Gender, Horny, My favorites

I Like Basketball, You Like Fucking

I love the NBA. It surprises everybody, but I really enjoy basketball. I love playing it (not for that long because I am woefully out of shape), watching it, studying the stats of it, playing video games of it, Charles Barkley. All of it. I love it, yet people refuse to accept that I like it because it is so out of character.

I feel bad for those who like sex. People assume they don’t want a relationship. Or if you are me, and you can and do go long periods of time without sex, people assume you love relationships. This thought process is absurd. Sex and relationships are intrinsically linked, not diametrically opposed. Yet, I constantly see women who enjoy getting their rocks off, getting their hearts broken as well and nobody understanding why. “If you want to get laid, that must be your only motivation.”

Relationships are about stability. Relationships are about consistency. Relationships are about making sure that you have someone to bone with often. I don’t like relationships because I enjoy masturbation too much. If you need the sex of another, you probably also want the sex of another on a consistent basis – you probably want a relationship.

This is the the destructive thought process that has created the Christian Right’s stronghold grip on America’s “moral values.” Bear with me here, this makes sense. We’ve decided that sex and love are diametrically opposed – that sex is one thing and love is another, and sex with someone you love is very different than sex. We’ve decided that love leads to sex, when the very opposite is more often the case – sex leads to love. When we separate sex and love and decide they are in opposition, we can’t define them as equal – Jim Crow taught us that. Therefore the Christian Right has championed love and therefore downplayed the importance of sex. They’ve created abstinence only education, a xenophobic society frightened of sexual experimentation, and, most importantly, labeled sex as the devil’s work if love is god’s work. This makes people who like sex the devil – especially women. And the devil goes by a different name in our society: “Slut.” Now, if you like sex, you hate love, and you must be evil.

I hate love. I also am not ridiculously sexual. I respect those who like sex – and like it in weird ways, but I also assume they are much more likely to fall in love. That makes more sense to me, and if we all understood that, then maybe we’d stop demonizing sex because it’s not the opposite of love, but rather the embracing of it.

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Attention Whoring, Horny, Pathetic

My Nightmare.

I just had a horrible nightmare. This is what happens when you lock yourself in a unventilated room and pass out with the lights on, the terrible extended interview between Jon Stewart and Ken Blackwell buffering, and your wool pants on but no shirt.

I was getting out of a rehearsal/class/performance (this was unclear and unimportant). Kevin Allison was cleaning up something behind the piano which was somewhat hidden behind a fort made out of cushions. I was doing a slow pack up in order to talk to a British girl in my class/rehearsal/performance. We were attempting to make plans for when we should go see Furry Vengeance. KA kept attempting to get my attention to help him plug in the grand piano with the right cords because I guess I was his tech guy. In my attempt to juggle the two conversations I brought up that I have a British friend coming to visit soon (This part is true in real life, not dream world). Then I got nervous that I had talked too positively about my other British friend who was a girl and the one in my performoclassersal would think I was crushing on the one I had met while traveling the West Coast. (Not this one). So, I backtracked awkwardly and made myself look stupid and fidgety.

I’m scared of society. That’s why I go on stage, it’s separate for society. It’s a place where you are not longer held accountable for your actions, but rather for how you made people feel. I’m going on stage tonight at Belleville Lounge at 7:30, you should come if you’re in New York because I need to escape the nightmare that is basic social interaction.

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Gender, Horny, Lonely

Stop Loving Me

I am a very unlikable fellow. I am also very lovable. I’ve spoken before of the “gauntlet” that I put potential sexual or friendship partners through, but in order to catch people up to speed I will quickly define it: It is how I act like a very hateable person – accenting all of my traits that are most societally disliked when I first meet people so that if they can like that then they can like me. It’s only a downhill road. This also has an opposite and equal reaction where people assume that if they’ve found their way through the gauntlet and have found some way to find me likeable they must be in love with me.

While I am a very caring and nice person to be in a relationship with, I also do not get emotionally attached easily if at all. Combine this lovability with a trend of sexually heroizing the slightly effeminate heterosexual geek (1 2 OMG 3), and I am quite the catch. Which sucks.

Oh no, H2$ is complaining about people loving him, what a fucking tool. I don’t want to be loved – especially not by some blonde bombshell who doesn’t understand how she is being tricked by sitcoms into liking me. I want friends. And not the sitcom. I want fucks. I wish that were a sitcom. I do not want a wife.

