Archive for the Tank tops Category

“So You Wouldn’t Eat My Antelope?” “No, I Would.”

Posted in alcohol, Boots, Cardigans, clothes, Cowboy attire, Denim, Outerwear, Sex, Tank tops on April 22, 2009 by betoma

Sorry for the gap in posting; I was doing really important stuff.  While I was gone, my old nemesis Joe the Plumber gave a nonsensical speech to a group of teabaggers, the nation engaged in a vigorous (sort of) debate about sex-positive feminism, and I got bronchitis or something.

Say, if you’d like to see more updates in this spaces, why not e-mail me and tell me about your recent exploits?  I am currently seeking CTGML stories that feature (1) makeup sex between couples, and (2) guys as the protagonist, especially gay guys (but straight guys too).  But raunchy stories from straight women, like the subject of today’s story, are always appreciated.

Blonde vixen “Debby” is a political blogger who lives in Tallahassee, Florida.  Every so often she visits her grandfather “John” and his wife, who live in Tahoe — she’s an expert skier.  One weekend this winter, she went up there for a short ski vacation.  On one of her first nights in town, she and John went out to a restaurant that featured lots of unusual game, like buffalo, antelope, and elk.  She was still wearing ski clothes from her day outside, but likes to go for a look more glamorous than the natural/sporty vibe most ladies project there (or so she claims — I don’t know anything about the topic; I am frightened of skiing, and don’t have any relations that do any leisure activities more glamorous than copy-editing), so she was wearing black Under Armour leggings and a tight black ski jacket by Salomon, with heavy black eyeliner.

Salomon jacket

Salomon jacket

Kohl eyeliner

Kohl eyeliner

As she and her grandpa were ordering a bottle of wine, she noticed their “hot young server.”  He had “classic male” good looks, and he looked admiringly back at her.  Debby ordered the antelope.  She asked for medium rare; grandpa made the interaction weird by saying “She’s a meat eater, she likes blood on her plate!”  But when the antelope showed up, it was dry and overdone, and she had to send it back.

The replacement piece of antelope, when Seth the waiter brought it, was “fabulous.”  This time he and them ended up getting into a conversation.  He revealed that he’s from the same state the she is, and that he was in the process of applying to law school, and that he was a skier rather than a snowboarder.  Debby’s grandfather approved of these facts.  (He is prejudiced against snowboarders, on the ground that they tear up the snow too much, or something.)  He seemed impressed by the guy and, noticing the sparks flying between him and Debby, “conveys that he thinks I should get on it.”

He helped out with this by supplying a pretext, saying something along the lines of “my granddaughter has this blog, she’s doing a story on snowboard clothing.”  She wasn’t doing any such thing.  I didn’t understand why he brought snowboarding into it when all three of them were skiers, and according to Debby, “it didn’t really make any sense.”  She can’t remember how on earth he introduced this topic in the first place.   Anyhow, he suggested they meet up so she could interview Seth.  “Are you available tomorrow?”, he asked.  Meanwhile, she and Seth were looking each other in they eyes, and he looked, in her words, like he “can’t believe this is being handed to him.”    She was pretty pleased about it, too.  (It sounds like kind of unusual behavior on John’s part, but again, what do I know?  Both my grandfathers drank themselves to death before I was born.)

Seth said “No, I’m not available.” and John asked “What about tonight?”, and handed him her name and number on a piece of paper.  When they walked out of the restaurant shortly afterwards, news of the little romance was already being bruited about among the staff.  The bartender called out “hey, don’t forget to call Ben!”  Debby was in a relaxed mood, having “been drinking all day with cougars” that she’d met on the slopes, and she was “laughing her ass off” about the situation.

She called Seth a couple of hours later, saying she would be at this bar the Dusty Boot later that evening, and did he want to meet for a drink.  He did.  He texted her a while later, saying “I’m at the Dusty Boot.”  She had changed into dark gray BDG jeans from Urban Outfitters, white cowboy boots, a loose black tank top, and a cardigan also from Urban Outfitters.


