Funny how that looks like "sword" to me, given the number of extra letters.... anyways. Springtime. Comic books. Fresh air. It's all happening now; even Big Brown Mountain is melting. I dreamed of whips, blood, and quickening rivers. Glaciers moving, but slowly.

Fortifications: holding. So tired was I of the various off-project interruptions that plague my day, and so delighted was I to find that my trebuchet is finally a useful piece of artillery, that I set it up on my cubicle floor. Then I sent an instant message to my brother: "C'mere, I gotta try something." He strolled through the door and PAZOWWWW!!! there was a rubber eraser flying exactly at his head, launched by the ancient technological powers of ballistics!

This, to me, makes it all worthwhile.

Continuing on with Y: The Last Man, and into the meat. The Wizard of Oz issue was just tremendous. Sex and death, sex and death... Bondage and baptisms and my blood in my ears. All snuggled up reading last night, and then wandering around the rainy streets looking for something to eat... we ended up going to an Ethiopian restaurant at Bloor and Ossington, and fuck-damn, it was awesome and solved the whole night for me. I have bad associations with Ethiopian food, like that time Mark tried to make it and I said (rather memorably) that it tasted like a shirt. Or the inevitable reality that no child of the '80s can hear the words "Ethiopian food" without a single-frame nightmare-flash of Sally Struthers feeding a kid paste. But last night's meal rocked my socks clean off and around the block, and I only wish I hadn't left the leftovers in Sarafina's fridge this morning. I'm hungry as a bastard.

The noises coming out of my big project are finally, officially, the rattles of imminent death. I shall dance into the mist. I'm going on vacation in 20 days. You can't come.

Appropriately (somewhat), my work on Captain Napalm and the Legions of Havoc began with arts and crafts - glue sticks, specifically, and tiny piece of paper.

Posted by tederick at 3:13 PM in blogTO & blood & comix & dreams & foodin' & j-o-b & sex (practical) & tederick films
Permalink | Comments (0)

Merry Kissmas! It's the first day of spring. Kiss someone you like. Kiss 'em because it's sunny out (even if it's not where you are), kiss 'em because evening walks are now in striking distance (even if it's still too particularly cold in Toronto this year to make them feasible). Kiss 'em because a good smoochies are like six bottles of champagne and a pet mouse.

Doooooo ittttttttt. (The kissing. Any follow-up sex is entirely your affair.)

I am sitting in the Starbizzle near my parents' house, stealing wi-fi from yet another unprotected linksys in this whole silly world full of 'em. I have started reading Y: The Last Man. I have been waiting a long, loooooong time for this. I wanted to wait until the series was actually done before I started gobbling up the TPBs, and so I did. (Next: actually watching Battlestar. Yes, I know.) I've been spending more than a little time with the Other Brian (Bendis) of late; it's time to get back to my BKV, because ultimately, Vaughan is a bit more like the Brian I'd like to be (were I a Brian). Balder than I'd like to be, sure; but a Brian nonetheless. Plus: he wrote last night's Lost. And let the clapping start here.

The thing that makes Michael (on Lost) such an interesting character is that at this point, he is such a completely, utterly fucked human. He is a tragic figure of epic proportion; there is no getting out of this. (And I don't just mean that in the old, mouldy "the island won't let you die!" sense.) There is no blaze of glory fiery enough to redeem the haunted wretch we call Michael Dawson. So as such, it's good to have him back and have BKV writing him. The styles mesh.

As for me, I did a quick self-assess last night and realized that really, every single aspect of my life is good, and yet I feel generally blah lately - and that blah is because I am doing absolutely nothing creative, at all. Nothing to write, nothing to shoot. (Well, one expensive complicated thing, but I am thus daunted.) I know I call it back a lot, but I really do miss the days when Mark and I could crank out six or eight movies in a calendar year. I would love a really good, short idea for a really good, short movie. Something fun and summery that I could shoot on a weekend. That'd hit the spot.

Anyways. Return to your smoochies; remember to kiss plentifully and with joy in your heart. Comics are calling me now, and the girl'll be calling me soon.

Posted by tederick at 3:28 PM in 4-8-15-16-23-42 & comix & sex (practical) & tederick films
Permalink | Comments (2)

Happy Sexiversary, everyone! Yes, today would be the recognized anniversary for the loss of my virginity. Celebrate as you deem fit.

I am taking this opportunity to help put to rest a cultural myth, because I was not de-virginized in the manner depicted in story and song (and American Pie) as the standard for young North American males. In a complete reversal of everything we've come to expect from the de-virginization process (and in spite of the so-called "anniversary" today), there was no one definable "time," a single event where "it" demonstrably happened for the first time. Nope, in actual fact I'd say that the loss of my virginity took about a full week, a week of gradual progress. As such it wasn't so much a "loss" as a "slow misplacing."

This kinda bugged me for a long time; it's bad narrative and shite at parties, among other things. We all want that story, even if it turns out to be a stupid/embarrassing/painful one. What I've come to realize in the years since V-day is that I'm by no means alone in my experience, particularly among those who lost the V after their generation's prescribed age average (I believe in my case, I was supposed to lose it when I was 15.3?). I got to undergo the process in a safe and caring relationship, so that doesn't suck. I position it as a worthwhile alternative to getting shagged after prom in the back seat of a car. (Which is also fun.)

Hey, while we're on anniversaries, we premiered the original Centipede fifteen damn years ago today! Wow. Half my life. Fifteen damn years and yet I still don't feel like I've "started" really making movies. Well what's with the back-catalogue then? Jesus, I've made more movies than I ever would have thought possible back on July 17 1992 and done things that wouldn't have occurred to me in my wildest dreams. Any feeling otherwise is such backwards horseshit.

