Im waiting his newsletter...John Devore is a great writer lol

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Mind Of Man: Sure, Monogamy Is Unnatural


By John DeVore



My lady friend asked me if I thought it was “absurd” to want to be monogamous with someone and I immediately told her that I did not think it was absurd. It’s absurd to want to be monogamous with a rhinoceros or a pineapple. Especially pineapples, because they are the sluttiest fruit. But I do think that wanting or expecting monogamy is unnatural.


When you meet someone, they are either in your head or they are not in your head. They wear you like a glove or they don’t.

Here’s what is natural: ferocious self-interest. Take, eat, rut. Organize in order to take more, eat more, rut more. This is the base line of all existence. All animals are compelled to survive and, if possible, thrive. In this context, monogamy is unnatural. The more sexual partners a male is exposed to, the better chance that he’ll fulfill the commands of his basic programming. A female also benefits from a variety of potential male suitors. She would get to pick and choose the superior genetic specimen for hot mating. What an unbelievably unsexy verb. “I’m going to mate your brains out.”

For evidence of man’s (and woman’s!) natural state, I will refer to all of the vice that plagues the world. The golden rule isn’t do unto others as you would have them do unto you. That’s more like the golden suggestion. No, the golden rule, the immutable law of the jungle, is do unto others before they do unto you. But what’s best about humanity is its penchant for the unnatural. It is what, ultimately, separates us from worms. We can transcend our base cravings. You know what’s unnatural? Mercy. Compassion. Art, which is just man vandalizing nature and making it more beautiful. Love is unnatural. Sometimes, I think it’s a mental illness. Love, real love, is not concerned with self-interest. Love isn’t a blue star you get for being special. Loving someone is quietly accepting that you are just a humble moon illuminating someone’s else’s night with your shining silver face.

Wanting monogamy doesn’t mean you’re not sexually enlightened. I think there are plenty of people out there who claim to be “progressive” and insist that modern love is open and free and that monogamy has more to do with property rights than a healthy relationship. But I am naturally distrustful of anyone who advertises their socio-political ideologies. I know far too many dudes who slept through their women’s studies class in college yet preach about the evils of heteronormative attitudes. If you’re not into threesomes and he can’t imagine a sophisticated, complex and contemporary relationship without one, you might want to consider that, maybe, he’s a little immature and not “progressive.” I’m not saying that there aren’t totally successful relationships built on threesomes, but the odds are that both members never really needed to negotiate the pros and cons of inviting a third party into their hammock of love. I know a happy couple in a open relationships. I do not know how they work. It is their secret and none of my business.

Ideally, there should be no negotiation when it comes to the rules of engagement in a relationship. Puzzle pieces don’t discuss and bicker. They either fit or they don’t. Human interaction is a roulette wheel where luck dictates whether or not you meet someone with whom you have mental telepathy. I personally think that the “love at first sight” phenomenon is actually a primal form of mental telepathy. When you meet someone, they are either in your head or they are not in your head. They wear you like a glove or they don’t. The only reason we waste time with people who don’t know how to tickle our ganglia is vanity. If you are an erotic pioneer hungry to explore the undiscovered countries of human sexuality, if you are truly in it to win it, then chances are you should seek out someone who you don’t have to explain yourself to. But if you want a monogamous relationship, you should have one standard. That the person you want to be monogamous with is in silent agreement with you. That they are willing to make an uneasy truce that puts them in a permanently vulnerable position.

Monogamy is a form of mutual assured destruction between two romantic partners. It is not some kind of agreement or promise or abstraction. Monogamy is not a contract that guarantees anything nor is it a blissful state of being. There is no handshake or conversation. Exclusive commitments happen because skin insists. The heart demands. Blood commands. Monogamy is a tense pact that simply says “If I see you make out with someone else my guts will melt but if you see me make out with someone else, your eyeballs will deflate.”

Great points...
You either fit or you don't fit, don't bicker about it
Little bit of luck meeting that person
Works or it doesn't

All well said and whether we believe monogamy is natural or not
maybe it's the ability to keep it exciting and ever changing that it is like
something new every day.

I love it.

Indeed

miss u Madison!!

Indeed and in need

Just like women, men have some of the same common thoughts, concerns and ideas,
but we are all individuals and have areas where we are very unique in our thought processes.

Just sayin'

True

Love it! Very interesting thanks for sharing!

Might need a few more authors to contribute to this thread so that we can all learn a thing
or two.

I follow some of his logic, but life and experience provides me a different point of view
as it does for all of us. So perhaps we can all give some pointers so the ladies know
how various versions of men think.

Thanks for reading sexy!!

Agreed!!

I love her thoughts!

lol me too:)!

tam bam

Mind Of Man: The Freakiest Sex I Ever Had


BY:John DeVore



The old cliché warns against judging a book by its cover, and this is especially true when sizing up a lover. You just can’t tell how sexually adventurous a person is by looking at them. Appearances don’t always deceive; sometimes they just obscure the truth. And I’ve learned over the years that just because she looks Amish, doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a vibrator the size of a jackhammer under her bed.


She turned me inside out, the way a toddler does with a puppet he or she’s bored with. My nipples were twisted, fingers went in my ass, and, at one point, I think I bit my own foot.

This fact of romance became apparent to me over the span of six months many years ago. I dated two women, and both surprised me. Take the punk rock performance artist. She had so many piercings you could hear her walk down a hall, jangling like a bouquet of keys slapping against an apartment building super’s hip. She loved GG Allin, body modification magazines, and smoking hash. And when we finally slept together, with The Misfits blaring, I discovered she liked it Betty Crocker-style.

I’m not even sure any fluids were really exchanged. At any given moment, it would not have surprised me if she had produced a full-body dental dam with a hole in it. This is not to say she didn’t like sex—she did. But she had a very specific, certain way of getting the job done, and it was not what I was expecting. I’m not criticizing her; for most people, their sexual palette is a grand buffet full of all-you-can-eat surprises. She liked mashed potatoes, and her sexual smorgasbord consisted mainly of mashed potatoes, and I don’t think gravy was even an option. I was able, however, to convince her to leave her comfort zone and am proud to say I introduced her to the following kinks: sex on the couch, with the lights on, and on Tuesday.

Eventually we broke up, and I think it had something to do with the fact that I don’t know how to play the guitar. The next woman I started seeing, however, was the exact opposite. She had almond eyes, a teardrop-shaped face, and was so very heartbreakingly shy and compassionate. She worked with animals and possessed a serene, beatific aura. If you cut your finger in her presence, it would suddenly zip itself up and heal. She did not strike me as someone who was sexually experienced, and I decided I would educate her in the ways of the flesh. Why? Because I’m John DeVore: The Digital Dionysus, The Ayatollah of Heartandsoula, The Clitoris Whisperer. It was I who had taught two (TWO!) women the “reverse cowgirl” position (which, in retrospect, I admit is just doggy-style for lazy men).

The first time we banged, it was very vulnerable afterwards. The sex had been very basic, very 101, but we had a connection. As we snuggled, sweaty and giggling, she gently whispered, “Do you think that we could go to a sex toy store together?” Clearly, already, I was having a positive effect on this woman, I thought. And even though I had never been to a sex toy store in my entire life, I told her we would go together as soon as we were ready. No need to rush the blossoming of a woman who was obviously thankful that she was in bed with one John DeVore. She smiled, and before she zonked out, told me that going to a shop on New York’s Lower East Side was a perfect way to spend a Saturday, which happened to be the very next day.

We walked into the sex store, and I tried my best not to act like a stranger in a strange land. Granted, the shop itself wasn’t the temple of sleaze I had expected. It felt sort of like a Starbucks: soft jazz played; the employees were all young and hip; the décor was very clean and minimalist. And, of course, there were all the toys, oils, and fetish accoutrements. Like most guys in uncomfortable social situations, I turned the swagger on. I strolled over with her to a basket and picked up a small, circular leather thing.

“Heh, heh. Wonder what THIS is, huh?” I smirked.

“It’s a cock ring.” She replied without missing a beat.

“Oh, sure. I knew that. Wonder what it’s for, huh? Let’s ask …”

She cut me off, “It will make you harder, longer.” Then this quiet, shy little woman made a beeline for a wall of dildos. She lingered on one that looked like it should be dangling from underneath a horse. Then she proceeded to browse through the store with an authority that took me aback. She steered around the place the way I imagine a blind person navigates their house, with a familiarity independent of sight. Eventually, I went outside for a smoke, and waited for her to come out. I helped carry one of two bags. Her smile said it all: “This is going to be fun.” My slack face countered: “What the hell is going on?”