BDG jeans

BDG jeans

Urban Outfitters cardigan

Urban Outfitters cardigan

White cowboy boot

White cowboy boot

A bunch of her new Tahoe friends were at the bar, and had a good time.  She and Seth drank tequila with lime and talked about “kayaks” and “ice climbing.”  He told her about how he got fed on the job by eating people’s sendbacks, and explained his policy as “I would eat anybody’s food I would make out with.”  “So you ate that burned-up piece of antelope?”  He said no, he didn’t eat the burned antelope.  (What a ridiculous sentence to have to type.)

“So you wouldn’t eat my antelope?”

“No, I would.”

Having gotten that out of the way, they kept talking for a while; he said “do you wanna go make out in the bathroom?”, and she said “no, I wanna go play in the snow.”  They went to her car and got a flask of tequila.  They ran around until they found a “snow-enclosed gondola,” got inside and started “making out furiously.”  “Before I knew it, my pants were down, and I was like ‘What am I doing, no.'”  That sounds uncomfortable, but also, she revealed to me at this point that when she stays with the old folks, she has a 12 p.m. curfew.  What the heck?  So they both started walking back to her condo entrance.

Instead of separating, though, they went into the locker rooms that the building has for people to store their ski equipment, where they again started “makin’ out like crazy.”  Debby didn’t feel she could afford to get into trouble, so she came up with a plan.  She said “I have to leave and come back.”  Seth said “I’ll wait for you.”  She went upstairs, found her grandpa, and said “okay, I came back, I’m gonna go back out,” all petulant-like.  John was amenable to this, only saying “don’t stay out too long.”

She went back down to the locker room and found Seth, and they resumed “makin’ out all hard.”  Finally, the clothes came off, and “we did it up against a locker.  It was really hot.”  One might think this would be difficult, especially since she’s short, but she claimed they did not suffer from any logistical difficulties.  Then they said goodbye, she went upstairs to bed, and she hasn’t seen him again.

EDITED TO ADD  that I share your confusion about this story, readers.  Debby is in her 20s and doesn’t need a curfew.  On the other hand, when I visit my parents, I can’t even go to CVS without briefing them on where I’m going, how long I’ll be gone, and how I won’t wreck the car on the way home.  That is what family members are like.  On the other hand, if her grandfather is of a protective bent, why pimp out her and her juicy antelope to a virile young man?  Debby’s grandfather sounds like a weirdo.


“There’s One Pickup Trick That Works on Me Every Time”

Posted in alcohol, clothes, Denim, Fashion, Holy Grail, Sex, Shirts/tops, Tank tops on March 30, 2009 by betoma

Pickup artists:  What do we think of them?  All the other feminists seem to be mad at ’em; for example, here’s this Jezebel post, complaining about Neil Strauss, author of The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society etc. etc., for being  “a man who made himself famous writing about the way to get a woman into bed.”   She’s right, that’s not fair!  I’m always writing about the way to get people into bed, but I don’t seem to be getting famous at all!  That injustice aside, though, it doesn’t really bother me when guys try to get women into bed, because if they didn’t, the human race would, like, go extinct and stuff.  Also, they (PUAs) tend to be vilified for inventing ridiculous slang, and instructing men to start conversations by asking “do you floss before or after you brush?”  But I don’t care!  I’m sick and tired of toiling in obscurity!  Neil Strauss, if you’re reading this, I am available to apply my sartorial acumen to any of your various multi-million-dollar projects.  Hit up my e-mail.

Our heroine, Lucy, made some cash in this line of work; in fact, that’s how our story begins.  A young NYC resident, she answered a Craigslist ad that basically “was just like ‘talk for 15 minutes on camera!  Make $50!”  So I did it.”  It turned out to be not quite as sketchy as it sounds.  The videos were for a subscriber-only website that featured clips of “guys talking to cute girls,” for instructional purposes, so that other guys could learn by example.  She played the role of “cute girl” in a couple of clips, and ended up becoming friends with “Erik,”  who worked for the website’s company.

