Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Category Archives: Sex
Butt cleavage bonanza
Recently, I received the following email from Chester Langgröd, CEO of Flickr:
Dear Mr. Walnut,
We were dismayed by the recent poor showing of Flickr versus our competitor, Google (Flickr and Google Go Toe to Toe), vis a vis cameltoe images. Indeed, we hold your competition largely responsible for last quarter’s shortfall in Flickr’s page views. We at Flickr consider it our solemn responsibility to become the internet’s slickest entry portal for viewers of salacious images, and have in recent weeks provided numerous incentives to our patrons, encouraging them to upload a wide range of unique and stimulating graphic content (see the recent Wall Street Journal article entitled Eager to Capture Soft Core Market, Flickr Pitches Big Tent).
Accordingly, we would like to encourage you to host a rematch, possibly using one of the following search terms:
ass bandit
ass crack
ass master
Seven pages of suggestions follow, concluding with:
well hung
wet beaver
X-rated.
I’m sure you will be pleased by our upgraded content.
Yours in faith,
Chester Langgröd, CEO
Okay, Mr. Langgröd, you’re on. However, since some of my readers are underage, I’m going to go with the somewhat tamer search term (which you did not suggest), butt cleavage. Let’s see how you and Google stack up.
Friends, some of these images may not be work safe.
Fact checking
I’m finally getting around to checking on Kate’s contention that Rachael Ray’s husband likes to be spat upon. A Google search of “Rachael Ray spit fetish” led me to Tabloid Whore, who writes*,
Oh dear. Rachael Ray is splashed all over the cover of this week’s issue of The National Enquirer, accompanied by a headline blasting, “Rachael Ray’s secret pain–HUSBAND CAUGHT CHEATING.” The Enquirer has an exclusive interview with a woman named Jeaninne Walz who claims Ray’s husband John Cusimano has a stinky sexual fetish involving spitting and feet. You heard me. Walz told The Enquirer she has been involved with Cusimano since meeting him in front of a lesbian bar in 2000 and continued to see him after his marriage to Ray in 2005. She said Cusimano has paid her $20 – $500 to “spit on him and commit other degrading acts on him.” To my shock and surprise, The Enquirer said that these “other degrading acts” are too graphic for them to describe. Okay, when the ballsiest tabloid on the market wont print something, you know it has to be bad.
So, there you have it. If it’s in The Enquirer, you know it’s Word.
You’ll hear more from me later, I hope. In the office today, I had the usual pre-holiday nightmare crunch, and tomorrow looks just as bad. Now, all I want to do is go to the gym and beat the crap out of myself. Because, you know? I deserve it.
D.
*Shaina, don’t have a cow, but the Tabloid Whore spells it fettish.
Important addendum to Fact or Fiction?
My romance’s Altoids/blow job scene is a bust. I’ll have to rewrite it. My bad for not personally testing out the facts.
So . . . are there any other ways to screw up a blow job? Cuz that scene can’t end well. It just can’t. (I thought about giving Brad a peanut allergy, but that’s no laughing matter.)
D.
Fact or fiction?
I give full credit to Darla for inspiring tonight’s blog. Her Thursday Thirteen reminded me of Snopes.Com, a website dedicated to the task of separating urban legends from true-life events. But Darla has this odd fascination with cars and poinsettias, while my interests run more towards the carnal.
Here’s the game. Five of the stories below are fact, five are fiction. Pick out the five fictional stories, then check the comments to see how you did. I’ll post links to the original Snopes articles, too, but don’t click ’em until later. Unless you want to think of yourself as a filthy cheater.
Thirteen Things I’d Like to Do in the Kitchen with Rachael Ray
Even now, she shines on me from the back of my box of Original Family Size! Wheat Thins, beckoning me with her girl-next-door smile — tomato-red lips, perfect, white teeth — daring me to join her in some Spinach, Garlic, and Vegetable Dip. Dunk your cracker, Walnut. I’ll lick it clean, and then we’ll nibble it together, just like those two mutts in 101 Dalmatians.
Oh, Rachael, how can I resist?
Games to Play
1. Let’s begin with an old favorite — hide the salami — which has certain flavor advantages over Conceal the Carrot or Carry the Cucumber. Rachael, in case you are fastidious about such things, let me reassure you: mine’s kosher.
2. Stuff the Manicotti. I prefer a creamy mixture of ricotta, parmesan, and assorted spices (salt, pepper, and nutmeg at the very least). I hope Rachael won’t mind bringing along an egg or two.
3. Knead the baguette. With proper technique, it can rise to four or five times its initial volume!
Hold that thought.
Cleanup Projects
4. Scrub out the oven. I prefer to do this work by hand; there’s no substitute for elbow grease. And you know, a properly cleaned oven? You should be able to eat off of it.
5. Revamp the freezer. Wonder what we can do with all those old ice cubes?
6. Varnish the back door. Other chefs would ignore your back door, Rachael, but not me. I’ll lavish so much attention on it, you’ll be able to see your face in it afterwards.