That night, I prepared our lair. I wore my best silk boxers, flossed, and applied my sexiest deodorant. Immediately, Portishead went on the iPod. Because that is the music of sex. And when she came out of the bathroom, I lie to you not, she was wearing a corset. I had been with women who’d worn fancy lingerie, but a corset? She had a tube of hump spackle in one hand, and a string of anal beads in the other. And then what hit me was a tsunami of raw sexual id. She turned me inside out, the way a toddler does with a puppet he or she’s bored with. My nipples were twisted, fingers went in my ass, and, at one point, I think I bit my own foot.

Afterwards, panting, I tried to save some face. Play it cool. Ignore the fact that I had just been wrung like a ShamWow. I rolled over to her and said, “I had no idea you were so freaky!” She rolled over to me, with her almond eyes, teardrop-shaped face, and sighed. She was disappointed.

“Yeah … I thought you’d be freakier.”

You can follow John on Twitter or friend him on Facebook.

I totally agree with this!!!

Too many often judge me as scary, harsh, and intimidating when the truth is I'm sweet, caring, and fun.

You are so sweet and fun!

You're sweet and fun babe!!!

DITTO

Hmmm...I'm not sure how someone could have the impression of you being scary, harsh, nor intimidating. I met you back in March and could tell you are a nice and fun person by nature. So just keeping yourself

AWW, sweetie! thank you! <3 xoxoxox

She is super fun and nice

I am eager to find out how freaky I can be

Sharky's Mind ~~~ Sometimes sex can educate you

Immediately after my divorce in 2001 I was finishing the studies for my MBA and sexually frustrated and wanting to end a dry spell. The last 6 months of marriage I was getting no nookie, and I made myself abstain until the divorce papers were signed. My own way of proving to myself that her cheating wouldn't change me. So with the divorce papers filed and finalized I had to return the house key to her and was told I could deliver it to her office so that she wouldn't have to be inconvenienced. This was a bad call on her account. As I arrived all her co-workers kept staring at me, some with that look of disgust we all know, others with some with intrigue.

I dropped off the key got the "I hate you, you don't understand me" comment from her and walked off, one of her coworkers tapped me on the arm as I left, she slipped me a piece of paper and mushed me on. Stuck the paper in my pocket and kept walking. Turned the corner and another of her coworkers did the same thing, again slipped the paper into my pocket, then the receptionist on my way past her desk whispered at me passed a piece of paper nonchalantly across her desk like a kid in grade school. I grabbed it and walked out. When I got out to my car I had 3 numbers and chuckled to myself.

That night one of her coworkers that we both knew called me and said she wanted to have lunch. We had lunch she was married and not happy and wanted 2 things 1) She wanted to see if my ex was correct about me being a "freak" in bed and 2) she wanted to know how to handle her husband. I didn't sleep with her, but confirmed the stories that evidently had become water cooler topic of conversation. As for the advice I told her to give her husband a reason to miss golf or come home early, spice it up, lingerie, silk scarves, feathers, body dust or whatever turned him on that she didn't object to. To my knowledge they're still married so I hope the advice helped.

As for the other 3 they all wanted to know "why" things happened, and if I was really a "freak" in bed. Each one was unique in their own way and their sexual curiosity made for some interesting foreplay. The "why" was easy, she cheated and didn't enjoy sex nearly as much as I did and it was more of a chore for her and she complained if sex lasted longer than 30 minutes. In the end she would rather have me at work and doing my online investing so that she could be by herself and do her shopping with out me around and have her bf who lasted all of 5 minutes in bed...that's what she wanted - or so she told me.

As for being a "freak" in bed I found out more about them than they did about me, but funny how it works when you delve into someone's psyche you leave your own open to be investigated as well. One was an accountant and she liked playing dress up more than anything, she had an entire portion of her closet that was just her sexual fantasy dress up area. From what I saw she probably had over 200 outfits and from her own admission no boyfriend that lasted longer than 6 months. I was more of an audience and sounding board for her, than a sexual conquest. She really enjoyed dressing up, the foreplay and seduction of the moment, we had sex once and I was just too big for her, she said it hurt and no amount of lube or foreplay made it easier, but in the end she realized that her preference for dressing up wasn't any more than her sexuality being attached to her fashion.

The second was a firm lawyer, a real "ball-breaker" and turns out she was sexually frustrated and preferred cuddling, and pillow talk to anything else, sex could last 5 minutes or 2 hours all she cared about was the afterward. She was passionate in bed, quiet and averse to the lights being on. Got her over her aversion to the lights being on with an afternoon romp at my apartment with the sunlight shining in. She was tough at work and when work was over she craved affection and a confirmation that someone could be tender with her. I let her tie me up a couple times but it wasn't what she was after, but she was definitely a kisser, almost like she was starved of attention, which she probably was.

The third was the receptionist, probably the closest to my liking of the three. Sexually aware of her needs and wants, but very moody and it affected her sex life more than she knew. If she was in a foul mood she just wanted to be foul until the feeling went away. If she was in a good mood she connected that feeling to whoever she was with or around, not always a good combination. I can remember she was having a bad day and I was doing research at the library and got a text from her "f*ck the world". I packed my books and research up and called her and asked her to join me for lunch. She was 30 minutes late. "Couldn't decide to come or not, right?" She replied with a yes. Over lunch she told me about the reason for her foul mood, turns out work had a big project and so she was catching heat just like everyone else at the office.
We finished lunch as I was telling her how to handle confrontation, and learn to decompress so she isn't carrying all her stress with her. I asked her what she liked to do, she said she liked tennis. I told her I sucked at it, but if she had an extra racket we could go play, after 2 hours of holding my own with her she seemed better. Her place was closer so we went back there to clean up she showered and then headed to the kitchen and then I cleaned up. I walked out in a towel and she was just in another foul mood again practically killing whatever she making in the kitchen. I walked up to her tapped her on the shoulder and she whipped around and looked me up and down and said "I'm not in the mood".
Pretty much took the bull by the horns, took the kitchen knife out of her hand and pressed against her and kissed her, felt her tension ease and started to lead her to the couch. To say the least she was the most energetic of the three, but the most imbalanced one, as we were laying on the floor dripping wet I told her she needed to find a way to leave work at work or she'll never find someone. She elbowed me in the ribs and said she knew that. I wound up showing her some relaxation techniques and recommending she hit the tennis courts when she was frustrated and forgetting the world for a couple hours and focusing on her game.

Not sure how any of them are, lost touch, makes it awkward when they are your ex's coworkers, but it did confirm to myself that I'm not a freak, just that our tastes and sexual compatibility just wasn't there. So they learned my ex really was a cold fish and each of them told me I should get into porn. That's when the wheels started turning for me.

So it's not always about sex education, sometimes sex can educate you about other aspects of your life.
~Sharky

You know, its been over a month now and one thing that I still think about was the impression of you and Tamela when we finally got a chance to meet at the BR.

My original concern had been that I would be particularly intimidated by the two of you, given that you are two of the more well known names at the BR and me having quite the inferiority complex.

However, when we did finally meet there was just something about Tamela's presence of demeanor that caused my anxiety to vanish. Can't really put my finger on it exactly but it was really quite something.

Then when I met you, Jayla I was impressed with just what a sweetheart you really are. Things just seemed natural. Too bad we weren't able to party as I'm thinking it would have been one amazing time & I'm sure it will be when we're finally able to get that party booked.

It was one of very pleasant discoveries for me on a trip that was full of many many firsts.

I'd say to anyone reading these threads, don't assume things.

Just because Tamela is a tall buxom blond, does not mean she's intimidating. She has a very warm, friendly, and easy going presence & my impression of her was that she'd take good care of her man.

Just because Jayla has those ornery eyes of a hell raiser, doesn't mean she's a crazy wild child. When you meet her in person, she also has a very calm easy going presence and is one of the nicest young ladies I've ever met.

People visiting a brothel should just keep an open mind to things, because while you can get a good idea of what things are like and people's personalities via the message boards, there is a limit to what you can learn from behind a computer screen. You could miss out.

Mike out,

P.S. Funny story to tell you two. I'm willing to bet the ladies at the bar probably had a hard time believing all we did was talk. Because after you took me back to the parlor, I felt so relaxed, I hung out for a good hour/hour & a half talking to everyone at the bar LOL !!

wow, You just made me smile from ear to ear! thank you! Xoxoxo

Awesome..Im so happy we were able to meet finally!! I look forward to getting to know you on a more intimate level as well

I find it very enchanting when a woman asks probing questions about me.
Shows she has a mind, a thought process and that she has and idea of
what she likes and wants in a man...even if it's for only an evening in
her company enjoying her charms and sharing a bed.

