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DISCLAIMER: This site contains material of an adult nature, and should not be viewed by anyone that is likely to complain, because I probably don't want to hear it, and if you catch me on a bad day there is a good chance you'll be crying into your pillow later that same day. Also, I like run-on sentences.
The amazing, prognosticating, sexually devastating MIGHTY CHIMPUAT...
January 3, 2015
When I was young, time seemed to take forever. It took forever to get to age 16, so I could get a driver's license and learn that I really don't like driving. It took forever to get from there to age 18, so I could visit adult book stores and satisfy my pre-internet porn cravings. It took another forever to get to age 21, so I could legally consume alcohol and learn that I love my brain too much to consume alcohol to any degree.
It all took forever. Or seemed to.
Past the age of 21, those milestone ages sort of fall off a cliff. Maybe that's why time speeds up for me at that point in the storied history of the mighty Chimpuat. There was no longer anything to aim for, no longer a finish line. It was like hitting the level cap in a video game, and there's no end-game content to speak of, so you just stand around dancing in front of the newbies so they can admire your awesomeness.
Oh, I guess you could look forward to lower insurance rates at age 25, and as a man you can look forward to frequent finger-banging visits to your doctor starting in your 40s to check for prostate cancer. What's left beyond that? Your senior citizen discount in your 50s and 60s? How depressing!
So here I am, at the wizened age of 45, and I'm watching another year do the walk of shame out the back door of my life.
As years go, 2014 wasn't so bad. I made some progress as far as figuring out what's next for me, I had some good times with my daughter, I accomplished a few things. I made it to Gen-Con, and Awesome Con. I bought a new car. I got my house pained. I met someone who shouldn't even exist. So yeah, it was a good year I think.
But a Chimpuat is nothing, if not a seer of the future. After all, mastery of the art of Tung Fu requires a type of mental and metaphysical discipline whose side effect is the ability to transcend space and time. It is only natural that I would be able to predict what is to come.
Always in motion, is the future. Or, so says Yoda. But, I think my predictions are spot-on, and we'll reconvene this time next year and review my success (for failure is not an option). Admittedly,
all most of these are entirely Chimp-o-centric, so there is a CHANCE that I could unfairly influence the outcome. But, since I pay the hosting bill and it's my face on this site, I'm allowed to stack the deck in my favor.
1. Chimpuat will get a new TV in 2015
After consulting the various oracles and sources of ancient knowledge at my disposal, I can say with almost 60% certainty that the new year will see the replacement of my beloved Winona.
What? You don't name your electronics? That's your issue, not mine. Besides, I didn't give her that name, that's the name she had when I adopted her.
|She's not fat, she's big-boned.
I do love Winona, she's been very good to me. She was born in 2006 to simple folk in some Mitsubishi factory somewhere, and purchased by my friend DarkFury. After some time, she was sold by him to my friend Ironape. When Ironape got divorced, rather than let Winona fall into the hands of the dark side, he brought her to me, Luke and Leia style. That was about 4 years ago, now that I think about it. Where has the time gone?
Although she's a sweet old girl, she's showing her age. She doesn't do true 1080p, preferring to up-convert a 1080i signal. She's quirky that way. Despite that she has been well cared for, she has a few scratches and blemishes on her screen. She's had her light box replaced twice. She's still beautiful. She's still my girl. I just think it's time to take her for the television equivalent of a ride to the country.
I want her to run with the other televisions, wild and free as was intended. Maybe she'll meet a nice guy, settle down, and have kids. Really, I'm holding her back by holding on to her. Fly, Winona. Be Free.
She is 62 diagonal inches of wonderful, so whoever replaces her has some big shoes to fill. Quite literally, as it seems.
I've had my eye on this sweet little 75" beauty, but because I'm a planner, I will exhaustively research things until I have determined the BEST possible set, for me, for the money.
I will miss her. I will miss the good times we had. When the Star Wars movies FINALLY came out on blu-ray in 2011, it was Winona who was there to show them to me in all (most of) their glory. She was there when I figured out you could watch YouPorn through the Xbox One web browser, and you haven't lived until you've seen free porn on the big screen. Winona never faltered. She never gave up on me. She never judged.
I will miss her.
|Remember to pour out some of your 40oz for the homies that didn't make it
2. The super, top-secret, forbidden prediction
I had several paragraphs written here, but my head's not in a good place right now, so I deleted it. Suffice it to say that I haven't given up on the prediction, I just don't feel like talking about it. Some of the ideas and concepts that I touched upon in the now-missing paragraphs will probably be revisited at a later date, though.
I saved a copy of the original post, with the prediction intact. If it should somehow come to pass over the next 12 months, I will let you know.
3. Chimpuat will do a LOT of writing in 2015
Being a one-man show here is difficult. I have a full-time job, I'm a single dad who's super involved in his kid's life and thrives on the 50% of her time that I'm allowed to participate in, and I still have to find time to be a lazy, videogame playing whore. Throw in a growing desire for a social life of sorts, and you have a recipe that is entirely NOT conducive to writing very much.
I can churn out a post a week, generally. Maybe. If I didn't
waste spend so much time on the stupid pictures, maybe I'd do more, but I have fun doing that, and what's the point of me being here if I'm not having fun?
But, I realized something, while taking stock of my comfort zone recently. I am not without ambition. It's just that my ambitions lie in a different direction than the one people expect me to go.
I wrote the first couple of pages last week, for a book I've been wanting to write for a very long time. It's based on the universe of characters and craziness that I created with my daughter. It's geared toward kids her age, old enough to handle mature themes, but young enough to appreciate humor, imagination, creativity, and adventure. As my primary audience, she is uniquely qualified to judge my work. The first few pages met with an enthusiastic reception, so I think I'm going the right way.
Am I going to get rich? I don't know. Maybe? I'm certainly as good as anyone who's achieved some measure of success in the literary world of late. I think I have a better grasp of my audience than a lot of writers. Hell, I'm not far removed from being a big goofy kid my damn self.