Main Courses
7. Snapper. Some guys might like those Cajun “blackened” recipes, but I prefer my fish raw.
8. Taco salad. I prefer the meat warm and tender, the lettuce finely shaved. Drizzle it with a bit of oil and vinegar and you’re ready to go.
9. Rachael needs beef. But what kind of beef? We’ve already hidden the salami; bologna is too darned similar, and besides, it’s a rather flaccid lunchmeat, don’t you think? Hmm. Tube steak? Too crude. Sausage? NO. We’re not making breakfast. Hot dogs? Maybe. But not just any hot dogs. Rachael deserves the best.
Rachel deserves Top Dog.
Palate cleanser
10. Ginger. After stuffing yourself silly (with food, you filthy swine), how do you wake up the palate? How do you make your mouth crackle with excitement and beg for more? Here’s what you do:
Peel a finger of ginger, as long and fat a finger as you can find. That stuff you read about soaking it in cold water? As O’Brien would say, eff that. Cold water is for wussies. Now insert that bad boy into the jaded, much abused orifice, and let it set there a spell, working its magic. About half an hour should suffice. Now let your partner run his tongue inside to get a good belt of spice.
Ginger is so refreshing.
Desserts
11. Whipped cream makes everything taste better. Everything.
12. Banana splits. But I’m out of bananas! What to do, what to do . . .
13. Creme brulee. Sorry, no double entendres; I just love creme brulee. Especially when consumed by the tablespoonful, as body shots off key anatomic areas. Got the picture?
Shaina (o blogless one!) probably regrets knowing me
SxKitten gives us 13 reasons to have sex. Like I needed more than one?
Pat’s 13 Basslines are still up for all to see
Suisan wants someone to hit her over the head. Really!
In a fit of pique (are there any other kinds of piques?) Kate saws off her wedding ring
D.
What do women want?
So I figured I’d better write a Smart Bitches Day post or Miss Beth will forget all about me. So here goes.
What do women want?
Ruminations apropos of Outlander
How many of y’all have recommended Outlander to me? And how many have told me how very very much they loooooove Jamie? I’ve lost track. And while I am not in the dating game, I’m still not so dead between the legs as to not obsess over What Women Want.
Trouble is, I’m clueless. I still don’t understand what you gals see in Hugh Jackman, and despite the Paul Newman fans who responded to this old post, in my own informal polling, Robert Redford still has Newman beat 2:1, much to my consternation. What is it about Redford? He’s so . . . so . . . so corrugated.
Growing up, I soon figured out that women wanted guys who were taller, meaner, scummier, taller, and taller than me. In that order. I kept wondering, Why do women fall for scum? but I should have been asking, Why am I attracted to women who fall for scum?
But then I graduated Elementary School and everything changed.
Back to Outlander. (Can you tell this is not going to be one of my more coherent SBDs?) Um . . .
SPOILERS
Which is kind of a ridiculous warning considering how many of you have committed this book to memory. NO, I am not going to trash your precious Outlander. I’m enjoying it. Really, I am. Even if I can’t tell when the characters are having sex because Gabaldon likes to play coy about such things, damn her.
Suck his cock already, wench — oh, whoops. You just did. And now he’s going down on you, or maybe you’re giving each other back rubs because DAMN IT I CAN’T TELL!
I think it’s a guy thing. I don’t do well with understated sex scenes.
So why do women love Jamie so much? Is it the kilt with the badger skin sporran? Of course not. I’m not dense, I know what it is.
He’s gallant. He takes punishment intended for that teenage girl and he has no expectation of reward. He got the skin whipped off his back and he didn’t even whimper about it. And he’s willing to give his life for Claire.
And then there are the physical characteristics. He’s a big motherfucker — I think Claire comes up to his bellybutton — not an effete, hairless, slender dude like her husband-from-the-future (present?), who slips from the reader’s (and Claire’s) memory as soon as she plummets back in time. In contrast, Jamie is a Manly Manâ„¢.
He’s a virgin, too, so Claire doesn’t have to worry about that narsty-assed 17th century syphilis. And he’s kind and considerate, an all-around sweetie.
Okay, that’s what women want in their fictional men; but what about real life? I’m curious about your bare minimum requirements. If the gallantry were there, how much slack would you cut a man with regard to physique? And if he were built like Jamie, how much slack would you cut him for a lack of gallantry?
You know, I’ve changed my mind. Forget gallantry and Manly Manlinessâ„¢. I think it is the kilt.
D.
Thank heavens we don’t have a dog (updated)
And no self-respecting cat would allow such liberties.
***
Ever see a flea and body lice do a cover of Violent Femmes “Gone Daddy Gone”? Here ’tis.
No, really. Watch it.
D.
Thirteen things I learned from Cosmo, part quatre
I’m in San Francisco today, sitting through lots of boring lectures about hospital administration or something. I don’t know. I guess I’ll know on Thursday. In any case, I’ve promised you a Cosmo Thirteen, and who am I to disappoint my readers? Here ya go, folks, thanks to the magic of pre-scheduled posting! But I won’t be commenting until late tomorrow evening. (That also means I won’t be able to give you any linky lurve. Sorry!)
