Archive for the Skirts Category

“I Was Already Three Deep in Terms of White Russians”

Posted in alcohol, Cardigans, clothes, Fashion, Miniskirts, Pumps/heels, Sex, Shirts/tops, Skirts on May 29, 2009 by betoma

Somebody asked recently if I had “given up” writing this blog.  No, not really.  I took a little break from it, but I was always planning to return in the time of my country’s greatest need.  I’m like the King Arthur of sophomoric dick jokes.  But it’s not always easy to find new things to say about drunken acts of physical love.  I’ve been wondering if maybe I should expand my range a little, by commenting on Recent Developments in Feminism.  I have a lot of opinions.  Here, I’ll give it a shot.  Here are some Recent Developments in Feminism that happened while I was away.

1. Fling candy bar. The feminist blogosphere reported on this sparkly, low-calorie candy bar with pink packaging, being marketed with the tag line “pleasure yourself.”  People are mad because it’s being sold as the candy bar for women, and the whole thing is so sexist.  Hey, wait a minute, though!  Isn’t all candy for women?  Am I right, ladies?  (Because we love chocolate.)  The real challenge would be to keep women away from it!  You’d have to go to extreme lengths.  The advertising slogan would have to be something like “The candy bar that rapes your mouth with flavor!”.

My own suggestion, if marketers want to create a candy bar that women won’t buy, is to put a picture of a spider on the packaging.  “Spider candy bar:  There’s a spider in the bathtub!”  It would be a marketing disaster.

The anti-Fling

The anti-Fling.

2. The pull-out method. Science has discovered that the withdrawal method of birth control is more effective than it was previously though to be.  That’s what I’m talkin’ about!  Finally, some good news! I was all, “when are they going to release a scientific study about something I like?”

3. Happiness gap. On a less cheerful note, scientists (different ones) discovered by reviewing data that today’s women report being less happy than women did 40 years ago.  Somebody named Douthat in the New York Times (who didn’t actually read the article) blames this development on the women’s movement.  But then he tries to pretend he’s all feminist by making the following suggestion:  “There’s no necessary reason why feminists and cultural conservatives can’t join forces — in the same way that they made common cause during the pornography wars of the 1980s—” by stigmatizing men who act “sexually irresponsible.”  Noooo!  Don’t fall for it, ladies; it’s a trap!  The very worst thing we could do right now is start shaming male sluts for their promiscuous behavior!   It’s May!  It’s getting all steamy and torrid out!  We need more male sluts around, not fewer!  The more, the better, because who else is gonna do the job?  Instead of being so judgmental, the Times should be encouraging men to explore their sexuality.

“Maureen” probably agrees with me.  She’s a single mother of two who suffers from a little problem:  “Their dad has every excuse in the world to cancel taking them every other Saturday night like he’s supposed to. So…because I’m a conscientious mom (and a broke one that can’t afford an overnight babysitter), I don’t bring guys home. So I don’t get laid nearly as often as I should.”  That’s terrible. Not to be discouraged, Maureen went looking for companionship on Plentyoffish, a dating website whose name is intended to convey the idea “many fish in the sea,” yet which appears, whenever I look at it, to say “Plenty Offish,” and thus to hold out the possibility of meeting people who are “plenty” standoffish or unapproachable.  Anyhow, it worked well for her.    She soon met “Jude,” a “totally hot” man  about her age who said he was looking for friends.  She lives in Boston, he lives in Rhode Island.

Jude’s profile included “a quote I really liked, something like ‘it’s not who you have known the longest; it’s about who has stayed and never left.’ I think that was what led me to send him an email, saying I liked his quotes and he had a nice profile.  When talking to him on the phone I found him really straightforward, funny and smart. He’s studying for the CPA exam, working as a recruiter… seems to have his life on track pretty much.” They remained phone friends for a couple of weeks.

