101 sometimes, but trust me guys — you can do better.
Ahh, but if being a priest or a monk were so appealing, most people would do it!
What most people on this planet do with their lives is make it just challenging enough so that they are drawn to stretch themselves and increase their feeling of being alive. Some do that with families and children, some with clay pots, some with legal ponderings.
All of it is a personal choice. And choose we do.
While this fine woman may choose to see the article as a subversive attempt to ‘trick’ a mate, others see it as an opportunity to ‘woo’ a mate. Some have chosen a partner that revels in the fun of rolling around with their love for a few hours with scarcely a reason. Such lists, lightly sourced as they are, can be but a twist of the tap for those who are thirsty.
I appreciate your celibacy choice and am considered more ‘unusual’ than you – I belong to neither above-mentioned group, yet am of the derided male group. Pop culture not withstanding, I prefer the company of my own thoughts more than that of another.
I comment not in defense of the article, nor of the topic idea of attaching it for shared viewing. I comment in defense of those who enjoy their choices and their lives. Ironic that a fine lass such as you clings strongly to her convictions and choices, yet lashes out at those who are happily comfortable with their own.
I find the contrast … delicious – like fine chocolate.
😀
Catholic priests and Buddhist monks are supposed to at least try to stay celibate.
Yeah, how’s that worked out over the centuries? If celibate means “free of boinking a spouse of the opposite sex”, then I’d say it’s been pretty successful. But if it means “free of boinking each other or little boys” … well, not so much.
Peregrine John, you hit my feelings on the head with “…used bait-and-switch to nab their long suffering spouse…” as that’s how my seduction and marriage appears in retrospect.
As for the 96 year old spinster thing, I had a great-aunt who lived to around that age – forget whether she was 94, 95, or what – and died a virgin. She was reportedly happy enough. Though there was something odd about the branch of the family, with a couple of sisters living like that, others being legitimately crazy or suicidal, and the only “normal” one being my grandmother.
I knew someone would bring up the “they’re boinking little boys” line. Yawn. Actually, you should be careful when you say things like that — it just makes me think that if YOU were deprived of a woman then you’d feel you had no choice but to turn to little boys. Think about it.
The greatest contradiction of the contradictory sex is this:
1) Women are far more sexually differentiated than men. From intensity to desired frequency to preferences, every woman is unique. Yes, there’s more male freakery at the ends of the bell curve, but in the middle, most guys are pretty damn similar.
2) Despite this, every woman confidently projects her own sexual personality onto the rest of femaledom, and greets any disagreement as merely proof that the other woman is a freak.
I assume it’s a form of narcissism.
PS: when heterosexual priests and monks decide to break their vows, they have no trouble finding women. It’s not like women don’t hang around church.
“I admit I am unusual. But not everyone needs another person to ‘complete’ them. And it’s even possible to live without sex!”
I respect you for being honest about this, Andrea. I wish my wife had been. Prior to marriage, she gave every indication of being enthusiastic about the prospect of a sexual relationship with me, while insisting that we wait until we were married. (I complied.) Once married, she turned out to to be indifferent, at best, on the subject. She was quite interested in having children, though, while I doubted my own suitability for parenthood.
This disagreement became moot when, two years into the marriage, she because pregnant due to a mysterious (but very convenient, for her) birth control failure. (It’s pretty easy to sabotage a diaphragm.) Once she had the children she wanted, her interest in sex dropped to zero and stayed there. She put an end to the physical relationship by simply turning me down every single time I showed interest until I got the message and stopped trying. She also withdrew emotionally, focusing all of her attention on the children and ignoring me as much as possible, even excluding them from their care and upbringing as much as she could.
The marriage is now over a quarter century old and dead as a doornail. The children are grown, and she and I have nothing left to talk about (although she continues to spend my money with relish). It is now clear to me that I was never anything to her but a sperm donor and meal ticket.
Compared to that, your honesty is breath of fresh air.
Hmmmm.
@ Andrea Harris
“No she doesn’t, she just knows how to fake it so you’ll quit complaining.”
As long as I can’t tell the difference … it’s all good!
See, Harry’s life lesson is exactly why I’m adopting Andrea’s game plan when I hit 30.
