Even the Unlovable Can Get Some Love

April 11, 2010 Diary, Raymond 1 Comment

How many times have I leaned on you?

Why is it, in the cycle of disrepair, that I reach out this way? I’m drunk, I’m on the phone. I shouldn’t be on the phone. I want you to come over. You’re my new squeeze, my ex, my anything, my everything. I want you.

I want you and I don’t want myself. I don’t want to be myself anymore. I’m drunk or I’m hungover. I’m raging against the dying light, or I’m licking my wounds at noon. I have booze and drugs and rock and roll and I need sex. I need you. I have to have you. You are all I want now. Without you there is nothing left.

There is no us. There is only me. Me and my hands and they can’t be still without these chemicals. I love you but I can’t consider you. I love you and I would if I could. And I mean that. I’m almost out of excuses but I’m hoping that you’ll listen to one more. I’m hoping that you’ll see past the agitation, the aggravation, and the endless frustration. Don’t look at the vomit on the floor that’s all crusty and rust-colored. I still consider myself a spiritual person and vomit doesn’t bother me. Not much at least. Not anymore. Just don’t tell anyone. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?

There’s a knock on the door and I drag myself to my feet. Well, hellllllll-o.

You brush past me, wanting to assess the damage. For a Friday afternoon, it’s really not that bad. At least as I see it. The furniture is largely upright and unstained. What matters to you as far as I can tell is that you’re here now, and that I’m breathing all right. I am. When I’m not chain smoking, that is. And if you ignore the occasional coughing fits.

I don’t think about why you’re here or what’s right or wrong. I can’t be bothered with all of that. Why address the impossible…? This is what I am and what I want to be, what I always wanted to be. Otherwise, the conversations might be different. We might be different.

You fell in love and you ignored the warning signs. The pictures of us together are lovely. You sleep deeply and somehow the blaring music in the other room doesn’t bother you. If I were you, and I were a woman, I’d probably buy earplugs. If I were you I might try to help but then I might give up, too.

If I were you, I’d stop answering the phone so much.

I have goals and I have dreams. You play along with my romantic notions and slurred speeches. What else can you do at this point? You’re a woman and you fell in love. Leave, you’re still in love. And then you’re in love with an apparition, a memory. What good would that do you, or more importantly — much more importantly — me?

But you’re in love with a ghost as we chit-chat today. The ghost of the good me, the one you came to love. The ghost of our happy times, before I started wallowing in the wretched.

You push me away at first when I try to kiss you. I have been very lonely today. It doesn’t occur to me why, but I wouldn’t care had it registered. I would have brushed that away just as you brush my kiss away now.

You want me to take a shower. I think about this. At first I say no in order to buy some time. Showering will be awful, it will ruin my high and I know this. But now I am naked and getting into the shower. I stop in front of the mirror and admire myself. I like to do this when I am high but I won’t want to do this tomorrow.

I have an angle. Nudity is a precursor to sex. So I will shower.

When I get out of the shower, you are on the phone. You hang up and look at me. You smile. You take the extra towel and you run it over my hair. I smile back at you and do a little dance. This is courtship.

I pour you a drink even though you don’t really want one. I get high as soon as I’m dressed so that I can relax and ditch the bad clean feeling. I comb my hair. And then I comb it a second time.

We agree to watch a movie. I bide my time. Ten minutes into the movie I am bored and hit pause. I always do this. We argue. I pour a drink for myself. You decide to have another. We sit on the couch.

I manage to harangue you into going in the bedroom. I have needs and then my needs have needs too. As soon as I get your clothes off it’s all sweetness and light, but I’m biding my time again.

I fuck you hard. I’m not nice about it. You go with it. I almost lose my way, but I throw us both over and use my mouth all over your body. You suck my cock back to fullness and we flip around again. It’s frantic now, we both know that we’ve got one last shot. You are groaning and straining with your back arched. We come together. You howl as I grunt like a wild boar.

You wanted to fix me and I wanted to fuck you. I got what I wanted.

Where we will go from here, no one can say. I wipe the semen off with a stiffened towel that hasn’t been washed in weeks. Naked, I go into the kitchen and pour another round.

Tomorrow I will tell you stories of reform. Tonight I will drink and smoke weed and fuck you and smoke weed again and listen to music. In that order. You will fall asleep hours before me. Alone.

Raymond Burns is an esoteric indie film professional living in Los Angeles. Raymond is a social animal who loves every inch of the female form. He comprehensively appreciates the quiet aftermath of a woman’s orgasm. He hangs a bit to the left.