She didn’t want to be anything more than friends, though.  “He’s good looking, but not really my type (to be honest).  Too blond.”  Did he try to wear down her resistance?  Did he “build attraction” by “demonstrating higher value,” as a master pickup artist would do?  Lucy claims he does not use those skills on her, because “I’ve known him for a while and I see through it all!!!”  But he must have been doing something right, because it turns out that they had a “friend hookup” once this past summer.  How did he make it happen?  “I forgot, there’s one pickup trick that he kind of used on me that works every time, even when I know what’s going on. I don’t know if every PUA does this, but the guys I know will do it.  If the girl seems a little resistant or shy or whatever, they’ll be like ‘why don’t you come over and we’ll just cuddle?’, you know?  ‘Let’s cuddle’ is practically code to me now.”  It works better than the direct approach, she says, because “If he had said ‘hey why don’t you stay so we can DO IT,’ I probably would have been like …. ‘oh, it’s 4 a.m.?  Not that late, I can brave an hour train ride.'”  Hmm, I guess she’s right.  “Why don’t you stay so we can DO IT” has a certain Beavis and Butthead charm, but it never seemed to work when those guys used it.

Master pickup artists? Huh huh, you said "master."

One night a couple of weeks ago, she had some pickup plans of her own.  “I went out with the plan to seduce a particular guy.  He’s a friend of a friend and we met at a party a few weeks ago, then hung out again more recently in a more intimate setting.”  (She and “Blake” had been hanging out with her other guy friend and that dude’s love interest.)  “So we had been G-chatting a lot and we planned to meet up on Saturday night, and since I met him through that mutual guy friend, I assumed he would be there too. But he wasn’t, so I ended up hanging out with this new guy.”

She had planned her outfit carefully.  “I wore this purple tank top from Mango that’s a wool jersey and very low cut in a V and pleated, so the bottom is loose but the fabric is drapey so it’s really flattering. I’ve gotten laid at least twice in this shirt, and I think it’s because it’s so low.”  Its effect must be subtle, though, because “People compliment me on so many things when I wear it! My jacket, my necklace, my haircut, the shirt itself. Or they ask if I’ve lost weight or something.”

Ella Moss tank

Ella Moss tank

Velvet tank

Velvet tank

(Why’s that picture so small?  You get the idea though; another tank top here.)

“I also wore a white Club Monaco blazer, black skinny jeans rolled up a little, and these beautiful Charles Nolan kitten-heel blue suede pumps with a perfectly shaped almond toe and the best cut on top showing just the right amount of toe cleavage. And I hate saying toe cleavage.”  I couldn’t find these damn shoes, but I did the best I could.

Paige black jeans

Paige black jeans

Blue suede peep-toe pumps

Blue suede peep-toe pumps

Jessica Simpson blue suede pumps

Jessica Simpson blue suede pumps

They had a typical bar-hopping night, “went to other venues, he left and came back, etc.”  Along the way, they met up with some other people, including her friends Erik and the other dudes from the PUA business, and they all joined forces.  It was a fun night, “but [Blake] had just twisted his ankle and wasn’t allowed to drink because of his pain pills, so he was totally stone-cold sober while I got more and more housed. Then around 2 he said he was tired and going home and he’d walk me to my subway station (different from his station) but I was pretty fuzzy at that point, and I was thinking you know… if nothing’s going to happen, then I kind of want to stay here with my friends.  So I said I’d stay and he left, and I went over to join my friends at the table where they were sitting.”

The whole gang sat and drank for a while, and then decided they would go to Erik’s house and play beer blackjack.  “But since it was past 3, we couldn’t buy beer, and instead we went for wraps across the street.”  Then they went to his place “and ate and drank whatever was in the fridge and then it was about 5, and everyone started going home.”  Erik “told one guy he could sleep on the couch (he lived on that couch for a month when he first moved to town) and told me that I was welcome to stay if I wanted (which I’ve done before, platonically).”

