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824. alistairconnor - 2/21/2008 1:38:33 PM That's too much information, or not enough.
Weekend assignment : an essay on the metaphysical implications of a bad blowjob.
Open to all... comers. 825. Magoseph - 2/21/2008 5:46:37 PM May I respectfully point out that this conversation should be in the sex thread where we women can compare our sexual experience with you guys, metaphysically or otherwise? 826. alistairconnor - 2/21/2008 7:09:49 PM Absolutely not Mago. I mean, certainly, go ahead. But here it's fiction, remember.
So please, tell us a story, and feel free to pretty it up, or make it sound funnier than it seemed at the time. 827. NuPlanetOne - 2/22/2008 3:03:23 AM I think it is hard to talk about blowjobs without eventually being in jeopardy of inviting accusations of being chauvinistic. At some point the one performing the deed is patronized and marginalized as an object rather than as a willing sex partner. Especially when it is a conversation between men. Should you wax metaphysical, say, during a long wait at some hole on the back nine, and tell the guys that the blowjob you received last night at the hotel was surrounded in an aura of subliminal transcendental awareness, that further, you attempt to liken it to the Allegretto in Mozart’s Piano Concerto #24 in C minor. Declaring passionately that the effervescence of oboes commingling with clarinets signifying at long last a fusion of the divine deep within the soul of the abyss, has led you to redefine your faith in spirituality. Fore! And no one ducks.
Anyway, this is an interesting subject. That is, writing about the sex act specifically, without being specific. That is why I agree with Alistair, Mago. Hearing different takes on the subject in general, oral or otherwise, and how it could pertain to the fiction at hand, could be helpful. (Besides I want to know what other kinds of sex Webbie’s into.)
828. Jenerator - 2/23/2008 4:45:19 PM I used to wait tables when I was in college and one of my colleagues was a very sexually active nymph. She told everyone some crazy stories, and we still remember them. But they're too gross or pornographic to make for good fiction. Sorta like Chloe Sevigny with Vincent Gallo - not sexy. 829. NuPlanetOne - 2/24/2008 3:02:59 PM Jen,
Aye, but there’s the rub, if you will. Being in the company and context of the nubile nymphet, and being familiar with the more jocular aspects of her promiscuity, you found humor, not grossness, in her descriptions of her sexual encounters. Now, were you to relate these very same tales of tails writhing in ecstasy, in the wrong hands or even in the best of hands, oiled or otherwise, those hand jobs and that handholding would triple x into gutter moans and groans of dismay as the humor and context would dissolve. Webbie as editor saw this at once, whilst Alistair almost appreciated my attempt to intellectualize the graphic depictions of my lascivious consumption of the lovely Sofina. Hence the dilemma, go porn or be sworn to leaving it more to allusion, more to the imagination. How to proceed, indeed!
As a Chef, I have known so many waiters and waitresses like your friend from long ago. When I get back to my Piccatta story, I will try to introduce a major character to represent that part of the restaurant. Chicanery between the front and back of the house is what makes for most of the fun and friction in the daily workings of a busy kitchen. Webbie had her French boys, come on Jen, tell us about that sauté cook you followed into dry storage!
830. Magoseph - 2/24/2008 5:53:14 PM ...tell us about that sauté cook you followed into dry storage!
If she does, Nu, then I'll have to link to her post here from Sex & Gender. Remember what Ali told me: Absolutely not Mago. I mean, certainly, go ahead. But here it's fiction, remember.
So, hurry up, Jen, tell us more and fictionalize!
831. Jenerator - 2/24/2008 8:16:52 PM Hahahaha
I didn't take any sauté cooks into dry storage - though I kissed a gorgeous bartender in the walk-in freezer! I always had strong (free) drinks after that! :-)
Probably the most comical, sexual situations at that restaurant involved Ramón. He would flirt with all of us waitresses. For me, he would position oysters on the half shell in such a way that they resembled a woman's genitalia. While working the line, he would lick the oysters and slurp them down for us in a show of what "could be" for the lucky lady.
Guh-ross! 832. Jenerator - 2/24/2008 8:17:23 PM Mags,
I forgot what I said in Sex & Gender? 833. Jenerator - 2/24/2008 8:22:26 PM As for chefs, cooks, preps, and washers, I have learned that they are the horniest bunch in the world!
Managers and bartenders are part of the mix, too, though, they are usually somewhat more discreet about their conquests in that regard; but not much.
When I worked at the Hard Rock Café, I was shocked as to the language that was used in the kitchen, and the amount of sexual action that took place. All sorts of orgies back there and on the Beatle's paraphernalia. 834. Jenerator - 2/24/2008 8:51:59 PM 
The next time you see this, think of Ramón!
835. judithathome - 2/24/2008 9:58:53 PM I forgot what I said in Sex & Gender?
I think Magos meant she would have to link your story of actual work sexperience back to Sex&Gender because, alas, such a tale would be NONfiction, and this is the Fiction thread. In other words, if you posted something "non-fiction" i. e. your real life adventures...it could no longer qualify HERE as fiction.