Drunk Tweet To Be Proud About

April 9, 2010 Lessons No Comments

Last weekend was a holiday weekend and you guys partied it up. We here at Sex and the 405 know all about it — the good, the bad, and the ugly. From Twitter. That’s right, before you deleted them Sunday morning. Out of control, Los Angeles, you’re out of control.

Well, don’t worry, you don’t have to suffer the indignity of the looks you received on Monday morning at the office ever again.

All you have to do is read and follow “mixultant” (but that’s sultan of cocktail mixing to you, plebs) Joseph Boroski’s common sense guide for drunk tweeting you can be proud about.

1. No emo tweets.

2. Do not overwhelm us every two minutes with all your change of locations and celebrity sightings.

3. Don’t repeat yourself.

4. Don’t start using words you would never use while sober.

5. Don’t roll the bus on your buddies.

6. Tell us funny, happy, and exciting things.

7. Make the pics you post are worth looking at.

8. Tweet it later!

9. Put the damn phone in your pocket and hang out with your friends already!

10. If you’re going to put us through your drunk ramblings via Tweetie, you might as well let us know how you got in such a sorry place to begin with.

You’re welcome. Now go get started, it’s already happy hour in London.

Read the whole thing by Joseph Boroski, or follow him on Twitter: @sipSLOWLY. Post via @SexCigarsandBooze.

Kid Sues Mom Over Facebook Drama

April 8, 2010 Culture, News, OMGWTFBBQ, web No Comments

It was only a matter of time before it came to this, creatures. If you have a Facebook, you know first hand how angina-inducing interaction with your near and dearest can be. Unlike a social gathering or family dinner, you can’t really walk away — or try to keep things between yourself and the other person. They’re out there, breaking in real time, for all your contacts to see across the world — and to access, later (if you fail to remove the content) at their leisure.

Now, a 16-year-old in Arkansas is suing his mother for slandering him on his Facebook profile. According to ABC7, Denise New of Arkadelphia hacked into her son’s account, changed his password and posted “slanderous comments about his personal life.”

New says she sought only to monitor her son’s online interactions. The teen lives with his grandmother, who holds custodial rights, but New claims she has the legal right to monitor his online behavior. She plans to fight the charges.

Watch the report from ABC7 below:

“Amazing.”

Information from ABC7.

Negativity Is Cool

April 7, 2010 Health, News, Research No Comments

Looks like some nasty habits aren’t so nasty after all. Commenting in a recent article in O Magazine, Bryan Gibson, professor of social psychology at Central Michigan University, says: “In certain situations, what is typically a detrimental trait can turn out to be a good one.”

And just what is he talking about? Being negative, swearing, and getting pissed.

Negativity

“Picture the worst-case scenario and work your way backwards,” says Nicole Jordan, our resident PR pro. And she’s right — focusing on the negative outcomes help us prepare and thus overcome difficulties.

“Defensive pessimism—thinking specifically about what might go wrong—can turn anxiety into action,” says Julie K. Norem, professor of psychology at Wellesley College and the author of The Positive Power of Negative Thinking.

Cussing

Bad words make you feel better! According to a recent study published in NeuroReport, participants who immersed their hands in icy water and were allowed to shout bad words experienced significantly less prickly, numbing pain than when they said neutral words. The reason? Swearing seems to activate the stress response, boosting our pain thresholds to better deal with crisis.

Getting Pissed

And by that, we don’t mean piss drunk. Though we’re sure researchers could find a good reason to get wasted if they really tried. Anyway, get this, so long as your rage isn’t a recurring thing, getting angry when you face a difficult situation does help deal with stress.

According to Jennifer Lerner, director of the Harvard Decision Science Laboratory, reacting with focused anger instead of allowing yourself to get carried away with anxiety releases less of the stress hormone cortisol. Less stress means less likelihood of losing bone mass, becoming depressed or obese. Fantastic!

So, cherish your pessimism, embrace your inner sailor and for the love of all things good and decent, let yourself get seriously pissed every once in a blue moon instead of “dealing with it.”

It’s good for you, trust us.

Image from Tambago the Jaguar. Information from O Magazine.

Thinking of You: If I Was Your Coworker

April 5, 2010 lolz No Comments

We here at Sex and the 405 think it’s vital to let people know how much you adore them, so we’ve created a special new section showcasing the best of the web when it comes to showing your love.

This week’s jewel comes to you via someecards, the epitome of cool when it comes to e-cards.