“So when I stay there, I stay with him in the bed, and so he gave me some pajamas and we got in bed and we always talk for awhile before sleeping, especially when we’re so drunk and he’s so high, but instead of staying on our sides this time, he had kind of trapped one of my legs between his. We were kind of getting closer and closer while talking, and then he was teasing me about something, and then he was tickling me and I was kind of screaming and laughing, and then he was kissing me really aggressively, and I was surprised, but drunk and so I went with it.”

“It was very drunk sex though, I had to stop and get water before going down on him, and then I had to stop again for more water after we started doing it, then again, then finally we both had to get water and when we came back we kind of just fell on the bed and went to sleep. There was some talk earlier of him not wanting to come yet and holding back, but I don’t think he did, in the end.”  Isn’t that always the way?  Why do drunk guys always think they’re about to come, and then they never do?  “I searched for evidence and there was none.”  The jizz detective!

The disappointing failure of this investigation, though, paled in comparison to the next day’s tragic coda.  “In the morning, I was completely hung over and I got up and watched cartoons with [Erik] on the couch. Then we all went for brunch and I had a great burger and fries, and I only ate half so I could eat the second half for dinner, but then I went to a sample sale and had to check my bag at the front and forgot it! I didn’t realize it till I got home (like 45 minutes away) and I was THIS close to going back for it. It was so awesome, it had blue cheese and portobello mushrooms.”  No word yet on what happened with Blake.

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.


“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?”
“That’s… that’s the train we were on, isn’t it?”

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.

“We Took Off Running Through the Sand, Pulling Off Our Clothes”

Posted in alcohol, clothes, Daisy Dukes, Denim, Fashion, Sandals, Sex, Shopping on a budget, Tank tops, Underwear on October 6, 2008 by betoma

“Donna” lives in Knoxville, Tennessee and works as a congressional aide.  This summer, she and four of her friends decided spend the Fourth of July weekend with their friend “Tiffany” in Florida.  They weren’t all tight friends; Donna had known “Marc” slightly in college, through friends of hers who lived with him, but they never really got to know each other.  However, since the trip required all five of them to share a car on the way down, and then to share Tiffany’s tiny condo, they got to know one another quickly.

Donna had never paid attention to Marc, but he had gotten cooler in the three years that had passed since college.  Also, “his style was better,” and he had grown a rough beard.  She was feeling sort of interested in him, but something else was needed to make her act on her attraction.  If only there were a readily available substance you could drink that would drastically lower your inhibitions.   Where could such a substance be obtained?   Fate provided them with an answer.  Tiffany lives near a bar called the Flora-Bama, and on Saturday night, they all piled into “Beth”‘s Montero to go party there.

The Flora-Bama is an enormous roadhouse which gets its name from being located directly on the border of Florida and Alabama.  It’s a popular spot to celebrate July 4th; it was packed, and there was a live band playing.  The Florida half of the bar has less stringent liquor laws, so that’s where they hung out.  Donna was doing shots of Jagermeister and drinking something called a Bushwacker, which is pistachio-colored and tastes like a milkshake, but “makes you shitfaced.”

The result of this was “bein’ ridiculous,” dancing with Marc and getting rowdy.  Meanwhile, Tiffany had her eye on “Luke,” the other dude who was with them.  In the course of their drinking, dancing and flirting, Donna and Tiffany decided they wanted to go skinny-dipping.  The bar isn’t exactly on the water, but it’s “pretty close” to it (something to do with the Alabama Gulf Coast, I think), near enough to almost see it in the dark.  They went outside and the two women “took off running through the sand, pullin’ off our clothes.”

Their jump into black water, Donna says, felt liberating, “like diving into an abyss.”  They swam around for a while, but they guys didn’t join them.  They came back on land, dripping wet, and put their clothes back on.