@Harry, sorry to hear you are in the same shape as I. Hard to believe we bought into that whole “Marriage is forever thing” and did not see the writing on the wall sooner and cut our loses. I am still trapped but am considering escape (divorce, not a Titusesqe ending.)
@ Carl Pham, Google called and said you are melting their servers because of all the people having to use the dictionary function!
I have read the article and I personally dont need any of those “reasons” to want to have sex. Sex is a gift we give to each other, it feels wonderful, it is supremely fun, it brings you closer to your SO, you can laugh, be intense, be crazy, uninhibited, push boundaries, solidify your relationship and more.
I happen to agree with most of the men really. I think if more women realized the simple truth that men love us they would be a lot happier, its really as simple as that.
Carl, I love your belief in the gift of women walking away. How is that a bad thing that he loves to watch you walk away? He also loves to look at your cleavage. He also loves to watch you walk towards him, in your matching underwear that you slowly strip away as you’re crawling into bed with him.
Men are men and women are women, we need to stop looking at each other as the the same gender. Women think different from men, men think different from women. It isnt a “never the two shall meet” moment either. Its simply a matter of speaking your truth, your wants and your needs and listening and responding to that truth, want and need and responding accordingly.
Men want to make women happy, women want to connect with men and take care of them. If everybody let the other do what they really wanted to do life would be good.
As to the comment of women need to feel good to want to have sex, um hello? Men want to make you happy, let them, you feel good, therefore sex! Done!
I think part of the problem for women like Andrea is modern men who are conditioned to complain (the oft-repeated advice to “communicate more”). You shouldn’t whine about sex, or anything else. It’s unmanly and destroys their interest in sex. You should just take what you want unless and until she makes it clear she is not consenting. If you’re doing your part by being a man, refusals should be rare from a women you are in a relationship with.
Women famously don’t know what they want, and in fact listening to what they say they want is often lethal to a relationship (which can be very confusing to us men who are relatively straightforward). Generally what they really need to be happy is an alpha, or least the perception you’re an alpha; the urge for hypergamy is buried deep in their subconscious, evolved over the aeons of human prehistory when the best breeding risk was the brute who crushed his enemies’ skulls with a rock (protohumans used nothing but rocks as tools for a million years or so; it wasn’t even a tool-usage so much as instinct). Never show weakness, and never seek their approval.
Geez, Harry, I’m sympathetic but don’t whine. Men don’t do that. Get to the gym and trim up, put the parasite on a strict diet so you have more ready cash, keep your mouth and body clean and neat, practice walking tall, looking people in the eye, smiling warmly, and listening empathically — then take a look around. Join a coed club, volunteer somewhere. I’m sure there’s a lass not far from you who would just adore having you make her feel beautiful and sexy and desirable, and would respond eagerly.
Marriage is a dynamic mutual partnership, it’s not a legalistic trap or mutual guilt society. If your wife chooses to X out the X-rated part of your relationship, that’s her privilege, and you have no right to demand that she think and feel otherwise and put out for your pleasure. She’s your wife, not a whore. But at the same time, if that’s her choice, then she has no right to insist on your living like a monk and starving a vital part of your soul of its nourishment. You’re her husband, not a sugar daddy.
You say the children are grown, and divorce laws laugh at this stuff. So what’s stopping you? You’re not getting any younger, and life is meant to be enjoyed, each according to his own definition of the word (within reason — psychopaths excepted). Somewhere out there is a woman who’ll get wet just thinking about the precise tone of your voice, and the way you put your hands on her hips, when you’re in the mood. You’re a man, not a teenage Doris Day waiting and waiting by the phone. Go find her.
Guys, you need to face facts: no matter how much sex she gives you, it will never be enough. And women don’t appreciate finding a “more sex is good for you” article taped to their bathroom mirrors, being that they have been getting that rap from guys ever since they started wearing training bras. Even if it is true, it pisses them off. I, an official woman (it’s on my driver’s license) tell you this.
(Sits back and waits for the inevitable “You’re wrong Andrea you dried up old prune my woman has a sex drive equal to and even surpassing mine.” No she doesn’t, she just knows how to fake it so you’ll quit complaining.)
