Thursday, November 5, 2009

Lost in The Fog (Part 3) ‘Skullf***ing and Rumi’

TO MY FAMILY. DON'T READ THIS. You asked for a warning on this kind of material. Here it is.

In fact, if you think I'm a sweet guy with no dark qualities, skip this. Of course, if you think that, you probably think your boyfriend/husband never looks at porn. You're wrong. (sorry)

Actually, considering the matter further, I should probably include warnings to skip this story to anyone who might consider going on a date with me, or who has dated me and has still managed to retain positive feelings in my general direction.

Though in truth, I really hope even those aforementioned will read this and think positive thoughts like 'That was the funniest thing I've read all year.' or better yet ‘What an delightfully devilish guy you are.’ or how perhaps even ‘I’m such a ninny, why did I dump his ass?’ But my fear of the slightest negative reaction far outweighs that hope so…

As an act of contrition for Part 3, after this entry I’ll begin blogging about my ongoing attempt to understand and follow the 613 mitzvot (more commandments than good deeds as it turns out) as compiled by Maimonides in the 12th century. (Seriously. Should take me about a year to do the first half - the positive commandments)

Gosh! I seem to have started this 3-part story inspired by Raymond Chandler with old-fashioned serious fun and I’m ending it like Jonathan Ames – stewing in conflicted modern perversions. Not too surprising I suppose. Go watch “Bored to Death” on HBO and you’ll see what I mean. Better yet, read ‘Wake Up, Sir!’ followed by ‘The Big Sleep’.)

[ed. note - It seems most people who've read this feel the preamble was unneccessary and that I've raised your expectations for something really hot and steamy which I don't deliver on. So I'm resetting your expectations. I don't get super dooper graphic. Hope that's not a letdown]

And now finally, the conclusion of our story…

Lost in The Fog
(Part 3)
‘Skullf***ing and Rumi’


I normally wouldn’t use the phrase in public, but a few weeks ago Jon Stewart blurted it out (with a bleep) on “The Daily Show”. It was in a bit about how Iowa R-Sen. Chuck Grassly cited a Health Care reform poll that if you describe the “Public Option” as the “Government Option,” then support for it goes “below a majority.” Stewart then noted that if you describe it as a “Government Option that skull-fucks kittens,” then support for it would go WAY down…

(See the clip here, just start 3:10 into the show)

And if Jon Stewart can say ‘skullf***ing’ as a million stoned coeds tune in, I can certainly blog about it here. I’ll admit it would seem skullfucking might not be desirable in the particular context Mr. Stewart spoke of, but I think that’s primarily because of the kittens angle. In truth, that the term even got on to basic cable is remarkable as it does conjure up some rather graphic images (kittens aside). And I don’t know the exact origin of the term, but as I looked into it for this story, I found others have tackled the subject.

“The Onion” took the term quite literally with their 2007 C-SPAN coverage of the introduction in Congress of The Ocular Penetration Restriction Act (click for video)

The Onion’s description apparently has roots that go back to Aztec times when warriors were said to actually defile the remains of their opponents in this way, though frankly I don’t expect such claims can be verifiable in any capacity. Actually, I’m finding it so suspicious that I won’t even list the website I got that info from. And anyway, these days it’s generally a sexual move intended for two *living* human beings and no eye sockets.

It made it into the Urban Dictionary in 2006 in this form here.

And I personally have noticed a trend going in that direction in pornography starting shortly before that. But I’ve never had a wide or deep collection of porn (I’m primarily satisfied with a few standards I gain affection for over time. God, I even have emotional attachment to my porn.) So this style may have been going on for decades for all I know. But I didn’t become aware of it ‘til Steven Soderberg stole my actress for a film I’m developing. I was curious if she had any talent so I sought her out online. (link not provided, you can find it yourself, thank you!) It seems she does have talent, but not as an actor. Her performance in Soderberg’s “The Girlfriend Experience” actually reveals that her ability to perform sans dick is negligible and that her unbridled enthusiasm for skullfucking (her specialty) may in fact be genuine. So there’s a reason Sasha Grey is a noteworthy star and it’s not just because of her self-empowered stance on choosing to participate in a business notoriously abusive to women as she declared on the Tyra show a few years back. (link here) She’s a star because she confirms a fantasy that women might actually enjoy such an activity.

I myself am quite on the fence about the idea of skullfucking, not only because of the ugliness of the term, but because of the rather prominent aspect of violence against the women who are participating in the act. Violence against women is something I am generally against like any good, coastal-living, city-dwelling, Star Trek-loving liberal. (I will wager there are no Trekkie rapists. Not if they really got it. And if they didn’t, they’re not Trekkies. And no, I’m not a Trekker, I started as a Trekkie and am too old to change.)