It seems likely that Donna’s success with Marc had little to do with her clothes, and more to do with the fact that she kept taking them off.  Also, though, I have noticed that lately I’ve been kind of ignoring the actual clothes that get people laid.  I know why it is, too.  It’s because I don’t have any money, and I don’t want to think about all the beautiful things that I can’t afford to buy.  It’s so depressing, I’m avoiding the whole subject.  I got a new Lucky magazine in the mail last week, and I can’t even bear to read it.  It’s still wrapped in plastic.  Before the economic downturn, “reading” that magazine was the most satisfying part of my month!  I’m a victim of the Bush administration’s failed policies!  Does anyone want to buy me some new shit?  Anyhow, Donna was wearing Daisy Dukes made from a pair of Lux jeans, and an American Apparel tri-blend tank top.

American Apparel tank

American Apparel tank

Lux jeans

Before: Lux jeans

Cutoff shorts

After: Cutoff shorts

The finest part of her outfit was a pair of Cynthia Vincent gladiator sandals.  She didn’t want to stick her wet, dirty feet into a pair of $200 sandals, so when they got back inside she made “Beth” trade shoes with her.

Cynthia Vincent gladiator sandals

Cynthia Vincent gladiator sandals

Before they left, Donna went to pay her tab, and found to her chagrin that owed $110.  That’s a hell of a lot of Jagermeister!  She “had to pay that shit,” and they were off to the car.   (She admonished Beth several times to “be careful” walking in her sandals.)  On the way home, she slurred at Marc, “You know, I just never thought you were cute, but since we’ve been hangin’ out, I just really think you are cute.  You’ve just become a hot guy.”  She doesn’t remember how he responded to this praise but says he was probably “feelin’ all like a pimp.”  Back at the house, the two of them took their shirts off and started to mess around in one of the bedrooms, until somebody walked in on them.

Donna, Luke, Tiffany and Marc wanted to go skinny-dipping again, so they all got naked in the apartment complex pool.  Oddly, the two non-skinny dippers decided to walk over and observe.  Maybe they wanted to save their friends from concussions and a watery grave, or maybe they had just always wanted to see an orgy, but either way, it was “awkward” having them watch.  The four naked people escaped this scrutiny by walking over to a random condo’s pool nearby.   They got in the water and both couples started fooling around.

Most people would be psyched to look out their window and see this going on, because what better way to celebrate FREEDOM than with some “free” pornography that you can watch from your balcony?  One hater ruined it for everyone else, though.  She yelled down at them “Hey!  You guys can’t be doin’ that!”, and they had to leave.   It was time to go to sleep.

The next day, the Knoxvillians all drove home.   There’s more to this story, though, since Donna and Marc lived in the same city.  What will happen next, and are they finally going to fuck?  Tomorrow’s post will resolve this cliffhanger, so check back soon!

“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

“I Like Finding People Who Speak Japanese, and Making Out With Them”

Posted in alcohol, clothes, Dresses, Fashion, Holy Grail, Sex, Tank tops, Uncategorized, Underwear on September 22, 2008 by betoma

Today, something slightly different:  An intellectual romance about two people brought together by their passion for the sensual joys of their favorite subject.  A smutty intellectual romance.  This is what intellectuals should be like, but all too often, they’re not; all too often, their only extracurricular activities are thinking up insults about Sarah Palin and sending sarcastic Facebook messages to each other.  I KNOW YOU HEARD THAT, REPRESSED INTELLECTUALS.

“Rei” is a student at a well-known university in the southern United States.  It’s the “Harvard of the south,” but the south has many Harvards, so you still don’t know which.  She describes herself as a cute, short, nerdy girl with “birth-control derived boobs.”  Thus showered with gifts from God and pharmaceuticals, she nevertheless does not get to have a lot of sex “because I have this crazy-bad off-and-on relationship with someone whom I dated in high school, and he has been in Japan for the past year.”  Also, “I am quite in love with Japanese and biology and sexuality, and that love essentially amounts to an inordinate passion for subjects that I see as academic,” so she spends a lot of time studying.

