As much as I’d like to regale you with erotic stories of my time as a naughty park ranger in need of a good thrashing, the wife forbade me to write this chapter.
And, as bad of a listener as I usually am, I’m not a complete moron.
She’s not real keen on “the little stories” I write in general, and that goes quintuple for something as taboo as issues amorous.
Whenever I get to waxing moronic about some ridiculous event in my life, she ends up fielding a bunch of questions from coworkers and the little old ladies at church about some ridiculous thing Ben did or said.
I even had to change the title of this section because, even though we’ve been together for over 20 years, and even though we have children, and even though we sleep in the same room, as far as the world is concerned, we have never had anything remotely resembling the act of reproduction.
I suppose it’s better for the mental health of my children and the public at large to maintain the facade of celibacy.
The problem is, you really can’t talk about aging or midlife crises or relationships with any ubiquity without at least touching on the issue of intimacy.
So, since I can’t talk about doing the hunka-chunka in a marital way, I’m going to use this space to explore my own curiosities and observations about this most demonized of the most common natural occurrences in American society.
When you’re young and fresh, doing it (“it” being that thing of which I may not speak) is all about solving some great cosmic mystery.
What is it?
How do I do it?
How do I know if I did it right?
OK, for men, the most important questions are “Who am I going to do it with?” and “When can we do it again?”
But, as you get older, the act becomes less about the act and more about the nuances. When you’re starving, you’re happy just to have a bowl of gruel.
But, once the fridge is full, you’re faced with the opportunity to experiment.
You could eat a plain slice of cheese or maybe you could stick it between two different kinds of meat and stuff in into a pita pocket. (Hey, I’m not going to judge. Whatever four consenting foodstuffs do in the privacy of their own dining room is their business.)
Regardless of the reasons, I’ve gotten to an age where I’ve become more curious about some adult activities that I once dismissed as too weird or too labor intensive to bother with.
We might as well start things off with one of the big taboos—homosexuality.
Now, before my mother-in-law and wife and grandmother and everyone else I know faint, I don’t have a gay bone in my body. (Though that does sound like something someone would say right before they come out of the closet.)
The truth is I’ve always just been fascinated by gay people; gay men, to be specific.
Granted, most of my exposure has been through movies and television.
I guess what I’m trying to say is there is a small part of me that’s always wanted to be gay—and, no, I don’t mean my butt hole.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not the sex I’m after.
I’m just enamored of the seemingly fabulous lifestyle.
I want a tastefully decorated home.
I want to have chats about drama queens over brunch.
I want to say something catty and refer to myself as a “bitch.”
I want to drink orange juice and champagne out of a fancy glass and say things like “Don’t go there, honey.” (I swear, all my horny-ness is aimed at women.)
And, I want to be able to cry in front of my male friends when I’m having a rather stressful day without them running away in terror.
Recently, I’ve been getting some real-world insight into homosexuality from a guy I know through my time spent on the radio.
My acquaintance lives in Chicago and is fabulous.
He has a great sense of humor and plenty of patience with my stupid hetero questions.
Just how fabulous is he? He recently took a panini press with him on vacation to a Wisconsin Gay Pride Day or some such event.
I don’t take vacations. But, if I did, I’d like to be able to take a sandwich press along, too.
Do I have to be gay to get away with such a thing?
I don’t know, but it probably wouldn’t hurt.
The truth is, I’d never make it as a gay. For starters, I cannot imagine kissing another man.
Second, I’m way too obsessed with breasts.
But, more than that, I don’t think I have the equipment for the job.
I’m not what you’d call large and in charge. Thanks to the genetic lottery, I have been cursed with mediocre hardware. (Thanks, Dad!)
It’s not tiny but it’s not big, either.
Certainly not something you’d go showing off at dinner parties. (People do that, right?)
If the wife and I ever truly engaged in maintenance of the marital variety—which she has explicitly instructed me to deny in all circumstances—I’m sure she would politely smooth my stubby “ego” with some lie about how only whores care about such things.
I don’t know for a fact that the gays are hung up on size more than their straight female counterparts but I know plenty of straight men … and everything is a competition with them.
So, I just figured, you know.
But even more so, these guys are not only vying for a mate who finds them attractive and sexually competent, but they all have the same mechanisms, so they know bad from good. I just couldn’t take that kind of pressure.
By now, some of you (much like my shrink) have likely decided this little literary exercise is just a steam valve for some latent homosexual erotic curiosity of mine.
To which I say “pish tosh you silly billies.”
But, if I was going to be a gay person, I would do it up right.
And, by “right” I mean stereotypical, over-the-top show-tunes-and-pastels, screaming sailor. (I used to use the phrase “flaming” for gay but I learned its history stemmed from when they used to use bundles of wood called “fags” to get fires going for witch burnings. They would burn the gays with the rest of the “fags” hence the practice of calling homosexuals “fags.” See, I told you you’d learn something.)