Communication is key

BUMP !!!!

Mind Of Man: The Types Of Women You Shouldn’t Date

BY: John DeVore




Women are always writing blog posts about the types of men who shouldn’t be dated, like overgrown frat boys, mole people, and men who still bathe with their mothers. Well, two can play at that game! I see your stereotype and raise you a bunch! Here are the types of women no man should date.

Never date a stand-up comedian because you’ll end up a punch line in her act. Never date a musician because she’ll always love her trombone more than you. Never date a lawyer because you’ll never, ever win the argument she’ll deny starting in the first place. Never date a yoga instructor because she’ll think it’s funny to do her “crab woman” impersonation, and you’ll laugh, but suddenly her limberness will seem .05 percent less sexy than it did before she scurried across the living room floor. Whatever you do, don’t date a feminist because, for some reason, they don’t find crude, sexist jokes funny. I’ll also add that I don’t advise dating women with tummies because it’ll just remind you that you should do more sit-ups.

Avoid dating skinny chicks if at all possible. They probably have a tapeworm. If the woman you’re on a date with doesn’t know how to use chopsticks, just excuse yourself, calmly walk to the bathroom, and crawl through the bathroom window. Women who wear peasant skirts are to be avoided. Because first it’s peasant skirts, then it’s ankle bracelets and the next thing you know, it’s tickets to a Dave Matthews concert. Don’t date women who are fashion forward because they’ll make you wear teal sweaters. Heels means she’s a slow walker. Zombies eat slow walkers.

The following women should also never be dated: brunettes, because they want to be blonde and blondes because they like being blonde. Redheads are the love child of a volcano and a tornado. Tall women will always look down on you, short women will never look up to you. Regular-sized women want to be tall or short or both. Where was I? Right. Never date a woman who expects you to pay for everything. She’s probably superficial. Women who pay for your dinner are also not girlfriend material. What? You think I can’t get a job? I JUST CHECKED MONSTER DOT COM YESTERDAY, NAG. Speaking of, never date a nag, as they’re usually right about their naggy-naggy nags. If she offers to split the check, make the following mental note: I should not date her because she thinks I’m cheap.

Here are some dating don’ts and don’ts. Don’t: date a woman from Philadelphia because, on some molecular level, she’ll be cooler than you. Don’t: date a woman who talks to her dog, because that dog will know all of your secrets. Don’t: date a woman who blogs about her sex life, because that means she’s had sex before, and it will give your penis performance anxiety. Don’t: date a woman with mad Photoshop skills because one day your head will appear on a goat. Let me loop back around: don’t date a blogger, because the Internet is a hungry beast that must be fed and one day a friend will link to a story on their Facebook wall titled “My Boyfriend’s Vaguely Rectangular Testicles.”

Never date a woman who will sleep with you on a first date. Slut! Never date a woman who will sleep with you on a second date. Tease! Never date a Conservative Christian because if you do sleep with her, and that is a big “if,” she will rock your world, and the next thing you know, you’re watching Fox News, nodding in agreement and you voted for Obama. Some women have “daddy issues.” Some women have entire subscriptions. Don’t date either, if you can help it. Environmentalists care too much about baby seals and not enough about blow jobs.

Dealbreakers! The following are dealbreakers: mouth breathers, thought havers, cheese eaters, showtune singers, eye rollers, cry faces, belly laughers, vagina or butt farters. More dealbreakers: jungle bush, dolphin vulva, quarter, nickel or penny nipples, baby feet, iron thighs, silly dancers, anthropology majors. Even more dealbreakers: Scorpios, Gemini, Aries, Aquarians, Sagittarians, publicists, dominatrixes, jugglers, optimists, Buddhists, and anyone who knows every single participant in every season of “DWTS.” Also: anyone who knows what “DWTS” is an acronym for.

Women who wear glasses aren’t smart. They’re probably just near or farsighted. Chefs are lady pirates, in that they are way too comfortable with fire and knives. Actresses will, at one point, quote Shakespeare. “All the world’s a stage,” she’ll declare. No kidding, you’ll think. If she works for a woman’s magazine like Cosmopolitan, just politely run away, because those women are nothing but tips, tips, tips. They have a tip for everything. Sheesh! You know who you should never date? Any woman who reads the short fiction in The New Yorker. Eventually, she’ll try to tell you about what she read and short fiction is just another term for “Nothing happens fiction.” Booooring. Women on the rebound? No. Because have you ever had a shard of broken heart under your fingernail? Ouchtastic, bro. Women who haven’t had a boyfriend in forever? Nope. Thumbs down. Why has she been single so long? Does she smell? If she drinks white wine, then she’ll always hate that you sweat beer. If she drinks bourbon, then she’s an alcoholic and there’s only room for one alcoholic in this relationship, lady.

You should never date a mermaid. Sure, they’re full of Omega-3 Fatty Acids, but those seashells never come off. Never date a Cylon. They’re hot, but they really, really hate humanity. Never date a chick whose “best male friend” is a Time Lord, because you’ll just never live up to that worldly and intelligent son of a bitch. If she’s beautiful, smart, funny, sensitive, and loves video games, then do yourself a favor and pull the ejector seat lever. She’s a trap!

I am a real, live single guy dating in New York City. These are the women you should never date.

The women you should never date.

Never date.

ok thats it. I'm doomed

Ah ha

Mind Of Man: Sex & The Zombie Apocalypse

John DeVore

When the dead walk and the world is plunged into chaos, the only dating advice that will matter is this: the couple that beheads zombies together, stays together. But that advice doesn’t just work in a dark future where corpses hunger for human flesh. It is very practical dating advice for right now, in these last, few remaining years when the deceased stay in their coffins, rather than clawing out from their graves.



I think it’s just smart to ask yourself if someone you’re dating would last in the event of the zombie apocalypse. It’s an important consideration. Because dating during a zombie outbreak, while intense, really emphasizes what is important in a relationship. If the person you’re dating isn’t someone who will watch your back, then what’s the point of pursuing that relationship?

Just because the world will be teaming with hordes of murderous cadavers doesn’t mean that dating will be canceled. It just means that what you’ll be looking for in a companion will change, or so you better hope. The superficial qualities most people look for in a boyfriend or girlfriend today will be useless fighting zombies. When looking for Mr. or Mrs. Right during the End Days, you should look for the following: can he or she swing an ax? Load a shotgun? Use a chainsaw? Does this person have a strong stomach? Is this person a picky eater, and if so, can this person subsist on a diet of whatever can be grabbed in a hurry from a smashed open vending machine? Most importantly: will this person save my ass or just run during the first sign of danger?

Courage is what happens when love puts on its pants and makes a point. Don’t ever date someone who doesn’t understand that the only way two people survive life is if both people are singularly concerned with the happiness, well-being and safety of the other person. The self-absorbed will be the first to get snacked on. Which means half of Facebook is already doomed. Men or women who push others out of the way and run are always the first to die when it comes to marauding zombies, and for that matter, dinosaurs, or aliens.

Start looking for these qualities now; when ghastly phalanxes of zombies start lumbering down the street, you’ll be glad you did. If you’re a man, start looking to date feminists. Damsels in distress will not survive the night of the living dead. If you’re a woman, don’t just look for a man who looks like a lumberjack. Prize cleverness, because a clever man will build a better Molotov cocktail than a meatball who doesn’t know that you should mix a healthy amount of sugar into the gasoline. Look for someone self-confident enough to know that without sacrifice, there is no success. Being able to improvise and turn obstacles into opportunities will be the new sexy.

It’s not like dating in a dystopia will be all brain splatter and blood curdling screams of terror. There will be, most certainly, less poopoo. Meeting people will be easier, because the living will all have one major thing in common: fighting for their lives. Picking places to date will also be simpler. Just pick any place not swarming with rotting monsters from hell. Sure, this future won’t be great for foodies. But after days of not eating, that bowl of canned beef strew is going to taste amazing. Running into your ex will be no problem: he or she’ll probably be a zombie anyway.

Plus, the sex will be fantastic. Intense and grasping and fueled by adrenaline. Sex is a release of creative energy and will, therefore, be the greatest weapon humanity has against the cold darkness of an Earth where the dead have returned. Of course, the sexing will have to happen during brief lulls in combat. You’ll strip naked wherever you happen to be hiding — a meat locker, a bunker, a tent on the high ground. You’ll both check each other out for bites that you didn’t give each other. Then you will bang and your moans of pleasure will drown out the savage moans of the zombies who slowly slog your way. Afterwards, you’ll both get dressed while simultaneously checking your ammo.

