At the back of the hill

Warning: If you stay here long enough you will gain weight! Grazing here strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton. And you might like cheese-doodles.
BTW: I'm presently searching for another person who likes cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Saturday, April 09, 2016

SMUTTY FLUF

Recently a friend with what I judge to be extreme Asperger Syndrome asked me about normal heterosexual dating habits. Despite knowing me for years, he is as staggeringly unaware of my present unmatched state, as previously he was of my relationship which ended nearly six years ago. Likely he just assumed that as a normal male I was doing something he wasn't.

Which is true. I haven't played Pac-Man in years, nor any of the World Of Warcraft games ever. And while I have read huge amounts of Science Fiction, it isn't part of my regular reading diet.
Or even a frequent indulgence.

[Asperger Syndrome: not limited to teenage boys. Pac-Man: a baseball substitute for the unathletic. World Of Warcraft: the gateway drug to Girls Und Panzer. Science Fiction: my mother, who was published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction among other places, as well as being an editor, collected Sci-Fi books, along with many other literary categories. In consequence I read all of the authors underneath the lurid covers during my teen years. Frequently two or three books a day.
Sci-Fi is kind of like teenage romance.]



In any case, I am an authority on the subject.


Here's an illustrative example of what normal heterosexual Americans do on Saturday night, starting from nearly the first meeting all the way through childbirth.


BOB AND ALLYCE

Having met at a bar and exchanged telephone numbers, Bob and Allyce end up back at that same bar on a different night after a rather desultory dinner during which conversation was limited to food-options, given that she's self-diagnosed gluten intolerant, and he's unimaginative and just likes pizza.

She explains in fragments why she collects handbags and shoes (cervical symbols and metaphoric clitori, respectively, but she doesn't say that, even though she makes it obvious); he talks incessantly about baseball statistics in between mentioning his brand new motorcar, thus proving that he owns a penis, and also has the wherewithal to settle down.

Allyce only smokes when drinking. She huffs an entire pack of American Spirit cigarettes while they are there.

Bob doesn't smoke, except for cigars. Great manly things, cigars.

"I only smoke when I'm around you....."

"You make me want to, too."

Both of them scream at the television screen when Bumgarner does something stellar. Oh my, Madison was fabulous! Allyce beams, because they both think he's such a do-able stud.
Gawd, what buns!

Bob admires her Louis Vuitton purse aloud, while speculating about what she's like in bed.
He likes bottoms in leather, but he'll never admit that.

She wonders what his chin feels like. Smooth, or slightly prickly?
Both types are equally good, for different reasons.

"May I stroke your cheeks?"

"Sure, pumpkin, anything for you!"

"Mmmmmmmmm!"

"Mmmmmm!"

"MMM!"

They kiss.

Him: "I'm voting for Trump!"

Her: "Did I tell you about that purse I saw yesterday?"

Him: "I mean really, screw the poor, we don't need public education or hospitals or anything even remotely like a social net, 'cause if you're not as successful as me and all my friends you're probably a loser, and in any case free enterprise baby, I've got mine."

Her: "Oh I so agree, nothing says fertile bitch in heat like bonking a man with a Ferrari! Let's have some more wine! I just love how self-assured you are, unlike all those whining morons voting for the other candidates, and really, all of that bores me because I am an entitled modern woman who has never heard of Gloria Steinem, who was probably an ugly dyke anyhow, I love Pikolino, Franco Sarto, Isabel Marant, Pantofola D'Oro, Liz Claiborne, Caparros, Michael Kors, Manolo Blahnik, Christian Louboutin, Jimmy Choo, Ferragamo, Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, Gianmarco Lorenzi. Well, except that last one, 'coz I don't like Italians and their pizza."

Him: "Bumgarner, Bumgarner, Bumgarner, Bumgarner!"

Her: "Bumgarner, Bumgarner, Bumgarner!"

Him: "Bumgarner, Bumgarner!"

Her: "Squeeeeee!"

They switch to expensive whisky at the next place, and get more than a little tipsy. Not quite disgusting, you understand, but evenso.

Then they go back to his place and hump like sex-starved weasels.

"Ooh ah, ooh ah, ooh ah! Ohhh, Bumgarner!"

"Jesus, honey, that was wunnerful. Thank you."

"No no, sweetie, thank you!"

"Mmmm."

The progression outlined above was more or less like exactly what they did nearly every week with different people for the previous ten years, all of them remarkably similar.
Really, you'd have a hard time telling the difference.

But this time, their friends say they're a lovely couple.

"It's like they were made for each other!"

A short while later they get married in a liberal church, whose pastor secretly is more rigid and disapproving than Ted Cruz's dad, but pretends tolerance in order to get people into the congregation.
They even do a jazz nativity every year! So modern!

The two of them purchase a two-level together in the Marina, and vote for Ed Lee, because he thinks like them when they were in college.

Two years later she gives birth to a little princess.

Possibly blonde, but it's still too early to tell.

Among the nursery items is a purse.

The next one gets Nikes.


Both children (exactly two) are loved while growing up, because they really are special, and so obviously talented. Despite their attention problems and allergies.

Even with Allyce's psychosomatic aversion to gluten, one out of five meals is pizza. Bob buys her jewelry and a BMW to compensate.


He ends up smoking five Montecristos or Camachos a day, she goes through a carton of American Spirit (blues) every week.


FOLKS LIKE YOU AND ME

This blogger is extremely fond of normal people. Which is why I'm at home right now, not pissing on their parade or making snarky comments about sports in a bar. And I've got better things to do.
Tonight I shall re-read several cookbooks.
Culinary pornography, in a way.
Like teenage romance.



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