Posted by tederick at 1:03 PM in sex (practical) & tederick films
Permalink | Comments (2)

My next door neighbour is getting the wood put to her right now. Either that or they're jumping up and down on the bed. I only mention this because I think this week has been the first time I've heard that outta next door since I moved to 3QF, so congratulations to her! Either her sex life is improving, or my ears are.

I remember the Saturday morning bone. Vaguely.

It occured to me recently that when I say I'm going to be single forever, it's pretty freakin' probable. My last date was in August, and after that I put it "on hold" for a while, and then I never went back, nor do I ever really want to. I don't have the time, I don't have the inclination, I certainly don't have the patience. So unless a team of women shows up and throws me into the back of a van, I think this is pretty much it for the Saturday morning bone. Or the Thursday afternoon long lunch. Or the all-day Sunday double-barrel double-breakfast double-feature. I'm almost okay with it, if it means I never have to pretend to care about the life history of a total stranger again.

Kids playing Spider-Man! Way better than the movie. Speaking of which, I'm going to Sprockets today, tomorrow, and next weekend, though I can't really remember which movies I picked or what they're about. Meh. It's Sprockets, what's to know? If you get lost, meet your parents at the teddy bears and balloons in the lobby.

Posted by tederick at 8:53 AM in movies & sex (practical)
Permalink | Comments (0)

I really thought I'd blogged this morning. I really did. Sorry Internet. I didn't mean to be neglecty. I've got a few posts in draft that I'll put out later. And I've got a few minutes before the water boils here (we were talking about KD at lunch today and now I'm all craved up) so I'll do this fast.

Now, in the past few months there's been a lot of whinging about me being single. Entirely too much whinging. Let's see how many times I can use the word "whinging" before I get to the point. Whinging. And also, whinging. Well anyways, today I hit on the two things I damn well enjoy about singledom:

1. Indiscriminate highschoolish crushes any time I want, without restriction on number, feasibility, publicity, or even gender now that I think about it
2. Ambiguous sexuality as a tool for comedy. And boy is it!

Meanwhile, bad news from North Carolina: the Hi Mom! film fest doesn't look to be running this summer (they may do a "best of" screening) and their 10th annual will probably actually be next year. So no early summer road trip for me and Matty Price, and no new installment of The Tozer Show (although I guess three in a row might have been expecting too much). This has bummed me out a bit on many levels. I was really looking forward to going down to NC this year, more so than previous, now that we've got the "tradition" element to live up to. Now (unrelated to this) I'm trying to sort of chart out the major events of 2007 to achieve a bit of clarity, and I've got to move a few things around to cover the bleeder.

I have three things I want to buy on the internet tonight, all of which cost forty dollars. I can afford one. In simple math, solve for x: which one do I want the most? No more instructions! GO!

Posted by tederick at 6:00 PM in movies & sex (practical)
Permalink | Comments (4)

Today I got all quivery in the nethers because a girl used math. Those who witnessed the little debacle found it incredibly amusing, being as how I started blushing like a schoolboy with a crush. But who cares? It was like she suddenly became painted in the most sensual shades of green and blue and I just couldn't help myself. Apparently I'm looking for a turquoise in a girl. That would complement my red and yellow, and we'd get to align on our greens while rolling around naked on a bearskin rug presumably, but still... DAMN. I got turned on by math.

So anyways! School was fun today. Well, for the most part. I was ahead of the class all morning and then I got pigeon-slammed by an exercise in the afternoon that was supposed to demonstrate more effective learning strategies... the slamming in question coming from the fact that I couldn't learn from the damn thing. Yup, the strategy in question not only didn't work for me but actively worked against how I learn. I mean, I can learn entire Shakespearean soliloquoys given five minutes alone in a room and a sheet of paper, but I damn well can't make sense out of a nonsense story. No matter how energetically it is performed. So that was irritating. And after starting my day at 8:00 I have put in an extra hour at the back end to clear out the e-mail inbox which was, after last week, stunningly crowded. I feasted on a bag of microwave popcorn which was a little explosion of light, airy gold in that particular moment in time. Maybe not the healthiest dinner ever but oh so very necessary right then.

I am suddenly overcome by an urge to watch Goblet of Fire, which is far and away the least of the Potterflix, but for whatever reason sometimes I just crave it. Someday I will watch all seven of the films in a row, you know. It will be fun to watch Dan get his man-face, Emma get her woman-parts, and Rupert go through whatever the fuck happened to Rupert, all in the space of fourteen hours.

"Rupert! I told you to watch the bags!" - Stewie Griffin

It just so happens I have a fine cuban cigar in the inner left pocket of my coat. What's to do with a fine cuban cigar? Why, smoke that bad boy on the steps of the building and laugh richly about the follies of the corporate world, of course.

Posted by tederick at 6:09 PM in h-pot & j-o-b & sex (practical)
Permalink | Comments (0)

Those stories don't really go anywhere, I just thought they were funny. The new image of Optimus Prime (Michael Bay version) made me think of them. Plus I like the image of the penis as ray gun.

In like kind, and just in case someone out there doesn't have their Christmas shopping done yet, here is a list of detailed instructions on how to make a lightsabre dildo. I am going to try this as early as next week. I shall spare no expense. I must have a lightsabre dildo.

Housekeeping: moviesTO #59 (59 down, one to go!) is here.