PS: at work that article is blocked under the category “p0rn.” Oops!
Yes, but Andrea, I rather suspect that, as an official woman, you also enjoy a good 76.43% of the time the fact that your man slobbers uncontrollably over you. I’m not saying it isn’t occasionally annoying to have to wipe the drool off your shoes, but, really, would you want to live with a fella who didn’t even have the urge to tape that article hopefully to your mirror? Who was perfectly capable of being merely annoyed when you walked, wearing just your underwear — and your old ratty mismatched underwear at that — between he and the instant replay on the HDTV? Who would simply crane his neck to see around you, instead of having his poor helpless eyeballs drawn with an instant magnetic clang of infinite force to your perfectly shaped ass?
Well, the comments battle has been engaged…
In most posting duals on TT one of the combatants is unarmed, not so here….Reaches for the Popcorn.
I think that Andrea is at at least a slight disadvantage here, not having read the article. Not that it’s an excuse for the outcome, of course. She brings whatever happens on herself. 😉
400 quatloos on Pham.
“Yes, but Andrea, I rather suspect that, as an official woman, you also enjoy a good 76.43% of the time the fact that your man slobbers uncontrollably over you. ”
That drooling and slobbering stopped when we got his dentures fixed. (Wonders what to call her imaginary man now. Thinking of calling him “Winthrop Heatherstone III.” Or Jake.)
And I would never wear ratty underwear in front of Mr. Heatherstone. In fact, the thought that a woman goes around in front of her spouse in her undies is… ooh, I’m getting a bit of a blush. Do the modern young ladies do that? The hussies!
In any case, all my underwear is in perfect condition. I get my corsets and bloomers custom made and they are handwashed by my maid, Consuela. Who is completely legal!
(Starts designing her imaginary mansion. Let’s see, chintz curtains in the morning room… Winthrop’s study will be paneled in dark-stained mahogany — his cogars stain white plaster frightfully…)
Argh — I meant “his cigars.” I’m just going to do what he does and call them “havanas.”
Oh, no, Andrea. Remember how you said our wives had just learned to fake it? Your lucky stiff — oops, sorry, did I say that? Er…drat — has also learned to fake it.
He wears his sunglasses more often than strictly necessary, to conceal the lustful crazed gleam in his otherwise eagle eye. He has practised using his peripheral vision to detect the slight initial acceleration of your spine as you turn towards him, so his gaze can nonchalantly ski-jump off the exquisite paraboloids in your silhouette soon enough to preserve plausible deniability. What? I was looking at that spider web in the neighbor’s fence just past your…er…just past you. Did you know spider silk has ten times the strength of steel? Fascinating!
He has trained himself, through long hours of cold-water bath immersion and study of certain secret old texts of the Templars, not to flinch when a stray eddy in the air brings the chemical insanity of the scent of your skin or hair to his nose. Or, if he does twitch a little, like Galvani’s frog wired to Volta’s chthonic pile, wondering if you might…touch an arm…lean gently against a shoulder — he has excuses prepared. Goodness! Is that the time? I had no idea!
His lasting refuge is when you walk straight away, because without your being able to see behind you he can abandon Spartan discipline and slip greedily into the poco a poco symphonic sorcery of your hips and legs, because God gave that one pure gift to man — how a woman looks walking away — as a true keepsake of lost Paradise.
In any case, all my underwear is in perfect condition.
Oh dear, I feared as much! Mercy!
How dare you! My Winthrop is a perfect gentleman. I refuse to believe all those stories about his school days. He was Head Boy and would never have countenanced such activities. Why, I’m told that not once did they ever find an unauthorized female on campus while he was there.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go consult with our gardener, Jack, about a problem with aphids in my aspidistra. (Where did I put that key to the handc– that is, the greenhouse door…)
Jack? I don’t know Jack. But what man does, where the female of the species is concerned.
I recommend for your consideration Neal Stephenson’s ruminations on Victorian restraint and sex. A crude paraphrase is that discipline is the focussing of power, and the narrower the focus the fiercer the heat, so to speak.
Or perhaps: beware Lord Peter Wimsey unmasked as Mr. Rochester, there between the nodding leafy rows of hydroponic cotyledons and tomatoes in the greenhouse. You might come back disheveled. Consuela can help tuck your hair back up, though.