However, last May she had some spare time during finals week, and decided to visit her friend at another college about an hour away.  On her first evening on campus, she and her friend went to somebody’s birthday party.  She was wearing a hot pink dress with braided straps from Urban Outfitters, layered over a J. Crew tank top with salmon and white stripes.  I couldn’t find a tank top with this color scheme for sale, so I just picked a different one that I liked.  Sometimes I use “editorial license” when selecting items to link to — DEAL WITH IT.
Lux hot pink dress

Lux hot pink dress

Striped tank top

Striped tank top

Also, she hadn’t brought any shoes except for Chucks, so she borrowed a pair of (very small) green flip-flops from her friend.  “I think I probably just wore big giant white cotton panties because I absolutely hate wearing underwear and wearing too-big stuff is the closest I can get to not wearing underwear without actually not wearing underwear (which, sure, I do fairly often, but not really when I’m wearing dresses).”  Fascinating!  I’ve never heard the case for large underwear made in quite this way, or in any other way.  Rei has a shoulder tattoo that says “幸せになる,” which means “to become happy” in Japanese; it was mostly covered by her clothes at this point in the evening.

Although Rei was “looking to score that night,” she thought success was unlikely.  Not only did she not know many of these people, but it turns out the school she was visiting considered itself involved in a rivalry with her school, which occasioned some hostile comments.  Meanwhile people at Rei’s school aren’t even aware that this rivalry exists, because “we are all so fixated on hating the hell out of UNC.”   What’s up with these feuds between abstract entities?  The other day my friend told me someone had insulted her because the Wisconsin town he comes from is the “enemy” of her Wisconsin town. It’s always the less cool and status-y member of the rivalry that actually cares about it, so if you think your town or team or whatever has an enemy, you should probably just drop it.

Rei was lucky enough to meet a young man who did not take part in this tragic prejudice against her school.  Her friend introduced her to “Valmont” because he speaks Japanese, and as she puts it, “when I am drunk, I want to speak Japanese. Not English. I really, really like Japanese, and speaking it, and finding people who speak Japanese, and finding people who like Japan, and then making out with them.”  She felt an immediate connection with Valmont (in addition to being a fine scholar, he “is a complete man-whore who likes to push sexual boundaries,” although this is a conclusion she drew later), but he left for some other party and didn’t return for a few hours.

When he got back Rei remembers “a very heated, intense conversation taking place as we leaned up against a wall and got close to each other so we could hear over the yelling and the music–all in Japanese. The boy had me slayed–he was talking about how good I was, how impressed he was, etc. We were both really excited to be speaking Japanese, and I was exciting to see how his long-sleeved shirt fit his torso.”  They got dragged into a game of beer pong (“he won and I may or may not have been belligerent and boisterous”), and then “we started leaning up against each other and making out in the kitchen. Eventually we just moved it out into the hallway and a couch, and then inside a darkened study room, where we took off each other’s clothes and rolled around on the floor.”

That’s the end of the story, except for some AIM chats they had later about their sexual fantasies “and the times we’ve been interrupted by policemen while having sex in cars.”  Rei is now studying abroad and won’t see this amazing man again.  She does have a theory about the incident, though.  She remembers Valmont pulling down the back of her dress so that he could see her tattoo better, and she says it’s intriguing to people because it is “incongruous” with her usually reserved personality.  She concludes that “a nerdy girl with a tattoo might have her ‘holy grail’ already inked on her skin.”  I don’t have a picture of hers, so here’s an unrelated one you might enjoy.