Yesterday we had our demi-annual N.T. posse Christmas/birthday/reunion dealie. Mark tripped Razor Burn on our asses and man howdy, that is a tight film. This is the one we shot way the hell back in the day when Mark had about a four-month beard on, and wanted to shave it off in stages and improvise a new character for each level of facial growth. He interspersed sequences of him shaving while we talked about characters in the bathroom, with the actual improv proper. It's a damn work of art, that film. I'm really, really impressed with it. And we also watched the movie he made for my birthday over again, which was only the second time I'd seen it (first time sober). That, too, is a mighty piece of filmcraft. Mark is carrying the Infinitely Brown torch pretty substantially at this point. Between that and writing the VCR script the other day and a couple of other small things I've got in the cookery besides Standoff, I'm feeling very good about where 2007 looks to be going, filmmaking-wise and focus-wise. Suddenly, quitting all this shit (podcast, festival, film reviews) seems damned intelligent!

Off to make the merry with the family of mine, and so on and so forth. Drink rum, be glad, may your disks be shiny and bright and all that.

Posted by tederick at 10:49 AM in movies & podcastery & sex (practical) & tederick films
Permalink | Comments (0)

The five-minute video of Keira Knightley rehearsing her swordfights for Pirates of the Caribbean 2 in the supplemental features of the DVD is better than any porn I've ever seen.

Posted by tederick at 11:09 PM in movies & sex (practical)
Permalink | Comments (0)

Writing the Tn'O sex-toys-for-Christmas post today did two things: 1) it made me want to own pretty much everything on that list. (How have I not bought an iBuzz yet?) and 2) it made me figure it was time to get my DVD wishlist sorted for Christmas. So that's done. I ended up deleting pretty much 70% of the list. So at this point if something's on there it's because I genuinely want it, not because I think it might be nice to have. This applies to everything from the "Needs" down to the "Vague Interests." In the case of the latter, the interest may be vague, but it remains interest.

You may view my DVD wishlist by clicking here and then clicking "wishlist" at the top of the page. It's really quite the work of art, I urge you to go look even if you have no intention of ever buying me any kind of present.

The roomies are sick of hearing about Superman. But it is so about Superman right now, team.

Things I am sick of:

• Scott on Fanboy radio, the single least listenable human on the planet Earth
• The "mythology" storylines on Ugly Betty, involving a creepy old CEO, a woman in a mask, and horrifically bad dialogue (all of which take time away from Betty, Marc, and Amanda)
• Film critics who start their reviews by complaining about the corporate decisions of the studio (yes, I am guilty of this... so I shall retire!)
• Movies being released in both Blu-Ray and HD-DVD. It's a format war, people. Cap didn't get where he is today by sitting on the fence.
• People bitching about Kate Bosworth. She is fundamentally fucking integral. You have no idea how much she's doing for that picture at every single moment. Bastards!

Is this the most blog-y (in a bad way) blog post ever? Have I just a) linked to a sex toy wish list, b) commanded my legions to buy me presents, c) whined about my roommates, and d) rattled off a list of current pop cultural pet peeves? Could I be any more of a cybercliché? FUCK NOW I'M CONJUGATING WORDS WITH THE PREFIX "CYBER!" I'm outta here, internet, I'm gone.

Posted by tederick at 10:00 PM in movies & sex (practical) & shinydisks & tv
Permalink | Comments (0)

Here's a site that pairs random Nietzche quotes with Family Circus cartoons, resulting in surprisingly compelling insights into human foibality. And also occasional gasps at just what a dork that guy was.

And on the other side of the sphere, here's a study that does away with the "it takes women a lot longer to get aroused" theory. At least when it comes to watching pornography, which, let's face it, arouses us all. Sort of amazing that no one twigged to the fact that the results of previous surveys might have been skewed by the measuring probe sitting uncomfortably in the womens' vaginas. Me, I can't get aroused when I have a Q-tip in my ear. It's a problem.

HEY--did I mention that I went without a sex drive for a full week recently? It was fascinating. I was a flatline. Not a single erotic thought or impulse for, like, six full days or so. That hasn't happened in my life before. It happened just after I turned 30. Related? Doubt it actually, more likely just wasn't eating enough bran.

Posted by tederick at 3:35 PM in miscellaneous crap & sex (practical) & sex (theoretical)
Permalink | Comments (0)

Ugh. Dreams about ex-girlfriends' apartments and giant vampire bats. You know what would be nice? Not that.

The other day someone at work pointed out that dating is like shopping. I think she was trying to tell me to enjoy the process, but she actually twigged me to a deeper understanding, because I fucking hate shopping. I don't browse, I don't window-shop, fuck that jazz. I like to walk into a store, pick up what I came for, take it to the cash, and get the fuck out in under five minutes. I'm like my dad in that regard, and if shopping is like dating and my father and I share the same problems, I come to wonder exactly why/how I exist. Surely procreation is a game for more patient men.

Fired, Monkey Boy, Fired! I just wonder why it took them so long to cotton on to the "unacceptable conduct." What finally pushed them over the edge? Him molesting a girl half his age and forcing her to carry his filthy man-seed? MUST MY EVERY JOY BE TAKEN FROM ME?!