The next most pressing curiosity for me is this S&M stuff.
I just don’t get the whole leather outfits, whips and chains thing.
It’s not so much that I want to try it as much as I want to understand how someone can be sexually aroused by being spanked or having their groin stomped on by a woman in high heels or what’s so fun about being called horrible names.
Luckily for you, I found a very long list of kinky sexual desires I’d never heard of.
Maybe you perverts know them all but most of them came as a surprise to me.
I was even more surprised to see some of my darkest desires on the list. (Which ones? I’ll never tell!)
Electrophilia, also known as Ben Franklin Syndrome, involves people getting randy over electricity. Why would someone rather stick their winky in a light socket than in a VJ? Only the coroner knows.
Acrophilia is when people are aroused by high places. Look, in the sky, it’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s your mom and dad doing the hunka-chunka on the roof.
Harmatophilia is when you or your partner becomes sexually aroused by being with a bad lover. I’m guessing these folks get snapped up in the first round draft. How many jobs, other than an elected office or professional sports refereeing, can you excel at by being lousy?
Among some of the more bizarre desires were folks who like to have sex with amputees and mannequins, clowns and spiders, though not generally all at the same time.
Some folks get horny over the smell of flowers or the sight of high heels and some can get off through dancing. I find this last one difficult to believe because my dance moves have only ever led to falling and vomiting.
Coprolalia is being turned on by swearing. (Let’s do it, butt-face)
Is James Lipton of Inside the Actor’s Studio a Vicarphile? Maybe. After all, this kink is for folks who love to hear people’s life stories. The only thing I ever get from listening to people’s histories is sleepy.
Some people get excited over vaccinations, some over obscene phone calls.
Even weirder are the folks who go “boing!” over trains, reptiles and getting their teeth pulled.
Those of you obsessed with big weenies are down with the Haemophilia. (You tramp!)
If you have a hankering for plush animals and other stuffed objects, you are a plushophile … and a goddamn pervert!
Metrophilia is the lust of poetry. I’ve been inspired and saddened by poetry but it’s never gotten me horny.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Cover your eyes
Now make me a sammich!
When noses turn you on, it’s called Neophilia.
“Oh, yeah, look at those nostrils. I am going to pick you all night long. Blow it baby! Blow that nose!”
Even worse is the desire to lick someone’s eyeball. I’m not going to bother telling you what it’s called but, rest queasy, it has a name.
When you like to bite or get bitten, it’s called Odaxelagnia. It’s also called felony assault, so be careful.
Some people are excited by the sight of insects and small animals being crushed.
If seeing a small creature get squished turns your partner on, you need to get out of the house immediately and call the police because that is some serious “it-puts-the-lotion-on-the-skin” trouble.
When you rub your weenis parts up against a stranger, say in the subway or walking down the street, it’s called Frotteurism.
Apparently this is really big in Japan.
Where I come from it could get you shot.
And, quite possibly, your victim would then rub their stuff on you after they shot you, and you’d totally deserve it.
We’re all familiar with exhibitionism, but it’s one that I actually found interesting; not because it sounds sexy or anything. It just seems like it might be fun to try, depending on where you are. (Like, maybe walking around with your pants down at the old folks home just to see if anybody notices. Or even better, streaking naked through the department of motor vehicles to see how fast you can clear the place out.)
Fetishism is the desire for inanimate objects. Not sure I get this totally but there have been a few big screen TVs that made me a little horny, and my new snowblower is definitely a lusty trollop.
Formicophilia means doing sexy things with ants.
I’m not sure what it means to do sexy things with ants, and I don’t want to know.
I might be able to give the whole robotism thing a try.
There are some mechanized sex dolls from Japan now that are dang lifelike.
And, for $7,000, you could have a lifelong sex partner who won’t look at you funny for your weird sex habits, be they involving fire or burglary or enemas or even ants.
And now for a moderately amusing list. Yippee!
The Top Six Middle Age Sex Positions
6. Mutual aggravation – Similar to mutual masturbation but there are seldom orgasms and often bruising.
5. 99 – It’s going to bed with the intention of sex but napping instead.
4. Walrus Style – A lot of heavy breathing and grinding but the genitals never actually touch.
3. Kitchen Sex – Where you tell each other to “Frig-off” over dinner.
2. Frantic Whisper – You try to have some “alone time” without waking up your spouse.
1. The “Adam & Eve” – This is where you both resort to using sex toys, by yourselves. (Preferably in a garden.)
For more hit and miss ha-ha’s and he-he’s, check out my book on Amazon.com. Don’t let the fact that there are only three reviews scare you. (Run! Run for your life!)
BOOK LINK HERE