I feel rather like I did when I attempted to discuss Virginia wines with one of the warehouse guys where I work and he told me about the delicious new beverage he had found: Bud Lite with Clamato. In other words, chastened.
On the other hand, it’s probably the correct beverage to drink with corn dogs.
Then we have come full circle, for none are so chased as the chaste.
And let us not enitrely eschew the chiaroscuro charm of the Clamato chaser in your chased chalice, less from phthisic charity than the chthonic chromosomal chrestomathy. Hybrid vigor, you know. Prized in the genes and the greenhouse.
Besides, he’s probably from Betelgeuse and those are the first two ingredients of a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster. Woo hoo!
Mercy, Carl, my glasses are all steamed up. Must be your reference to the twitching of Galvani’s frog.
Do carry on.
“And let us not enitrely eschew the chiaroscuro charm of the Clamato chaser in your chased chalice, less from phthisic charity than the chthonic chromosomal chrestomathy.”
I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.
Okay, so I read it. And this just wrote itself: I swear, the keys on my keyboard just started going up and down all by themselves:
Karen staggered into the bathroom after finally forcing herself to quit hitting the snooze button. She could hear Carl in the kitchen, whistling and clattering about in that annoying way he had. Karen sighed. Why had she married a morning person again?
Karen was not at her best before noon.
Turning on the bathroom light, she reached for her toothbrush, only to be brought up short by the peculiar appearance of the mirror. She blinked and rubbed her sleep-clogged eyes, and realized that there was an oblong of paper taped to the surface of the glass. She leaned over the sink and peered at it. It seemed to be a printout from a web page. A moment passed. Then she reached up and pulled it off the glass so she could read it better. When she was done she looked up at her reflection. Then back down at the sheet of paper in her hand. She carefully placed the paper on the counter and continued with her morning routine.
In the meantime Carl, on his second cup of coffee, listened for the sounds of his lady love as she moved about the bedroom. Soon she would be in the kitchen. He poured her a cup of coffee and prepared it the way she liked, placing it next to the full healthy breakfast he had prepared (eggs, bacon, whole wheat toast, marmalade). He also poured a cup of orange juice.
He hoped she liked the article he had printed out for her. He knew how careful she was about her figure. She jogged every morning, and went to the gym after work three times a week.
Karen came in the door. Instead of her jogging sweats, she was already dressed for work. Carl was puzzled. “You’re not going jogging today?” It was sunny out, and the temperature was cool but not too cool.
Instead of answering, Karen reached out. He saw that she had the article printout in her hand. Before he could say anything, she had put it over his face, securing it to his forehead with the tape. He heard Karen say, her voice fading as if she were walking away, “So, I’m not healthy? My skin’s in bad condition? I’m not comfortable with my body? I need to worry about how much semen you produce? I’ll say I do — I’m the one who does the laundry!” The sound of a slamming door punctuated the final sentence.
Warily, Carl lifted the paper from his face. “Honey?” There was no answer. Karen’s breakfast lay untouched on the table. He heard the sound of the garage door, and then the car pulling out of the driveway. Then it stopped. After a moment the kitchen phone rang. He got up and answered it. “Oh, and darling?” said the voice on the other end. It was Karen. “The chocolates had better be Godiva. Not Russell Stover. Godiva.” Then silence as she ended the call. There was the faint sound of tires backing down the driveway, then going up the street. Then silence once more.
Carl sighed and wondered how he could have married such a humorless woman. He rose from the table, went into the bedroom and opened the gun safe. After removing a handgun and a single bullet, Carl went to sit in the bathtub for the last time.
Karen returned home 10 hours later, and five minutes thereafter she was calmly reviewing the insurance portfolio and bemoaning a lack of chocolates.
Ooookay, Titus. (Backs away slowly.)
I mean, Godiva chocolates aren’t that expensive. Is there some past chocolate-related trauma you aren’t telling us about?
Of course, on the way to work, Karen noticed that her right thumb-nail had in fact chipped for the um-teenth time. ‘My stupid nails’, she thought, ‘They always crack. Gawd, I wish they wouldn’t do that all the time’.