I thought hers was a clever little post, myself. ;-)
836. alistairConnor - 2/24/2008 10:19:42 PM The next time you see this, think of Ramón!
No Jen... I'll think of you.
Mouth-watering! 837. Jenerator - 2/25/2008 12:09:46 AM Ah, thanks Judith! 838. Jenerator - 2/25/2008 12:12:31 AM What about this one, Alastair - you flirt!
 839. Jenerator - 2/25/2008 12:14:48 AM I find myself transported back to the restaurant circa 1993. I can see Ramón now, carefully placing this oyster on the ice saying, "Baby, your order is ready. I like-a to eat this one."
840. Jenerator - 2/25/2008 12:17:49 AM Too bad none of us had access to some trumpets to terrorize Ramón with!
 841. alistairConnor - 2/25/2008 12:53:28 AM And sure enough, the Desperate Housewives were there.
In the target age group of, say, 30 to 45, I found them almost all decidedly palatable. Mostly brunettes, which was a pleasant surprise, of varying skin shades. The overall impression was of an squadron of trim, prim Juliette Binoches aligned on the exercise bikes.
For my part, I was taken in hand by a skinny blonde trainer who showed me the ropes (and the weights) and jollied me along, introducing me to the variety of elaborate machines, numbered from one to twenty-seven. Most of them looked like some variation of a cross between a dentist's chair, an ironing board, and a birthing bed; a modernized Spanish Inquisition might use such apparatus, I speculated. Or the Gitmo people.
And from there, I confess, I rather took my eye off the ball. The Binoches seemed to disappear from my field of vision, and for the first few weeks, I was completely absorbed by the struggle to dominate those infernal devices. For it turns out that the fitness gym is an intensely narcissistic activity, a sort of mano a mano between mind and body, where the combination of real suffering and verifiable progress brings a sort of corporeal gratification that I had been entirely oblivious to. This reaches a sort of paroxysm in the case of one particular machine, which, I found, after a particularly painful set of exercises, induces a rather orgasmic sensation in certain muscles. I will not tell you which machine it is, gentle reader; you will have to seek it out for yourselves. 842. judithathome - 2/25/2008 3:26:23 AM What about this one, Alastair - you flirt!
Oh yeah...he's the flirt! Ha!
843. NuPlanetOne - 3/9/2008 5:25:29 PM I’m a bit blocked on the novel thing, let’s try a short story.
The Crane Beach Massacre
Not everyone involved understood exactly where we were going as we climbed aboard the open boat. I will never forget how it looked there in the expanded and willowy distance as anything shiny sparkled and beckoned in the intense moonlight as between wispy clouds the full moon shone bright. We hung back as Arthur explained the moon was rising precisely in the east as it should, though we didn’t know east from west. Just looking down the beach was distracting enough, and, as their chosen Captain, I was sizing up my would-be crew rather than watching the sudden taunting moon with the rest of them. I knew Arthur would wander off in a few minutes to scout around and perhaps just get all caught up in some visual explosion that only he understood as he has done so often recently on our other loosely organized trips together. Now he stood several yards away with his arms stretched skyward and said the tide was still ebbing. “It is ebbing. It is ebbing!” He said jumping around. Everyone followed him with their eyes and leaned in that direction and then looked about to each other’s eyes to see if it made any sense. Tracy’s eyes fell into mine and she kissed me intensely and when I started to kiss back she stopped and started brushing her hair. I told Arthur to go to the boat and see if it was seaworthy but he had sat down in despair and was shaking his long tangled hair on his lap. The boat was our only chance, I told them. They watched my words float in the air and nodded eventually in unison, except Daniel, who shook his head no, but that meant yes to him. Richard began speaking to me in Italian and I remembered I had taught him some simple phrases so we could have a code language if things went bad. Because if the trip went badly we could ignore the others and make it safely back to our starting point, or at least we could retrace our steps and find a way out. Tracy poked me and asked what Richard was saying. “Why did he ask you if the cheese was fresh?” She demanded. I held her and kissed her nose and she smiled and took my hat and put it on her head.
There were eight of us there on the sand where the tangled rise of beach grass we had crawled through seemed like a barrier from another world. But the dunes that stretched before us on this side of the rise appeared to us as our only way out and only direction to go. And there off in the distance was the boat. And I knew we must take it and set off to make the trip back home. Aside from myself, Tracy, Richard, Daniel and Arthur, were Debbie, Maria and Linda. Maria was my girlfriend, but she was with Daniel now, so I was with Tracy. We knew it had to be that way because that is how it went. Tracy and I were together when the whole thing hit, and we bonded. That bond is vital, even if it meant leaving someone behind. Besides, Maria never intended to come on this particular trip, so I was hoping she and Daniel had made a similar bond so I wouldn’t have to worry about her. Tracy was emotional and affectionate; Maria knew that, I just hoped it wouldn’t bum her out or drag her down. But she was strong and might even survive being abandoned should Daniel disappear or go all solo on her. Anyway, that was how it was, and all seemed well. So I decided the boat was the plan. There was plenty of room in it and the sides seemed high enough should we encounter any waves or rough seas.
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