Click on the card to send it to someone you dig!

Sweden Bans Implants Citing Explosion Risk

April 5, 2010 Health, News, Politics No Comments

Sweden’s Medical Products Agency (Läkemedelsverket) has banned three brands of silicone breast implants due to their risk of bursting. Gnarly.

They estimated that some 35,000 European women have had their breasts augmented with dangerous Poly Implant Prothese (PIP) since 2001. Sweden is following France’s example, who has done the same and is now offering the 1,000 affected women an alternatives.

“This is the type of information that we are trying to find out. We hope to be able to release information as soon as possible,” said Staffan Strömberg at the agency.

Strömberg said he does not see any reason for Swedish women who have these implants to be overly concerned at this time.

Image from journal.lv. Information from The Local, via @ericludzenski.

L.A. Dudes Have Tiny Dicks

April 5, 2010 News, OMGWTFBBQ, Research 1 Comment

So get this, recently, the giant Condomania averaged the sizes of their custom-sized TheyFit condoms ordered by a sample of some 25,000 men in the U.S. between 2004 and 2010 to figure out what cities have the best-endowed men.

Los Angeles, they found, comes in at 17, a full nine places below San Francisco.

The SF Weekly wasted no time rubbing it in:

Finding a good man in San Francisco is not easy. We actually devoted a cover story to the challenging hunt. Yet apparently finding a well-endowed man is not too, umm, hard. According to stats released by internet condom store Condomania, it’s much easier in the City by the Bay than in the city of over-inflated pricks to the south, Los Angeles.

San Francisco ranked a respectable No. 8 among the nation’s 20 most populous cities, while Los Angeles came in at a stumpy 17th. And L.A. seems to be feeling a little down about their shortcomings, noting that even Ron Jeremy couldn’t carry the team. Basically they’re taking their loss like a man, concocting lame excuses about how not a lot of men in L.A. even wear condoms so the stats are skewed. Wah, wah, wah.

For all the grief we put San Diego through up here in the City of Angels, we here at Sex and the 405 have to admit that their coming in third place in the city rankings is pretty damn impressive.

And the smallest cocks? Detroit, Philadelphia, and Dallas/Ft. Worth.

Disagree? Pics or we’re not buying it!

And if you know someone who defies the results of this survey, send them a proper thank you!

Image by Julie K. Information via the SF Weekly.

On a Saturday in Venice, California

April 4, 2010 Diary, Raymond 1 Comment

You don’t really want to fuck on heroin. The drug is enough. You’re slack, slacker than you’ve ever been. You’re okay with the world around you. The world around you suits you just fine. Friday night is becoming Saturday.

All good things must come. Come and then come to an end.

At the end of the high, it’s time to come back.

The best way to come back is to come. But it’s hard to come with your body broken like this. As the good feelings of Friday night came to an end, the pass out takes over. Now it’s Saturday and the good times have ended and you’re hoping she’ll come. Come over at least.

Detoxing is not sexy. Hard drug toxins have a special, special touch. The sweating starts. There is no appetite, the body wants the poison out but you’re not ready to live yet. No food for you.

The sheets are soaked through with sweat and you’re cold. It’s cold but you still sweat. You have the chills but you still sweat. It’s hot outside but you’re cold and sweating.

And then she arrives. You’re in agony but you’re young enough where lying in bed is somehow acceptable even though it’s four in the afternoon and the world is outside, just outside your window. She ignores the wet sheets. Notices them, yes, but decides to ignore them after she pushes them away. You pull them back to you.

You have only a futon. The futon is unfolded and it takes up most of the space in the room. The apartment is small. It’s a nice day outside but the blinds are drawn. It’s four in the afternoon and you’re glad to see her.

You reach your hand out. You caress her breast. Cup it. Something about the pain changes in you. There is a restlessness there. Warmth. You’re not as cold anymore.

She sits up then and reaches for the bong. She has her own weed. She smokes and you try to but it’s painful and you don’t want to be stoned, it just makes the pain worse.

But now she is high and that makes her horny. You don’t know why it’s called that, horny, but smoking weed makes her happy and horny and you don’t care why people call it that. You can barely think straight, thoughts are still all floaty but it’s not pleasant anymore.

She tucks herself in next to you, you ramble half-coherently, rattling off the fragmented thoughts that drift about in your mind. Your mind is resistant but your body is stirring. Your cock awakes. You’re young so you slip your hand in her panties right away as you kiss her. You’re young so you don’t think about how your breath might be or how your saliva must taste. She loves you and she ignores it, at least she doesn’t say anything. You’re young and she’s young too.