Certainly there’s no direct physical pleasure I can see a woman gaining from the act (unlike some other sexual activities which can be violent and pleasurable for all parties involved). And while it’s possible some women might take psychological pleasure from this act of submission, I think I’m actually most disturbed by my own excitement over the dominance. (Thought bubble: I wonder if this goes on in gay porn. Or if it started there.)

Now, people often refer to rape as being about power not sex. And while that may be true, some good and consensual sex can also deal with the excitement of playing with power. So where’s the line? What’s halachically legal? What’s OK to enjoy in this arena without becoming a bad, bad person? (at least as judged by your family or people who have dated you or might date who, who really shouldn’t be reading this whole section BTW!)

As you can see, my ambivalence over my excitement of the act is the basis of my interest in the subject. In the end, it’s all a matter of knowing myself and human being better. (Or perhaps it’s just about having as many orgasms as possible before you die. Hard to say. Or good ones at least. Let’s say Quality of Orgasm (QO)* Quantity (QN) = Total Score such that The Winner can be computed.) Jesus, I’ve channeled Dave Eggars this whole damn section Enough already. Really this is all about the confusion of living and trying to figure it all out.

And letting everyone watch as I blog about it.

Back to the…research. So while I couldn’t verify how far back it goes in our modern vernacular, I know that I, personally, was introduced to the term over a year ago by my friend “Bozeman”. For him it means to receive oral pleasure, while giving the giver a rest. The neck muscles of a woman can get quite tired amidst a good round of fellatio, so if the receiver picks up his end of the stick and puts in a little elbow grease, whilst the receiver just relaxes for a bit, that’s skullfucking in his book.

(N.B. According to Wiki, this is technically “Irrumatio” see here for full description. Who knew? The Romans. They did everything before us.)

OK, that previous description isn’t really an accurate description of the act. It’s not really done for the ease of lady you’re with. I was just trying to write about it humorously. In fact, I just now spoke to Bozeman to make sure it was cool I was writing about this and he got all rhapsodic on me about how a woman he’s been with recently enjoys the violence and domination of the act. “I hold her head like it’s in a fucking vice and shove it all the way to the back of her throat and she’s choking and gagging and she loves it. Loves it!”

Bozeman’s one of my only friends who’ll talk with me in the most graphic details about sex. I’ve never talked that way with old friend Morty, mostly because I didn’t fully understand female anatomy when we first met in high school. I usually just focused on hair and breasts back then. Sometimes eyebrows and freckles. Stuff anyone could see. Eyebrows really get me to this day, though I’ve recently become more interested in the ass. Perhaps I always was, but never realized it. Or perhaps I was embarrassed to have an interest in a fine ass when I have no ass whatsoever - just a square of gluteus muscles developed in adolescence from an overindulgence in long distance cycling. Anyway, I’ve figured most things out concerning the female anatomy at this point, but you set the standard for graphicness of conversations early on in a relationship and trying to shift that can be a delicate thing. But when it comes to Bozeman, I can tell he gets a rush from having me as an outlet to throw his unexpurgated rants at. Here, find an approximation of one of his soliloquies:

“So there was this fat chick I met at Burning Man, and I’m just saying, I love the fat chicks ‘cause they’ll let you do anything you want to them. And it's not some low self-esteem thing. It’s a point of pride. They may not have the looks of some fox who’ll never let you get a piece of their tail, but they will out-fuck them every single time. Give me a fat chick over some girl who thinks she’s a hottie any day of the week. So anyway, I’m skullfucking this whale of a whore during a sand storm and the wind is absolutely howling…”
That’s how he monologues at me. It’s great. I feel guilty indulging in this manly talk, playing at being his misogynistic buddy, not only not offended, but laughing and cheering all along “Tell it like it is man! Yup. Love them fat chicks.”

* * * * *
But I digress. Back to the actual story.

There was a local band I was supposed to be listening to with my Facebook date at the moment we left off the story at the end of Part 2.

Luckily, instead of tapping my foot to some lame ass band, I was suspending my prelude to a kiss as long as I could manage. But I also know if you miss a window, it kills a moment, a night, a whole relationship.

So I kissed her. And a good kiss it was.

I generally over think things and was concerned she might feel vulnerable being with a stranger, lost, tipsy, in a vacant parking lot, with no means of escape on a creepy, foggy night far from her beloved children. But then I remembered that I was a harmless guy. Downright sweet, generally. Not aggressive enough most of the time, and always ready to stop at a moment’s notice.

I was the exact kinda guy she’d *want* to be with in a situation like this. I knew it, but she didn’t. And suddenly I felt more comfortable about moving in, so with little notice, I grabbed her right breast.