I've been trying to explain to my daughter that people like us were blessed with imaginations that can create things which could outlive our natural lives many times over. She wants to be a YouTube video sensation, so we often talk about "finding your voice", and focusing on what makes you different, what makes you stand out from the crowd of other voices out there.
Writing here is practice for writing out there. I gave myself until the end of 2016 to finish up and be doing SOMETHING with the end result. But, I expect a lot of it to get complete this coming year. Part of my plan to kick 2015's ass involves writing, a lot of writing, and the world is going to shit its collective pants when it sees what I can do.
4. Chimpuat will post his first (possibly last?) Chimptopia video in 2015
As I mentioned, my daughter wants to be YouTuber, which means I've had to learn a lot about video production, and I've been working to assemble the equipment necessary to meet her goals. I think we pretty much have everything in place, now it's just a matter of finding the time (amongst all my other time-sucking pursuits) to get started on it.
I have some ideas for doing a video of some kind, I'm not sure if I have the time or patience to maintain a channel, but if I end up having fun doing it, who knows?
5. Chimpuat will meet Princess Leia in 2015
I threw this one in, because I'm always in Star Wars mode. Carrie Fisher is going to be at the Indiana Comic-Con in March, and I plan on going, so my chances of nailing this prediction are VERY good. Everyone needs at least one 'gimme' in their list of predictions, right?
6. Chimpuat will claim "#1 Dad" title again in 2015
Almost every year for Christmas, my daughter gives me some present that extolls my awesomeness as a father. I make this shit look easy, but it's far from it. Most people won't understand that. You love your kid, so being a good parent should just happen, right?
Like any relationship, you get out what you put in. If you phone it in, sure, you can coast for the first part of their lives. But as they get older, and they realize you're only half-assing it, how do you suppose that makes them feel about you as a parent? How do you suppose that makes them feel about themselves?
Kids know when they're not first in your life. You send that message for long enough, it starts to really fuck with their heads, and you end up with a society full of people who can't relate to one another, who can't care about one another, because they've convinced themselves no one ever really gave a shit about them anyway.
So what's the secret? What is the Mighty Chimpuat Recipe for Successful Parenting?
Give up. Show up. Stand up.
What's that mean? Can't be as simple as just 3 fucking things, can it? What the fuck?!?
Give up all the things in your life that get in the way of being there for your children. My upward mobility stopped at work, because I found a job that afforded me enough happiness and money to be content, while giving me a TON of free time to be a part of my daughter's life.
If I wanted to make more money, I could go to college and get a great degree, but that would suck up my nights and weekends with classes and studying. I could get a new job that required me to adjust my life around my work schedule, but I like things the other way around. I could spend all of my energy climbing some bullshit ladder, or I could spend my energy thinking of my daughter.
From the moment I looked into that kid's eyes, I promised I'd be the best parent I could be. Even when I was working 2 jobs to keep my shit somewhat together, even when the rest of my world was falling apart, I never once let that get in the way of my relationship with her.
See, you gotta show up in your kid's life. You have to meet them in their world, until they feel comfortable in yours. That means you do things you might not otherwise want to do. It means sometimes that you have to spend time in places you would rather not be.
Every day she is with me, we play together with her toys. Every day we are together, we're telling stories, we're talking, we're laughing and making crazy shit up. Every day, I show up in her world.
When she has soccer practice, I'm not the parent that kicks their kid out of the car and drives away. I sit there and watch. I hate sports. I hate sitting in a field, sweating my balls off, or getting rained on, or being cold, or being devoured by bugs. But, I love her, so I'll do whatever it takes to just fucking show up. Kids, they notice that, you know. They know when you're there, and they notice when you're not there. Being there sends a message. So does NOT being there.
Showing up goes hand in hand with giving up. If you can't give up your selfish ways, and show up when your kids need you, you might still pull off parenting, but you won't get the same experience out of it that I am.
And standing up? That means that your kid knows, in their heart, in their soul, in every fiber of their being that you are the person in this world that will always, every time, have their back. You acomplish that by doing the first 2.
I'm 45, and my parents love me, and I know that always, every time, they will stand behind me, beside me, or wherever I need them to be. Your kids need you to be a source of stability, reliability. In their world where things don't always make sense, you have to be the one thing that always does.
Sermon over. But, as you can see, I'm passionate about parenting, so I feel like I have this prediction nailed, as well.
7. The world outside of Chimptopia will continue to suck in 2015
I read the news. I'm aware of current events. The world outside these walls is pretty fucked up. To be honest, I think things get worse, long before they start to get better. I hope 2015 isn't the year that things get worse. I'd hate for all my plans for world domination to get screwed up by changing the face of the world I was hoping to dominate. That's some real Lucy Van Pelt moving the football bullshit right there.
How is boobs a prediction?
I don't know. I just like boobs.
I meant to post something a few days ago, but life got in the way. Going through this Cool Hand Luke phase right now where I'm trying to get my mind right, trying to get my dirt out of the boss' trench, and all that kinda shit.
I'll be okay, sometimes despite all the awesome that I possess, life can knock me off balance. It can't bring me down, but it can stagger me a bit. I'll shake it off, and be back to normal in no time. Well, as normal as I get, at least.
Those dancing boobs are going to be haunting my dreams tonight, I promise you that.
Anyway, that's it for now. I don't know what or when I'll write next, but it'll probably be either stupid or deep, or both. Or neither. That's the beauty of this site, it's just the 4 of us, hanging out and listening to the idiot in the group (me) talk out his ass.
Until next time, have a good night, watch the "Land of the Lost" movie a half dozen times or so to get you out of your foul mood, and I will see you later.
The Fifth Element...
January 6, 2015
Besides being one of my favorite movies, the Fifth Element has one of my all time favorite quotes. Korben Dallas is on the phone with Finger, who chastises him for still pining after the 2 timing slut that left him. Finger says, "There's a million women out there", to which Korben replies:
"I don't want a million women. I just want one."
I guess I just understand this sentiment on a level that a lot of men (and some women) probably don't.
