Tales and tips from women who find humor in NYC's pants...
I screwed up. I admit it. Over the course of my Wiener Sharing Career in the past two years I have made the stupid mistake of slowly revealing myself. Not only have I done myself a grave injustice, now I’ve dicked you over too, Wiener Lovers. I have tied my own hands from writing about the wieners I have recently encountered. I am truly sorry. I will find a way to continue to bring you tales of New York City wieners I promise…Oh yes. I will find a way.
Now that summer is over I’d like to report that mine was filled with philanderings. Unfortunately that was not the case. July found me overheated and alone. Desperate for some non-committal and non-chatty sex, I hit up Mr. Beige Bed. Despite not having spoken for weeks naturally, as all men are, he was eager to participate in activities that involved “no talking and no cuddling”. Scheduling proved difficult so a quick “lunch” was determined to be the perfect solution. Great! The man had an hour and I had no desire to entertain him any longer.
Mr. Beige Bed showed up for “lunch” on a Tuesday. He spent the 10 minute walk from his office to my apartment texting me the terms of our business transaction and insisted I be undressed by the time he reached my door. In a very professional manner, I complied. As I requested there was no talking. He immediately pushed me back into my apartment and hoisted me onto my kitchen counter (don’t worry, I now live alone). I began to remove his clothes as feverishly as he had tossed me onto the counter. I’ve mentioned before I’m a fan of oral sex, so after unbuttoning his shirt, I quickly dropped to my knees to to undress him and get his motor running orally. As I removed his belt, unzipped his pants, and began to pull down his gray Hanes boxer briefs, I saw it. A poopstain. It was faded but there was no mistaking the classic male poopstain that was now staring at me. I tried to focus on the task at hand but it seemed to keep peering up at me. Poopstain…
PPPPPPPOOOOOOOOOOPPPPPPPPPPPSSSSSSTTTTTTTTTAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNN.
I desperately tried to concentrate. Even as we moved into the bedroom and begin to have sex I couldn’t stop thinking about the poopstain. Every time I would start to enjoy myself, there it would be; Poopstain. I couldn’t help but wonder if women don their sexiest underwear when they know someone else will see them how did Mr. Beige Bed so casually disregard his stained pair? The poopstain consumed me. Eventually he contently finished and knowing that I was not going to be able to think of anything but his poopstain, I faked it. He politely kissed me on the cheek and returned to work but the damage was done. The poopstain had killed my orgasm.
This is another tale about Mr. Beige Bed. Mr. Beige Bed has a rather large wiener. He does. I’ll say it. However he also seems to think it is in fact a ramrod. Now I realize that many men equate their dicks with rods and I get it…sort of. But if you use it as though it is just that, you are going to put me to sleep or worse, leave me walking like I’ve been riding a horse all night. So not only did Mr. Beige Bed like to spout off verbal nastys, he also liked to ram his rod in. And in. And in some more. The man clearly thought that sex was some form of construction work but in reality the only thing he was building was a sore vagina and this face…
So Gentleman, next time you are going to town with your wiener, please remember it’s not a ramrod and sore vaginas are never fun.
After what I like to refer to as, “a few months of slumming”, earlier this year I once again put myself out into the world of singledom. The first fish to bite was an age appropriate, 29 year old, gainfully employed, web designer. Being that my previous dalliances had involved me with an unemployed, irresponsible, uncircumcised 25 year old, I was pretty excited to meet a man who seemed like his polar opposite. We hit it off initially. Good drinks. Good conversation. Fun flirtation. Naturally the fun flirtation mixed with good drinks lead us back to his place and his bed. It had been awhile since I had been with a man who actually lived in Manhattan. As a Brooklynite we try to stay borough-side as much as possible. Logistics really.
Only twice in my life have I encountered a man who was still sporting the hood that nature had given him. It happened once years ago on a super drunk Dominican who couldn’t stop touching my ass, and recently on a white upper middle class guy from the suburbs, the product of two staunch atheists not surprisingly.
Now being that I haven’t encountered many of these wiener hoodies before, I recently spent some time thoroughly examining the thing that became obsolete in Western culture centuries ago. After thorough review, here is what I found. The foreskin is a failure. It gets in the way. It makes penises look smaller, which is just a hard image to get rid of. And not to mention, it stinks…
First off I must apologize for a whole month without Wiener Wisdom sharing. I will try not to let that happen again. Secondly, my absence has been filled with a new wiener and a new realization.
In December I started dating a guy who I previously called a friend. We’ve all done it. Personalities mesh and eventually the clothes come off. This is exactly what happened/is happening now. So I started dating a guy whom I had previously, in friendly conversation, revealed that I wrote a blog called Wiener Wisdom. He immediately started reading my blog this fall and became one of my largest male cheerleaders. Obviously once we started bumping uglies this became a problem. Yes. I said “bumping uglies” and you should too. It’s a far under-used phrase.
We finally agree with Condi on something.
Last night we tuned into The Golden Globes. This is not what we found…damn Vag Teases.
Last month I met a guy online, which I’ve mentioned I do from time to time. We had emailed for almost six weeks and been unable to meet up because of work trips, conflicts, etc. We finally met after persistent reorganizing. I instantly liked him. He was a tall strapping man with a beard from, you guessed it, Williamsburg. We hit it off well over obscure beer in a cozy Brooklyn bar. The following week we met again for dinner, the natural progression of dating. Being that it was the 2nd date and we all know my 2nd date policy, I shaved my legs and tidied my lady parts for what I was certain would be our first hook up…
I am happy when I can maintain a friendship with a wiener I’ve known sexually in the past. That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m still physically involved with the guys it just means we can communicate as friends would, candidly and honestly. At times I get into male/female discussions with these guy friends. I am sought for the female perspective on certain issues and have asked for their male opinions as well.
Recently I was engaging in an online conversation with one of them. I was filling him in on the new guy I had gone on a couple of dates with but had yet to put out. This was something I thought could be discussed with a man because I think something is weird about a guy who hasn’t made a move by the 5th date. I asked said friend’s opinion and I made a joke about my frustration citing that it was made worse by the fact that he had extra large feet (nudge, nudge, wink, wink). My friend was quick to correct me saying “That’s not true. Big feet do not mean big penis”. I laughed this off and said, true there are exceptions, but in my experience it’s more true than not. To which he responded, “No way. I have really small feet and I know I’m bigger than average.” Oh shit.