She adds that he seemed “like a great guy that fools around a bit on the side.” Hey, wait a minute!  What “side”?  The “side” of what?  Well, during their time on the phone, he had “told me all about his live-in girlfriend and their 4 month old, and how the one time they fought recently she wouldn’t let him see his daughter. So… he’s sticking it out for a while and partying on the side.”  How scandalous!  But there’s no harm in being friends.  So she agreed to go hang out with him some night when the kids weren’t around.

The day finally came when she had a Saturday night free.   Brutus had friends coming in from Connecticut, and they all agreed to meet at the Rattlesnake Bar in Boston.  “Not having been out in a while and feeling a little awkward on my first night out in a while, I opted for a short, black miniskirt from H&M, four-inch heels (kinda funky looking with 2 small buckles on the front), a silk black camisole (Kenneth Cole) and black cardigan with 3/4 sleeves (I think it was from Anne Taylor).”

Black silk camisole

Black silk camisole

Ann Taylor cardigan

Ann Taylor cardigan

Black stiletto #1

Black stiletto #1

Black stiletto #2

Black stiletto #2

Just for the heck of it, stiletto boot

Just for the heck of it, stiletto boot

“Practiced my smoky eye look so I wouldn’t look like a raccoon and I was good to go.  So. I get there and Jude is late… texts me and tells me one of his friends is already there. Turns out he’s sitting next to me at the bar. We chat, he’s cool but zero attraction factor. Jude soon arrives with some friends, and others arrive right behind him.  It is me and six men: a white guy from Cypress, the white guy from the bar (from somewhere in New England but I don’t remember where), two black guys from the Caribbean, two black American guys… and me, the pasty Irish chick. But I was lookin’ kinda cute.”

Jude “was taller than I expected, dressed really well, was really outgoing and had cool-looking dreads that went halfway down his back (very well kept and pulled back).”  But sparks didn’t really fly:  “It’s funny but when I met him I was already three deep in terms of White Russians and the thought crossed my mind that he was hotter than I thought he would be but I was kind of distracted by being surrounded by all these young men, none of whom I actually ‘knew.'”

Specifically, her attention had been engaged by one of his friends, “T.”, whom she thought was “fine as hell.”  This was “a black American guy from CT, 6’3 with 4 inch braids of some sort. Very sexy eyes. Wearing jeans, Timberlands, t-shirt and jean jacket with some kind of design on the back. And a baseball hat.”  She ended up chatting with him, because Jude was a few seats away, and was busy playing host to his old college friends.   The whole gang had settled in at a table over drinks and appetizers.  T. revealed that he is a “music producer,” and she “showed great restraint in my inebriated state by not rolling my eyes.”

It wasn’t clear if T. returned her interest, because he was too busy checking out the other women in the room.  He “made a point of getting a good look at the ass of one as she sauntered by on her way to the ladies room,” and “even left the table at one point to speak to two women at another table, so “the fact that he is obviously a player was hard to ignore.”  He excused this by opining “that men are animals and as such can’t be held totally responsible for this type of behavior. I replied that a lot of men claim to be animals but have no follow-through when it’s time to prove it.” Well played, madam, well played.

They decided to leave the Rattlesnake and go to the Whiskey Bar. The guys were all drunk and she had to carry one of them up the hill.  Recollections start to grow indistinct at this point, but they had some more drinks, and then “everyone decides to go to a diner in Somerville. One guy’s car got towed so they all piled into an SUV, and I followed with the cute guy.” Hey, wait a minute! Should you be driving?  Technically, there could be some traces of alcohol left in your system from the three White Russians, two Southern Comfort and cokes, and then two more more White Russian you just finished drinking five minutes ago!  I don’t know if you’ve heard about this, but experts say that drinking alcoholic beverages can impair your judgment and reflexes!   Sure enough, it did, “which is how, later on, I managed to drive right over a curb in Somerville, scaring my sleeping passenger half to death.”

T. had fallen into a drunken stupor.  It was 3 a.m. They drove “what seems like endlessly.”  When they got to the diner, it was closed. They decided to head to Greg’s place (one of the guys, whom Maureen describes as “short”).  “Everyone has something to eat and conveniently all of the guys except the cutie go to one bedroom that has a bed and couch (and floor) and me and (yes, as you can probably tell by now I am not sure of his name…T? for Trey maybe?) cutie in another room on a futon.”

