Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts

Ask HolyJuan : A Small Problem

Dear HolyJuan,

I am hoping you can help me with a small problem. I am a seventy-one year old man, but I feel like I am twenty-five on the inside. I have a way with the ladies, especially hotel workers. I travel a lot and with my wife living in Orlando, I need an outlet for my sexual desires. Believe it or not, I don’t even need Viagra!

My problem is that I have a lack of blood flow to my groin. Once I start to get an erection, the blood that helps to keep my sphincter muscles shut is reduced and I let loose with hot, steamy flatulence. That tends to drive the ladies away.

Can you help?


Air of Unhappiness

Dear Air,

My friend, I feel your pain. And I also smell your pain.

Here is my suggestion: when at the hotel, chatting it up with the front desk staff, and you feel Mr. Wrinkly starting to wake up and dust himself off, excuse yourself to the bathroom. Once in a stall, pull down your Depends and put one foot on the toilet. Now, stuff one of your saggy, old man balls into your butt. You’ll find that it will reach easily and probably slip right in. This will block flatulence and any anal leakage. Now for the hard part – pull the Depends back up and use the Velcro straps to over tighten the waistband, forming a sort of crotch tourniquet. Use your pocket knife to cut a small hole in the front, allowing your disgusting, liver spotted wiener an opportunity to breathe and to poke out. Cut a second hole just underneath the first and allow the other ball that is not shoved up your butt to dangle. Pull up your pants and (carefully!) zip them up. Now, go get ‘em tiger!

I would also suggest painting the Depends flesh colored to camouflage them during that eye-tearing out sex you have with these foreign, drunk hotel staff. Dab on moles with a sharpie (not green) for added reality.

BONUS ADVICE: at the end of the horrific ordeal you call sex, at the point of orgasm, yank the one dangling ball downward, which will bust the seams on your depends and unleash the second ball with great gouts of gas and yesterday’s porridge. The sensation of all the blood rushing back to your sphincter will be MINDBLOWING. All except that you will not remember anything about it in ten minutes, you old, forgetful fuck.

Best of Luck!



{Send your questions to If you do not, I’ll have to make up another letter for next time. And we do not want to see or smell that.}

The B & B

I didn’t have a lot of sex in college. Most of my friends think I did. My MO was to hook up, make out for a while and stick around third base without trying to steal home. That was actually my selling point. After about an hour at the bar of “I think I like you” and the next hour of “I think you like me” and about an hour before “I think we should get out of here” I would drop the, “I don’t think we should have sex” line. I think it opened a lot of doors. And pantses.

Telling a girl that you don't want to have sex takes away the pressure and anxiety. It allows you to have fun and know that you all ready have some pre-determined boundaries that don't need to be discussed. When the anxiety and pressure are off, the girl will be relaxed and then hopefully have sex with you.

Of course, telling a girl you don’t want to have sex and then having her want sex removes all guilt (if any) associated with the act. If you say you don’t wanna, but then you do because she wanna, it’s not your fault. It’s not. Really.

My very good friend, Handsome Joe, had a theory about hooking up. Less of a theory and more of a goal. He called it “The Bed and Breakfast.” Any dude can hook up; leave a sock lost somewhere in bed and do the walk of shame home. It’s genetic and it’s easy. Getting the girl to make you breakfast, now that was classy. You couldn’t ask for breakfast either. She had to suggest it. She had to make it. Cold cereal in the living room would get you in the club. Bacon and eggs was golden. Going out for breakfast didn’t count, but it did if she made you a pop tart and shoved you out the door. The Bed and Breakfast. The B & B.

There were several offshoots from the B & B. Joe had a B, B & B when he stayed at the girl’s apartment through an early lunch (The Bed, Breakfast and Brunch.) I once had the B & B with Grocery after I spent the night at a girl’s apartment during finals before winter break. We made out (the not having sex line stuck) and the next morning she made me eggs. She then asked if I wanted any food from her refrigerator as her finals were up and she was heading home. All that food would go to waste. Would I like to take it home? Of course I would. The B & B Grocery.

One fine spring evening at Ohio University, Handsome Joe and I went out to the bars. While having a few beers, a young lady that Joe knew came up and started talking to us. Joe quickly disappeared to the back of the crowded bar with her (The Good Cop always gets the first girl) and I was left mostly alone. As it turned out, my friend Greg was sitting up at the bar. This was a good sign. Greg and I were friends from high school, but we never saw each other out much at Ohio University. It was a good sign because the other two times I saw Greg out at the bars, I hooked up soon afterwards. I’d cut his foot off and wear it around my neck if it weren’t so big. And I guess it would be pretty bloody and stumpy, too.

As Greg and I drank at the bar, Trobes showed up. Trobes was 6’0” of long blonde hair and German ancestry. Trobes kinda liked me. I kinda liked Trobes. We had hooked up in the past (no breakfast yet.) As she sat in my lap at the bar (which was an odd combination of pleasure and boner crushing pain) she told Greg the 2nd greatest compliment I’ve ever received.

“Doug is the best necker in the world.” Wow. Honestly, I consider that a great compliment.

Several drinks afterwards, we left the bar. I had not seen Joe since he walked off and he could take care of himself. I asked Trobes if I could walk her home. She said yes. We walked back to her apartment.

Neither of Trobes' two roommates were home. We went to her bedroom.

{I need to note here that Trobes had a king sized bed. It took up most the room and shit it was big. I think she had an automatic sheet dispenser under the end because you could pull and pull at the sheets and they would just keep coming and coming.}

As we were making out, we heard one of Trobes’ roommates come in. Alone. A few minutes later her other roommate came home. Not so alone. They hung out in the kitchen for a few minutes and then retired to the room next door.

The making of the out continued and my Jedi mind trick about not wanting to have sex worked too well. Oh well… we had fun. I guess that’s what you get for being the best necker.

The next morning we woke up and chatted as we lounged around on the Eastern Plains of her bed. We could hear the lucky roommate chatting with her man. I did the “Shave and a Hair Cut” knock on the wall. They replied with a punctual “knock, knock.” Here is where you learn that I have a distinctive laugh. One that can be heard through a wall. One that Handsome Joe knows well. I laughed. The guy from the other side of the wall said, “Doug?”


A minute later we were mostly dressed (where was my sock?) and all in the roommate’s room laughing and figuring out what happened the previous night. At some point, the roommate asked, “Do you guys want breakfast?”

Eggs. Bacon. Pancakes. The Bed Bed & Breakfast Breakfast. Or the Double B & B as it’s known in some circles. We couldn’t stop grinning as we sat, scrunched at the small round table in their kitchen, fork and knife in hand. Waiting. Watching the girls’ backs as they cooked at the stove.


Open up any phone book to the yellow pages and you’ll see some sort of B & B business. Usually it’s a B and B Lawn Service or a B & B Auto Repair Shop. While you are driving around the city or through some small town, you’ll see the B & B on a slick, produced graphic or hand painted sign. It always takes me back.