Before long she’s riding you. You don’t have the energy to move your body on top of hers so this is perfect. You’re surprised that your cock works at all since the rest of your body is broken. This makes you happy. Your cock is not as hard as normal but there’s something satisfying about this too. You’re young and you felt like you were dying just minutes before but now she is riding you and you know you are alive.

So this is what sex is after heroin. You fuck her and grab her tits with your hands and you’re happy. You’re turned on and it’s not exactly like regular happiness, but you’ve never fucked after heroin before and you’re glad to be alive because you felt like you were dying.

She is fucking you and making those noises that she makes. She’s going slower than normal because you are. You’re going slower than normal because your bones hurt and you’re just happy that your cock is hard and it’s staying hard.

She is cooing and you love her. You’re glad that she came over, and you’re glad when she says, “I’m coming, Babe.” She says that a lot and it makes you happy in that certain way every time you hear it. You fuck and sweat and breathe strangely since your body is still in shock and then you stop for a couple of minutes and then you start fucking her again. You know that you’re alive. And if you’re alive today, you’ll be alive tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow you’ll do more heroin but probably not, because that would be stupid. But you’re glad for her. You love her and you love fucking her and you find the energy to get behind her.

Raymond Burns is an esoteric indie film professional living in Los Angeles. Raymond is a social animal who loves every inch of the female form. He comprehensively appreciates the quiet aftermath of a woman’s orgasm. He hangs a bit to the left.

Seeking The Ultimate Blowjob

April 2, 2010 Opinion 7 Comments

I love blowjobs. I’m male, so that pretty much goes without saying. But I really love blowjobs. Epic blowjobs. Intense, full depth, sloppy, slobbering, gagging, tearing, face-fucking, extended eye-contact, fully consuming blowjobs. The kind that cause you to take pause when you see or experience one unexpectedly. Again, that probably isn’t much of a revelatory statement coming from a man, but for me a proper blowjob is almost a fetish. In fact, it might be my one and only fetish. And that single sexual preference has unfortunately been an obstacle that has kept me from having a serious, long-term relationship for many years.

Now I don’t mean that in the most absolute sense. It’s not as if any girl I consider dating must have a total lack of or complete control over her gag reflex. There’s no chart at my front door that says “You Must Swallow This Many Inches to Ride the Zipper.” But it’s a preference. Just in the same way I’m sure size queens have liked, fallen for, and dated guys of average stature, but in the end realized they couldn’t be with someone who didn’t fulfill all their needs, both personal and physical. That’s where the trouble starts for me; finding the combination of both personal and physical chemistry.

Admittedly, I’m something of a contradiction. After a handful of wild years I’ve calmed down for the most part and settled into a slower lifestyle. I don’t go out that much anymore, and when I do, it’s usually to a more intimate bar with friends, rather than a loud, pulsing club full of expectation. But when it comes to sex, there’s no slowing down. Your libido doesn’t downshift. Or at least mine doesn’t. To miss-quote the genius comedian Jim Jeffries…

I want everything that everyone wants in this world. I want to fall in love, get married, have kids, all of that. But I’ve lived this life for so long that I can’t go back to nice girls because they’re shit in bed.

Once you push your limits a bit, experiment, and find something you enjoy there’s no undoing it. So, since I’m living with these two halves of myself, my ideal mate must be similarly bifurcated. A secret freak, like me.

Allow me to explain how difficult finding such a woman can be.

In my sexual experiences, I’ve found that maybe 7-10% of women give the kind of fellatio that I’m talking about. Unfortunately, so far I’ve only met two types of women in that percentage; party girls and BDSM enthusiasts. Now I have nothing against party girls, they’re part of the reason I discovered great head in the first place. But I’m not like that anymore, I’m older and tired and already have a commitment to Netflix.

So why not date the kinksters, you ask? Well, I have them to thank as well. They helped show me where my limits are. While I have no judgments against people who enjoy it, I have zero interest in anything BDSM-related. Sure, I’m obviously the dominant type in bed. I like to pull a woman’s hair, smack her ass a bit, get a little rough just for fun. But whenever games or rules or costumes or role-playing is involved, I lose interest. It’s too much work; I don’t really see the point. There are so many fun, amazing, intense things you can do with just a couple of naked people, why complicate things? It’s just not for me.