“Where we cuddled up and got naked fast (it was, after all, nearly 5 a.m. by now). He goes in the other room to get a condom from a friend (none turned up in his quick search of the bedroom we were in) and he gets some kind of generic condom that was apparently so old as to be nearly useless.”  They went at it for a while, “but condom difficulties (and drunken exhaustion) had us taking a break. We both fell asleep.”  It was morning two hours later, so they got up and exchanged numbers.

T. said he’d call her next time he was in Boston, and we all know what that means.  “Whatever, that’s fine. I later asked Jude (casually, of course) how old T. was… he said around 24. Wow. I’m 36… glad I didn’t ask him that night when the thought crossed my mind. I just became an accidental cougar. But at least I got laid.”

BOOTY SHORTS: In Which the Freedom Train Emerges from a Tunnel

Posted in Barack Obama, Cardigans, clothes, Fashion, Sex, Skirts, Tank tops on January 21, 2009 by betoma

We Americans, evidently, are a patient people.  After George W. Bush was elected, we sat through five years of epic mistakes and colossal blunders before we began punishing him with low approval ratings.  After that, we had to endure two more years of tragic failures and staggering hubris before we could do anything about getting rid of him — only to embark upon the longest and most ridiculous electoral journey known to Man.  We waited two hundred thirty-three years to inaugurate our first African-American president!  LOL, are you sure that’s long enough?  Maybe we should give the white guys a few more chances first, just to be sure.

But what if you’re like me, and you don’t really have this kind of patient disposition?  You don’t want to sit through all the foreplay and coy banter, you want to get to the good stuff right away.  For you, I’ve created BOOTY SHORTS, a new occasional feature on this website.  BOOTY SHORTS will present CTGML anecdotes in a pithier and less digressive format.  They’re quicker to read, quicker to write (!) — and perfect for those of you who’ve never written to me because you have just too darn many crazy hookup stories to choose one.  Send ’em all in!   Such a person is Philia, and Part I of her BOOTY SHORTS series is below.

“So…I’ve been counting and I’ve seen 8 padiddles since the last time we hung out.”
“Fuck, Dean, 8? I’m not even wearing 8 pieces of clothing.”

“This was a typical conversation between me and my friend  ‘Dean’ a couple of summers ago.   Dean was my ex-boyfriend’s friend and roommate, and so he resisted the urge to give in to the romantic chemistry between us for a long time. What a champ.  Until, as it sometimes happens, the universe presented us with the perfect opportunity to get  exactly where we wanted to go without really ‘going there’: padiddles.”

“It seems like the game of padiddles differs greatly regionally, so allow me to explain our version:  A “padiddle” is a car with only one headlight.  The way you play the game is, while driving, if you see a padiddle, you have to call it before the others in the car — while simultaneously hitting the ceiling.  Whoever calls the padiddle first gets to pick which article of clothing the other person will take off.  Innocent enough.”  In the versions I’ve heard about, the one who spots the padiddle either punches her companion, or is owed a kiss, and furthermore, a car missing a back taillight is a “padunkle.”  One hesitates to think what ass-centric sexual favors a padunkle sighting would enable one to demand.

In their version, “we took it a step farther: soon the game of ‘padiddles’ developed into the concept of ‘retroactive padiddles’ — that is, we could save our ‘padiddles’ until they added up to a significant number, like 8… and then the other person would be required to take off all of their clothing.  Then we’d do: nothing. The majority of our summer was spent in the awkward space where nakedness, sexual tension, and the greatest level of self control I’ve ever seen in a man combine.”

“Then one night, while we were driving around town (padiddles adding up) Matt made a bold suggestion:”

“Hey, you know those abandoned cargo trains over by the theater?”
“Yeah, what about them?”
“Well, in 20 years, I’ve never once seen them move.  I’ve always wanted to go up there and explore them, but nobody has ever had the guts to do it with me.”

