Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Category Archives: Sex
Nipples, damn it! Does there have to be another reason?
Celebrities and thier wardrobe malfunctions.
It’s so nice to have a li’l cream for my morning coffee.
D.
Branding
Munching on Pepperidge Farm cookies this evening whilst drinking an ultra dry martini made from Hendrick’s gin*, it occurred to me it would be fun to write a post on branding. Specifically, which brands do we as a family deeply care about?
You could make a stone ache.
Like many of you, I sometimes check my referrals. How are people finding Balls and Walnuts? Well, this morning, someone found me by searching for “testalgia”.
Hmm. I didn’t even know I had written about testalgia, but apparently so. Back in October, a big Technorati slutstravaganza month for yours truly, I concluded a lengthy blogwhoring section with the following:
Awright, awright, that’s enough whoring for the weekend. If I do any more of this, I’ll end up with testalgia. Ask Beth, she knows what it means.
I’ll bet Beth has forgotten all about this, too. Or not.
Testalgia, also known as orchialgia, also known as orchidynia (guys, bet you didn’t know your stones were also orchids!) is commonly known as blue balls or stone ache. With sexual arousal, the genitals engorge with blood. Primarily, this is a venous capacitance effect. In other words, it’s the venous system, not the arterial system, which swells with blood. If orgasm occurs, the vessels relax and everything goes back to normal. If not, then the vessels may remain distended.
According to this Discovery Health Article,
This uneven blood flow causes an increase in volume of blood trapped in the genitals and contributes to the penis becoming erect and the testicles becoming engorged with blood. During this process of vasocongestion the testicles increase in size 25-50 percent.
Wow! I wasn’t imagining it. There’s more:
The condition usually does not last long and the level of pain associated with blue balls is usually minor and can be exaggerated. Most men have been socialized to ejaculate when they get an erection during sexual activity. Failure to ejaculate and to feel orgasm often adds frustration and disappointment to the reality of the physical sensation.
Like hell it’s minor. Guys, back me up on this. Think back to your virginal days, when all you could do was kiss and grope for hours. Felt like you’d been kicked in the nads afterwards, didn’t it?
I learned from Discovery Health that women get stone ache, too. In med school, we were taught that we should be very gentle during that portion of a pelvic exam when we palpated the ovaries. My fingers are too short, so I never did get to feel an ovary. Some women, I could barely reach the cervix. So ended my budding career as a gynecologist.
I would like to conclude this public service announcement with a snip from one of my favorite Country Western songs.
You can tell my arms : Go back into the farm!
You can tell my feet to hit the floor.
You can tell my lips to tell my fingertips,
they won’t be reaching out for you no more.
But don’t tell my balls,
my achy breaky balls
D.
Me first by myself
Travis Frey, a 33-year-old Iowa man, is facing charges that he tried to kidnap his wife. She has provided to prosecutors the “Contract of Wifely Expectations” he asked her to sign. She didn’t sign it . . . and yet, jeez, she still married the guy. When someone opens up his heart to you like this and shows you the maggots inside, don’t you, um, think twice about saying, “I do”?
When we are at home , and alone as a family, you will be naked within 20 minutes of the kids being in bed, and then sleep naked, unless instructed otherwise. If I am not home when the kids go to bed you are still to be naked before I return home. The only exception will be during your menstrual cycle.
This is a man whose marriage manual is Pauline Reage’s The Story of O. How soon before he insists on branding her?
During my time, you WILL —
1. Be submissive, subservient, and totally obedient.
2. To do what you are asked, when you are asked, exactly how you are asked.
3. . . .
There’s more. Much more.
What would you put in your marriage contract?
Hat tip to Daily Kos.
D.
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Sexual selection: isn’t it romantic?
Callou, callay, it’s Smart Bitches Day!
Casting about for motivation for your main character? Is she looking for wit, wealth, or wicked good looks in her man?
Nope. What she really wants is a top-notch gene donor. Brains and beauty are indicators of high quality DNA, and wealth should improve the chances that their many babies will survive and breed unto the next generation.
So goes the theory of daddy-daughter team David and Nanelle Barash, who last year released their sociobiological interpretation of literature, Madame Bovary’s Ovaries. Sexual selection, a key element of Darwinism and a centerpiece of the Barashes’ thesis, refers to traits which may not necessarily be adaptive but help to attract mates. Think about a peacock’s iridescent tail feathers, which attract peahens and predators alike. Think about Porsches and Beamers and big fat gold chains hanging on the necks of certain rappers.
Not that any of you would be that shallow.