Later that day, she checked her calendar to see it there in big, red letters, staring at her like a hungry wolf stares at a wounded rabbit: 2:00 PM, Dr. Martin, Root Canal. ‘I hate my teeth’, she gritted to herself, idly checking on the current price of full dentures.
About ah hour after that day, she got that normal ‘2:30’ feeling that was coming on more and more these days. ‘Must be the mattress’, she thought as she yawned again and drank her 5th diet coke of the day.
On the way home, she was listening to her favorite afternoon Oldie’s show when the Dee-Jay read the very article that had been left on her mirror. She made fun of some of the items, but Karen took notice of #s 6, 13, and 14. She laughed out loud at #11, though (she thought: ‘If that was true, Janice down the street would weigh about 50 lbs’). Maybe she had been a little too hard on Carl.
When she arrived home, she was surprised to see his car home so early (he’s usually at the gym now, right?). She opened the front door and immediately saw the roses in a vase on the light-stand. ‘Wow’ she thought, ‘it’s been years’. She also noticed the subtle aroma of sherry and spices, mixed with a hint of shellfish. “Carl,” she smiled as she walked into the kitchen, “is that cream of crab soup? You know that’s my favorite. And you even poured me a glass of Pino. I thought you had forgotten”.
Instead of answering, he swept Karen into his arms, planted a big smoochie on her forehead, and apologized for the morning, explaining that it was supposed to be a funny, little joke.
Well, with the kind of day she had, she said she was sorry, too, for leaving like she did. Of course, the ‘make-up’ part of this story was so nice that she wasn’t even mad when the soup boiled over an hour later.
hmm. I’d have to say that Karen is either irrational or maliciously misconstruing Carl’s intentions with regard to sharing the article in order to emotionally geld him (which Titus made quite visceral).
The article and your story isn’t about how a woman might need to fix her skin, be more healthy, etc., its about the joy a man feels about providing happy excuses for increased intimacy. As Mr. Pham has so eloquently put it, the man finds great pleasure in intimate contact with his partner, whether visual or physical.
In Carl’s perception (from your story) there are 3 possible interpretations of Karen’s actions: 1) she’s made an irrational judgement that he shared the article with her to fix her glaring flaws, 2) she’s made an irrational judgement of him that he shared the article with her to convince her to fulfill his purely carnal desires for more passionateless sex, that he considers her only an inanimate sex object and she isn’t doing her job (he’s so insensitive), 3) that Karen has made a rational judgement as to Carl’s motives, but is maliciously trying to hurt him anyways.
I think Karen’s interpretation is more likely to be 2), considering her actions and my witnessing too many females corrupt self image. However for Carl, given the reality of Karen’s actions and his obvious adoring treatment of her, can’t fathom 1) or 2), and is thus left with 3) as the most rational answer, and in a worst case scenario, the dramatic results Titus mentioned.
Where IS this anomalous Carl who thoughtfully prepares not only breakfast, but DINNER for his working lady-love, she of the chipped nails and rotting teeth? Does he also hand-launder her hosiery?
(I must reassess my theory that the inhabitants of La-La Land consist mainly of Liberals.)
+5 Funny, T.
Maybe the rest of you alt.sex.stories.transterrestrial fans are taking your T too dark? Maybe this fellow Carl — odd, old-fashioned name, that — was just getting ready to take a stroll to his neighor’s. Lady A frequently spent time in the greenhouse at that hour, and she’d suggested she might teach him to tend her garden if he taught her to handle his gun.
Lady A, while past 40 — years, and pounds overweight, due to a weakness for Godiva chocolates — had a delightful warmth of manner, ready smile, and steel-trap mind that Carl found pleasingly stimulating, after the long years with his tort lawyer and big-time Democratic donor polyester pants suit wearing wife Karen, who was so tiresomely fanatical about recycling, both her fourteen per day decaf mocha grande Starbuck’s styrofoam cups and the ideas of the 1970s. Sure, she’d kept her wasitline by running nowhere in the gym for hours, but if she’d expressed an original or non-narcissist thought any time in the last 20 years, it must have been while he was in the john or asleep.
