Cultural Imperialist

"Scathing Spats on Shallow Subjects"

 

Thu Jun 22

 

2017

 
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Heroism to the (Cli)max

Greg Piper

If her pleasure is a Miley Cyrus concert, Magic on the court is a Mahler symphony.

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Where do you "get off" elevating the peach-basket game at the Y to the Olympian heights of Aphrodiddling?

Manipulating a woman's body is a minefield of false cues, dead ends and ego-blows. You don't have a bevy of everyday tools like MacGyver (or MacGruder) that somehow complement each other to create an erotic explosion, and gelatinous apparati can't yet caress and suck as brilliantly as a Dyson. That leaves the would-be people pleaser with his wits, bits and digits to give it to the limit. (Some activities are best described in "8 Mile" style.)

In some sense, waking the Groin Beast is like talking to aliens in "Close Encounters of the Third Kind." Following a series of pastels blinking at random and farty tuba-synth, the door to the spaceship eventually drops and everyone flees in panic. The whole exercise took three minutes and, in retrospect, you have no idea how it happened. The only thing we know is Richard Dreyfuss Is Heroic.

Yet not even Mr. Holland could finish this Opus before the microwave popcorn dings. Brute-force tickling usually draws complaints in the first minute unless coupled with a Hands Across America sweep, moving from linear tracing to figure-eights to areolic switch-flicking. Patterns must be swapped out every several seconds to avoid the dreaded rebuke "that's not helping," or the deal-killer "now I'm chaffing." Throw the tongue into the mix for a jolt, but be careful not to give yourself the Vulva Neck Pinch.

A combination of these elements can send endorphins rushing like frosh at Alpha Sigma Phi, given enough time. But when Wii is waiting, we woo with alacwity.

So how to orgaz 'em in three minutes? Communication! Women love to hear the voice of their lover, FWB or process server telling them their rose, by any other of dozens of questionable names, would smell as sweet. "I love you" is a good start but it's hardly sufficient, while "Marry me" risks a collapsed lung from your partner's giddy physical reaction. Experiment with "I'm going to ___ you until you ___ and then I'll flip ___ around for some ___ I learned in the ___ ___, which is ___ at the ___ on ___." It's important to ask questions like "does that feel good?" without giving her the impression that she's in charge. A woman doesn't quake when a man reads her sexual Miranda rights - she longs to be conquered in an Earl Warren-free world.

Of course, none of these are surefire ways to make your neighbors file a complaint with the condo board. A breathy whisper without enough diaphragm support, off-beat skin tapping or the revelation that the baby oil was tested on baby seals can ruin an otherwise Newtonian night of perfectly calibrated coitus, to say nothing of Jiffy Pop-Pop. The man who can juggle the physical, verbal and psychokinetic demands of the mutually-successful quickie, giving his woman her ultimate dream -- hours of sleep uninterrupted by suggestive spooning -- is truly a Hero.

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Aiming to (Crowd)please

Jeremiah Lewis

 

Making a woman purr in three minutes is no more heroic than mixing a great cocktail (admirable), but a basketball comeback makes every man an Olympic God.

Cosmo has it right. The G-spot isn't a mystical cul-de-sac where sad lovers must turn around, lost and confused. But it must be understood. Harry's hand may be more effective than his wand at locating the Sorcerer's Stone deep within a woman's Hogwarts Castle. A lady's Easy button isn't sacred; it's under appreciated. Giving a woman the gift that keeps on giving takes practice, sure, but like setting up a webcam or grilling the perfect steak, it gets easier. Scoring twenty points in a basketball comeback, however, is an act of Kobe.

The warm up is to the winning shot as foreplay is to that oh-so-satisfied, toe-curling squeal that signals a happy XXer. The lay-up, the jump shot, those dependable two-pointers, are the mainstay of any good comeback. Standard intercourse is the blue-collar job, a requisite performance that will carry one through a rigorous inning or outing (or both!) with the lady. Dazzling three-pointers, wonders of the Big Arch, are crowd pleasers, building arena psychology necessary for cutting that deficit. Likewise, a good orgasm probably won't happen without some clever “man” handling to bring forth those little bursts of downtown magic; like the three-pointer, a soft breath or signature stimulation on her pearly gates will elicit coo-worthy cues to keep going.

The differences end there.

The classic orgasm has no status, because achieving it is not godlike; it’s very, very doable. Thousands of women are in the throes of one, or three, or thirteen right now. None of those cheery O's will be remembered in seven minutes.

But the basketball comeback is epic. Basketball comebacks don’t happen often enough to become passé; they are not fast, cheap, or easy. Basketball comebacks last years in the annals, in memories and on the sports page, and on the lips of those who bore witness.

Clever coaches would say 7/10ths of a game is defense; a team on the cusp of a comeback must not only overcome the point deficit, but must do so against a determined defender. A comeback is combat. A tryst with the expressed intent to orgasm is a lark. Making your bird sing doesn't take magic. If her pleasure is a Miley Cyrus concert, Magic on the court is a Mahler symphony.

But really, what cost is there in giving a woman an orgasm? What sacrifice has been made to give her the satisfaction? Unless you're going to the University of PolyTantric Sexification, you can usually pass the entrance exam by coloring in the C-hole with your number 2 Pencil, diddling in the margins, and licking labially (but not liberally, and don’t get tongue tied with your cunning linguistics).

A twenty-point comeback, however, requires years of playing and practice, and a fierce nurturing of inborn talent, sacrificially honed to razor sharpness. In the bedroom you might be king. Comeback courtside, and you’re a jersey-clad deity.

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