Such is my conundrum. Trying my to find the smart, opinionated, independent, creative, mousey brunette who will spend an afternoon with me reading in the park, stay in and watch horror movies on a Friday night, join me for the occasional night of heavy drinking, and lovingly impale her face on my cock. Now some women think that sounds degrading, and even scoff at the idea of doing that to any man, and that’s fine. But please know that my obsession with this isn’t about discomfort or humiliation, it’s about effort. One of the reasons why crazy deepthroat blowjobs are so hot (besides the obvious physical pleasure) is how much effort one requires to be done properly.

When anyone willingly takes your erect penis, forces it down their throat, cutting off their airway, causing them to gag, making tears stream down their face, and they still look you in the eye with that same twinkle they get when they smile… there is nothing more attractive. They’re fighting their own instincts and reflexes to give you the most intense sexual pleasure they possibly can and they’re enjoying it. That’s the greatest gift in the fucking world.

So I’m picky. About both personality and sexuality. I admit it. But I refuse to settle. It takes a lot of time, experience, and therapy to realize what you want from yourself, let alone a partner, so why should we compromise? Commitment and dedication is personal, not universal, and we all have very different but equally fucked up fetishes, fantasies and tendencies. The trick is finding someone whose fucked up-ness fits well with yours, and it would seem I’m just not playing the odds.

Aaron is an east coast transplant who works in entertainment and new media, you can leave your comments for him here or write him at Aarononthe405 AT gmail DOT com.

Republicans Like Bondage, And So Do We

Earlier this week we reported on some outrageous statements made by a member of the Democratic party. Not to be outdone in the shaming department, the Dems quickly jumped on the Republican National Committee (RNC) for allegedly blowing some two grand at Voyeur.

The RNC has issued a statement:

We are investigating the expenditure in question. The story willfully and erroneously suggests that the expenditure in question was one belonging to the Chairman. This was a reimbursement made to a non-committee staffer. The Chairman was never at the location in question, he had no knowledge of the expenditure, nor does he find the use of committee funds at such a location at all acceptable. Good reporting would make that distinction crystal clear. The committee has requested that the monies be returned to the committee and that the story be corrected so that it is accurate.”

We here at Sex and the 405 are happy everyone is focused on the issues that matter.

Image from Voyeur. Information from the Talking Points Memo.

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Why You Should Vote No On Prop 35

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Pretty and Calls Herself a Geek? Attention Whore!

If you are a woman, you might be given a chance to prove yourself in this community. Since there is no standard definition of what a “geek” is and it will vary from one judge to the next anyway, chances of failing are high (cake and grief counseling will be available after the conclusion of the test!). If you somehow manage to succeed, you’ll be tested again and again by anyone who encounters you until you manage to establish yourself like, say, Felicia Day. But even then, you’ll be questioned. As a woman, your whole existence within the geek community will be nothing but a series of tests — if you’re lucky. If you aren’t lucky, you’ll be harassed and threatened and those within the culture will tacitly agree that you deserve it.

Cuddle Chemical? Moral Molecule? Not So Fast

Zak’s original field, it turns out, is economics, a far cry from the hearts and teddy bears we imagine when we consider his nickname. But after performing experiments on generosity, Zak stumbled on the importance of trust in interactions, which led him, rather inevitably, to research about oxytocin. Oxytocin, you might remember, is a hormone that has been linked previously to bonding — between mothers and children primarily, but also between partners. What Zak has done is take the research a step further, arguing in his recent book, The Moral Molecule, that oxytocin plays a role in determining whether we are good or evil.

How to Avoid Pissing off a Stripper

Let’s talk about the strippers. Whether they like to be half-naked or not, whether they enjoy turning you on or not, there’s one thing they all have in common: they’re working. Whether you think that taking one’s clothes off for money is a great choice of career is really beside the point (is it a possibility for you to make $500 per hour at your job without a law degree? Just asking). These women are providing fantasy, yes, but that is their job. And as a patron of the establishment where they work, you need to treat them like you would anyone else who provides a service to you.

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Sex and the 405 is what your newspaper would look like if it had a sex section.

Here you’ll find news about the latest research being conducted to figure out what drives desire, passion, and other sex habits; reviews of sex toys, porn and other sexy things; coverage of the latest sex-related news that have our mainstream media's panties up in a bunch; human interest pieces about sex and desire; interviews with people who love sex, or hate sex, or work in sex, or work to enable you to have better sex; opinion pieces that relate to sex and society; and the sex-related side of celebrity gossip. More...