In some instances, the Barash method yields fresh ways of looking at things. From Denis Dutton’s Washington Post review:
. . . discriminating human females are central to the world of Jane Austen, whom the Barashes call “the poet laureate of female choice.†Selecting a good mate is Austen’s major theme. She is particularly adept at bringing out, against the vast intricacies of a social milieu, the basic values women seek in men, and men tend to want in women (shortlist: good looks, health, money, status, IQ, courage, dependability and a pleasant personality — in many different weightings and orderings). Not being a peacock, Mr. Darcy does not have iridescent feathers, but for human females his commanding personality, solid income, intelligence, generosity, and the magnificent Pemberley estate do very nicely.
Madame Bovary’s Ovaries has its flaws, which Dutton’s review illuminates nicely. I encourage you to read the whole thing. But it occurred to me that, flawed or not, the premise of Darwinian motivation for literary characters has, at the very least, comic merit.
A few ideas:
- One male suitor attempts to topple another by sending his lady love a faked lab report demonstrating that the rival male has a precariously low sperm count.
- To get noticed by an aloof beauty, a wealthy (think Bill Gates) geek sets up a contest for Best DNA of the Year. He bribes the judges, naturally. A witty but bald and short and slightly overweight molecular biologist becomes suspicious and uses statistical arguments to prove the fraud. The beauty and the molecular biologist go off into the sunset.
- You know how Law and Order keeps reusing the sperm donor plot? Arrogant fertility doc only uses his own sperm to create viable embryos for implantation, starts killing people who find out, yatta yatta. How about the distaff version? Arrogant female fertility doc uses her own eggs to create viable embryos, etc. Yeah, she harvests eggs from women, but destroys them. The Bush Administration finds out, makes it a federal case, and Bill Frist & Gonzo Gonzales team up to prosecute.
What’s that? No romance in that last one? Well, how about this. Our perp has been at it for the last 25 years. Unbeknownst to her, her handsome young defense lawyer is actually her son! And she falls for him! We’ll call it Oedipus 2020.
Yeah, you’re right. I don’t understand the romance genre at all.
D.
A shaggy meme
Candy put me up to this. Which ten celebrities would I most like to shag?
Smell the taint
I haven’t blogged about sex in ages. Kate has shamed me into it. Blame her.
Jon Stewart had me in tears tonight. He played straight man to Ed Helms’s extended double entendre on the ‘taint in Washington.’ If I can find a link to the video tomorrow, I’ll post it here.
Here it is, at Crooks and Liars. Enjoy the taint — it’s there to give you pleasure, after all.
Hmm? What’s the taint? Oh, you know what the taint is — it’s the gooch, the durf, the chode, the grundel. Must I explain everything?
By the way: if the odd hand gesture at the end of that skit looked unfamiliar to you, don’t check the Urban Dictionary for shocker, especially if you’re the kind of person who is easily offended by graphic descriptions of off-the-beaten-track sexual practices. I’m warning you, don’t do it.
And if you do, I can’t be held accountable.
In other breaking news, CNN.com reports that an African grey parrot cued his owner in to the fact that his girlfriend had cheated on him with a guy named Gary:
The African grey parrot kept squawking “I love you, Gary” as his owner, Chris Taylor, sat with girlfriend Suzy Collins on the sofa of their shared flat in Leeds, northern England.
But when Taylor saw Collins’s embarrassed reaction, he realized she had been having an affair — meeting her lover in the flat whilst Ziggy looked on, the UK’s Press Association reported.
Ziggy even mimicked Collins’s voice each time she answered her telephone, calling out “Hiya Gary,” according to newspaper reports.
Having sex with some other guy in her #1 boyfriend’s flat? That is low. No wonder Chris Taylor has made certain that everyone else in Leeds (and the world) will know, and tremble at, the name SUZY COLLINS.
Can you tell I ain’t got bupkes tonight?
Feeling cruddy, whine, whine. All I want is to take a shower and go lie down.
See you tomorrow, fiends.
D.
Who says they’re cold-blooded?
In the February 2006 issue of Reptiles*, Jim Pether, owner/manager of a reptile park in the Canary Islands, shares his experiences breeding Komodo dragons (Komodos: A Breeding Project With Teeth).
His initial attempts were nearly disastrous:
“Then, one day when I was not at the park, a visitor ran and told my wife Christine that one dragon was attacking another. She ran down to find the male chewing the female’s leg off and bravely (or stupidly, depending on your view) jumped in and began beating him over the head with a broom.”
She manages to rescue the female by luring the male away with a dead rat. The vet saved the female’s leg. Not willing to press his luck, Pether sent the female to the Rotterdam Zoo.
He had one more female to try out.
“Nervous at first, the female ran away and hid in her burrow . . .”
Word gets around.
“but after a few days got used to the male’s presence. They were soon basking together.”