Chanel/Black Flag foot tattoos

Chanel/Black Flag foot tattoos

“If I Had Grown a Man in a Lab, He Is What I Would Have Created”

Posted in alcohol, Boots, Cardigans, clothes, Denim, Fashion, Outerwear, Sex, Tank tops, Underwear on September 15, 2008 by betoma

UPDATE:  I saw Marilyn yesterday, and she was full of complaints about an affliction called “pash rash,” an unsightly facial skin irritation that results from making out with a stubble-y dude.  She seems to find it bitterly ironic that experiencing “passion” should have such a negative effect on one’s actual attractiveness.  It’s a classic life-art dichotomy — like in The Picture of Dorian Grey — where you can have intense experience or aesthetic perfection, but not both.  I can sympathize with her. I have unruly hair, and I need to put a lot of products on my skin to make it not greasy, plus my eyes get irritated if I don’t take out my contact lenses; if I go to sleep at someone else’s house, it’s fuckin’ chaos.

All of these are “luxury problems” rather than real problems, though.  By contrast, my e-mail correspondant “Claudette” says that she was celibate for over two years before the incident I’m about to relate.  Claudette is in her 20’s and was living in Delaware at the time.  She claims that “I am fat, frumpy, and plain.  I look like Ina Garten.  On a good day, if you’re feeling generous, I look like a zaftig Nigella Lawson without the sex appeal.”  I am reluctant to believe any of this.  I tend to think all my readers are beautiful, or at least above-average looking, like a drunk Lake Woebegone.  But you can picture her as plain if it makes her seem more relate-able to you.

She writes that “in January, I met a group of friends in Newark, N.J. for a basketball game.”  They were going out to the bars in Manhattan later, so she needed an outfit that was cute, walkable, and suited to a range of temperatures.  “I started with my beautiful Lucchese cowboy boots, a souvenir from a trip to Lake Tahoe, and worked backward from there.”

Lucchese cowboy boots

Lucchese cowboy boots

Here’s her list of what else she was wearing:

Red wool funnel-collar coat

Target giraffe-print cardigan {they don’t make these anymore, thanks to idiotic planned obsolescence}
Hot pink tank
Dark denim jeans

Hot pink lace bra

Hot pink cotton panties
Black cashmere socks {editor’s note: How are you supposed to wash cashmere socks?  Surely you don’t need to take them to the dry cleaner’s?  I just put mine in the washing machine, but I really feel guilty about it.}

When Claudette got dressed in the evening, she had no reason to think anyone would be scrutinizing her matching lingerie and rich-person socks.  “But when I arrived at the arena, by coincidence I was seated next to a spectacular-looking boy.  I mean, if I had grown a man in a lab, he is what I would have created.  He was thoughtful, funny, brainy, generous, arty, charming (he grew up in Louisiana, so he had that delicious Southern boy appeal) and so unbelievably hot that I thought, ‘There is no possible way I will be able to convince this boy to make out with me, so I guess I’ll just be myself.'”

They went to a bar in the Village called The Kettle of Fish, where ” I drank beer, I ate junk food, I told dirty jokes, I told him to give me all his quarters so I could play pinball, I said ‘watch this’ and stole a bottle of Cabernet from the bar, and at some point I realized he’d spent the whole night by my side.”

“At around midnight, I did something I’m not terribly proud of.  I turned to the group and whined, “You guys, I’m having too much fun to get the train back home.  Can I sleep on someone’s couch?”  Why not be proud of this brilliant line?  It’s like a more tactful version of “do you want to come up and see my etchings?”, and besides, it worked.

“He offered.  I accepted.  I did not sleep on the couch.” She didn’t even leave his apartment until the following afternoon!  She concludes her story by lamenting, “I miss that guy.”  Wait, what happened?  Why aren’t they engaged by now?  “I WISH we were engaged!”  It turns out they went on, like, two dates, but “after a two-hour phone conversation one night, I screwed up my courage and asked him if we could watch the Superbowl together, and I didn’t hear from him for three weeks.  Sad panda.”

Astonishingly, it seems this gentleman has some sort of emotional issues.  Claudette was left with pash rash and heartbreak, but she still has the hot boots, so maybe we will be hearing from her soon?