Mike Alvear's Urge & Merge

It was just after midnight and we were curled up on her sofa, making out like teenagers. The first date had gone unusually well; hours of scintillating conversation, intermingled with blatant sexual innuendo, had led to a cab outside her home. When I asked if she intended to ‘invite me up for coffee’, she rolled her eyes. ‘I know exactly what kind of “coffee” you want.’

‘I like my coffee like I like my women’ I replied. ‘Dark, and just slightly bitter. Like you.’

In the flickering candlelight of her tiny living room, hands, mouths and lips were moving in synchronous motion. She was astride me, her bra vanished, and I was flicking counter-clockwise circles with the tip of my tongue around her perfectly formed, eraser-tip nipples, when I deftly slid my fingers into her jeans and down the crack of her ass. She paused.

‘I don’t think we should, tonight’ she heaved. ‘After all, it’s only our first date.’

I cradled her face in my hands. ‘We don’t have to. You’re the woman; you have the right to say no at any time. But we are adults. We’re here. We’re worked up. What is accomplished by sending me home all hot and bothered? I’m going to walk out the door and one of two things is going to happen: either we’re both going to go masturbate alone, or you’re going to masturbate and I’m going to go make a phone call. It’s up to you.’

Several hours and broken pieces of furniture later, we both agreed we’d come, to the right conclusion.

I’m always amazed in this day and age when I encounter women who choose to postpone sex with a man they think has relationship potential, either because they think they won’t be taken seriously if they sleep with a man on the first date, or out of some antiquated notion that unless you make us work for it, we won’t appreciate it.

I’m here to call bullshit on both. Read the rest of this entry »

The Three Stages of Clay Aiken:

1. Teen Girl Crush

2. Desperate Closet Case   

3. Loving Dad?

Aiken visiting a North Carolina summer camp affiliated with his charity.

Clay Aiken got his gal pal producer pregnant. Jewelry may have been involved but a pearl necklace was not.

I’ve always dismissed “Gay” Aiken as a lightweight. His singing made me long for a shot of insulin.  His flaming gay denials made me long for a can of lighter fluid.

But his pending fatherhood changed all that. He could have faked a girlfriend to throw people off his scent. He could have gotten married to cover his tracks. He could have gotten his “wife” pregnant to make the hounds go away.

But he didn’t.  Instead, he artificially inseminated a woman who wasn’t his girlfriend or wife and got two for the price of one:  He came out without any speeches and lived out a dream without living through a nightmare.

Good for him.  I still don’t like what he’s done to music but I love what he’s done to his character.  You can just tell he’s going to be a great parent.  Anybody who goes through the hellish machinations of IVF to bring a child into the world is doing it because they want to devote their lives to something bigger than themselves.

It’s the one where you lay on your back, put your arms above your head…

…and let your partner do all the work.

Sorry for the jab, Michael– not really talking about you, but people like you. Beautiful people with beautiful bodies. And what they’re like in bed. Anybody lucky enough to bag somebody way out of their league knows what I’m getting at:

Gorgeous guys make lousy lays.

They’re like restaurants in great locations–they don’t have to give good eats or good service because they don’t have to–the line’s out the door. Every session with a gorgeous guy is a three-way—you, him, and his ego. One girlfriend told me she went home with guy so high up in the beauty chart she got nose bleeds just looking at him. But he sucked in the sack. “I might as well have masturbated to his picture, for all the attention he gave to me,” she said.

You’d think Boys Burdened with Beauty would be great in bed just from the sheer volume of sex they have. But practice doesn’t make perfect if all you’re practicing is being adored. Or serviced. In my own experience of bagging the burdened, I could sense the expectation of the status imbalance:  Since I was at the bottom of the pecking order I was to do all the pecking.

There’s one exception: Guys who grew into their beauty–the fatties and nerds who bloomed later in life. They experienced the sting of rejection, the pain of being sexually invisible. And through their suffering they learned an open secret about great sex: Giving pleasure is often hotter than taking it.