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Monday, March 12, 2018

The Sports Gene

Since I heard that progressives have a special gene that makes them think the way they do, I've been hoping that scientists will soon start looking for the sports gene, because although I am quite sure I possess the liberal-progressive gene, I know for a fact that I lack the gene responsible for anything that has to do with sports. And this, I'm afraid, jeopardizes my place in American society.

The reason I started to worry has to do with the Giants. You see, in 2014 the Giants won the World Series. My San Francisco-born daughter posted something about the team on Facebook, which should have alerted me to the event. But I had no clue what she was talking about. She might as well have written it in Korean.

And so, a day after I saw her post I tried to strike up a friendly conversation with a colleague at work. I asked him when the Giants were going to play the final game of the World Series. Was it going to be in November, December or January?

The expression on the guy's face made me feel like he might need a defibrillator. He stared at me in stunned silence and after a few seconds, the words fell out of his mouth. "The Giant have already won the World Series."


I didn't dare ask if the Giants played football or baseball. That would have finished him off completely and I didn't wish him any harm. As they like to say in this country: "It's not personal."
So you see? I am hopeless when it comes to sports.

I once rented a room from a woman who was the accountant for the 49ers. Shortly before I moved in, the team won the Super Bowl and my landlady, I found out, partied with them after the game. Now, how do I know that the 49ers play football, you may ask. The only reason I know that fact is because I saw autographed footballs enclosed in a glass case in her living room. She also had a bunch of signed photographs hanging on the wall next to the glass case.

I am sorry to say, though, that all the football memorabilia left me unmoved. My total ignorance prevented me from prostrating myself in sheer awe before her football altar. Or how can I put it more clearly? My inner Moses failed to recognize the deity in the burning bush.

But don't get me wrong. I am not a hater of sports. I am just not that into them. Because I lack the sports gene. It's a DNA malfunction.

For the benefit of the doubt, and to preserve my citizenship, let me tell you that there was a time that curiosity got the better of me and drove me to watch some unmemorable matches in very famous stadiums.

For example, I once saw a game at Yankee Stadium between the Yankees and the Red Sox. I was told that Reggie Jackson would be in that game – not that I knew who he was. Like any dumb foreigner, I knew nothing about the game and all I could think was: "What the hell is an inning? IN what?" I sat on the hard bench among screaming adults and tried to figure out why it was such a big deal to watch overweight guys in pajamas spitting on the ground and rearranging their privates. There was also lukewarm beer and hot dogs and lots of American cars in the enormous parking lot that created a traffic jam from hell after the game finally ended in the sixteenth inning or whatever. I think the Yankees won the game but don't quote me on that. I just checked another item off my to-do list and went home to brag about it.

A year or so later, I found myself watching a soccer game in Maracana in Rio de Janeiro. This was when I learned to chant "Um dos trĂªs, quatro cinco mil, eu quero que Flamengo vai pra puta que pariu." The chant translates to "One, two, three, four, five thousand, I want Flamengo to go to hell (literally, ‘go to the whore who gave birth to you’). Definitely good material for learning authentic language use. In Portuguese, it rhymes nicely when 100,000 grownups yell it in tandem and blow giant horns accompanied by incessant drumming. No hot dogs though. The only thing worth noting is that the team I was supposed to root for won. Which probably saved my life and the life of those who took me to the game.

The last time I was in a stadium was at the U.S. Open. I am quite sure one of the tennis players was John McEnroe because there was lots of cursing and tantrums on the court. I used to think it was Jimmy Connors who I saw playing, but when I described the tantrums years later I was told it was McEnroe not Connors. Maybe I saw them playing against one another. Not so sure about it. My memory betrays me when it comes to these details.

So you see, that's how it is with me when it comes to sports: McEnroe, Connors, Giants, 49ers, Dodgers, Lakers, Yankees, Red Sox, White Sox, Dream Team, whatever. It's all just names to me. And don't get me started on boxing, please. Watching men punch each other in the face to unconsciousness is not what I consider "entertainment."

People try to explain to me why watching a good game is fun. Why being a fan of a sports team is fun. I listen with all the open-mindedness I can muster and try really hard to understand. But I can't.

So one day, when they find the sports gene, I will consider gene therapy. It might make me a better citizen.

Saturday, November 18, 2017

The Blowjob Dilemma (adult content)

I have a colleague who sometimes shares his dating adventures with me. He told me that one of the women he dated was not his type but the sex was great, so he enjoyed it for what it was. I asked him what he meant by great sex. He said, “When a woman makes me scream.”

I found myself pondering his response not only because I was surprised to hear that for at least one man great sex did not mandate certain acrobatics or activities, but because for me great sex meant something completely different. For me, to enjoy sex, three things needed to happen: One, it had to happen when I wanted it, not when my partner wanted it and I did it to avoid silent treatment or an argument. Two, it didn’t hurt. And three, I knew I was not expected to give a blowjob. Because I hate to give blowjobs.