Posted by tederick at 7:59 AM in dreams & movies & sex (practical)
Permalink | Comments (0)

The prevailing theory has always been that my porn-star name would be Tiger St. Leonard (first pet / street I grew up on). But last night Bex and I threw aside all rhetoric and systematology on this deal altogether, and came up with my true porn-star incarnation: Giacomo Brown. Giacomo Brown is a quintessential 1970s male porn star, and the lead character in a successful franchise of Giacomo Brown porn films. Giacomo Brown specializes in anal sex. Every sexual act he undertakes in his movies always ends with anal sex. They start out as whatever they start out as (oral, vaginal, a three-way with a pair of lesbian sisters, whatever) but right at the end Giacomo Brown always flips the girl over and finishes it out with anal. That's how he got his name: Giacomo Brown. He drills the brown, because he can't get off any other way. And they love him for it.

Giacomo Brown's first film is called Oh Yeah, Giacomo Brown, and the sequel is That's All Right, Giacomo Brown. I really don't know what I'm going to do with any of this information now that I have it, but it seemed important to record it, nevertheless.

So anyways... seems the Crazy Flakes continue to be distributed... I almost got into it with a guy at Bathurst station last night. Only this time I sort of put myself in the position because I thought he was going to beat the shit out of his girlfriend right there on the platform, and I was having none of that. The good news is that it turns out I'm surprisingly good at staring down drunken thugs at 3" distance. And also, when you point out that a drunken thug is using the F-word in front of a bunch of children, it tends to shame them. This key distinction may have saved my life, because if this guy made good on his threat to put me on the ground, he pretty much woulda succeeded. I've got no moves.

I am going to buy the following DVDs before my birthday: Seven Samurai, the Star Wars trilogy (oldschool!), Lost Season 2, and Hard Candy. Everything else is up for grabs for giftage, unless I go berserk at Sunrise during the film festival, which, of course, is a very strong possibility.

Posted by tederick at 9:52 AM in jedi antics & sex (practical) & shinydisks
Permalink | Comments (0)

I may be the only loser on the planet who was loserish enough to wait for CBC to start airing the second season of Doctor Who. They don't start until October 9th. The rest of the motherfucking planet has seen the entire motherfucking season. Motherfuck.

I continue to walk gingerly, not due to any lasting damage to my leg but because the bruise is big enough that shifting the skin around my muscles sorta hurts. Oh, and I'm getting a cold. And I'm shitting a blue streak, which is not the normal colour for shit. Generally, I feel hobbled.

Also: I miss sexual intercourse, as I found it to be rather enjoyable, and well-suited on a number of levels to the movements of my personality.

Posted by tederick at 10:24 PM in miscellaneous crap & sex (practical) & tv
Permalink

Today I was on the patio at the coffee shop with Mer and I caught sight of one of the only two males on the planet earth I've ever had a substantial crush on. Strangely enough both of these males were both named with something starting with a B, so we shall call them B1 and B2. The one I saw today was B2. A few years back I wanted him bad. He worked at a place I used to work at that required a change of clothes in the morning, and I had all manner of inappropriate locker room fantasies about wriggling around with him in various states of undress. (It was the red tighteys. Man, I still dream about those red tighteys.) It was all highly inappropriate. And he of course never had a sweet clue. Brilliantly heterosexual, stunningly naive and charmingly gormless, poor B2 wouldn't have known what to do with my man-lusts if I'd walked over to him and grabbed his pleasingly lengthy wang while diving in for a good snog. Poor B2. Still, he fares better on the scale than B1, who probably would have had less trouble with any sexual advances I might have made, but unfortunately came into my life at a time when I wasn't quite ready to process a full-on crush on a guy, so I didn't really realize that that's what had been going on until a few months later. Given that B1 lives in an entirely other place than this Ontario Canada locale, two months later was two months late. But oh well. He was fucking beautiful, man. Every inch of him the sort of man that gay poets have been writing epics about since before the fall of the Roman Empire. Alas for B1 and B2. Cruising up on 30 I've sort of accepted that I was never really fated to have a wild fling with an attractive male partner. Hey, I'm having enough trouble with hetero these days anyway. There are absolutely no eligible women on the face of this planet. At all, ever, thankyouvermuchcruelandindifferentgod.

Posted by tederick at 2:54 PM in sex (practical)
Permalink | Comments (0)

A few weeks ago a friend of mine met up with me on the street and said that she'd stumbled onto my blog after over a year of absence, just in time to read about my experiences buying a Fleshlight. She played off the usual "I didn't want to know you had a Fleshlight" vibe but then (like everybody else) she wanted to know how the Fleshlight... y'know... was. So here's the official Fleshlight Follow-up.

THE WHY ANUS: Why not? The insides are built the same, but the outsides are a hilarious butthole. Self-explanatory. (I realize that technically this makes for a slippery slope on the whole "Vag Fridays" concept, since it is technically neither a vagina nor even vag-shaped, but there you go.)

THE WHEN: See here.

THE HOW WAS IT: I got into this thing expecting a pretty mild response. I really only bought the thing as a lark and to satisfy my curiousity; I didn't expect anything particularly entertaining about the Fleslight. Boy was I wrong! When used properly (i.e. warmed up to body temperature with warm water, slicked up with a generous quantity of ID lube, and with the end cap unscrewed enough to provide the proper quantity of suction, neither too much nor too little), this thing works like gangbusters. Is it a vagina? Clearly not. Is it as close as you'll get in a masturbatory scenario to simulating a vagina? Oh hellllllllllllls yes. My first time with the Fleshlight was so startlingly accurate to the vagina experience that I was actually left in a state of utter catatonic awe. I pretty much just collapsed and grinned for a good twenty minutes before I could do anything relatively constructive. (You may infer what the next relatively constructive act was.)

THE WHAT NEXT: Real vagina, obviously. The Fleshlight's fun, but I admit the novelty wore off fairly quickly, as one would expect with a nonresponsive automaton in the place of a thinking, breathing partner. You have to have your fantasy on hardcore to really make this thing work out. It's a "special occasion" sort of a deal nowadays, like everything else in the tickle trunk.