Lady A had laughingly proposed running off to Alaska to kill their own food and raise a free-range bonus baby or two, and today Carl might just consider the idea seriously.
Ugh. No bebehs. We can raise some orphaned wolf puppies instead. We can train them to hunt for us.
Andrea, is that a capitulation?
Andrea, please say it isn’t so.
Damned frog….
“Andrea, is that a capitulation?”
Um, no. To what?
“Damned frog…”
Frog? Kermit, is that you? Darned exes don’t know the meaning of “it’s over!”
Ryan:
“The article and your story isn’t about how a woman might need to fix her skin, be more healthy, etc., its about the joy a man feels about providing happy excuses for increased intimacy.”
And being totally clueless about the fact that women are bombarded with men “providing happy excuses for increased intimacy” night and day and can get as tired of it as men get tired of being constantly nagged to talk about their “feelings.”
Clown nose off here. I said this on my blog, I’ll repeat it here: men and women are different. Here is how: sex makes men feel better; women have to feel good before they have sex. By feeling good I mean “feel reasonably happy and content.” Now I am sure you’ll accuse me of generalizing but as much as I am sure you are all individual snowflakes totally unlike anyone else ever, we can’t talk about basic human nature without generalizing. So in general, if you get the urge to tell your honey “Guess what, sex is good for your heath! Hint, hint” — quell that urge. It’s not anything she hasn’t heard before. In fact, it’s one of the oldest get-her-in-bed tricks in the world. “You don’t want to have sex? You might be… frigid! Frigidity causes dyspepsia which causes ulcers and premature facial wrinkles! Then no man will want you and you’ll die a lonely old maid!” (A lonely old maid of ninety-six who kept her faculties and most of her physical abilities to the last, and left her millions, unspent by the spouse and children she never had, to the ASPCA.)
96 years with no spouse or children? For me, I cannot imagine a more lonely existence.
Sorry, Andrea. Known of too many women who have to not merely “feel reasonably happy and content” but have to have everything dang near perfect. Got a whole snowdrift of the precious little flakes. Most of them used bait-and-switch to nab their longsuffering spouse, one of the oldest get-him-in-marriage tricks in the world. “You want to have sex? What do you think this is, an adult relationship based on vows and stuff?”
He tapes it to the mirror, it’s not a silly suggestion, it’s a humorous veil over a serious warning.
Thanks, Carl. BTW, I am still laughing at your reply, +5 to you, sir.
Very well stated.
“96 years with no spouse or children? For me, I cannot imagine a more lonely existence.”
That’s because you’re not me. Most women would agree with you too. I admit I am unusual. But not everyone needs another person to “complete” them. And it’s even possible to live without sex! It’s harder (no pun intended, so stop that snickering I can hear in the back) for men to do so than women, but it’s not an unusual notion — Catholic priests and Buddhist monks are supposed to at least try to stay celibate. The great thing about being a woman, though, is you don’t need an excuse like belonging to some special religious group to refrain from sex. True, people who are enslaved by the current all-sex-all-the-time culture get bent out of shape about the idea. But that’s their problem. It’s great not to be a slave to pop culture.
Hey, now! I wake up, head to the gym, then return and prepare coffee so that my dear wife may awake to a fresh cup of joe with cream – every morning I am not out of town on business! And i also cook dinner 2-3 nights a week. Of course, she is usually tired from raising all those sons….
The oldest saw in the book is that men use love to get sex and women use sex to get love. I think that, to me, the most puzzling aspect of modern womanhood is how many women seem to resent their near-infinite ability to give pleasure to the man they claim to love. This is one reason men tend to feel unloved by their wives. Most men I know simply can’t fathom why their “lover” is unwilling to do simple, obvious things that their man finds to be powerfully enjoyable. Most men assume that if they could trigger in their wives the sort of immediate, visceral, fulfilling enjoyment that THEY feel, well they’d be walking around in their undies all the time. I suppose it is inevitable that one gender has to take a somewhat less enthusiastic view of an activity that provides unlimited joy, pleasure and fulfillment, otherwise couples might spend hours in bed pleasuring each other every week, and wouldn’t that be an awful fate to endure?