Dating is a process that helps us find someone to spend our life with. The truth is, we’re already surrounded by death. Every day. So the pile of minutes we’re all given are the most valuable thing we can possibly share with someone. Dating shouldn’t be a process that helps us find the person who is most like we are, because it’s just so much easier to date a person we’re already in love with. Dating, now or during the zombie apocalypse, should be about finding that person who will join you in battle. Who will pick brains out of your hair, shoot an arrow through the head of a zombie you didn’t see sneaking up on you, and who will slap you if you’re hysterical and scream “I can’t do this without you!” You can’t do this alone. This. Life. This momentary burp in the space-time continuum.

I mean, you can do it alone, but a comrade-in-arms gives the hacking, stabbing and flame-throwing meaning. When it’s not about you, but about her, or him, then everything just makes sense. I will sharpen your Samurai sword if you oil my assault rifle. I will bring you wonton soup as you work late on that new account if you whisper in my ear that I’ll nail that job interview in the morning. The dead never share fresh brains. Love is the only thing that can save us from zombies. Love is the only thing that can save us.

Definitely more

I whole-heartedly agree with this last article. I can't find anything wrong with it.


I'm looking to buy a fully functional sword (ammo doesn't last forever yanno) in the near future for this very thing, a zombie apocalypse lol and of course, I'd buy a second one for my future dating partner whoever she may be

Very interesting!

how thoughtful!

Mind Of Man: An Open Letter To Kim Kardashian




Dearest Kim,

I realize this must be a difficult time for you. I know it is for me. When I heard of your recent divorce from Kris Humphries, I wondered if I was naïve to still believe in love. But I do believe in love, Kim. Which is why I think you should look at this recent romantic setback as an opportunity. What I’m about to suggest might seem crazy. But love is crazy, Kim. Love wears pants made out of bubble-wrap and a bath mat cape. Love hides under your bed and eats stale snack cakes. When you sleep, love kisses your eyelashes and draws hearts on your forehead with lipstick.

Love is crazy and I’m crazy about you, Kim. Right now, if you could see me, I’m on one knee. But still typing. I’m on my knees, in front of my keyboard, typing words I never thought I’d type. Oh jeez, I have sweaty fingertips! Kim Kardashian, will you marry me?

I know. This is sudden. You don’t know me. Your marriage to the love of your life just ended. I’m sure that is a shock. I know I was shocked. The wedding was just beautiful. I tore out the best pictures from the spread in People magazine and used my own saliva and bellybutton grease to secure them to my bedroom ceiling. Did you know I cried when I saw the wedding on E!? I cried and cried and cried, for three days. I will remember, for the rest of my life, where I was when I heard that your gay husband broke your heart. I will never forget that day. It’s like my generations JFK assassination. Where was I when I heard Kim Kardashian was a single lady once again? I actually don’t remember. I just remember waking up on my kitchen floor and feeling like I had lost my innocence. I know that there are many people reading this right now who know what I am talking about.

But I have never been one to let a cynical business agreement masquerading as a media fairy tale gone horribly right for everyone but the suckers who chose to believe in love get me down. And it shouldn’t get you down either. Here’s a little bit about me: I’m a blogger. I’m in my post-20s. My favorite food is “flavor packet.” I have low self-esteem, which most women in New York find unattractive because they hate the competition, but I think you’ll really learn to love the fact that my favorite sexual position is “masturbating in the garage with the lights off.”

Marry me, Kim. I will love you forever, or for 72 days, whichever comes first. I think your family would really like me, once they understood what it is I can offer you, besides perfectly toasted Eggos and also, someone to throw mugs of hot coffee at. The reason you should really consider my marriage proposal is because it will be a better story. A bigger, better story. It’s like what the Nazi propagandist Joseph Goebbels said, “If you tell a lie big enough, and keep repeating it, people will come to believe it.” That was your problem with your soon-to-be ex-husband, basketball quarterback Undercooked Taylor Lautner. The lie wasn’t big enough!

I just think we’d be so great for one another. We would make a great pitch to basic cable! You’re a princess and I’m a pauper. We’d be like “My Fair Lady,” which is a remake of “Pretty Woman,” which was based on the play “A Doll’s House”! The story goes like this: a sloppy, dorky blogger proposes to you over the internet, you are moved by his typos and poor grammar, and you swoop in and remake him! You teach him how to live your life of tacky luxury and how to laugh about all the idiots who tuned-in to the last marriage, which was the easiest $18 million dollars anyone has ever made. Think of the pre-wedding specials we could tape where you give me a makeover, take me shopping, and give me lessons in vapid monosyllabic observations of my new pampered world. I want you to know, in advance, I will sign whatever contract your lawyers write up, because even a fraction of millions of dollars is probably more than I make in a year. For instance, I am happy to get an Axe Body Spray face tattoo. I will even take your name. John Kardashian or just Mr. Kim Kardashian.

As we stand before God, family, friends and millions of lonelyhearts projecting their superficial dreams on our charade, I will stare into your eyes, your dark eyes, and happily say “I do.” And when we get divorced, months later, I want you to know that I will continue loving you, a point I will make over and over again, during the press conferences.

Marry me, Kim. I have a poopoo ton of credit card debt I have to pay off.

Love Always & Always,

John DeVore

Interesting reading

That is an interesting piece thanks for sharing!

Aren't those the things a Gentleman is supposed to do??? Except for the purse part... We'd actually be helping you on (or off) with your coat.

Mind Of Man: When Food Is More Important Than Sex

John DeVore


Learning To Cook






Toy Or Utensil?



When food has replaced sex in your relationship, it’s pretty much over. If you’re a month or so into a relationship and you both find yourself face-planting bowls of pasta on a Friday night instead of giving yourselves reason to clean your sheets on Saturday morning, something is not right. Favorite foods are not a substitute for favorite sexual positions.

The problem I’m talking about here is that moment when you realize you’re in a food coma with the person who most recently saw you naked, rather than nodding off blissfully into a post-coital slumber, her foot in your face, your hand on her ass.

Fine. Maybe you’re both tired, overworked; these are stressful times, after all, and there’s comfort in sharing a pizza. Or you’ve stumbled home after a drunken night out and a sloppy pot of macaroni and cheese is not only necessary, but welcome. None of that does any harm. Hell, making someone dinner is a time-honored seduction technique, and one of my foolproof tricks when wooing a woman. And by “wooing,” I mean, “trying to get her to take her pants off.” I dare any of you to resist my enchiladas of love. Other foolproof tricks include but are not limited to: semi-sincere puppy dog eyes, roguish pleading, and something I’ll refer to as “Sexytime Freakdance.” Eggs always taste better after hot, early morning, sleepyhead romping.

Making someone food is a sublime way to express love, of course. I dated a woman who would spend an entire night before a date folding little wontons that she learned to make when she was living in Hong Kong. Sure, she was stoned while she was doing it. But she would make them, and we would inhale them like we had wonton gills, and there have been precious few moments in my life when I’ve felt more loved.

I’ve been there. A couple months into a relationship, we realized that perusing the stack of takeout menus together provided far too much joy. The relationship ended soon after, amicably. You have been warned.

I love sex, and I love food. Not at the same time. Never at the same time. I don’t want whipped cream on my junk any more than I want your boob in my nachos. But I love both appetites dearly, and it’s not because they are two of the greatest perks of life, but because they are largely the whole point of life. They are the greatest potential vehicles for love — as well as biological imperatives. Sex is so omnipresent in our modern times, so cheap, so disposable, sold like corn chips to satisfy cravings, that it’s easy to forget it is one of our primary pursuits as human beings. It is an appetite as profound as hunger or thirst. We need to ensure our individual survival. We need to consume fuel. We need to reproduce. There is junk food, and there is junk sex. But a truly remarkable meal, and a blindingly ridiculous orgasm, satisfy that part of your soul that is weary, downtrodden, burdened by life’s little anchors and wants nothing more than to float for a moment.