On to the action.
“Actual mating began when the male started tongue flicking the female’s cloacal area, presumably to test if she was ovulating and releasing pheromones. The male then raked her back with his long claws and tongue flicked her body. He then positioned his body parallel to hers and tongue-flicked her neck. Using a rear leg, he lifted her tail to mate with her.”
Was it good for you, too?
D.
*Available at pet stores near you!
The Saugeen Stripper was good for me. Was she good for you, too?
The sight of double-vision Elmos bouncing off the Saugeen Stripper’s breasts sent my blog counter through the roof this last weekend. I must have tapped into something special: that quintessential sadness of innocence encountering carnality, or perhaps the joy of using nubile breasts as trampolines. Or maybe there really are that many horny guys out there hoping I would provide a link to the video.
Breasts, though: are they ever mesmerizing. My regulars have already read The Sociobiology of Boobage, but you trespassers would do well to follow that link. (Fine cleavage there. You won’t be disappointed, and you might even learn something.)
I saw my first up-close-and-personal, bare nekkid boobies at Yellowstone National Park, at the concession stand near Old Faithful. A girl in line to buy hot dogs wore something that sort of fell open at the sides. Honestly, I have no idea what she had on. I wasn’t looking at what she wore, for heaven’s sake.
Sure, I’d seen ’em in the movies, and I’d glimpsed a few Playboys over the years. I’d even copped more than a few feels. At recess and lunch in 5th and 6th grade, we played co-ed touch football, and I’m afraid I took the touch part literally. Nowadays, when kindergarteners are counseled on sexual harassment, I suspect I’d be locked up. Back then, I escaped with an angry, “Hoffman, you pervert!”
Back to the Saugeen Stripper. If you haven’t seen the photos, the most remarkable thing is the blasé expression on the guys’ faces. This young, beautiful woman is giving them lap dances, and they look like they’re posing for high school football pictures. Unbelievable.
But, back to me.
I’m not a kiss-and-tell kinda guy, so let’s skip over high school. The nicest-looking breasts I saw in college were in my Psych 101 textbook, a black-and-white photo of a woman nursing her infant. I don’t think I ever made it past that chapter.
Close runner-up for best collegiate boobage: my pack of Asian Beauty playing cards, purchased at a schlocky Chinatown gift shop.
And what do I get nowadays?
Patient (typically a woman in her sixties or older, someone who has for many decades baked herself medium-well in the Southern California sun — remember Magda in There’s Something About Mary?) : Dr. Hoffman, I have this rash.
Then, so fast I have no chance to object, she lifts her sweater and gloop, there they are.
I’m an ENT. Ear, nose, and throat. If I was breast, ear, nose, and throat, I’d be BENT. And you all know I’m not BENT.
D.
My dorm was never this much fun
At the University of Western Ontario, the now notorious Saugeen Stripper hosted a lap dance for several of her male dormie friends.
By the way — that link? Not work-safe.
Tickle me, Elmo. You know how I like it.
I lived in a co-ed dorm at Berkeley, and I’m telling you, no one got laid, except maybe my roommate, and from the way his girl whimpered afterwards, I’m not sure anything really happened. There may have been a wee bit too much alcohol involved. (Oh — how do I know this? They thought I was asleep. Riiiight.)
But no one got laid at the University of Western Ontario strip tease, as far as we know, so perhaps I’m asking too much from my college memories. Then again . . . damn. We didn’t even play strip poker. We played Spades and Bridge, that’s how boring we were. The deliciously zaftig Andrea gave out hugs to any guy who looked pathetic enough to need one; that’s the closest we ever came to a strip tease.
Oh, wait. I’m remembering something else. Once, when some drunk-off-his-ass jerk set off the fire alarm in the middle of the night and we all rushed downstairs in the cold of winter, J., the girl I lost to Mr. Blue-Eyed Jesus, had wrapped herself in a bathrobe — too hastily, it seems, since my friend Stan got an eyeful of her booty and told me about it in the morning. That was my second-biggest dorm thrill, next to free hugs from Andrea.
Poor “I Wuv Punk” Russell, he desperately wanted to get laid, but his was a hopeless case. Remember Peter Billingsley, the kid who played Ralphie in A Christmas Story? Picture a six-foot-tall Ralphie. Yes, every bit as geeky-looking as Ralphie, and with a voice that cracked on every other word. Russell got nowhere. Not even Andrea would hug him. I think they based The 40 Year Old Virgin on Russell.
So, high school seniors, don’t get fooled into thinking co-ed dorms are an E-ticket to hot strip tease shows and unlimited mind-blowing sex. They’re not.
Or maybe that was just Berkeley’s problem.
D.