There. Aren't you glad you came to Tederick.com today?

Posted by tederick at 1:20 AM in sex (practical) & vagina fridays
Permalink

Remember that May is National Masturbation Month, which you can celebrate through a process that you were going to do anyway.

You can also stop by Come As You Are this month and get buttons! Who doesn't love buttons?

Have a happy slappy May.

Posted by tederick at 7:43 AM in sex (practical)
Permalink | Comments (0)

After a very frazzling afternoon working on the second-last extra-curricular web programming contract my life will ever be smited with, I trucked down to the NFBONF to catch a Les Nomades screening, which featured my friend Felix's first animated short. (All week I've been enjoying referring to him as "Noted Swiss filmmaker Felix Heeb.") Animation just fascinates me these days. I really wish I'd paid it more attention when I was in my teens and twenties, and wasn't just starting to work in it now. It's just so galldarned neat. I liked Felix's flick a great deal, and the rest of the animated shorts too. All five of them together was a total of about ten minutes. Then they showed three 30-minute short films. On the whole I'd say I liked the Film Where Very Little Happened quite a bit more than the two Films Where Nothing Happened At All. But it was a near thing. You know the sort of situation where the audience just sits in stony silence when the credits begin to roll because they can't believe the degree to which they've just been pantsed? Yeah, that thing.

After the screening I popped over to CAYA to enjoy the Midnight Madness blow-out and to get my free goodies from writing the article the other day. My loot bag was double-sized, for "having far and away the most inventive blog." So from here on out I think I get to refer to myself as an "award-winning sex columnist." Because a double-sized sex toy loot bag is as good an award as anything I can think of. The stash included two entire VHS pornos, being No Man's Land: Interracial Edition, and better yet, Black Label: The Uranus Experiment, which I'm told proudly presents the first cum-shot in real zero gravity. So I'm on that motherfucker like crazy. And I got massage oil and dirty cheques and a vibrator key-ring and sex dice and a rather uncanny duplicate of the very first butt plug I ever owned... in the same colour no less. (I'll keep that one in the bag and give it away as a gift someday, to some lucky butt-virgin.)

So that was just the free shit. I guess I'm still just barely Protestant enough to feel guilty taking all them goodies and not buying anything, so I picked out a suitably town-taming red butt plug for myself (though unfortunately not the real Coke-can sized sunuvabitch I was after). Bex failed to accompany me, so I got her a bunch of flavoured condoms and a comic book called Blowjob, so that she can SUCK IT. And I topped it off with a graphic novel full of vampire porn, just for me. Mmmm. Full-colour vampire pussy.

After all that, I was in such a good mood that I decided to go over to Burrito Boyz for a snack. At this point, let us discuss the Burrito Boyz Girl's ass. Those of you who have been there know what I'm talking about, and why I'm talking about it. This is no lecherous comment about some run-of-the-mill ass. No. This ass defines the art form, not just for the city, but possibly for the entire planet. This ass needs a shrine. This ass needs a set of minstrels to wander the downtown core singing its graces. This ass needs a blog, so that posts can be written under category headings like "What the ass was wearing today" and "What it looked like when the ass had to lean down to pick up the bag of cheese" and "3-dimensional virtual simulations of the ass" and "Why these pants are the model of good pants for the entire city of Toronto, outdoing even the mightiness of Kim's pants." Somebody please get on that, so that I don't have to; I'm damned tired of web programming, I have a long hike tomorrow, and I have toys to play with before bed.

Posted by tederick at 12:52 AM in jedi antics & movies & sex (practical)
Permalink

Holy shit. If you're in kissing range of anyone hot, do it now!

Posted by tederick at 8:04 AM in sex (practical)
Permalink | Comments (0)

There was a girl on Amazing Race last night who was so beautiful that every time she was on screen - every time she was on screen - I involuntarily exclaimed either "oh my god" or "holy shit." Call it the Zammit factor. Lisa Zammit was a girl in my first-year Archetypes class at university, who became my definition of beautiful. From the moment I first laid eyes on her, it wasn't even necessarily a case of "love at first sight," so much as a genuine appreciation for the fact that if God came down from cloudy-puff and asked me exactly what I find physically attractive in a woman, and then went off and did what he could with that information, a girl that looks like Lisa Zammit would have been the outcome. In other words, for all intents and purposes, and for me quite specifically, she was The Most Beautiful Girl In The World.

I've had that Zammit factor moment a few other times in my life (yay to the me that even ended up dating one of them), so it's by no means an exclusive achievement. Kristen Kreuk held the title for a long time, the sort of girl who can suck the breath right out of me from a damn television screen. Now there's another one of those. It makes Amay-Ray almost completely impossible to watch, of course - we're talking about an intensely uncomfortable sensation overall, like staring into the sun or the first time you notice that rubbing your genitals feels good - but I'm sure I'll muster through. Besides, Phil has a blog now. How cute is that?

Posted by tederick at 7:09 AM in sex (practical) & tv
Permalink | Comments (0)

It clearly says above my bed that I'm not supposed to sleep with anyone who doesn't love the movie Gerry. It's been there the whole freakin' time. Maggotballs.

Posted by tederick at 8:58 PM in sex (practical)
Permalink | Comments (0)

Just a quick note to let all and sundry know that the repression has gotten to me. I retire to my bed.