“And so, this is how we found ourselves, pressed against each other on the grate in between two of the cars, completely naked once again.”

“I think I’m starting to like you.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Maybe this can actually go somewhere.”

“He leaned towards me, about to take the giant leap into intimacy that would have been our first kiss.  Except…”

“All of the sudden, there was a flash of light.  And by flash of light I mean a blinding, insanely bright light washing over the entirety of our naked bodies.  And along with that blinding light there was a noise, a familiar one: the sound of a train.”

“A train. Coming straight at us.  And along with the train, a conductor standing on the front, getting the perfect view of our glistening naked bodies, and secondarily the looks of utter horror that spread immediately across our faces.”

ABANDONED TRAINS, DEAN?” I whisper-screamed as we sprinted between the tracks, throwing clothes at each other and attempting to dress ourselves as the train pulled into the station.

“FUCK, FUCK WHERE ARE MY UNDERWEAR?”
“GODDAMNIT THIS IS YOUR SHIRT NOT MY SKIRT!”
“WHERE ARE MY SHOES?”
“I DON’T FUCKING KNOW, FUCKING ABANDONED TRAINS ARE YOU SERIOUS?!!”

“Finally, somehow, we made it back to his car without being caught by the conductor or the cops, and with all our clothing and less of our dignity in hand.”  All was well, until he realized his cell phone was missing.

“Wait… which train is it that’s moving?”
“Fuck.”
“That’s… that’s the train we were on, isn’t it?”
“Fuck.”

As the train passed by us we saw the haunting words scrawled across its side: “Connecticut to Pennsylvania.”

“My phone… my phone’s going to Pennsylvania.”
“We… WE could’ve been going to Pennsylvania.”
“We… we could’ve been going to Pennsylvania naked.”

Clothes worn for this adventure: Black knee-length skirt from Banana Republic, black tank top from the Gap, some sort of blue light cardigan, flip-flops.

“Cavemen Did Not Wear Underwear”

Posted in alcohol, clothes, Costumes, Fashion, Miniskirts, Sex, Shirts/tops, Shopping on a budget, Skirts, Underwear on November 8, 2008 by betoma

It’s been a long week, but CTGML is back.  (Provisional joke, which I will rescind if everyone hates it:  It’s time to stop putting country first, and go back to putting cunt first!)

First of all, thanks the The Scotsman for naming us “Website of the Week!”  Scotsmen and -women, please submit your stories.  Secondly, the winning Halloween contest entry.  In the past, we’ve heard from Cecily about hooking up with an ex, then meeting her boyfriend in beery circumstances.  Now she returns to tell us what happened to her on Halloween two years ago.

When it all began, she writes, “I was sick, some kind of mysterious death flu, and wasn’t planning on going anywhere.  But my friend talked me into it, she had a great costume and figured she’d win this costume contest at a local bar.   It was $500 or something, so I eventually agreed.  The friend’s costume was ‘rock out with your cock out,’ a giant penis costume carrying a toy electric guitar.  As to whether or not she got laid, I’d have to say yes; she’d been dating this guy who showed up paradoxically dressed as a baby, bonnet, pacifier, diaper.  The baby was grinding on the giant cock all night (i know that sounds bad, but it looked worse).”  Heh!  “I wore the past year’s costume, slutty schoolgirl, which consisted of a prep school skirt and blouse with the embroidered logo, both purchased at a thrift store.  My housemate had one of those fake knives that look like they’re stuck into your chest, which I borrowed and called the whole outfit ‘slutty girl who dies first in the horror movie.’   I know it’s bad when you have to decide what your costume theme is based on what you’re wearing.”
patch

If you can’t find a crested blouse at the thrift store, perhaps you could assemble your own?

White blouse

White blouse

Alexander McQueen plaid mini

Alexander McQueen plaid mini

They had two friends, “Nick” and “Nora,” who lived near the bar they wanted to go to, so they started out partying there.  “They had a tiny baby who was dressed in a very cute Pooh bear outfit having just gone trick or treating.  Nick had not gone trick-or-treating with the wife and kid, and there was a lot of tension about this.  I’d met him a few times before and thought he was entirely too irresponsible to have a family.   Anyway, we made it to the bars and copious drinking ensued.”