There ARE a million women out there. There's no reason why I should spend my time alone. I'm scary smart, I'm funny, I'm a reasonably good person most of the time. I'm not morbidly obese, I have nice teeth, a modicum of financial security, and the sexual ninja skillz of a far east master. I'm easy to talk to, a competent listener, imaginative, creative, talented, caring, and a kick ass parent.
So, why am I alone?
Because I just want one. I can't settle. I'm too picky. I've established what I'm looking for in another person, and I'm incapable of compromising. I'd honestly rather be alone than be with someone who doesn't fit the profile I've created in my mind.
I didn't mean to write this tonight. I have an actual prepared post that will go out tomorrow, but I was just sitting here and that stupid line from that movie kept running through my head.
I think I'd be lying if I claimed that my past relationships didn't damage me. There's some real concern on my part that I may not even be capable of love, or a healthy relationship, at all. I'm not even sure I know what one looks like. I certainly don't know what one feels like.
I don't put all this here because I'm sad or melancholy at all. I'm generally a pretty happy person, but these thoughts matter, they DO occur to me, and if it's something I'm dealing with, then it's probably something one of my 3 visitors is also dealing with.
I know it's bullshit, the whole "the one" thing with finding the person you're supposed to be with. We probably encounter dozens of people in our lifetimes who would fit that description. I didn't always understand that, I used to spend WAY too much time and energy looking for "the one", when the reality was that I wasn't equipped to handle her even if I found her.
So, I'm not looking for THE one, I'm just looking for A one. Not a million girls. I just want one.
If I never find someone? If it turns out that I have to spend the rest of my life alone, then I guess that's what the plan for me must be. I don't really think that's the case, but I'm not going to worry about it.
It probably makes no sense to put these thoughts out there in the universe. I could just as easily have put them in my private journal. But, if there's even ONE person who may one day stumble across my words and make some sense out of it, if it causes just ONE person to be okay with their life and the decisions they've made, then it wasn't a waste of time.
Besides which, I pay the bills here, I can pretty much put anything I want on here. I can literally say anything I want.
That's ridiculous, right? Why would I do that? Because I can.
Maybe the other reason I like Fifth Element is because the girl in it is strong. She's someone that can take care of herself, she doesn't need to be saved or protected. Every relationship I ever had, I felt like I had to adopt that role. I've never been with anyone who could take care of me. I've never been with anyone who could make ME feel safe, or protected. I've never been with anyone who I felt like I could just RELAX with, and not have to be in control.
So, maybe I'm looking for my own "supreme being". My own Leeloo. So sure, why wouldn't I make an already impossible mission that much more unlikely to succeed.
I'm a fucking idiot.
Should I have taken the blue pill?
January 7, 2015
It's hard for me to grasp that the original Matrix movie came out in 1999. That seems like, well not just a lifetime ago, but damn near TWO lifetimes ago. It pre-dates my failed marriage, and the subsequent regeneration I've undergone in the past 4 years.
I'm basically the Dr. Who of primates, when you get right down to it, constantly reinventing myself, continually being reborn after learning painful lesson after painful lesson.
I could grab the low-hanging fruit and make a comment about never quite finding the right companion, but I'm better than that.
Except that I just did it, didn't I? Fuck.
If you don't watch Dr. Who, by the way, you're missing out. If you only watch ONE episode of this show, just on a lark, just to give it a shot, watch the episode called "Blink". It'll make a believer out of you.
So, okay, where was I? The Matrix? Ah, yes.
Well, as it turns out, my thoughts are on the Matrix, because of the pill choice scene. As the story goes, you take the red pill, and you see reality, and the dream is removed from in front of your eyes. You take the blue pill, you get to stay in Wonderland.
Somewhere along the way, I don't remember when (probably before this movie came out), I think I took the red pill. What made me think of this was some random thing I said on Twitter the other day (if you're not following me, you suck).
I was thinking that 'foolish optimism' was sort of a redundant thing to say, as there can really be no other form of optimism. I prefer to believe in realism, which essentially means that Murphy's Law is the norm, not the exception, and whatever great plan you have is almost certainly bound to be fucked up by the universe at large. I even went so far as to say that pessimism is simply realism taken to its logical conclusion.
On the surface, this seems to be a pretty bleak outlook, and I will grant you that at times...yeah, it's pretty fucked up. Living in reality isn't for the faint of heart. That isn't to say that reality doesn't have good things in it, though. It's just that the good things aren't as easy to find and enjoy as the optimists would have you believe.
You would think that being a realist means never being happy, but you'd be wrong. I'm surprisingly happy. I didn't do anything to earn or deserve this happiness, I just attempted to live a life that would have happiness as a by-product of the decisions I made.
That means I did without some things. That means I made some difficult choices. That means I took inventory of my life, was honest about what I wanted to achieve, and took steps to make that happen.
The realist in me knows that happiness is never guaranteed. Being happy today doesn't mean tomorrow will be the same. You start taking happiness for granted, you're bound to lose it. You certainly risk losing the ability to appreciate it.
Once upon a time, I was the Chimpuat that would shit on your dreams if you were an unhappy person. Clearly, thought the old I, it's your own damn vault.
|"That's a bitch slap of truth."
I have since learned that being happy isn't easy. If it was, everyone would be happy, right? Duh. Brilliant fucking deduction, MENSA candidate.
Being happy is hard work, and it never ends. You stop, even for a minute, and you run the risk of derailing the train. And, sadly, sometimes you put the work in, you do everything right, and something else in the world gets in the way. Sometimes it's someONE else.
The bitch about taking the red pill, about living in reality AS a realist, is you become acutely aware that happiness comes in fragments, in stolen moments and memories seared into your subconscious.
Happiness is hearing your kid laughing her ass off at something stupid or ridiculous you did or said, and months later she's still talking about it. Happiness is finding a good parking spot, or finding out a meeting you didn't want to attend got cancelled. Happiness is meeting someone who makes you feel okay to be yourself. Happiness is not always having to be the strong one.
If I was happy ALL the fucking time, I'd seriously begin to suspect that I had, in fact, taken the blue pill after all. If I didn't know about all the dark parts of life in this world, maybe it would be pretty easy to be happy. If I was completely unaware that some people NEVER get to be happy, then I could live my happy life without concerns at all.