Posted by tederick at 7:03 PM in sex (practical)
Permalink

Last night I was watching something on SexTV about the vagina, like a half-hour special or something, and so naturally they had an endless parade of shots of the vagina itself - usually a woman modelling on a swivel-table being shot from the mid-thighs to the belly-button, a.k.a. the Universal Vagina. It was rather startlingly beautiful, a true paragon of vaginadom to which all other vaginae would be compelled to look up at in awe. This sort of rubbed me the wrong way. The program itself made the point of how many women feel intimidated by the "pretty vaginas" they see (or don't see) in media, which rarely allow for the enormous variety and differentiation among the genuine articles, and here they're presenting their example as this ludicrously symmetrical work of abstract art with no visible labia minora, sparse pubic hair to offend the viewer's gaze, and a general rosy glow about the proceedings that was only enhanced by the cinematographer's rather comical fondness for putting a redhead between the model's knees and blasting away at the thing with 650 watts of light. (Which worked great, except that it made the inner thighs throb like Marge Simpson's glazed ham.) I mean sure, it was eye-catchingly pretty, but aren't they a hell of a lot more fun when they have a bit of personality?

Meanwhile, something I've been noticing more and more in the past couple of years (mostly because of living with Brandy), which has been drawn out even more by the release of Brokeback Mountain, is the number of women who are now unabashedly willing to admit to enjoying watching men making out. This was exemplified tonight by the sheer number of tittering girls at the Brokeback screening I attended, whose sole reason for being there seemed to be to watch Heath and Jack fuck on a mountain. I'm really pleased that this interest is gaining momentum in modern heterosexual culture. For my part, I never had any specific abiding interest in watching girls have sex with each other as opposed to straight porn, other than that it usually allowed for staring at two naked women rather than the de facto one. Watching Heath and Jake french and then beat the shit out of each other, at least, had the air of novelty to it.

I remember when I became particularly, and permanently, aware of my fundamental heterosexuality; I was 17 or 18, which probably means it coincides directly with the first time I fell in love - real love, not the aforementioned high school puppy love that got so satisfyingly brought to a close last week. When it happened, it was surprisingly liberating, given that I was essentially only reconfirming the supposed social "norm" into which I had always been raised; it nevertheless ran through me and continues to run through me and define the single most important goal - and lack - and opposition - and complementation (is that a word?) - of my whole darned life. It was also when I figured out that I could do whatever the fuck I wanted with boys, because it would never, ever matter in anything like the same way as the most basic interactions I would have with girls. It would solve none of my problems, if these problems are even solvable at all. I am set to a single course.

Posted by tederick at 11:26 PM in sex (practical) & sex (theoretical)
Permalink | Comments (0)

About a month ago, the ladies of the Box had the rather ingenious idea of, instead of buying each other small cheap Christmas presents, pooling all of the money together and going dildo shopping at Come As You Are. They invited me along as the sole male representative. It turned out to be so much damn fun that not only am I going to babble about it here, but I'm going to clean up the language and post about it on blogTO, too. The world deserves to know that as holiday spending sprees go, you pretty much can't go wrong turning four horny girls (and me) loose in a sex toy shop with cash money in their pockets and a commitment to buy.

The Box girls were split down the middle on the merits of the Pink Passion vs. the Power Rabbit. Both of them are large, dominating machines of pulsating personal pleasure. They're both a little scary looking. Veininess was a serious turn-off on the Pink Passion ("I'd be afraid it would wake up and impregnate me in the night," Bex was heard to utter), but the Power Rabbit didn't sport the same split-finger clit tickler, which was a seroius bonus. I didn't take a final tally on who ended up with which one, but I think both of them were purchased by various members of the group. Nobody left there without some kind of vibrator, I can tell you that... not even me.

I went down there to get a Fleshlight because let's face it, I've wanted one for about a gajillion years and what's the use of getting a new job if you can't make with the silicone self-lovin'? What I didn't expect was that I was going to go hog-happy over the Splash, a nifty little solid plastic vibe. Talk about love at first sight. It comes in the most appealing shade of teal, and is just a damn decent around-the-house toy for both girls and boys. Has the best solid buzz on it I've felt in a really long time, too. That thing's a life-changer.

Because it's comic book day I also got a copy of Head, the comic book for lovers of cunnilingus, and the first issue of Dirty Found, which I've wanted for a really long time. Left the Bubble Bath Girls photo book on the shelf because it costs fifty damn dollars, but I'll go back for it sooner or later. Ditto on the Straight Girl's Guide to Sleeping with Chicks, which is almost too awesome to be believed. I know at least two people who need a copy right freakin' now.

After CAYA I went over to the Snail and bought more conventional comic books, and mixed them all up in my bag with the sexy ones like a naughty schoolboy. Also scored me some excited Redheaded Snailer conversationalizin' about The Chronicles of Narnia, which split the grin somethin' fierce.

Man, I could spend another couple hundred bucks at CAYA without even breaking a sweat. This is Christmas.

Posted by tederick at 9:41 PM in sex (practical)
Permalink | Comments (0)

Posted by tederick at 9:39 PM in sex (practical)
Permalink

Nuh-uh.

This post occured to me because at the current moment I actually have Slave Leia toys in three different scales staring at me from my shelf, which is unusual, but merely a coincidence. Slave Leia does not make me hot. She has never made me hot. I've asked partners to slip into the old Catholic uniform, used fake fangs to draw real blood, and even had a fairy detailed fantasy about wrapping one shivering young woman in my Jedi cloak and playing lightsabre games till dawn... but have never, ever, ever, ever wanted anything to do with that gold bikini.