“I started talking to a guy dressed as a houseplant and lost track of ‘rock out with your cock out’ and the others.  There were multiple bars and clubs with parties within the same block and it turned into one big crazy mess that you couldn’t even walk through.  I ran into my friend Shaun.  He had a paper grocery bag positioned at crotch level with the words “Free Candy” written on it.  Inside the bag was some candy and Shaun’s dick (later that evening I saw him with some girl whose hand was permanently inside the candy bag).”  So many costume ideas in this story.  However, did he walk around all night with his dick inside a bag of candy?  That sounds so uncomfortable.

“Being sick, I wasn’t having the best time ever, so I found Nick and asked if I could crash on his couch.”  He walked her home and she did just that, but “a few minutes later, Todd crawled onto the couch with me.  I said something to the effect of ‘what the fuck, I’m not going to sleep with you with your wife in the next room, dumbass.’  For some reason he felt the need to tell me all about his ‘open marriage,’ I didn’t buy it, I pushed him off the couch, got my stuff and left.”  People who really are in open marriages are the real victims here; no one ever believes them.

But the people who write in to this website are heroes in their own way.  If you’ve ever asked yourself, What the hell does it take to get laid?  Why is it so difficult?, let this story inspire you.  Sick, traumatized and sleepy, Cecily could have given up and sought out another place to rest.  Instead, she returned to the bar.  “I realized I could either feel miserable all night or drink until I felt better.  I chose the later.  At the bar I ran into Tarzan.  He was wearing pretty much just a piece of leopard-print fabric.  He was quite pleased with the fact that he was not wearing underwear — ‘cavemen did not wear underwear’ — and [he] showed me as much.”

“I’d always had a bit of a crush on Tarzan, he was always the crazy guy at parties who would get drunk and do something completely ridiculous.   A few months earlier, we’d both gotten wasted and taken naked pictures of each other, yet somehow didn’t hook up.  I told him the Nick saga and how I’d resolved to kill the flu with tequila.  Tarzan and I ended up at his place.  It turned into this very chill drunken fuck buddy relationship.”

I never asked whether these adventures cured the flu or made it worse, but it doesn’t matter.  This story shows what an ordinary person can accomplish if they set aside personal comfort for a higher goal, and wear a really short skirt.

“Fuck It, I Really Want This Guy, I’m in Mesh for God’s Sake”

Posted in alcohol, clothes, Denim, Fashion, Fetishwear, Holy Grail, Sex, Skirts, Tank tops on October 4, 2008 by betoma

If you ask your mom for advice on meeting nice guys, she will tell you to join a church group, or a political campaign, or some sort of hiking club — anything that attracts respectable, well-intentioned people.  She will warn you against hooking up with drunk guys at bars, and she definitely does not want you to meet people through the local BDSM scene.  Don’t listen to your mom.  You can meet nice guys anywhere, whether you’re out doing something wholesome like registering new voters for Barack Obama (you guys are doing that, right?  It’s important!), or something less wholesome, like attending an S&M party at a cheap motel.

Here to prove that is “Viola,” who in 2002 was an undergraduate at the University of California at Santa Barbara.  She was active in the school’s queer community, and at the time, “a total tranny-chaser.”   Why, you ask?  Viola explains that she had already come out in high school, but when she arrived at college, she found that all the dykes there were practicing “transgressive exceptionalism” by being as butch as possible.  She isn’t that girly, but in this new context, she seemed like quite the lady by contrast.  When she would date a butch woman, she would be quickly pigeonholed as “femme.”  She found that dating trans-men afforded her a way out of the whole butch/femme dichotomy, and also, I guess she just thought they were hot.

