Admiral Cod On Tour: Palm Springs

Sunglass Matrix

h/t The Art of Manliness

Drunk Sports

Tennis & Cocktails

My Favorite Day

Officers' Mess

About A Boy

The boys in the photo (at left - h/t CH) look like me and my friends in suburban New York and Connecticut in the late '70s. We spent most of our free time outdoors. In fact, when I think back to my happiest moments, they invariably were outside, in forests and fields, creeks and lakes. Long days of bright sunshine. At weekends we would wear striped Adidas shoes--not Sambas or Gazelles, I forget the name of the model--windbreakers, polo shirts, and cruise around the neighborhood on our Schwinn Stingrays like a little biker gang. When we weren't hunting down big snapping turtles and crayfish in the creeks, we were fighting the other neighborhood boys.

The girls liked me and I liked them. They loved tousling my blond hair and daring me to kiss them and touch them. When I was around 7 or 8 I got into serious trouble with the school authorities who caught me kissing a cute little blonde girl, 'W,' after school one day. Her parents were not amused. I'll never forget the lecture I got from my father, who seemed very concerned. He was still in his three-piece Wall Street suit when he arrived home from work and sat me down in a darkened room for the talk. I like to think this incident didn't obstruct my pre-teen Game, but I'm not so sure.

It may sound odd to you, but there wasn't a time when I didn't think about sex. That I was precocious in this department would be an understatement. I became familiar with details of the female anatomy at a very young age, courtesy of various teenage babysitters, including a set of hot Italian/Jewish twins and a young Persian nanny whose wealthy parents in Iran sent her to live with us right before the revolution. I'll write more about her later.

Ignem Veni Mittere In Terram

contre le monde moderne

Fucking With Feminists

I learned early on that some women are full of shit. And I'm not talking about my own family members.

When I as an undergraduate, two of my first lays during my first year were feminists. One was the cute, petite daughter of a well-known architect. She would lead candle-lit "Take Back The Night" marches through campus. She lobbied the administration to have the women's bathrooms re-labelled "womyn's bathrooms". She took a shine to me--even when (or because) I laughed at her--and would wait for me outside my door in the evenings after class so we could fuck. She was a total submissive in bed.

The other feminist chick was an attractive blonde with a messed-up family background. She was genuinely beautiful, but deliberately made herself mildly unattractive--messy hair, no make-up, hippy clothing e.g. Baja hoodies--and wore baggy, loose-fitting clothing as some sort of rebellion against beauty standards. One of our friends in common, knowing my Nationalist fogey views, set us up together as a sort of joke--but we clicked. We would go back to her room, smoke weed, listen to music by 10,000 Maniacs and Bjork, and then fuck on the huge hippy cushions in trendy ethnic fabrics that littered her flat. Her great dream was to get a degree in Women's Studies and move to NYC to work with abused women and the homeless. Funny thing is, the word got out among the other girls in her residence hall about our dalliances, and I soon found myself with some new admirers.

I used to--and to some extent still do--feel a bit sorry for these women, because they've been lied to and mislead,. But we all have to one extent or another, and we get over it and move on.

Rolling With The Hounds