I don’t know what’s with Andrea, but every woman I’ve been with has been open to sex whenever I want it, and their only complaint has been if I’m not hitting it often enough — once a week seems to be the bare minimum expectation. Five times in a day has typically been the limit, but only for physical reasons.
Men have an obligation to make sex interesting to women, women have an obligation to not say no unless they have a damned good reason. Sex doesn’t just make men “feel better,” it is an all-consuming drive. Don’t eat anything for a couple days and then look at and smell your very favorite food and you’ll start to understand what sex is to men.
Karen sounds like quite the unreasonable emotionally blackmailing bitch. Intentionally misunderstanding things as criticism seems to be Modern Woman 101 sometimes, but trust me guys — you can do better.
Ahh, but if being a priest or a monk were so appealing, most people would do it!
What most people on this planet do with their lives is make it just challenging enough so that they are drawn to stretch themselves and increase their feeling of being alive. Some do that with families and children, some with clay pots, some with legal ponderings.
All of it is a personal choice. And choose we do.
While this fine woman may choose to see the article as a subversive attempt to ‘trick’ a mate, others see it as an opportunity to ‘woo’ a mate. Some have chosen a partner that revels in the fun of rolling around with their love for a few hours with scarcely a reason. Such lists, lightly sourced as they are, can be but a twist of the tap for those who are thirsty.
I appreciate your celibacy choice and am considered more ‘unusual’ than you – I belong to neither above-mentioned group, yet am of the derided male group. Pop culture not withstanding, I prefer the company of my own thoughts more than that of another.
I comment not in defense of the article, nor of the topic idea of attaching it for shared viewing. I comment in defense of those who enjoy their choices and their lives. Ironic that a fine lass such as you clings strongly to her convictions and choices, yet lashes out at those who are happily comfortable with their own.
I find the contrast … delicious – like fine chocolate.
😀
Catholic priests and Buddhist monks are supposed to at least try to stay celibate.
Yeah, how’s that worked out over the centuries? If celibate means “free of boinking a spouse of the opposite sex”, then I’d say it’s been pretty successful. But if it means “free of boinking each other or little boys” … well, not so much.
Peregrine John, you hit my feelings on the head with “…used bait-and-switch to nab their long suffering spouse…” as that’s how my seduction and marriage appears in retrospect.
As for the 96 year old spinster thing, I had a great-aunt who lived to around that age – forget whether she was 94, 95, or what – and died a virgin. She was reportedly happy enough. Though there was something odd about the branch of the family, with a couple of sisters living like that, others being legitimately crazy or suicidal, and the only “normal” one being my grandmother.
I knew someone would bring up the “they’re boinking little boys” line. Yawn. Actually, you should be careful when you say things like that — it just makes me think that if YOU were deprived of a woman then you’d feel you had no choice but to turn to little boys. Think about it.
The greatest contradiction of the contradictory sex is this:
1) Women are far more sexually differentiated than men. From intensity to desired frequency to preferences, every woman is unique. Yes, there’s more male freakery at the ends of the bell curve, but in the middle, most guys are pretty damn similar.
2) Despite this, every woman confidently projects her own sexual personality onto the rest of femaledom, and greets any disagreement as merely proof that the other woman is a freak.
I assume it’s a form of narcissism.
PS: when heterosexual priests and monks decide to break their vows, they have no trouble finding women. It’s not like women don’t hang around church.
“I admit I am unusual. But not everyone needs another person to ‘complete’ them. And it’s even possible to live without sex!”
I respect you for being honest about this, Andrea. I wish my wife had been. Prior to marriage, she gave every indication of being enthusiastic about the prospect of a sexual relationship with me, while insisting that we wait until we were married. (I complied.) Once married, she turned out to to be indifferent, at best, on the subject. She was quite interested in having children, though, while I doubted my own suitability for parenthood.
This disagreement became moot when, two years into the marriage, she because pregnant due to a mysterious (but very convenient, for her) birth control failure. (It’s pretty easy to sabotage a diaphragm.) Once she had the children she wanted, her interest in sex dropped to zero and stayed there. She put an end to the physical relationship by simply turning me down every single time I showed interest until I got the message and stopped trying. She also withdrew emotionally, focusing all of her attention on the children and ignoring me as much as possible, even excluding them from their care and upbringing as much as she could.