The truth is, reality IS bleak. Realism is unforgiving. Shit breaks. People become broken. Dreams crumble. Hopes go up in smoke. Plans change.
So, now that I think about it, maybe I'm guilty after all of indulging in a little foolish optimism. Because, I do believe things get better with time. I do believe that eventually things work out. I do believe that temporary set backs are just that, temporary. I have a lifetime of anecdotal experience to back that belief up.
I don't think I would have survived life if I had taken the blue pill. Life inside the matrix just isn't for me. I prefer reality, with all of its risks, and many rewards. I was happy today. I don't know what tomorrow holds.
The first winter storm of 2015, and the forecast kept calling for "4 to 7 inches", and the infantile, perverse child in me just could not stop giggling at the thought that "4 to 7 inches" isn't a weather forecast, it's the expectation level setting exercise I should be doing with girls who want to have sex with me (if such girls existed).
This, of course, got me thinking about average penis size (because isn't that what all men inevitably think about?), and I ran across some interesting information on Medical Daily:
...a 2013 study published in the Journal of Sexual Medicine found the average American man’s penis is 5.6 inches (14.2 centimeters) long when erect and 4.8 inches in circumference.
Since I know the majority of my 3 readers are male, I will pause now while you go grab a tape measure to see where you land on the Cock Scale.
I am the first to admit that I am in no way prepared to write checks my dick can't cash, so I'm just going to be honest and let this song say it for me.
Less than a week into the new year, and I think it's going well, all things considered. I've added some new Star Wars toys to my collection (because apparently I've given up on EVER having sex again), and I'm now one pointless/obscure bounty hunter away from recreating the scene in Empire Strikes Back. That's right Dengar, I'm looking at you, ya bandage-headed asshole.
All of the other bounty hunters in that scene are pretty kick ass, but I saved him for last because I really don't want him, it's just that the completionist in me can't NOT get him.
I also ordered the Sideshow Collectible's version of the prequel battle droids, to see if they're REALLY worth the price premium over the 'normal' one I already have. See, I waste money on pointless shit, so YOU don't have to. You all owe me a debt of immense gratitude.
This week saw the purchase of my very first paper shredder, too. I have thoroughly enjoyed feeding shit into it, and waiting for it to choke to death. So far, it hasn't, and I'm having way too much fun putting stuff in it. It's no substitute for all the sex I'm not having, but be damned if it still isn't a pretty sweet way to spend a Friday evening.
So, yeah, 2015 is coming along quite nicely at Casa Chimpuat, which inevitably means something will probably break. Realism...it sucks.
Anyway, until next time, have a good night, don't get caught measuring your junk, don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to, and DON'T get them wet or feed them after midnight.
Feels like the first time...
January 14, 2015
If you stop to think about it, everything we've ever done, everything we'll ever do, it all has a first time. Chances are, there are VERY few things we were good at that first time, too. Truth be told, we probably sucked the first time we did almost anything.
First time I walked? I don't remember it, but I'm sure the struggle was real. First time riding a bike, first time driving a car, first time writing in cursive, first time doing Geometry, first time building a website, and of course...all of our sexual firsts.
Even the mighty Chimpuat, ancient and timeless though I am, had to have had a first time, a sexual origin story as it were, worthy of the greatest of superheroes.
|Oddly enough, if I was a male stripper, "The Hammer" would be my stage name.
Once upon a time, I lived in the past, and I pined for it. I obsessed over going back somehow and fixing all the things I had fucked up. I clung to the very idea that the answers to the future must lie in the past. I practiced fruitless psychological archaelogy for many years, before I realized the awful truth.
The past belongs in the past. The future belongs to the future.
That doesn't mean we should forget the past. Oh, to be sure, there are things I'd LIKE to forget. Similarly, there are things I've forgotten that I wish I remembered better. The problem with an overactive imagination, and I think a lot of writers suffer from this, is that sometimes you rewrite memories to be what you WANTED them to be. Edited memories make better stories.
That's why you can never QUITE tell when I'm telling the truth, or completely full of shit.
For example, if I said "I once fucked a pregnant girl back in the 90s that I met on AOL, and I have no idea what her name was, or if I even enjoyed it", it is incumbent upon you, the reader, to determine if that is truth or fabrication, or somewhere in between.
But, as usual, I digress.
This is about firsts. And, since one of only two things I brag about (the other being my intelligence) is sex-related, we must dig deep into the dark recesses of Chimpuat history, to bring you the story of a young man's first experience as a white-belt Tung Fu padawan.
I started collecting research on female anatomy when I was in elementary school. Yeah, I was "that" kid. A brain like mine abhors a vacuum, and there were CLEARLY things about the female body that were being kept from me by the parental establishment (aka, the ministry of DISinformation).
While I appreciated seeing the female form in all its naked glory (still do, send those cards and letters showing me your boobies to firstname.lastname@example.org), it was the written portions of those magazines which fueled my insatiable desire for knowledge the most. Letters to Penthouse were absolute treasure troves of useful, descriptive information. It didn't matter if they were fake, they put into context the images I had seen.
Looking back, it was much like getting your first driver's license. There was a classroom portion, an information download if you will, full of facts and rules you had to memorize in order to pass a written exam. But, it was the driving, being able to show that you had mastered the skills necessary to APPLY the information, that ultimately won you the prize.
When I took driver's ed, I got an A in the classroom portion, and a D in the driving. I was not about to let my license to please women be similarly encumbered.
As with any educational pursuit, sometimes you need a tutor. I met my tutor when I was 17, a lesbian co-worker named Ginger, who filled in the gaps in my informal book learning, with real world anecdotes. She even used her own body (or rather, allowed ME to use it) to accomodate myself with the various parts that I would be working with in the field. We never had sex, and she never touched me (she offered, but I was there to learn, not to make a mess).