Most men appreciate, if not wholly love, a woman with an appetite. Sometimes sexiness is the soft peach fuzz on the back of her neck, and sometimes it’s watching her break down a plate of fried calamari. I’m not suggesting we love the morbidly obese, but a woman who owns her hunger and greedily sates it is straight up awesome. For instance, when I’m dating a chick, I plan a burger date. This date will come before the one wherein we slurp funky and delicious Vietnamese soups at a joint that is out of the way and where no English is spoken. But the burger date says everything about a woman. Cheeseburgers are simple, messy, and an excellent one can be a culinary masterpiece. Does she like her burger bloody? Does she attack it with extreme prejudice? Mustard or mayo? Most importantly: Does she eat like no one is looking or judging? The ability to give into abandon, be it eating a cheeseburger or doing it panther-style, is an important aptitude to discern early on in a relationship.

But never substitute one for the other. It’s bad news. And never, ever combine them, please. Honey in my pubic hair is not a turn on. You know who you are.

Mind Of Man: My New Year’s Resolution
By: John DeVore


My New Years resolution is to be less stupid. I don’t usually make New Years resolutions, or as I call them, Last Year’s regrets. Usually, I just think they’re for suckers.

The only people who benefit from New Year’s resolutions are the therapists who profit from disappointment maintenance. But this year is going to be different. I’m making one “big picture” resolution instead of committing to a dozen specific self-improvement chores that I will end up failing to complete. Instead of trying to hit a bullseye with an arrow, I’m going to score a slam dunk by setting up a ladder right next to the net. Okay, well, here’s a specific resolution I will honor: I will not make any more sports metaphors.

Rather than setting myself up for letting myself down, my resolution is broad. A destination, really. I am going to be less stupid. Think of me like an early European explorer of the new world, only without the stockings and casual attitude towards genocide. Those fruitbats just jumped on a rickety bucket with sails, and pointed in the general direction of where they wanted to go, and then bobbed towards the horizon. By this time, next year, I will be 35 percent less stupid than I am right now.

I use to make tons of resolutions about booze and food. But not this year. Nope. First off, I don’t drink anymore. So I suppose I sort of succeeded at a resolution. Although, for the record, my resolutions were always “don’t drink so much that you fight a mailbox” or “sober up every second Tuesday.” If I had resolved to “be an alcoholic” then I would have been a self-improvement winner. As it turns out, I sobered up because making bad life choices when fully self-aware is so much more enjoyable than when pickled. I’m not going to make any food-related resolutions this year. I accept that the women in my life must be chubby chasers, and whey would I deprive them of their preference? This past Christmas, I was slutty with baked goods. Have you ever seen the movie “The Fly,” about a guy who invents a teleporter, and then accidentally teleports himself and a fly, which splices their genes together? Over the recent holiday, I starred in “The Human Cookie.” In that movie, I invent a teleporter and I accidentally teleport myself and a Christmas cookie. But I am going to be less stupid this year, so I’m going to eat more fruit and vegetables and less corn syrup and meat gristle.

There are two types of people in the world. There are people who think there are two types of people in the world, and people who don’t think there are two types of people in the world. Then there’s me, self-absorbed, emotionally volatile, perma-confused me. I am a man who is resolving to be less stupid, which means accepting that I’m not as smart as I think I am. Which is a big deal, because I have a huge brain. A Galactus-sized brain. Who is Galactus? You should resolve to read more literature next year.

One of the problems with being young is you think you know so much. One of the problems with getting older is you think you know so much. I think I should be a role model for people in their 20s, because I’m in my late 30s and I’m still stupid but I’m drinking a nice cup of tea right now. The older I get, the less I know, and the surest way to be less stupid is to stop acting like I’m smarter than I am. Being less stupid means being vulnerable to wonder. It means accepting that you are who you love, so try not to love an espresso machine or your paycheck. Being less stupid is being smart enough to know you can fall off a map. Next year, I’m going to become smarter because I will know how little I know.

If you friend John on Facebook, an angel gets his wings. If you follow him on Twitter, an angel goes through puberty.

Mind Of Man: So Many Condoms, So Little Time



Somewhere, last night, a young man stood in his apartment wearing nothing but a condom. He stretched his arms out, closed his eyes, and whispered “if I wear it, they will come. THEN COME AND COME AGAIN.”

The condom was one of dozens he keeps strategically hidden throughout his apartment. He keeps a pile in his nightstand drawer, another pile in the bathroom, another 20 or so are tucked in between couch cushions, books on the bookshelf, and in the cupboard, hidden behind jars of peanut butter.

He considered, briefly, wearing a long string of connected condoms like a bandolier.

I mean, the odds are good that this actually happened. I am just guessing this actually happened, because it’s plausible. Because condom manufacturers don’t sell their products based on their ability to prevent sexually transmitted genital critters or a case of the babies. That would not be sexy. No. Visit your local drugstore’s condom aisle, like I did this past weekend, and gaze upon a wall of glittering boxes of sexual opportunity.

Before the trolls jump off their perch, I would like to go on the record saying that unless you’re in a committed relationship where both parties have been tested for STDs, I advise wearing a condom. But, of course, I would advise wearing a condom. I was in high school during the heat of the tragic, and oftentimes forgotten, AIDS epidemic, a terrible plague that condemned millions to a terrible fate. I watched a beloved mentor die of that disease during the years that it was a certain death sentence. So even before I became sexually active, I was severely aware that unprotected sex could have dire consequences.

But, being me, I took a reasonable amount of knowledge, and turned caution into a wild neurotic fear, like Superman crushing a lump of coal with so much force it becomes a diamond. While in college, sex without a condom was tantamount to swimming with piranha while wearing a bacon speedo. I conducted sexual health seminars during those years, and warned my peers that you could have sex with a condom … or you could have sex without a condom and have a threesome with the Grim Reaper.

Then I had sex without a condom. Condoms are dependable, but not infallible, birth control. They can prevent all kinds of annoying, chronic or potentially life-threatening plagues. But having sex with a condom is like eating a meal with a mouthful of trash bag.

I was at the drugstore late, because I’ve been suffering from insomnia. Sometimes I like to stroll down to the brightly lit, 24-hour drugstore in my neighborhood in Queens and pick up some basic essentials. As I was walking around with a bag of Funyuns and a spatula, I noticed the condom aisle. I have condoms at home. A pack of regular lubricated condoms in the blue box, which in the new world of latex penis cozies, is the same as a pair of boring old granny panties. In my sleepy haze, I was mesmerized by the variety of condoms. There were brands that promised to be thin and ultra thin and “bare skin.” The words “ecstasy” and “intense” and “sensations” were emblazoned across the boxes, as if pioneering rubber scientists had found a way to improve on God’s basic design for the vagina. Some of them were so lurid with their promises, that I sort of wanted to take some of the condoms out to dinner.

Some were ribbed, but for the woman whose pleasure hinges on a spiny phallus, ultra-ribbed. There were XL condoms for dudes with horse cocks and self-esteem issues. Of course, many of them had “spermicide,” and one brand advertised “fire and ice,” because sexy is getting nailed by either Jack Frost or the Human Torch.

I guess it’s weird for a grown man to be reading condom boxes at 2 a.m., certainly weirder than a young dude storming over to the condom aisle and without looking, grabbing a box of his favorite condoms. A slightly drunk dude with a goatee who looked at me, smirked, and held up his favorite kind of condom. Word of mouth is the most powerful form of marketing.

“These are the best, man,” he said with a stoner’s drawl.

I stared at him like he was the most boring ghost in the world.

He let out a naughty giggle and hustled to the cashier. Was he going to get laid? There are men who treat condoms like mini-totems. They are investments in the future. The amount of condoms you have is directly equal to the amount of pussy you will get.

If you have them, and sometimes, if you’re bored and horny, wear them, then the ladies will follow.

Funyuns are disgusting, by the way, especially when you eat the entire bag.

Mind Of Man: S**t I Say To Myself When I’m Alone
Written by: John DeVore



Can Men Be Alone?


“It’s not ‘talking to yourself’. It’s ‘engaging in a conversation with your needs.’” ”Hello internet porn, how are you today?” ”Where did I put that Slim Jim??”

“(random laughter for no reason)” ”We all die alone.” ”Please text me back please text me back.” ”I’m out of Captain Crunch. My life sucks.” ”I’m Batman.”

“Do I need milk to make macaroni and cheese? No, John, you don’t. Just use butter.”

“Uuhhhhhhhh.”

“AND I NEED YOU NOW TONIGHT / AND I NEED YOU MORE THAN EVER / AND IF YOU ONLY HOLD ME TIGHT / WE’LL BE HOLDING ON FOREVER / AND WE’LL ONLY BE MAKING IT RIGHT / CAUSE WE’LL NEVER BE WRONG…”

“I am a handsome, intelligent man and I deserve the best, including breadsticks.”