Another problem: People look to me when the want that “final” relationship. I don’t have the energy right now to rant about why we shouldn’t have “final” relationships, so instead: Why can’t you just fuck me now realize that I’m not very good at it and move on. Then you can use me as your back up plan. Not. Because when I’m 35 I’ll have a harem of women who were using me as a backup plan to reject. Really, I’m just telling you that it’s now or never because none of you are alone in your desires for cliched relationships – and none of you are lovable to me.

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Attention Whoring, Horny, Lonely

The Comedy of Cumming

When I was 17 I had a girlfriend. We were on the phone once during a week we were unable to see each other much.

“Sometimes I’m thinking about you at work and I just have to chew on ice.”

“Yeah I get bored at work too and I love chewing.”

I have always had a hard time understanding when people are interested in my sexually. It seems to make very little sense to me that someone would want my penis near them. It’s hard because I’m not typically bad at reading people and their intentions – in fact I’m ridiculously good at it, but the idea of a woman desiring my hairily awkward advances clouds my ability to judge.

My first two girlfriends broke up with me because I didn’t have sex with them and one in college called me out on her radio show once we broke up for not having sex with her enough. None of this was because I didn’t want to penis-bang them. This was because I was so worried about forcing my monotonous thrusting and early ejaculation upon them. I’m much more confident in forcing my monotonous stories and pathetic punchlines.

I feel like there are three categories of relationships. In one you have the desire to make the other person laugh – these are what are typically described as friends. In another you have the desire to make the other person cum – these are one night stands, bad relationships, and week long romps. In the last you want to make the person laugh and cum – these are the people that we marry. Of course, I don’t believe in monogamy so each of these groups can and should be just as populated. My problem is that I tend to believe that people want to shove me into that first group, and I like equality so I push them back into that first group. This is very easy to me because laughing and cumming are nearly synonymous. Making people laugh and cum is the same to me as someone who laughs at double my jokes.

I guess my desired profession is prostitute, but I need a microphone to do my business.

Because I like shoving large phallic objects into holes.

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Gender, Horny

The Situation ain’t that Bad

When I was 16 and with my first girlfriend we were sitting on the couch one day watching some form of entertainment (probably an Avril Lavigne music video because I was into that at the time) and she turned to me and said: “You really like my love handles, don’t you?” I realized that I was absent mindedly playing with the flabby bumps of skin above her hips. “Yeah, I guess, sure.” I responded amidst a series of “ums” and other uncomfortable noises I made when teenage H2$ was caught doing something that wasn’t socially appropriate.

After the many more girlfriends I’ve had (I say many because I want people to think I’m a cool person), I’ve recognized that I tend to focus on these supposedly unattractive features a little too much. Whether it was love handles, arm flab, bacne, unshaven parts, overextended ribcage, cellulite, or a weird forehead, I spend most of my time on these seemingly gross features – fiddling with them with my fingers, stroking them, enjoying them. It’s not that I’m focusing on them because I wish they would change, and I’m hoping by my persistence in attacking them they will adjust accordingly to a better version. It’s because I like them. They make the person truly human. These are my favorite body parts. These are the parts that put us on a similar level.

There is nothing wrong with these body parts. They are not worse to touch then other body parts. I tend to think a chubbier arm is much more fun to hold then one made of bone and anorexia, but we are told from a young age that they are unlikable. I like the unlikable. I want to prove society wrong and show it that you can like the lumpy girl with the body full of pimples hair and confusingly placed body parts. This isn’t to say I like ugly girls, just that we don’t understand what’s ugly. And neither do I to be honest. Mostly because it’s been hard to find people I find truly repulsive. Smooth beautiful skin is nice – I like touching it (with all parts of my body), but acne’s got it’s perks too. I like a skinny waist every once in a while, but lumps of fat can be fun to bounce around on too.

My point is that I can make the best out of any situation and that’s not because I’m not picky, it’s because situations are only bad because you were told they were.

Gotchya! You thought this was going to be about Jersey Shore! Well, fuck you.

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Horny, Lonely

How Many Times Can I Say Penis

Two things that have happened to me: An old crush told me that they would send me copies of the pages of their diary that pertain to me during the time period where my crush was most evident, and most of the sketches I’ve written recently have had to do with my penis.

It is well documented that I love myself hardcore. If I could make love to my personality instead of simply enjoying my company while I stroke my penis, I would fuck my sense of humor so hard that my laugh would include a cough up of cum. Do I expect anyone else to love me? Absolutely not. That doesn’t mean I don’t try. I like a challenge.