There was a girl I liked, and I wanted to unleash my years of training and study on her, to give her the gift of my PHd in the art of pleasuring women, because I (incorrectly, foolishly, stupidly) thought that simply KNOWING how things work would somehow translate into being able to claim immediate mastery upon my first real effort.
Ginger, my personal Mr. Miyagi of punani, warned me that knowing and doing were vastly different, and that in the heat of battle, many a soldier had forgotten their training. But, I was arrogant. Stubborn. Brash. Like Luke Skywalker rushing off wholly unprepared to face Darth Vader, I ignored my sensei and flew off to Cloud City. Or something.
The problem with being 17 in the 1980s in a small, boring town, is you REALLY didn't have many places you could go for some alone time with your favorite gal. It helped that I had a car, but it was a '78 Camaro, theoretically great for GETTING girls (if anyone other than me were driving one), but horrible for trying to find room to GET IN girls, if you know what I mean. It was completely impossible for me to get into a position which would allow me to show off my oral prowess.
On the bright side, at least, the intended girl was completely down with my plan and ready to see what I was capable of. It wasn't until much later in life that crushing rejection would rear its ugly head, but that's a story for another day (and maybe therapy).
We ended up on the edge of town in a new development construction area, lying in a dirt field that would one day be someone's back yard, on top of a blanket. It was summer, so the temperature was perfect, the sky was clear, the conditions were perfect to make my mark on history.
Now, in the 1980s, in a small town, in Indiana, it was...common...for a girl's pubic area to be...hirsute? Hairy as fuck? Scary like kissing the face of bigfoot?
Ginger had been ahead of her time, she kept hers neatly trimmed to a bare minimum, just this side of shaved, and I (incorrectly, stupidly, foolishly) assumed that this was their natural state. I was genetically blessed with very little body hair, so I never considered that other people were different from me. The girls in the magazines were all similarly shorn, so as to maximize the visceral appeal of their nether regions.
It just never occured to me that I might encounter, right out of the gate, the hairiest pussy known to man.
You know when someone's cat comes up to you and starts rubbing up against your leg and getting all inappropriate, and you don't know whether to pet it or kick it? It was that level of confusion.
She got naked from the waist down, and all of the sudden, I'm having flashbacks to the episodes of "The 6 Million Dollar Man" that used to scare the shit out of me when I was a kid (the bigfoot episodes, I always had an unnatural fear of bigfoot).
But, with Ginger's voice still ringing in my ear, "Remember your training, soldier!"...or was it, "If done correct, no can defend"?...anyway, I wasn't about to let this opportunity pass because of some childhood fears and unexpected complications.
You know that one Bigfoot-esque creature down south they call the Skunk Ape, because of the smell when it's allegedly nearby?
I think you know where I'm going.
The closer I got to my destination, the more I realized I was COMPLETELY unprepared for what was about to transpire. I mean, it wasn't her fault, it was normal in the 80s, it's just that all my training had been in a totally different environment. It's like learning to drive on an automatic transmission, and the day of the test you find out all they have available is manual.
For the record, I learned to drive on a manual, took my driving TEST on a manual, and aced that bitch.
Like a great explorer in the Peruvian jungle, I hacked and slashed my way through the thick undergrowth until I had reached my destination. Here I was, at the doorway to the garden of Heaven, one extended tongue away from finally putting to use all the study and training I had committed myself to for the previous 7 years. This was go time.
I ran my tongue from the bottom, to the top, slowly, pushing my tongue inside, savoring the sensation of her opening up to my probing mouth.
Now, had I not been incorrect, stupid, or foolish up to this point, I may have CONSIDERED the possibility that not only where there is smoke, there is fire, but where there is smell, there is taste. Ginger had never told me about the taste. We had never got to that lesson. I had just Luke Skywalker FUCKED myself into facing Vader before I was ready, and now I was about to pay the price.
The taste was horrifying.
I have never had a very well developed palate for refined taste, preferring the dietary habits of a 7 yr old rather than the mature food preferences of a normal adult. I literally eat the same thing every single day, and I'm happy with that, and I was hardly any different at 17 than I am today (just a bit skinnier).
One of the things I knew I hated PASSIONATELY was anchovies, because I worked in a pizza place, and the smell of those things cooking in the ovens behind me would almost literally gag me to tears.
I do not mean to imply that women taste, or smell, like fish. I am merely saying that at the age of 17, faced with a new sensory input and forced to put it into the perspective of my existing database of tastes and smells, THAT is what it reminded me of.
That owl in the sucker commercial got in more licks than I did, because I aborted the mission. I made some excuse that it was getting late, or I thought I heard a car coming, so we got her dressed and I took her home. I was crushed.
Worse still, I couldn't get the taste out of my mouth.
Now, since that time, experience and expertise have taught me that nearly all women taste and smell beautiful and desirable, and there is nothing at all gross or off-putting about that area, unless it's someone who has REALLY just let things go to hell, in which case I would never be in a situation to be down there in the first place. If we are at a point where I'm about to go down on you, I have deemed it an acceptable risk that you will smell and taste as delightful as I can possibly imagine, and I have never been let down in that regard.
I vaguely remember, after dropping her off, going to a friend's house and asking for something to drink to get the taste out of my mouth. I also remember they congratulated me, and also laughed hysterically at my negative reaction.
It would be almost an entire YEAR before I would venture to try that again with anyone, but that's a story for the day we talk about the SECOND time, and today is all about the first.
For the record, the second time was substantially better, and thanks to some additional mentoring from Ginger, I was every bit as good at it as I expected to be. It would be some years yet before I would reach the 7th level of Tung Fu mastery, but that second time around was definitely an exceptional experience for both of us.
So, other than the fact that I love sex and all things sex-related, and I can see the obvious humor in my story of kissing Bigfoot on his hairy stank mouth, there is a reason why I'm thinking about "firsts" lately.
It has been 2 years since I participated in the act of sex with another person. Although I have no doubt that my Tung Fu mastery remains intact (insert eating pussy is like riding a bike comparison here), my other sexual ninja skills may be somewhat less...reliable?