Why? Because having lusty thoughts about Leia is like having lusty thoughts about my mom. In fact, I think there's a good possibility that for at least the first five or six years of my life, Princess Leia might very well have occupied the exact same psychological space in my brain as my mom. They kinda look alike, they certainly talk alike, and what six-year-old doesn't want a gun-toting rebel senator as a mommy?

When I hit the pubes, this maternal connectivity (thankfully) did not morph over into "boy I hope one of the stage crew girls will favour me with some metal swimwear bondage action." (Mmmm... stage crew girls.) In fact, it wasn't until watching the saga last week that I was caused to notice that (when wearing her Hoth jumper, not the bikini) Leia has a cute bum. Think about that: it took me (me) 29 years to notice that Carrie Fisher's ass is respectable. Even that girl at Celebration wasn't quite enough to push me over the edge into a full-blown slave girl fetish... although I did spend about twenty minutes trying to get a good low angle on her rather superb butt.

Now, I've spent a lot of time with male Star Wars fans and yeah, they're a desperate lot and perhaps for each and every one of them, the apotheosis of sexual experience on the planet Earth really is getting a girl to dress up like Leia and wrap her chain around your neck. (Mmmm... chain play.) But I prefer to live in doubt. Doesn't a good spot of role-playing generally require more than the usual amount of confidence, inventiveness, and willingness to shoot down the item of your idolatry with a bit of in-the-muck love-ruttin'? Sure, they've all got the nude beach photos of Natalie Portman saved on their hard drive, but when was the last time you saw a Star Wars geek sully the maiden virtue of the saga's original turbo-hottie?

Exactly. Bullshit posturing....

Posted by tederick at 9:43 AM in galaxy far & sex (practical)
Permalink | Comments (0)

I've been dreaming about travelling quite a bit; two nights ago it was a surprisingly detailed revisitation of the Indianapolis trip, and then last night I think Matty Price and I were on the road again in the States... though not to North Carolina, more likely to someplace new. Maybe we were Amazing Raceing in this new, horribly land-locked American edition they've smited us with. When Phil Keoghan was explaining the origins of the mission in New Orleans last night and said "This historic building is the pit stop for this leg of the race," I fully expected him to instead say "This historic building... is gone." But no such luck.

This quiz said that when it comes to the intellectual sexiness, I'm a "hot tamale." Boy was that ever not a surprise. Anyways my response was poorly written so I'm not going to reprint it here, but at least the questions were moderately diverting.

I used to lapse into daydreams about going to the Sahara desert and just walking straight in, disappearing over the horizon. That was about five or six years ago and I think I stopped having that fantasy as soon as the smiley-faced purple pills were flowing down my throat every morning. As with many things once the prevailing problems were "solved," I never fully investigated the origins of that fantasy or what it meant to me. It wasn't a death wish thing, because I never stayed in the desert long enough to die. It might instead have sprung from the old proclamation that the desert "is clean." The elemental cleanliness of a land made of nothing but dirt. And the quiet... boy, the peace and quiet.

Time to go make like an X-man. It's opium, and I know that, but one can only spend so much of one's time dreaming of wastelands.

Posted by tederick at 2:24 PM in dreams & sex (practical)
Permalink | Comments (0)

Having fun with the sex quizzes. Oh marvellous internet, and your strange abilities to determine that I am truly depraved, and attracted to cute bums. How ever did you learn my deepest secrets?

First I scored Hell Level 2 on the Sexual Hell Test, which I suppose is somehow related to that Dante's Ten Levels of Hell test I took last year, where I ended up crammed somewhere between Lusty and Gluttonous. I scored a Level 2 on that one too, so maybe they all come out Level 2. Or maybe I'm just a deeply Level 2 kind of guy. In any event, it goes like this:

HELL LEVEL 2 Raw score: 76% You're just about as deep in sexual hellfire as a person can get. Virtually no urge, however demented, will go ungratified; practically no boundary will go uncrossed. You're probably proud of your adventurousness, and, honestly, you should be. Few people are confident enough to pursue pleasure on their own terms. Your morals could sink a bit further, sure, but it's likely that you've got a pretty good idea of what you're into and what you would do...above all you're honest with yourself with what you want. If more people were honest with themselves, you'd have a lot more company down in the flames. AVOID: the lost souls in sexual heaven and (above all) the denizens of sexual purgatory. You don't need any prudes or wishy-washers in your life. [Ed: Amen, brother, amen.] How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 51% on hellishness

I love being marginally hellish.

I enjoyed that one so much that I decided to take the Tits, Ass, and Cuteness Test to find out what kind of girl I find attractive. This one was a no brainer:

Cute & Small Boobs Raw score: 29% Big Breasts, 54% Big Ass, and 84% Cute! /P> Thanks for taking the T and A and C test! Based on your selections, the results are clear: you show an attraction to smaller breasts, larger asses, and sexier composure than others who've taken the test. Note that because you scored small on breasts but large on ass size, it might appear you like girls bottom heavy. That's probably not the case. What's more likely is that you notice curvy, voluptuous butts, and you don't like big, fake boobs. Big real boobs are even worse because of the sag. Anyway, my third variable, "cuteness" is a mostly objective measure of how innocent a given model looked. It's determined by a combination of a lot of factors: lack of dark eye makeup, facial expression, posture, etc. If you scored high on that variable, you are either really nice OR you're into deflowering teens. If you scored low, you are attracted to raunchier, sexier, women. In your case, your higher than average score suggests you appreciate a cuter, nicer look. Kudos! Recommended Celebrity: Hilary Duff, because she is the ultimate in cute! Especially since she lost that baby fat! [Ed: Ugh. Just... ugh.] How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 10% on tit-size You scored higher than 65% on ass-size You scored higher than 96% on cuteness

I know that they mean something else entirely, but I love that I scored 96% on cuteness. Because I'm adorable.