“ZZZZZZZZZ”

“John. Yes, John? You really need to clean if you’re ever going to have a hot chick over. Okay, John. How about tomorrow? Yeah, tomorrow. Good idea, John.”

The New York Times recently published a first-person essay/girl power pep talk/MFA creative non-fiction assignment that suggests that men don’t like to be alone. I am alone. I am fine with being alone. I am usually alone for at least a year, and sometimes longer, after a major breakup. In this opinion piece that is totally not superficial gender identity ping-pong, I learned that men cannot go three months without dating.

Which makes me feel like a circus freak, because I’ve currently been happily alone for over a year and it makes me wonder if I’ve passed some kind of expiration date. You know what else makes me feel like a freak? When single, women love to take up the whole bed. Just sprawl out. Single or not, I usually just sleep on one side of the bed. What the fuck is wrong with me?

The evidence the author offers is compelling though: she cites the promise of statistics and the author’s experience as a woman trapped in an alternate reality where Nora Ephron is worshipped as a living god. According to The New York Times, men are a dark army of toddler parasites constantly tugging their joint and wailing for a woman, any woman, to come take care of them. Women, on the other hand, totally do not have martyr-complexes.

How can I argue with The New York Times about social trends? That would be like arguing with Starbucks about modern adult contemporary soft rock or IKEA about minimalist furniture that is a snap to put together. You just can’t. I accept that when it comes to my gender identity, easy listening music that complements coffee, and tasteful bookshelves that require an engineering degree to assemble, I had best just accept that I am wrong.

If I thought I could win this argument, then I’d suggest that this whole “men have to be in relationships, while women half to behave like old world widows” is just old fashioned claptrap. No different from an ’80s stand-up comedian telling PMS jokes. It’s a notion from a different era when single or divorced men were expected to get back on the horse and express their God-given virility.

It was harder for a woman to do this, since a divorced or single woman of a certain age was regarded as, somehow, damaged goods. Why not enjoy, or tolerate, or celebrate, permanent singlehood when society is suspicious of you? Let’s look at the flipside of the shallow thesis I’m wrong about: it’s not men who can’t be alone, it’s that women are so defined by their relationships to their boyfriends and husbands that when they are not part of these relationships, they are nothing. They shouldn’t go back out and get involved with someone else right away, because a women needs time to … molt? Change her hair color?

This essay also says that women are happy being alone because they’re part-bird and love to nest. I’ve never understood the “nesting” concept. Don’t birds poop in their own nests? Sounds gross to me. I know as a single man, I call my bachelor pad a “bunker,” because that is where I am comfortable sitting in my boxers and eating Slim Jims. Maybe that’s why I’m single.

Mind Of Man: All That Jizz

this is a good one!!!

BY John DeVore




A recent essay about “facials” really got me thinking. Why is it that the act of ejaculating on a woman’s face is called a “facial”? Is semen an astringent? It seems to me that the act could be called something manlier, like “spackling,” or more … inviting? Women love cupcakes. Why not call the sex act “frosting”?

This essay was posted on Jezebel, and it was written by Hugo Schwyzer. The piece seeks to explain why men want to “jizz” on a woman’s face. Apparently, this sex act is highly controversial. Some women find it degrading, some find it liberating. Is it a way for men to mark their territories? Or is the act a symptom of the AIDs epidemic, when semen became a potentially lethal substance? Has porn popularized this climactic ritual? Does porn influence men, or is it a reflection of the evolving sexual desires of the day? (I’m going to answer this in a hot minute.)

I remember the old days when I’d put my penis in a hairy vagina and then come inside a condom. Today, it’s all anal sex, bald vaginas, and making it drizzle on her grill.

Hugo’s thesis is well-thought out and to be honest, I don’t really get it. But I agree with it! I also agree with every comment ever written by any woman on Jezebel’s site. Good night, trolls!

There are two reasons why modern men are obsessed with “facials.” But first: let’s agree that a facial and a finger-in-the-butt are related in one essential way — neither is fun if you haven’t really consented to it. It is just polite to ask for permission before zapping her in the eye with white pee or going butt spelunking.

I think it is important for women to understand that men are proud of their semen. It’s like our only super power. We can make our own confetti, and the process is highly, HIGHLY enjoyable. Can you blame us for wanting to paint with it? Yes, you can. You should also blame porn. I blame porn.

I have cranked it to porn for my entire adult life. Unlike younger men, I was there for the dawn of internet porn, which was a major event in Western Civilization. One day, I was shamefully buying expensive DVDs of porn at creepy adult video stores, the next day I was happily clicking through hundreds of clips of anything I could ever want for free. What I’m saying is, I know what it must have been like when the printing press was invented.

But I’m bored with porn. The stuff I like is in short supply. I enjoy the kind of porn that purports to be “amateur” or “homemade.” I am turned on by women getting off. Watching a chubbo or stringbean, tiny dancer or beSHEmoth get her cookie is brain-meltingly sexy and that is not me making a feminist statement. It is purely selfish. I am never going to build a bridge, or discover a planet, or invent bioluminescent luncheon meat. Giving a woman a seismic orgasm is an accomplishment I take immense pride in. I just like to work with my hands and tongue and penis.

Popular porn is a different matter. Popular porn isn’t “misogynistic.” In fact, when it comes to popular porn, women are just supporting actors.

That’s because most popular heterosexual porn has a mild bisexual subtext. I do believe that men copy what they see in porn. Instead of “monkey see, monkey do,” it’s “monkey see, monkey oh my my.” But I also think that modern porn inflames preexisting and deep-seated desires that many men can’t or are too terrified to articulate.

When it comes to facials, a woman’s face is just a backdrop. What plays in front of that backdrop is a repressed psychosexual melodrama. The facial act is sexy to some men not because it is degrading, but because it is taboo … to men. When a dude watches a porn with a facial, what he is watching is the male sexual response. He is turned on by the man’s pleasure and release. He is excited by watching an erect penis do its best “Old Faithful” impersonation. These pornos are not about the woman’s pleasure. They are not about the sticky bliss of fleshy union, because, let’s face it, if you’re not slick, slathered, and dripping with bodily fluids after sex, then you’re doing it wrong. They are about one man watching another man bust a nut.

In real life, a man who insists on “breaking the oblong pinata” all over his woman’s face is acting out a fantasy that doesn’t mean he’s gay. Or maybe it does! Most likely, it just means that he is turned on by other men’s junk. This, in a way, doesn’t make him any different than those two sorority girls at the bar he begged to make out. Then they did.

Meanwhile, there are a whole bunch of men, old-fashioned men like me, who happily settle for giving a woman a pearl necklace or just, you know, having sex with her.

Mind Of Man: We Broke Up Because Of Her Weird Fetish


BY: John DeVore



The breakup was amicable, and mutual in the sense that we were both slightly relieved it was over. Before we parted ways at the bar, she confessed that it bothered her that I always wanted to watch TV after we had sex. I said nothing and just nodded.

Why wouldn’t I want to watch TV after? It was on before and during. Maybe if she had told me that annoyed her, we would have jumpstarted a conversation we had failed to have. Because conversations about where the itch is and how to scratch it are utterly and completely necessary if you’re going to have a happy hump life with someone. Maybe if she had told me that, I would have responded, “Well, then, why do you have to have the TV on when we do it?”

I don’t even know if this fetish of hers is a nonnegotiable clause. I don’t know, because I never asked, because we never really talked. We just did. Like Yoda. There is only do, and we did, constantly, sometimes to Lifetime movies, sometimes to “Mad Men.” Learn from my mistake: communicating your sexual needs is not some kind of fruity, new age indulgence. If you don’t draw your partner a map to those spots that make you squirm, groan and drip, then your partner will be lost and wander off in the wrong direction.

At the very least, I could have compromised. Would it have been so bad if the TV that was playing had been a porno? The next time I’m with a woman who has a quirk, a kink, a thing she has to have in order to relax and have fun, I’m going to talk to her about it instead of just quietly wondering “WTF?” like some emotionally awkward manchild.

She had to have the television on whenever we vigorously exchanged bodily fluids. Every time. She had a TV in her bedroom and in her living room. When she would come over to my apartment, she would turn the TV on before turning into a naked attack monkey. Once, as we were making out on the couch, I reached over to the coffee table, grabbed the remote, and turned the TV off. She stopped kissing me, took her shirt off, and turned the TV back on.

The volume would be turned down, at least, because she loved talking dirty, which usually consisted of her asking me questions while we went at it. “Are you f**king me? Are you? Are you going to f**k me hard?”