If Martin Lawrence taught us anything, it's that you NEVER brag on your dick. So, I won't even go there. I was never very good at sex, in my own opinion, that's probably part of why I developed my other skills to such an extreme degree. I was (and I suppose still am) highly self-conscious about my ability to be a pleasing sexual partner, BEYOND the first act.
But now, it's been TWO FUCKING YEARS since I've been inside a woman, and there is every reason to believe that I will have gotten FAR worse, than to imagine I would have gotten any better. So, quite literally, when I find the right girl, and when she deigns to allow me access to her pleasure centers, it is going to be as if I am losing my virginity all over again.
Like an acceptance speech at the Golden Globes, I'm already penning my apology in my head. Because it's been so long, I can't even fall back on the old standard "this has never happened before!" if something goes awry, because in TWO FUCKING YEARS, I really have no idea how or if shit even works at all.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about my lack of sex. This was a self-imposed exile, straight out of the Book of Yoda, because I would have done things for the wrong reasons, with the wrong people, and I didn't want to hurt anyone, use anyone, or make myself feel more like a guilty piece of shit than I already did.
Not only do I have to find a girl willing to have sex with me (eventually), but I have to find a girl willing to run out to the power shed and reboot Jurassic Park, cuz I don't know the fuck if this shit is gonna perform as expected or not.
|I ain't got no time for no motherfuckin' raptors on no motherfuckin' plane
And, all this does, all this borrowed anxiety for what MIGHT happen, or COULD happen, or PROBABLY WON'T happen, is fuck with my head. I am so messed up over this, if I did happen to find a girl that wanted to have sex with me, I would probably try to talk her out of it. I am literally planning to BLOCK MY OWN FUCKING COCK!!!!
My initial fear is that I'll be the living embodiment of a "2-pump chump". I won't even say "minuteman", because honestly I'd be surprised if I last that long. TWO FUCKING YEARS, man. And that's if I happen to have sex any time in the near future. I have every reason to believe it could be another year, or more, before I engage in that particular activity again.
Unfortunately, once I started thinking about it, I got to wondering, what if 'hang time' is the least of my concerns? What if I can't even "rise to the occasion", as it were? What if this break from reality has irrevocably broken my ability to get hard when another person is around? What if I need the smell of hand lotion and the soothing soundtrack of cheap porn to start my engines?
Granted, I don't THINK that would actually be the case, but I can't help but wonder WHAT IF.
Having sex after a long break like that is literally like having sex for the first time all over again. All of the awkwardness, all of the anxiety, all of the fear, and the very real possibility that I will absolutely be the WORST sex this hypothetical girl will have ever had.
Well, except for the pre-show...I mean, honestly, I'm really as good as I say I am. I may bullshit about a lot of things, but I don't lie about THAT, and I don't lie about my intelligence. I can provide signed affidavits upon request, maybe even audio testimonials.
If I ever go back to man-whoring, I'm going to get some of those customer comment cards like they have at Steak n Shake, or something.
|There's ALWAYS room for improvement, even at the top.
I haven't gone this long without sex in probably 20 years, and this may in fact be the longest amount of time I've sequestered myself from the human race. I don't know what to expect, and it freaks me out.
In the olden days, maybe I would have found a "slumpbuster" to blow the dust off Lil Chimpy and put him through his paces so I know everything is still operating at peak efficiency. Unfortunately, my experiences from the divorce onward have been such that I am no longer capable of engaging in sexual activity for purely recreational or scientific purposes.
I need someone I care about, someone I'm invested in, someone who really matters to me as more than a friend. Somewhere along the line, I developed feelings for other humans, and a greater appreciation of my own needs, and now I can't just do shit for the fuck of it (so to speak). I can't have meaningless sex. I don't even know if I could ever have a friend with benefits again, I may be too far gone for even that, I just don't know.
At any rate, that's why I'm thinking about firsts, specifically as they relate to sexual encounters. I'm really great at oral sex, but the first time I wasn't. I got better (LOTS better), but only after surviving that first disastrous encounter. I don't want to relive that kind of disaster with someone I care enough about to have sex with, but I don't see that I have a choice.
I can only hope that whoever she is, she cares enough about me to be patient, and give me a chance to improve. That means I'll probably have to have "the talk" with some girl in the future, and apologize in advance for any performance issues resulting from my period of inactivity.
I think...well, I think if it's someone I trust enough to consider sex with, then it's someone who can handle that. If I'm wrong, well, at least I'll always have YouPorn.
Because I'm a major nerd, my next post here will likely be about some new Star Wars toys I got. This arrived last week, and if you know anything about Sideshow Collectibles, you know their stuff is the epitome of awesome.
|I hadn't been this excited to open something since the last time I took a hot girl's panties off
My battle droids arrived safe and sound, and I'll be showing off some pictures, because I'm an idiot, and I always wanted something from Sideshow, and this was my first piece from them, and now I might just be hooked for life.
Remember the Tao of Chimpuat...surround yourself with the things that make you happy. I may not be having sex, but I'll for damn sure have me some Star Wars.
Anyway, until next time, enjoy your life, look before you leap (or lick), and make sure that if you ask a female coworker if you can check her "sent box", she understands EXPLICITLY that you are referring to her Outlook email client, and that you mean SENT, and not SCENT. Fucking homophones get me every time.
Look, sir! Droids!
January 24, 2015
I have a million thoughts in my head, but I've been meaning to do this since these guys arrived a couple of weeks ago, so you'll just have to wait for the WAY more interesting stuff, and suffer through my nerdgasm.
I've been lusting after the stuff at Sideshow Collectibles for years now, but could never afford it. I still can't really afford it, but they finally had something on sale at a price I could live with, so I went for it.
I got the Geonosis Infantry Battle Droids set, because I think droids are absolutely fucking awesome (most of them), and because at $129.99 for two of them, it seemed like one of the best deals around. I also had a discount code that knocked a bit more off, which ultimately convinced me to pull the trigger.
|Unwrapping, as close to panty dropping as I'm gonna get...