I think when I go on dry spells… let me clarify. My life is a dry spell, but when those dry spells include a lot of masturbation fodder (aka living in New York City and taking public transportation), I start thinking a lot about my penis and how sad it is to have to deal with my hand for enjoyment. My hands are nice, they are soft, they understand my penis’ needs, but my hands are attached to my body. For happiness I need another body to attach itself to the hands that stroke my penis.

In these uber dry spells I start thinking about the beginning of this chain of things that I need. Sure, I could start with the female I need to attach itself to a hand that needs to attach itself to my penis. (For some reason, my ultimate goal in this blog entry is a hand job – I guess I’ve been masturbating too much) Instead I choose to assume that they problem is my penis that can’t get attached to a hand that is attached to a woman. I don’t like blaming others. It’s easier to blame myself because I know I love myself enough to forgive myself. I also assume that no one loves me enough to forgive me in the same way.

When I was a freshman I was desperately into this girl because she had good math skills, a love of Woody Allen, and a decent appreciation of my self-deprecation. At the time, that’s all it took. She, on the other hand, needed someone who wasn’t going to demand that she rank things in her spare time, subject her to diatribes of self obsession in the form of comedic analysis, and didn’t have my penis. The last reason was the reason I blamed her explanation of how she wasn’t ready or didn’t want this right now or whatever on. This wasn’t the first and far from the last time I blamed my rejection on the inadequacy of my penis.

I’m excited to get the pages of her diary that detail her specific hatred of my penis. I probably won’t do anything to change because of it. Masturbation is pretty fulfilling.

I can’t wait until my parents read this.

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Depressed, Horny, Lazy, Lonely

My Dad the Wingman

We sat in the largest Whole Foods my parents had ever seen. One full city block, two floors high of health foods. A girl came by and asked where the bathroom was. I directed her. My dad commented on her cuteness. I bashfully looked away hoping that by not pointing my eyes at the situation it would make it disappear.

Then it was my turn to go to the bathroom. I got back to my father now talking up the girl whose cuteness was previously determined explaining to her that I was a prolifically performing comedian. We had started this day by having a conversation about how my inability to hold onto a relationship for more than a month was completely my fault, not the many girls who have decided that my sexual inadequacies are too numerous to overcome my comedic abilities.

Swiftly he passes off the conversation to me explaining that I have a show tomorrow and that she’s a singer and in grad school for social work (aka she’s artsy and smart H2$, aren’t you into that?). She was nice and cute and fun, but that’s barely the point.

I went to my comedy show (OF WHICH I HAVE ANOTHER ONE TONIGHT!!!!!!) and afterwards our comedy troupe was approached by nearly every one of the rest of the comedians for good classic comedy convo. That entire sentence was a lie. The other half of my comedy troupe was approached by every member of the comedy community (who just happens to be all male) and flirted with hard core. I don’t have that kind of approachability. I can’t feign that ability to approach either. I stay alone in my quiet, quite little world of thoughts that pertain mainly to how I can make a funny joke about the fact that my life is terrible.

For me to pick up a lady, I need my dad there. For my partner, she needs to be there. One of these involves a lot more planning and work. I’m lazy though, so I think I’ll stick with my self-deprecating thoughts. They involve less movement. And people. And I don’t really like people. I guess I should be happy with my lack of approachability, at least I don’t have to talk to you people.

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Attention Whoring, Death, Horny, My favorites

Age

I was IMDBing my birthday to see how many people exactly my age were much more famous than me to find that there is a porn star born on my birthday. I realize that I jerk off to people my own age (and sometimes younger) in my imagination and on my computer screen, but being confronted with that kind of tangible evidence that I am as old as a woman that was being “Face Fucked” for some old dude on his couch’s pleasure two years ago makes me really contemplate my mortality.

Sex is an equalizer. It makes us seem feel as though we share something beyond the shallow social indicators that led us to decide that sex was the appropriate next step. Shallow indicators like similar personality traits, or similar likes and dislikes. Sex is deep. Sex makes us share genitals. Genitals are deep. While the previous set of sentences are all very funny if pulled out and looked at individually, they mean to illustrate that fucking is the great way of saying we are at the same point in our life. We are at the point in life where we need to be connected physically to demonstrate how metaphorically attached we are. Yes, I do think of sex as simply a literal interpretation of a metaphor.

The point is that we are at the same point in life as anybody we fuck (if only for that second). I think this is why I’ve always been awkward about age differences. If I were to fuck an older person it means I’m closer to death, and if I were to fuck a younger person it means I’m the idiot I was 4 years ago.