Viola was the director of one of the school’s queer organizations, and “Olivia” ran a related office on campus.  Their work brought them together often — they needed to coordinate with each other on things like fundraising and setting up rope-bondage tutorials.   When they first met, Olivia had just started the process of transitioning from a woman to a dude.  Viola thought she was cute from the very beginning, but by the time our story takes place, “Olivia” was “Oakes,” and he was looking hotter to her than ever.

Like most American institutions of higher learning, the college I went to only had one BDSM club, and they didn’t do anything that crazy; as far as I could tell, they just sat around talking about autoerotic asyphyxiation.  It surprised me, therefore, to learn that UCSB had two rival BDSM groups, with warring ideological agendas.  The official group was considered too hardcore by many — it required that people “pledge to the lifestyle,” or some such thing — so some kinky people who “just wanted to fuck around” started their own, unofficial collective.

To further this goal, the group planned a party at the Wagon Wheel, a “really crappy, sleazy roach motel on the beach.”  (It was common practice for people to rent “spokes” of the wheel to have wild parties in.)  Olivia was a member of the group and was invited.

On the Friday before the party, she had an official work meeting with Oakes.  She was really nervous, but didn’t want to lose the opportunity.  It turns out that getting a guy to ask you out works the same whether the guy has a vagina or not: You just drop really obvious hints.  After the meeting, she asked if he was going to the party.  He said he was thinking of going.  She said “yeah, I was thinking of going too, but I don’t want to go alone.”  He said “so, uh, wanna go?”  Of course she said yes.

Her next dilemma was what to wear to a “semi-formal fetish party.”  She picked out a black tank top, red pencil skirt, and black Converse, but threw a long-sleeved mesh shirt on top of it to make it event-appropriate.

Black mesh shirt

Black mesh shirt

Red pencil skirt

Red pencil skirt

At the party, there was a bonfire on the beach.  Viola and Oakes sat in front of it, sipping their drinks and playing a “retarded one-upmanship game” in which they talked about all the other people at the party, like “oh yeah, I fucked him too.”  She got “really bombed” to hide her nervousness.  He was nervous, too.  Long after most of the other partygoers had retired to private rooms to get it on, they stayed outside chatting, afraid to make the first move.  How is it that they weren’t nervous to be at a BDSM party, weren’t nervous to hang out with a bunch of campus queers they had both already slept with, but were nervous to be on a date?  Viola says it doesn’t make any sense:  “We were always just really nervous around each other.”

Also, she found out later that Oakes was worried she was too buttoned-up and prim for him, whereas his secret fantasy was that she was a naughty schoolteacher at heart, and that when the clothes came off, the ruler would come out.  As the party was winding down, Viola got so freaked out that she asked if he wanted to leave.  He was like “oh, I got us a room in the wing, just in case.”  In Viola’s words, “I decided, fuck this, I really want this guy, I’m in mesh for God’s sake.”  They went to the room.

As they were getting comfortable, the Wagon Wheel revealed itself to be a true roach motel:  An actual cockroach joined them.  Viola hates roaches.  She screamed and hid in the bathroom.  Being the “crunchy-granola dyke” that he is, Oakes didn’t kill it, but rather trapped it and set it free.  He let her know the roach was safely outside.  When she emerged from the bathroom, he had stripped down to his boxers.  What happened next fulfilled his fondest wishes about Viola: She’s a really, really mean schoolteacher.

They ended up dating for three years.  I’ll let Viola have the last word; she thinks the mesh shirt might be a holy grail. “About two months after I broke up with Oakes, I was at “The Rusty Nail.” And, believe it or not, the local sports bar doubles as the unofficial dyke hangout.”  That is sort of surprising.  “Well, I went there wearing my black mesh shirt, this time with a black and white striped tank from Banana Republic and dark gray jeans from Old Navy. This time my hair was short and I wore it in a fauxhawk. And that night I went home with a beautiful Slavic girl (her name was Marissa but I came to refer to her as whore-bag because we ended up dating for 4 months and then she cheated on me with a straight girl who had a boyfriend, something my college boifriends never did. But she was hot enough that it was worth it).”

Black-and-white striped tank

Black-and-white striped tank