I already have a ton of 12" figures (no dick jokes, please), but Sideshow prefers to refer to them as 1/6th scale. Whatever. They're still 12" figures. The prices of my existing collection (all releases from the Hasbro line), ranged from $10 to $70, with the electronic talking Darth Vader and Boba Fett figures fetching the highest prices. Obviously, the figures that came with vehicles or mounts were more expensive, but for JUST figures, that's where things stood.
I picked up a Battle Droid Commander for like $15, and I thought he was pretty bad ass. I figured that would be a good frame of reference to compare against the Sideshow droids, since they're basically the same character, just different paint.
|Yes, this IS how droids poop.
The Sideshow droids came in 'standby' pose, crouched down the way they would be before being activated by the droid control ship. I thought this was a neat touch on their part. The first difference I noticed between these and the droid I had was the quality of the plastic.
The Hasbro toys are made of some kind of rubberized plastic, which is fine, but it can lend itself to warping pretty easily if you're not careful with them. Sideshow, on the other hand, use a higher quality, more rigid plastic. They're heavier, and the difference in materials seems to make the joints operate better on the Sideshow product.
Since I got 2 droids in the box, I naturally assumed they were cast from the same mold, and painted identically. That would have been the sensible thing, right? This is where attention to detail differentiates the Sideshow product.
|I'm running out of stupid and/or funny shit to say in these captions.
In the picture above, notice how the operating numbers on their backs are different, as are the paint details showing scuffs and wear on their bodies. THAT struck me as neat as hell, that they'd actually go ahead and make the droids different.
Also, if you'll notice the antenna on their backs, on the Hasbro droid, the antenna is molded plastic, part of the body and not retractable. The antennas on the Sideshow droids can be retracted and extended. So cool.
|Someone somewhere, will probably take note that the 'boss' seems to be a much lighter color than the soldier droids. Guess that's Star Wars racism for ya.
Side by side, despite the difference in materials and the manufacturing quality, it's REALLY hard to tell a difference between the $15 droid and the $65/each droids. They are all cool, but for a display piece, I'm hard pressed to say the $50 price premium is justified for the average collector. If you have to have the 'best', then yeah, you go with Sideshow. If, like me, you just love the way the characters look, and it's fun to display stuff you like, you really hit a big gray area.
If I lived in a world where money was no object, I'd buy Sideshow every time. Their stuff is REALLY nice. But, I don't live in that world, I live in THIS world, and this world says you go for value.
So, unless it's a figure that simply doesn't have a value alternative and I can't live without it, I will not likely buy any other Sideshow items. I love my collection, I don't regret buying the Sideshow Battle Droids, they're beautiful, but if I can barely tell a difference at a distance, I doubt anyone coming to my house would either.
Still, they made a great addition to the collection, and allowed me to finish off this 'scene'.
|Leave it to the bad guys to gang up on a guy.
So much has transpired in the last week. So many things are so clear to me, and so much has been revealed. I'm still collecting my thoughts, and determining what I'm comfortable sharing, if anything.
Things may get pretty deep, so bring hip waders or something.
The short version of the story is that your favorite primate is evolving. At my age, I didn't think there was much left for me to learn, in general, and certainly not about myself. But, sometimes someone comes along and they hold a mirror up to you, and you see who you really are.
So yeah, I have a lot to say. And, I'm still on track to kick 2015's ass, so this should be interesting.
My final thought is my Twitter account, (you SHOULD be following @Chimpuat). I have over 100 followers now, and some of those are even actual people, and not just porn bots. It's far easier to write 140 character thoughts down, than it is to prepare a whole blog post. It's the best way to get a steady fix of everyone's favorite chimp, and a good opportunity to interact with me (cuz I like messages and shit).
So, until next time, have a good night, or day, or whatever. Depends on when you read this, I guess, right? I'm too emotionally and mentally exhausted to say anything too perverse or pithy right now. I guess, what, touch a boobie or something? Let's go with that.
Inside you're ugly, ugly like me...
January 25, 2015
I made a new friend recently, and we were hanging out one night last week, and ended up in this depressing bar, which is actually kind of a redundant thing, because to me, ALL bars are depressing. Except titty bars. Those are magical. Like Tahiti.
If you didn't get that 'Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.' reference, I don't love you anymore, and I think we should see other people.
Anyway, it was one of those nights that will live in my memory forever, and I was hyper-focused on remembering EVERY detail, which is this stupid thing I do. Well, ok, I do a LOT of stupid things, but I have developed the habit of NOT paying much attention to what's around me, because if I focus on something, it gets locked in my memory. To varying degrees, I apply this 'gift' when necessary, but when it's an occasion where a lot of important things are happening, or emotions are involved, it can get out of hand pretty quickly.
My grandfather committed suicide when I was about 20. I recently recounted the story of that day to someone, and I was startled by all the stupid details I remembered. It was one of the most emotionally charged days of my life, and it's stuck in this fucked up head of mine, and when I pull this memory out, if I'm not careful, it's like reliving that day all over again. By the time I had finished my story, I was crying. How can something so far away still hurt me?
Because my memory is a dick.
|Not shown actual size, smart asses.
There was someone else with us that night in the bar, and she means a lot to me, and my memory was in full-on DVR mode as a result. Who was this 'someone else'? I refer to her as the Impossible Girl (sorry to introduce a new character, mid-season, but our ratings were low, and I'm NOT going the add-a-kid route). You'll learn more about her later. Some day, maybe.
Don't get your hopes up, she's not the romantic love interest in the Story of Chimpuat, but she IS a major character.
So, Impossible Girl was talking to some of her friends at the bar, and my new friend and I were left to our own devices. I really enjoyed talking to her, learning about her life, and her passion for photography, and the whole night was just a great experience getting to know someone really cool that I 'clicked' with before, but had never had a chance to bond with to any great degree.
Because I knew my memory would be locking onto everything around me, I was making an effort to 'tune out' as much of the background noise as possible. We listened to a lot of songs that night, and with one notable exception, I couldn't tell you what any of them were, because I didn't want them to get stuck in there with the other memories. I didn't want some song that I didn't even like to wedge itself into my brain on a night where I just wanted to remember everything, and never forget. I didn't want to hear one of the songs from that night, somewhere in the future, and bring that night into sharp focus...just in case the memories took a turn for the worse.