The first time she talked like that, I had a fresh hickey on my shoulder, we were both drenched in sweat, and I started answering her, until I came to realize that her dirty talk was, mostly, rhetorical.

But it was the spectral glow of the television washing light and shadows over our bodies that was something she had to have in order to mint solid gold orgasms. I don’t even think she was aware of it. Maybe she liked the lighting? I have known women who either need total blackout darkness when getting their bang on and I have known women who need lamps, candles, and the midday sun pouring through a window. I don’t think all fetishes are conscious. But what do I know? I don’t have any fetishes, save for a vagina fetish. It’s not like I would stop making love to her to criticize the fact that every time we slept together, the idiot box was flickering. Every time we bizzoinked, it was like having a threesome with Big Brother.

Once, while I was slapping against her from behind, I was distracted by the Food Network. There was “The Barefoot Contessa” stirring a bowl of fudge or mousse and I immediately got hungry. Then she started licking the frosting or mousse off a spoon and I started pounding faster, which was weird. Another time, as she was grinding on top of me, I turned my head and saw James Carville. James Carville is a boner killer.

I would turn my back to the TV, but I could still feel the Sham Wow guy’s eyes drilling into the back of my head.

Mind Of Man: Valentine’s Day Is Not So Bad

BY: John DeVore


Valentine’s Day shouldn’t be about who loves you, but whom you love. It’s the one day out of the year when you should take account of those people in your life who make you gleefully vomit little candy hearts. Being loved back isn’t nearly as important in life as boldly, recklessly, sincerely loving someone regardless of any returns on investment. Making love, not taking it, is the primary occupation of the human condition, our core programming, whether we realize it or accept it or not. All other activities and pursuits are secondary.

Instead, Valentine’s Day feels like emotional extortion. To many men, it’s an inconvenience to dread, a relationship hoop set aflame which one must deftly prance through like an expertly trained poodle. And to other men, it’s a day of opportunity.

It is bro gospel that it’s easy to get laid on Valentine’s Day. The theory goes that vulnerable, single women are driven to bars and to consequence-free sex by the spectacle of other women parading their well-trained boyfriends around. These doe-eyed, spiritually broken boyfriends purchase flowers, hide little homemade “Good For One Snuggle!” coupons in purses, and pay for expensive dinners at places that heap pyramids of watercress on everything. The women publicly mooned over, being paid tribute to, graciously accept the offerings and slyly scan the horizon looking for the forlorn, envious gazes of women sans doting male counterpart. Society demands we trod in pairs, like animals on the ark! You are not valued unless you are paired! Ahhhhh!

This theory is, of course, hooey. New Year’s Eve is the holiday where it’s easiest to get laid, followed closely, in my humble opinion, by President’s Day. Ah, the crazy times I’ve had on President Day’s Eve, after we’ve all hung powdered wigs by the chimney, decorated the Lincoln log with little stovetop hats and bullets, and read aloud from “A President Day’s Carol.” The Ghost Of President Day’s Future sure is scary!

I used to think Valentine’s Day fell in the dead of winter because in our recent past, it was a survival tactic. I imagined that long, cold nights might breed cabin fever, and a ritual dedicated to springtime rites — flowers, bright colors, sex, sex, sex — might have saved the genders from killing each other. Then I just chalked the holiday up to a conspiracy perpetrated by the Greeting Card-Milk Chocolate Industrial Complex. An annual obligation between two people invented by an industry exploiting the ultimate insecurity — whether one is loved or not.

Ultimately I gave up and accepted it was the cost of doing business.

I was like any average dude in a relationship; around February 9th or 10th, I had a minor freak out about the impending date. I would first entertain delusions of grandeur: a hot air balloon ride with a string quartet! Champagne on the observation deck of the Empire State Building! A diamond necklace hidden inside a cupcake!

Then I would slowly downscale my romantic responsibilities until I forgot about Valentine’s Day entirely. Then, on February 13th, I’d freak out again, because I hadn’t made plans. This would be cleverly spun, however, because I’d know the lack of any plans or invitation coupled with my nonchalant behavior would convince whomever it was I was dating at the time that, OMG, I had forgotten Valentine’s Day! Ho, ho, ho, I hadn’t forgotten … completely.

Of course, I’d scramble to make a reservation somewhere affordable, and I’d invite her to my place first, where flowers and a card covered with twee sentiments would be waiting in ambush. The vast majority women of don’t want or demand big expensive gifts and baubles from men. You want to be surprised, which is to say you want physical proof that we were thinking about you when you were out of sight.

I don’t really believe women look at Valentine’s Day as a reapplication process for the position of “boyfriend,” nor do I believe that the bars are filled with the desperate looking to fill the empty space with really awkward, drunken boot-knocking. Nor do I believe men totally loathe the holiday: I know of a certain dude whose girlfriend is giving him a hilarious series of sexy photos of her posing with his comic books. Lucky bro. And the chick taking the photos is pretty awesome too, in that she’s been planning to surprise him for weeks and asked me my opinion on her gift. I don’t think I’ve ever had a girlfriend who surprised me on Valentine’s Day.

But being single this year, I’ve had to ask myself what Valentine’s Day is about. And in order to answer that, I have to go all hetero-gay, which as I’ve explained in this column, is a straight dude who is comfortable with fabulousness, emotional nuance, and the finer things in life. Man cannot live on beer, bacon, and babes alone.

And if you’re single, I just want you to know, this Valentine’s Day 2012, that I, John DeVore, love you. I’m taking this holiday back, and reinventing it as a day of gratitude towards anyone who has ever put up with my crap. Anyone who has ever told me it’s going to be okay, anyone who has ever allowed me the distinct honor of carrying their emotional burden for a moment while they took a breath, thank you. Thank you, people who have lit up my world. Valentine’s Day should be a day that celebrates the joys of loves past and present, and the joys of heartbreak. Joys of heartbreak? HUH? The pain of heartbreak is proof that at the very least, you’re alive and not a zombie. Numbness is a lame way to exist.

Happy Valentine’s Day, ladies. Hearts and x’s and o’s. Now, should I head to a bar with my bros, or stay home and play Xbox?

I know..he is hilarious!!

Mind Of Man: It’s So Hard To Say Goodbye

John DeVore



I think it was Shakespeare who wrote, “It’s so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.” Yup. I’m pretty sure he wrote that.

It is hard to say goodbye. I am not a fan of it. I try to avoid actually saying it if I can. But you can’t always avoid it. Which is why I like to think that “goodbye” is just “I love you,” played backwards on vinyl. Love and loss are two sides of the same toaster waffle. In this life, you’re either declaring one or tearfully saying the other.

But usually, I find ways not to say that word. I prefer to say “see you around,” then choke back man tears as I walk away (man tears taste exactly like Tobasco sauce). Most of the time, I don’t even say anything. I just sneak away without telling anyone.

Let me explain: I’m writing this on St.Patrick’s Day, the day we celebrate tacky cultural stereotypes. St. Patrick’s Day is to Irish heritage what Taco Bell is to authentic Mexican cuisine. It’s a wonder we don’t celebrate Columbus Day by dressing up like Super Mario and throwing meatballs at Native Americans. So it is with resigned self-awareness that I admit to being famous for my “Irish exits” at parties. There should really be a new term for when you leave a party without saying goodbye. I don’t even know what is stereotypically “Irish” about this: it seems like a totally reasonable thing to do when you don’t want to make a fuss. According to the laws of grotesque ethnic caricature, an “Irish exit” should be one where you get really drunk and use a shillelagh to smash your way out of the bar. No. This kind of personal evacuation should be named after Nightcrawler, the demonic X-men comic book character who can disappear in a puff of smoke.

Recently, I pulled off a “Nightcrawler exit.” I disappeared in a puff of smoke in New York and reappeared in Los Angeles, which is like New York sprawled out on a couch without pants. The sun in LA is like a giant, fiery pill of Paxil in the sky. It’s unnerving.

I dislike saying goodbye, even if it is an evitable fact of life. I know this. Everything ends, except, apparently, poopoo sitcoms like “Two and A Half Men.” This blog column, though, is ending. I thought I owed my editor and some readers who have contacted me something resembling a farewell.

I’ve written many, many words here, but if there’s one thing I’ve written that I believe in with all of my heart, it’s that you are not defined by the clothes you wear or who you listen to on Spotify. You are not your online dating profile or your anxieties or your political affiliations. You are not what you eat, what you buy, what you watch on TV. You are not a resume. You are not a credit score. You are not a demographic.

You are who you love. So love wisely.