The November 2006 issue of Cosmo decorates our supermarket shelves, and you know what that means: time for me to learn a few things about men, women, and the war between the sexes.
1. Paris Hilton has a new “fragrance” — Heiress — and it doesn’t smell like the hindquarters of a cat in heat!
But, you know, I’m just assuming here. They don’t call this stuff eau de toilette for nothin’.
Elsewhere on the odor front: not to be outdone by La Hilton, Britney Spears has her own fragrance — Curious. As in, What’s that smell, dear? Well . . . isn’t that curious.
2. This woman is clueless:
“I had plans to meet up with a guy I had just started seeing and went to a bar with girlfriends beforehand. We shared a seared tuna appetizer and drinks. Later, I headed to the guy’s house. I was a little tipsy, and as soon as he opened the door, I jumped his bones. I wasn’t planning on spending the night because we weren’t sleeping together yet, but we were both so exhausted, we just cuddled and fell asleep. A few hours later, I woke up feeling sick and couldn’t make it to the bathroom, so I vomited in his hamper. When I tried to crawl back in bed, he made an excuse about having to work early and offered to drive me home. I never heard from him again.”
This gal thinks her crime was throwing up in the hamper. My take is, this guy got the willies because he thinks she has a drinking problem. She concludes:
“The next day, my friends said they’d all been sick too. I guess it was the tuna.”
You go on telling yourself that, darling.
Eleven more below the cut!
Thirteen incriminating statements
One of the problems with being shameless is that I have no chance whatsoever of (successfully) running for political office. My opponent would skewer me with my own words — as, for example, when I said yesterday, “I am no longer a sexual predator.” (So, Dr. Hoffman, when did you stop being a sexual predator?)
But I feel bad for my future opponent’s research team. I mean, on this blog I’ve written so much, it will take them days to dig up the necessary dirt. In kindness to them, I have assembled the following thirteen incriminating and/or embarrassing items (that ‘sexual predator’ one? That’s a freebie).
Hmm. Just thought of something.
Jake, you reading this? Stop.
Now we can get started.
The fruit: looking vs. squeezing
Well, Karen liked my post yesterday (Alchemy) but I think I worried her.
“I’m afraid you’re bipolar,” she said last night. I’m waiting for me to fuck up, and she’s waiting for me to plummet from my high. Neither of us have experience with this optimism thing.
One of the best things about our new relationship: I am no longer a sexual predator. (Yet another sentence which will ruin forever my chances to be elected to political office . . . which, hey! gives me an idea for a Thursday Thirteen.) Lemme ‘splain. I have Male Roving Eyes, and in the gym or in grocery stores my brain and my legs tend to wander, too. I don’t exactly stalk these women, but I have to go down that canned vegetables aisle one more time to —
Well, for no good reason, that’s why.
But, now? Beautiful women still show up on my radar but I no longer feel like a missile tracking system locking onto a target. I see them, I appreciate them, and my mind lets them go. It’s nice. I no longer feel like I deserve the adjective creepy.
I look at the fruit but I don’t squeeze it. Well. I haven’t squeezed it for a long, long time, anyway. Back in 10th grade Algebra/Trig, the cheerleader who sat in front of me must have realized those were my knees digging into her ass, but she never said anything about it and never rearranged her furniture so that I couldn’t do that to her. (It took me about twenty years to realize just how easily she could have avoided my knees, which meant, omigod, she liked it. Am I wrong? But at that stage in my life, I was so used to girls ignoring me that I figured she didn’t even realize my knees were there.)
Karen knows about my roving eyes (the spittle hanging off my chin is a good clue) and tolerates it. She’s an ultra-realist, so unless something has a negative effect on her or Jake, she doesn’t mind it. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if either one of us were seriously tested . . . you know, if for example I were out of town and an aroused Russell Crowe walked into her bedroom, or if Jacqueline Kim walked into mine. What would we do? How much can we boast about our 24 years of faithfulness (counting courtship) if we haven’t been tested?
Eh. It’s not likely to happen any time soon. Neither one of us is a knockout and we’re both shy, especially around strangers. We’re not the kind of folks who attract seducers.
But I was talking about looking vs. squeezing. A long time ago, we were on a road trip and had stopped at a gas station to fuel up. Karen went to use the bathroom while I scrubbed the windows and filled up the tank. While working at this, I noticed a small woman with long, dark hair and immediately thought, Nice. My type. I saw her from behind, which is one of my preferred views of a woman, and I watched her for as long as I could, always in that low-key predator mode, a looker but not a squeezer.
Karen turned around.
I had to explain to her why I was laughing so much. Surprise, that’s all it was, but also a measure of delight, since for once I knew I’d be squeezing me some fruit.
I often wonder how she feels about her body — a body which has betrayed her and robbed her of so much. She can’t possibly view it with as much joy as I do.
And now I had better shut up before she accuses me again of being manic.
Now, if only I could get her to pose nude for a few photos. I wonder if nagging would work. Imagine me whining, “But SxKitten poses for Dean!”
D.