For example, the first girl to break my heart, when I found out what she had done, Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again" was playing in the cassette deck. Yes, fuck you, I'm old. We were driving in my 1978 blue Camaro, it was an August night, the windows were down, and she was talking, and I didn't want to hear her, I didn't want to hear anything, and I turned the music up as loud as it could comfortably go, and then that fucking song has spent the rest of my life serving as a reminder of that pain.
If my new friend becomes a fixture in my life, I'll have to come up with a name for her. But, for now, New Friend will just have to suffice. Think of it as an interim name, pending the length and breadth of her role in my life.
Sometimes you meet people, and there's just something cool about them. I'm not good at meeting people. I'm not good at talking to people. I'm afraid of them. I avoid them. Sometimes, I look at people and wonder how they can belong to the same species as I do. I'm not outgoing. I'm not friendly. I'm not interesting. I'm just Chimpuat.
Impossible Girl has caused me to begin changing. I wouldn't say she has 'changed me', though. No one can change us. But, some people, by their very nature, can enable us to change ourselves.
So, when I first met New Friend, I wasn't as shy, or quiet. I was more friendly. I'm hesitant to say that my crushing social insecurity is cured, but there is certainly progress now. NF (see, I get lazy, and first I'm giving them nicknames, and then I'm giving them acronyms) is one of those people that I just instantly liked. She's smart, supremely talented, and funny as hell. A lot happened on the night in question, but one of the things I'll remember most fondly is how much better I got to know NF.
BUT...we're sitting there, we're both drinking water, and she's showing me her Instagram and Facebook portfolios of her photography work, and it's just such a great moment. When someone has something about themselves that they really love, a passion, it's awesome to get to participate in that, and let them share it with you. See? Chimpuat is learning. Evolving. Pretty soon I'll be a hairless, upright-walking ape like the rest of you.
There's always music playing in a bar, and I was successfully tuning all of it out because I didn't want any of it fucking up my memories. But, NF, being unaware of my condition, draws my attention to a song, and she starts singing along with it, and FUCKING FUCK, NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!
|This happens to me a lot more often than you'd think.
Fucking Staind, "Outside". Fuck. Of all the FUCKING songs to tag to a memory, it has to be THAT? I try to tune it out, try to tune her out, but it's like an ear cancer, and it worms its way into my brain,and suddenly I'm singing along, too, and FUUUUUUUUCCKKKKK!!!!!!
Granted, it's a cool song. I always liked it. But, I didn't want it to to attach itself to a memory and just reside in my mind for all of eternity. I didn't want a song to associate itself with that night, because now, for the rest of my life, that song is going to drag that memory around like a dog with a chew toy. Every time I hear it, from now until Alzheimer's, I will remember that night.
Ever since that night, because my brain has been struggling to process the events that transpired, that song has been on a repeat loop in my head. I walk through the house, and find myself humming it without even realizing I was. I hear it when I'm trying to fall asleep. I wake up, thinking I'm finally free, and then the soundtrack of my insanity kicks in once again, and we're off to the races.
It's not NF's fault, she didn't know me well enough to have any idea how my mind operates, and I wasn't exactly advertising to the world "Hey, don't fuck this up, I'm recording", so I'm not mad at her or anything. I just kind of have a little hate for her, which isn't a bad thing, I think we need to reserve a litte hate for everyone in our lives. It can't be all good, all the time.
It's going to take me a long time to work through all the thoughts and emotions that have happened as a result of that night. Parts of the story will probably unfold here over several posts, and parts of the story will never see the light of day. Because I'm a writer, and we make shit up all the time, you may not even want to believe a single thing you read.
In trying to process what's been going on, I guess my mind is focusing on the things that are most easily explained first, and in this case...it's that stupid fucking Staind song, and the fact that I can't get it out of my head. Once I get past this initial stage, hopefully in a few days, the song should let up on me a little bit.
Memories are strange, wonderful, and annoying fucking things. They build us up, give us a base, remind us of the moments in our lives that were filled with happiness. But, they also tear us down, haunt us, and remind us of the pain and scars we can never fully wash away, because of them.
I'd rather have a stupid song attach itself to a complex memory that I never want to forget, than to have never made any memories at all.
So, if NF ever reads this, I hope she knows how much I enjoyed getting to know her that night. And also, how much I kind of hate her for jamming that song in the middle of a memory. But that's the key to all friendships, the key to their strength, is that sometimes a little darkness is mixed in with the light. Besides, it's only a LITTLE hate.
After all, it's not like she can see through me, see to the real me.
I kind of felt bad, subjecting the world to a blog post about my stupid toys, and I had this ready, so you all get the benefit of my boredom and lack of better shit to do.
I'm still recovering from the lack of sleep that's plagued me the last few weeks. I've got so much I need to write about, and so many things happening all at once, it's hard to calm my mind down enough to actually sleep.
I don't want to give the impression that I don't like the way my brain works. I love my mind. Even at my advanced age, it's still capable of amazing me.
If there was something about me that I disliked or wanted to change at all, it'd be my fatness, but even that is beginning to take care of itself. I don't believe in New Year's resolutions, or shit like that, but the things I've recently learned about myself have helped me to focus on some behaviors that were contributing to my weight issues.
I'll go into further details in a future post, because it's way too much to cover here, and this thing is already long enough ("that's what she said"). Suffice it to say, I'm doing all right, I'm working toward achieving an even greater level of happiness, and it's a direct result of Impossible Girl's influence on my life.
Hate to drop teasers like that, but I promise, over the next few weeks, more of the story will be revealed. There are some parts of the story that are going to be pretty hard to convey, but I figure if I'm going through something, someone reading this some day may be able to relate, and maybe it will help.
The next few weeks have many challenges in store for me. Lots of pain. But, I am the mighty Chimpuat, and this too shall pass.
So, until next time, find something to hold onto, it gets bumpy from here. And, if you have someone to hold on to, don't let go. If you let go, the dream might end.