You are defined by who you love, and how you lose that love. This is life in a very short sentence. Do yourself a favor and embrace it. You will have to say goodbye to all that you love, whether you like it or not. Wrinkles happen, children grow up, and to quote a famous philosopher, winter is coming.

You will lose everything one day and that is beautiful. Do you really think that life is about finding a status quo of physical and emotional contentment and then you live forever? No. Tell someone you love them right now. Wipe that smirk off your face and do it. If you don’t, then you’re just another meat billboard that some corporation will paint with their own artistic interpretation of who you are. Love is the only freedom any of us have. Right now, in most states in America, that freedom is denied its rightful expression to far too many.

I have said goodbye to family and friends, women I thought I would marry, and, now, a city I have spent 15 years living in, a city that has thrown a terrorist attack, three-layoffs, and one transit strike that left me hitchhiking in the snow at me. A city that was the home I returned to after the deaths of my father and my sister, the city that partied with me until dawn, then patiently watched over me while I took responsibility for my life and sobered up. A city populated with people who were my misfit foster family; artists and weirdoes and regular Joes and Janes who let me love them, and who returned the favor, much to my surprise.

Life is about loving and losing that love, and the only thing that separates “I love you” from “goodbye” is the timing.

It has been fun writing “Mind of Man.” I have been as honest with you as I could be. I have written about my insecurities, my penis, my hopes, and my penis. I have admitted my failings and shared with you my donut-stuffed underbelly. There have been times I regretted sending my post, for fear that I would regret what I’d written. But that never came to pass. I do not regret having written one word. The readers of The Frisky have disagreed with me, and called BS on my sweeping gender platitudes, but they have, mostly, been generous to an aging man trying to make sense of matters of the heart. Along the way, I have learned that gender is, largely, 1 percent biology, 99 percent a way to sell advertising. I like to even think that maybe, just maybe, I have a little feminist in me. Her name is Elphaba.

I’d like to thank the staff of The Frisky for all of their support and long, hilarious IM chats. But most of all, I’d like to thank my editor Amelia. I am proud to call her a colleague, and most of all, one of my dearest, most beloved friends. She’s the best editor a troll could ask for, and the kind of woman you want watching your back. [You will always be the Number One to my Picard, John. -- Editor]

My move to LA was sudden. It was for a job. I am learning how to drive, shoving tacos into my face, and missing my friends. But I also have friends here, albeit tanned. I am thinking about getting my testicles Botoxed.

Oh my god, this guy is great!

Hmm...very interesting!

I Luv it
Until Then; Naughty Thoughts Kisses Caressa

Thanks for sharing

Globally, boy babies are 25% more likely to die in infancy than girl babies.

Hmm...very interesting!

Interesting!

Best enjoy us men while we are still around then.

I love to enjoy you over and over again

I couldn't stay away from you for long.

Do you have any news on what John DeVore's current projects are? If he'll be posting new opinions?

AMEN SISTA

YES (-: I will check for u babe!

13 Food Terms That Should Never Be Used To Describe Men’s Bodies



1. Taco meat. Tacos and nudity do not mix.


2. Bologna Pony. Not gonna take a ride. Ever.

3. Chest lettuce. Some men have softer, silkier chest hair surrounding their taco meat. An entire dinner on his chest.

4. Meat clip. Hint: Pauly D. has one on his penis.

5. Chocolate pizza. Do I have to say what it means? I refuse. You’ll have to look it up. Know this: Pizza and chocolate will be forever ruined after you know.

6. Salami. The kind to be slapped, not eaten.

7. Man ranch. From the Hidden Valley of his loins straight to your salad.

8. Cornhole. The place where corn comes out. Undigested.

9. Jelly rolls. There must be a better way to refer to a dude’s fat rolls.

10. Snacks. Specifically referring to the lint in a man’s bellybutton. Kill me. NOW.

11. Yam bags. I used to like yams.

12. Ruby starfruit. Otherwise known as a glistening, young anus.

13. Foloffle. It sounds like a vegetarian pita sandwich, but it’s something you do to a man’s tits.

The Top 10 Lies Men Tell Women
The Frisky

1. “I don’t have a girlfriend/wife.” Oh, yeah? Well, you sure look like you do.

2. “I’m not drunk.” Dude, we can smell the PBRs on your breath from here. Give us a break. ‘Fess up to your booze fest.

3. “I’m not looking for a relationship right now.” Translation: “I’m not looking for a relationship with YOU right now.” That’s OK. We’re on to the next one.

4. “I don’t want to talk about it.” If the most common lie women tell is, “I’m fine,” the male version is, “I don’t want to talk about it.” Yes, you do. In fact, you already are.

5. “I’m not interested in you just for the sex.” Gotcha. We should probably do stuff other than, you know, have sex. If that’s the case.

6. “I always wear a condom.” Also, Santa Claus is real. And I’m dating the Easter Bunny. And Thomas Jefferson is my BFF.

7. “I’m leaving her for you.” Quit talking about it and do it already.

8. “I’ll call you.” O RLY?

9. “I don’t think she’s that pretty.” We love it when you lie like this. Tell this lie all the time. This lie is good.

10. “I don’t watch porn.” No way! Me neither! Porn is terrible! Vomiting noises.

Not into fetish parties huh?

hehe you want to take me to the dark side

This is brilliant! I'm obsessed with this guy's writing now.

He is pretty articulate too sometimes lol

5 Types Of Flirting Men Love



1.) Just say hi. If you don't consider yourself a learned scholar in the school of flirting, no worries. One universal among all men surveyed was how much they love it when a woman takes control and makes the first move. "Just come over and say hi," says Adam. "I really don't need a lot. Smiling works wonders... I don't see how you can go wrong with that tactic, just as long as you open with something friendly and funny."

2.) Don't insult, but tease please. "I love it when a girl rips on me," says Nick. "Be playful, entertaining. You want to keep things upbeat." In other words, no need to impress the tall, dark handsome guy in the corner with your impressive knowledge of Nietzsche (save it for the first date); instead gently poke fun and laugh. Don't act like a ditz, but tease. Men bond with each other this way, so trust us, his feelings won't get hurt.

3.) Listen when they talk. After you've said hello and shared a laugh, engage him in a conversation and listen to what he says. "I hate it when I talk to a girl and I feel like she isn't really listening to anything I say," Brian says. "Almost like she's just pausing and waiting to talk again." A good rule is to ask as many questions as you answer. While you won't earn points intellectually running someone down, trumping your own IQ at the expense of someone else's for instance, it wouldn't hurt to offer some open-minded insight. "I love it when a woman has something interesting to say," Bert says.

4.) Ask about their workout regime. After you've poked fun at his girly drink and listened to his take on the oil spill, give him the eye and ask, "What's your workout regime? You look great." While most men don't spend hours in front of the mirror beating themselves up because they don't look like David Beckham, when it comes to his body, flattery will get you everywhere. "I know I'm not the best-looking dude," says Ivan. "But if a girl compliments my arms or says it looks like I take care of myself, or anything really, then I know it's working for her, and that's all that matters."

5.) Touch them. If you haven't already, lightly touch his arm, leg or the small of his back. But don't (we repeat don't) be too forceful. "I can't stand it when a girl is too aggressive physically," says Brian. "Too much has been made of all guys being horn dogs, so girls get the impression the sluttier they act the better. So not true." In the same vain as smile or hello form afar, a little light pawing is all you need to let him know you're interested, ladies.

I'm wired different as a guy I guess
I'm very much a sapiosexual - sexually attracted to intelligent women
and thus I'm a talker, or I ask a lot of questions that seem intrusive or very much off the wall.

Just how I'm wired...and at this point I want to add a thank you to
Tamela Lee
Jayla Conrad
Bailey Monroe
Alexis Fire
Alicia Famous
Sunset Thomas

because and intelligent women can carry a conversation to heights never seen before.

One of the many reasons why we all love you

Long before Facebook, cell phones, Twitter and such I recall people used to actually talk

Tons of love in return

I've conversed with several of these ladies and would fully agree, especially Baily. Tam and I have never really had a serious conversation but my impression of her is that she's a sharp cookie.

Tamela has a great sense of humor and I've always seen that as a sign of high intelligence.

Having said all that, if you're into intelligent conversation, you need to seek out Malika Elizabeth. Talk about fun to talk to, last visit she had me laughing so hard she nearly killed me. A real good hang as the kids say these days !

Anyone who gets into a battle of wits with Malika is poorly outgunned lol !!

Great tips!

Lol I almost dont remember those times