The marriage is now over a quarter century old and dead as a doornail. The children are grown, and she and I have nothing left to talk about (although she continues to spend my money with relish). It is now clear to me that I was never anything to her but a sperm donor and meal ticket.
Compared to that, your honesty is breath of fresh air.
Hmmmm.
@ Andrea Harris
“No she doesn’t, she just knows how to fake it so you’ll quit complaining.”
As long as I can’t tell the difference … it’s all good!
See, Harry’s life lesson is exactly why I’m adopting Andrea’s game plan when I hit 30.
@Harry, sorry to hear you are in the same shape as I. Hard to believe we bought into that whole “Marriage is forever thing” and did not see the writing on the wall sooner and cut our loses. I am still trapped but am considering escape (divorce, not a Titusesqe ending.)
@ Carl Pham, Google called and said you are melting their servers because of all the people having to use the dictionary function!
I have read the article and I personally dont need any of those “reasons” to want to have sex. Sex is a gift we give to each other, it feels wonderful, it is supremely fun, it brings you closer to your SO, you can laugh, be intense, be crazy, uninhibited, push boundaries, solidify your relationship and more.
I happen to agree with most of the men really. I think if more women realized the simple truth that men love us they would be a lot happier, its really as simple as that.
Carl, I love your belief in the gift of women walking away. How is that a bad thing that he loves to watch you walk away? He also loves to look at your cleavage. He also loves to watch you walk towards him, in your matching underwear that you slowly strip away as you’re crawling into bed with him.
Men are men and women are women, we need to stop looking at each other as the the same gender. Women think different from men, men think different from women. It isnt a “never the two shall meet” moment either. Its simply a matter of speaking your truth, your wants and your needs and listening and responding to that truth, want and need and responding accordingly.
Men want to make women happy, women want to connect with men and take care of them. If everybody let the other do what they really wanted to do life would be good.
As to the comment of women need to feel good to want to have sex, um hello? Men want to make you happy, let them, you feel good, therefore sex! Done!
I think part of the problem for women like Andrea is modern men who are conditioned to complain (the oft-repeated advice to “communicate more”). You shouldn’t whine about sex, or anything else. It’s unmanly and destroys their interest in sex. You should just take what you want unless and until she makes it clear she is not consenting. If you’re doing your part by being a man, refusals should be rare from a women you are in a relationship with.
Women famously don’t know what they want, and in fact listening to what they say they want is often lethal to a relationship (which can be very confusing to us men who are relatively straightforward). Generally what they really need to be happy is an alpha, or least the perception you’re an alpha; the urge for hypergamy is buried deep in their subconscious, evolved over the aeons of human prehistory when the best breeding risk was the brute who crushed his enemies’ skulls with a rock (protohumans used nothing but rocks as tools for a million years or so; it wasn’t even a tool-usage so much as instinct). Never show weakness, and never seek their approval.
Geez, Harry, I’m sympathetic but don’t whine. Men don’t do that. Get to the gym and trim up, put the parasite on a strict diet so you have more ready cash, keep your mouth and body clean and neat, practice walking tall, looking people in the eye, smiling warmly, and listening empathically — then take a look around. Join a coed club, volunteer somewhere. I’m sure there’s a lass not far from you who would just adore having you make her feel beautiful and sexy and desirable, and would respond eagerly.
Marriage is a dynamic mutual partnership, it’s not a legalistic trap or mutual guilt society. If your wife chooses to X out the X-rated part of your relationship, that’s her privilege, and you have no right to demand that she think and feel otherwise and put out for your pleasure. She’s your wife, not a whore. But at the same time, if that’s her choice, then she has no right to insist on your living like a monk and starving a vital part of your soul of its nourishment. You’re her husband, not a sugar daddy.
You say the children are grown, and divorce laws laugh at this stuff. So what’s stopping you? You’re not getting any younger, and life is meant to be enjoyed, each according to his own definition of the word (within reason — psychopaths excepted). Somewhere out there is a woman who’ll get wet just thinking about the precise tone of your voice, and the way you put your hands on her hips, when you’re in the mood. You’re a man, not a teenage Doris Day waiting and waiting by the phone. Go find her.