Yeah so that was pretty much the most sexist test ever. And could they have had even one normal-ish looking girl, other than Kate Winslet who doesn't really count because she's the normal version of hotttttttttttttttttttttttt? Well, whatever, I come away satisfied. But then, I'm a white male heterosexual liberal living in North America. Pretty much I always come away satisfied.

Posted by tederick at 11:13 PM in sex (practical)
Permalink | Comments (0)

Collecting together the Hunt footage over the weekend put me in a high-schooly frame of mind and I was reminded of something that I honestly haven't thought of in probably close to a decade: why I broke up with my first girlfriend. I was late coming to the party as many of my over-educated under-stimulated brethren generally are, and the Girl in Question had a bit more experience than me and was therefore very exciting and all kinds of "the hot." She had this boyfriend, who we'll here call Biffy, who was a self-styled artist-warrior-poet type who had the smallest penis I've ever seen on an adult male (though his pride of it set the standard of "size doesn't matter" for ever after) and who made the mistake of going off to South America for March break, leaving me all alone with his girlfriend. Push came to shove, yadda yadda etc., and by the time Biffy got back, the Girl in Question and I were making the goo-goo eyes and some tentative smoochies. Biffy was actually okay with this - big Mr. Free Thinker and whatnot, and he'd probably scored like crazy in Cartagena or wherever the frick he was - and he wished us well. But then he slipped in the deuce, the most obvious deuce of all time in retrospect, but I was so patently naive back in those days that I didn't see anything nefarious in his plotting until years later: he said something along the lines of "I hope you can handle her." I gave the blank stare. He expounded: he asked me if I'd ever gone down on a girl. I gave the blank stare again, because - and I'm not 100% sure on this point, but I suspect - I had never heard that term before. (I mean I knew what oral sex was by this point, but "going down" must have given my lexicon the clean slip.) And then, and I remember this very clearly, he mimicked the throes of ecstasy to which his own oral ministrations had caused the Girl in Question to succumb, which involved a lot of screaming and slapping the wall behind him. I sloughed it off at the time, playing confidence I didn't have, and (though it took me a few days to get up to my running speed) I fled shortly thereafter from anything and everything having anything even remotely connected to the Girl in Question. There is nothing in the world that is easier than convincing a teenaged boy that he can't make a girl happy.

Now here's the thing: when I finally did first get around to making a girl slap the walls and bite holes in the pillow cases, this incident must have been (mercifully) completely erased from my mind, because I was not intimidated at all. I count this a dear gladness, because otherwise the freight of Biffy's moment of brilliant sexual terrorism would probably have destroyed something that I otherwise immediately took to like the huppiest duck in the biggest pond in the whole wide world. There's the first time I had sex, and there's the first time I went down, and I have no illusions about which was more fun. No unconscious fear, no conscious fear either. Maybe Freud had a fanged asshole.

Posted by tederick at 9:57 AM in galaxy far & sex (practical) & sex (theoretical)
Permalink | Comments (0)

I think I've only ever had two crushes on guys. We're talking actual crushes here, not that thing I've got with Bradley Cooper right now where I want to throw him over the prep table and show him my nonstick all-purpose spreader. Or the thing where Brandy forces me and Chris to make out. No, I mean the thing where I get all giggly and girly (more than usual), over a guy. They were both straight boys so nothing ever went anywhere (even reasonably assuming that I had the willpower or the manpower to make anything go anywhere, which is a stretch), but they certainly stand out in the ever-increasingly-crowded line of doomed crushes and love affairs that files off to the left at the door of the Matt's Mega-tainment Life Emporium and Whiskey Bar. Mostly because they're taller than the others.

The first was a beautiful blonde boy when I was in my late teens, and man howdy, growing a hefty crush on a guy when it's never happened before, even if you've always accepted the limited possibility, sure knocks you on your ass. More like, it sucks the wind right out of you. But in a nice way, where there's gasping for breath that reminds you that you should have been breathing better all along. This dude was a year or two younger than me, and entirely too clever, funny as hell, had the muscles without going too far with the muscles, and the clearest eyes I've ever seen on a male. I don't want to comment specifically on the butt, but there was butt. And so, there was much lusting. There might even have been scheming. The camera certainly loved the kid, and he loved the camera, and that's as far as it went. I haven't seen him in near a decade.

Boy #2 was the real deal. Made Boy #1 look like boy parts. Boy #2 was a co-worker, and I lusted on him for like nine solid months. And I had a girlfriend at the time (so did he). I would have dropped mine like a bad habit if something ever actually happened with Boy #2. Or more accurately, would have gay-cheated on her like crazy and insisted that it didn't technically violate the terms of our relationship, because it didn't. Boy #2 brought out all kinds of nasty in me. He was tall, lean, and vaguely British-descended, but without the accent. He was surprisingly warm and friendly to me, and interested in my shit, which only furthered the problem. The farthest it ever got was getting to see him in his underwear - red briefs, holy cattleprods create a fetish for me right on the spot - but I had years of good times with that one. After I left the job, I think I ran into him maybe once or twice on the street or something, but we didn't stay friends. But he still wanders through my thoughts with appreciable regularity.

And that, for now, is that.

Posted by tederick at 3:37 PM in sex (practical)
Permalink | Comments (0)