Obviously I’m at the same point technically in life as Roma (VIII) (aka Jackie Avalon). We probably both learned to walk around the same time, were potty trained near the same time, and I probably learned to read earlier because I was a genius child who read at 3 years old and she’s a porn star. She also probably got laid earlier than me. But we experienced a lot of things at the same time. Cell phones were introduced to our worlds at the same point in our lives, as were laptop computers, as was the movie Space Jam. So when some 45 year old burnt out comic book store employee yanks on his penis while watching her in “Jerk it Bitch” he is attempting to imagine himself at her point in life which is also my point in life. He is equalizing our points in life. He is making me 45 and I’m still not famous. Even worse, when she participated in FILFs with Ron Jeremy she put me at the same point in life as people that are my parents age. I don’t want to be my parents age with the life I have. They got to at least watch me grow up which is a joy that I still haven’t gotten to have.

I guess I’ll have to get around to fucking so that I can have children before I die. Either that or get famous so I can stop being jealous of the attention others’ get.

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Horny, Nostalgia

Hickeys are Just Bruises

One summer night in high school I received a hickey from a girl at a party. While I was excited that somebody thought that the positive attributes of embarrassing me outweighed the negative attributes of touching my neck with their tongue, I was not as excited for the world to see. I came down to family dinner the next night with my sparkling white shirt on because it had the starchiest collar and I explained that I was trying to start a new fad of popped collars on shirts that were too small (this shirt hadn’t been worn in a while because it was a remnant from my freshman year of being 4’10”) (I also recognize that this is a fad now, but I don’t think it was then, and my parents wouldn’t know a fad if it smacked their urethra with its penis). Halfway through dinner my dad remarked how I had somehow dripped food onto my neck to which I swiftly replied: “uh, nah, what? huh? Your neck! I’ve got… Beluga whale..Who’s on first?”

I don’t bruise easily because it takes some amount of fat or muscle to be bruised and I am simply a somewhat functioning skeleton draped in skin.

The next morning I had to work the deli counter at my parent’s health food emporium/grilled vegetable purveyor. Krasi the Bulgarian who taught me his native tongue’s words for “vagina,” “popped cherry,” and “tits” but had refused to learn the English words for nearly anything came over to me from across the store as though he had just heard word that my parents had died in a fiery plane crash. “You have good time last night it look like.” He remarked though I was still forcing a fad of popped collars onto my personality.

I’m not sure my parents ever realized this was a hickey (my dad didn’t even know what my name meant until I named my sketch troupe three weeks ago), but I blame this on the human desire for things to stay the same as opposed to their ignorance toward the outside world. Just as a father is supposed to always see their daughter as a baby forever (I say “supposed to” with horrible disgust), my parents felt it their need to continue to see me is the little boy who couldn’t get laid if a hooker was strapped to his dick. This is partially their fault, partially society’s, and mostly mine. I continued to present that image to them out of fear that if I showed them other sides they wouldn’t think of me as their son, but rather some evil twin version of their son.

Well now I’ve grown facial hair so I can truly be the evil twin version of this kid:This was Senior Year of High School

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Gender, Horny, Media

A Plea against Genocidication

Too many times I have heard that women are evolutionarily attracted to strong men and men are evolutionarily attracted to blonde chicks with huge gazooogies. Evolution died. I’m not saying that Darwin was or is wrong – I think it’s pretty obvious that we have evolved to the point we are based on biological evolution, but now we’ve discovered evolution so it’s time to take charge of it.

With self-awareness comes responsibility and now that we are self-aware about how evolution changes our biology we can change our biology ourselves without standing idly by and blaming biological responses for our shallowness, gender normification, and genocide. That’s right, Genocide. Most genocide is ethnic cleansing of some sort, right? It is. Well what is ethnic cleansing but the survival of the fittest. We are pitting people with one distinct difference against each other and finding out which group is best at living. This is what evolution is, just typically nature is the enemy instead of each other. Yet, if the rest of humanity is a part of nature, which I think it is, then you must count other ethnic groups attempting to rub you out a part of nature testing your validity to live – aka: evolution.

I’m not saying that we should excuse the holocaust, or the Darfurian genocide, or the millions of other examples of ethnic cleansing. Quite the opposite. What I’m saying is that every time you decide a woman is more worthwhile to talk to because of her ample bosom and child bearing hips or you pick a man because of his ability to find food for you via his strong muscles you are committing a form of genocide.

I repeat: Sleep with me if you want to stop what’s happening in Darfur.

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