I recently confessed my aversion to blow jobs to some of my women friends and found out that not all women felt the same. One said “When you love the man it’s actually nice.” Another said, “Oh, it’s OK once in a while.” A bisexual woman told me that blowjobs made her feel powerful, that’s why they were so great.

But I was not convinced.

You see, the way I feel about blowjobs is this: I was endowed with a mouth and a throat for the purpose of chewing and swallowing food, drinking fluids, and of course saying what is on my mind – not sucking men genitalia. My mouth is equipped with teeth and my throat with a gag reflex, so shoving an erect penis in there makes absolutely no sense. Besides, I have a vagina, which was specifically designed to host an erect penis and give it as much pleasure as that penis can endure. There are no teeth in there and it won’t make me want to throw up if the man attached to the base of that penis had reached kingdom cum while visiting that end of my body.

The first time I was introduced to the blowjob hall of infamy, I had no idea that climaxing inside my mouth was on the menu. I was only nineteen. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with the warm substance that was deposited in my mouth and I was too shy to ask. So I’ve been wondering since then, what is the blowjob etiquette? Can I ask you how far you are planning to shove your penis down my throat? Do you really expect me to keep my mouth open in that frozen silent scream for several minutes without dislocating my jaw? Are you planning to leave your DNA footprint in my mouth because you like to go with the flow?

You see what I mean?

Unfortunately, this is not what the average mother prepares a girl for when the girl happens to ask how babies come to the world. That is why, when my daughter reached the ripe age of ten, I broke the news to her and told her that she should never let a man force her head onto his crotch under any circumstances. Ever.

If a man feels the need to reaffirm his dominance over you, I told her, make use of any sharp or heavy object in your vicinity to bring him back to his senses and remind him that the universe is so much larger than his penis.   

I can’t count the number of times a big hand was put on the crown of my head and shoved it down to the nether world of unchallenged masculinity. Some men think that it is cool to fuck a woman in the mouth, maybe because they saw too many porn flicks in which women couldn’t wait to swallow a giant penis and defy their gag reflex or ignore the stress signals that their taste buds were sending to their brains. Maybe seeing women giving blowjobs makes men even prouder of their male addendum. What they don’t realize, though, is that these women are actresses and they get paid to do it. But we mortal women, are not inclined to compete against professional blowjob artists for the cherished title.

So I confess, again, that I have zero incentive to involve myself in this unrewarding routine. As I have said, I have a functional vagina and it can do the job just as well.

Come to think of it, men don’t need a woman to give them a blowjob. Men can do it, too, because all you need is a mouth, and every man has one, so why not commission a man to perform this unappetizing feat? A man might even do it better than a woman who has to resort to trial and error because she had never felt the sensations that the male anatomy produce. Men know much better where all the most sensitive spots are located, the amount of pressure that needs to be applied, the correct rhythm, and whatever it takes to send a penis to its predictable finale. But no, straight men would probably not go for it because the best part of getting a blowjob is knowing that the woman you are fucking in the mouth is at your service.

That would probably cancel my next idea: A remote-control, battery-operated, five-speed, toothless, gag-free rubber mouth, framed in bright red silicone lips and accessorized with a tireless velvet tongue. Woman not included.

Because the allure of a blowjob is so powerful, more times than I like to admit I found myself in bed with a man who eventually posed the inevitable question, “So when are you going to suck my dick?” using the euphemistic version, of course, “Don’t you do oral sex?”

  And my answer is “No I don’t.” By which I mean “Not when I have to do it.”

I don’t mind using my tongue to pleasure a man, as one of my gay friends once suggested that I lick it like a Popsicle. But it never ends at that stage. There is always the moment when expectations start to rise, and I know that sooner or later I will have to open my mouth and let that penis slide into it, and I don’t want to do it. Not only because I don’t like the taste or the smell or the size of it, or because it hurts my jaws or makes me want to throw up, but because I don’t know where this penis had been before it landed in my bed, and I really don’t want to find out.

I used to think that I was divorced and single because I didn’t like to suck men’s dicks, but a recent conversation I had with some married women had taught me that not all men demanded it. Some men could love a woman and stay married to her for decades even if she didn’t like to perform this task. I was so surprised to hear that not all men attached their male-pride to the number of blowjobs they received that I nearly regained my optimism.

Then one of my man friends who had many good experiences with women told me that 90 percent of women didn’t like to give blowjobs, which was a true eye-opener. At last, I felt vindicated. I have never dared to share my aversion for blowjobs with anyone. Until that day, I thought something was wrong with me. Because no one I knew dared to be the first to open up and admit that she didn’t like to do it, I assumed that most women treated blowjobs as another chore that had to be done for the sake of the relationships, just like putting away the dinner dishes and taking the laundry out of the drier.

Now I know that just like anything else in life, everybody has a different preference. Some like it, some don’t. I belong to the second group, that’s all. Blowjobs are not my cup of tea. Just like cilantro may not be yours. So don’t take it personally. It’s just not my thing.