Hard as a rock. Her, not me. Well, me too, but I’m used to that. It’s still a shock when I come across an implant. I’ve really met face to face with very few. So few in fact, that one time I was with a woman, back at the turn of the century, and I commented on how great a job she had, only to be horribly embarrassed to discover she was just naturally firm. At thirty years of age, I’d never touched a fake one before and was fooled by the buoyancy of youth – having recently been dating someone a number of years older than myself and having gotten accustomed to a certain level of elastic fluid dynamics.

So her shirt flies open and I reach over and pull the seat back in one fell ‘thwump’. Then summoning all the Neanderthal I have in me I think, “This time I’ll do it. I won’t even ask, like I did with the hippie chick years before or with the singing incident. I know what I’ll do. I’ll just dive in and skullfuck the wench. And if she doesn’t like it, I’ll stop, and apologize and be most embarrassed and take her home and continue to apologize, explain I don’t usually do things like that, but the fog, and her breasts and the car got me riled up and made me think that maybe this time I could be completely unbridled and…”

The acrobatics you have to pull to make this shit happen are extraordinary. I unzip myself and lunge in the direction of her head with my core so she doesn’t have too much time to think things over. But I didn’t fully calculate the geometry and there are no handles to grasp on to above the windows of a convertible, so bracing myself on the back seat with my hands, my head’s nearly hitting the rear window (actually, it’s right in that transom where the canvass folds into). Meanwhile, she’s lying back, her mouth in a yawn as I do all the heavy lifting…and thrusting.

She hasn’t said “Please, stop.” And I’m pretty sure the muffled moans are ones of pleasure, though part of me isn’t 100% sure, so after an intense primary burst of activity I stop and kiss her again to reassure her I’m a human being and I know she is as well and I respect her and think she’s attractive and a good mother and that this is all really pretty great. Much better than going to hear some stupid local band.

I do all this with one gentle kiss and a look in the eyes.

And then I realize, she’s already taken off her own pants.

If my head weren’t jammed in the back of the car staring at the thistles that fall from trees into that small space where the top folds up I might have noticed that not only was she turned on by my brutish behavior, she was preparing for the next step.

I find a condom like a magician finds the Ace of Spades and manage to leap the stick shift and slide my legs between hers (quite a feat when both of you have your jeans down by your ankles). And now the traditional (non-skull) fucking begins.

She later told me it was the quickest she’s ever come with someone. This isn’t boasting. I still think it was the fog. And the army barracks. And me being a stranger. And the fear of zombies. I generally feel around the issue of women’s climaxing that the specific man barely matters. It’s far more in their hands as to whether or not an orgasm occurs. I’m just playing a part that’s been played many times before.

Her first peak was so quick, in fact, I thought it was just the initial pain of first receiving someone. I had no idea. Hardly something I can boast about or claim credit for. Since some women experience great and vocal pleasure without reaching fruition and the glory for other women can come anywhere in the beginning, middle or end (or all of the above) I’m often left wondering and blindly hope we both make it there eventually. My strategy therefore is to simply hold out for as long as possible.

In this scenario, that wasn’t very long. The excitement of the initial encounter with a total stranger in a place of potential danger, fake breasts and my first time skullfucking (not to mention my first time having sex with a mother of two) was too great a combination for me to make this an extended dance mix.

(Sidenote: why is it that I so rarely have sex to music? Maybe 3% of the time. I always think people do it to music more frequently than me and fear my mate feels like we’re dancing without music. Am I just some kind of freaky ascetic? Comments please.)

The point of all this is, that I didn’t end up staying in that Motel 6 after all. We actually had a terribly romantic weekend. We walked the beach and read poetry to each other. Rumi for Godssakes! And I don't read poetry. I never have. Now I will. I do. She taught me something new about romance. So fascinating how a tawdry beginning turned playful, sweet and deep. And though we haven’t seen each other since, I’ll always have extremely fond - even tender memories of the first girl I skullfucked.

And lest you think I’m a serial Facebook skullfucker, let me tell you that I’ve only met one other stranger through Facebook. She’s a nice Jewish lass, with a fine ass and four kids I’ve never met. She’s sweet and wickedly funny and she reads this blog to boot. We were going to a dance for a first date, but never made it through the front door. We necked in the car for a long while, but no skullfucking there. Somehow her having kids inspired a return to high school style activities. I suppose they act as reverse chaparones. So we further delayed our return home and took a walk around the block where we stopped to make out in a Caterpillar D-6 Tractor that was left unlocked. But that was it. Really. No skullfucking at all.

Yup. In the end, I think it must have been the fog.

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