Mind-Blowing Beach Sex

Hurricane season is upon us and as we prepare for peril in the nation's dicktip, Manola 180 has been extremely productive, compiling a list of actual behavior that -- to put it simply -- blows!

CAT GOT MY TONGUE!

Please don't meow during fellatio! There are plenty of other strays on South Beach and besides, I'm not down there checking your furry testicles for fleas!

WILLIAM BUTLER YEAST WAS A ROMANTIC BLOW-IT

And speaking of blow jobs, if on a third date we have a picnic on the beach and you beg for sex after I witness your personal bacchanalia, which involves you drinking a twelve-pack of lukewarm beer, eating a large pizza and a bag of twinkies, please don't eat me. My vagina is diabetic and you are a walking yeast infection.

SWEET NOTHINGS MEANS BIG SOMETHING

If a girlfriend of mine pimps drinks without my express permission at The Delano, and I suddenly find myself holding a gin and tonic in my hand surrounded by two former football players, and am forced by courtesy to imbibe the unsolicited beverage, and you happen to be one of the hunks who let my shameless hussy of a girlfriend pimp a drink out of you, and we chat for a spell, and you behave like a gentleman, escorting me to the valet, but then stand behind me and start breathing down my neck as I wait for the car, please don't whisper the following sentence, quoted verbatim, into my ear: "I'd love to stick my big black dick up your big white ass."

DON'T PRACTICE WHAT YOU PRICK

I don't care if you had a threesome with two lesbians at The Roney Plaza in 1985. Stop reminding me every time we drive by that former sperm-infested den of iniquity you called home or I'm going to have to prick you to see if you're dreaming and now I'm losing sleep wondering if you can prick a prick back into reality.

SORRY, MY BANGS OCCLUDED THE NEON SIGN ON MY FOREHEAD THAT BLINKS "I AM A CHEAP SLUT. STOP. HAVE VAGINA. STOP. WILL DO A GIRL-ON-GIRL THREESOME WITH YOU. STOP. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS ASK. FULL STOP."

And speaking of threesomes, while at Tapas y Tintos, please don't wrap your arm around my other girlfriend who never pimped a drink in her life, and then, think that you can get away with caressing my ass simultaneously because she's too tanked to see the forest from the sleeze, forcing me to write NO on a napkin in red lipstick and slipping it under her martini when -- after only just making your acquaintance -- you ask if we'd like a night cap at your bachelor pad.

ALWAYS CARRY EMERGENCY FLIP FLOPS IN YOUR TINY CLUTCH BAG

After a pleasant New Year's Eve dinner at Talula's with mutual friends, followed by cocktails at your apartment on Collins Avenue, please don't make unexpected and unprovoked sexual advances at me while your wife turns her back, forcing me to flee the scene in my four-inch heels and having to walk from 5th to 16th street before finding an empty cab.

THE COLD SHOULDER AND THE HOT HAND

While I enjoy a draft of Guinness at The Playwright, please don't offer to give me a massage or sell me a Rolex for fifty bucks after you've come from work reeking of eau de garlic only to boast that you have three children with three different women.



YOU MUST REMEMBER THIS, A KISS IS NOT A FRISK

In search of the hoped-for prince or princess, many frogs have kissed each other at South Pointe, decidedly the most romantic spot on South Beach to stroll hand in hand during the sunset; however, please refrain from kissing and frisking like two slimy humping toads within plain view of Smith and Wollensky. Join the diners if it's meat your craving, otherwise go to the Everglades for frog legs!

COITUS OBSTRUCTUS VS. INTERRUPTUS

And speaking of sex in public, if you can't get a room, at least make it to the door. Tripping over a crack on Euclid Avenue's sidewalk won't break an ankle, but walking into a couple having sex on the sidewalk could break the spell from whatever drug they took that prevented them from being polite enough to use the swale.

SHH! PORK THE ONE YOU LOVE, QUIETLY

And woman, if you make it past the door and insist on squealing like a stuck pig during intercourse, please scoot down a bit on your bed so that your wrists don't accidently rasp the wall, reminding me -- your neighbor -- that only one foot of paper-thin concrete separates my bed from your sexual slaughterhouse antics and that our overpriced South Beach condo is really just a tricked-out crackwhore Biscayne Boulevard motel with nicer amenities.

MY ASS IS NOT YOUR LAST RESORT

And speaking of getting a room, call first to make a reservation chez Manola, buddy. After you befriend me and wax eloquently for months on end about your obsessive admiration of excessively thin, tall blonde model types who live on South Beach and how you could NEVER IN A MILLION YEARS have sex with someone who does not meet your criteria for arousal [read: Brunette, petite and proudly sporting a big ass, Manola is not your type, but rather a cow you'd like to milk], and then one fine day we attend a party in North Beach and you get so sloshed that you forget to activate that bimbo-divining rod in your pants, which in the absence of any light-haired ectomorphs inspires you to grab and lift me to the counter top, stick your tongue in my mouth and unclasp my bra -- something I kindly ask you to please not do, even if a million years have in fact gone by. As I reach for air and ask "but I thought ... " and you gasp "but you're a beautiful woman!" note how I manage to slither my corpulent behind out from under your hypocritical claws!

Hammer Toes

Steve Klotz -- a witty man who keeps his wife in a cage -- coined the term "nation's dicktip" to describe the Sunshine State's peninsular shape.

Got Pecker Peeve?

Size and color does matter and not just for shoes! But Mr. Happy Pants doesn't care, because he's proud of his pecker! Get an earful of Manola's elegant tribute to all creatures great and small.

Sexy Beach Chick Loves Manola

My name is Samba Jalapeño. Some of you may recognize me from the world-renown portrait of Parrot Hilton.

As you can see I am just as mischievous as my mommy, Manola Blablablanik. Even though I hatched just 14 months ago, I also have the gift of gab and can bla bla bla for hours in macaw. But today, mommy is proud to announce that I said "I LOVE YOU" loud and clear for the first time! And I meant it, too!

Nobody Gets Laid for Free

"Dear Manola 180,

My girlfriend of two months broke up with me because we went to Disney World together and I paid for about 80% of all expenses. She offered to pick up lunch and a few drinks, which I accepted. After the trip she sent me this angry email, accusing me of being a cheap bastard. She admitted that by offering to pay for lunch and few drinks, she was testing me. Apparently all her friends think I'm a scrooge too, even though I've picked up just about every tab since day one.

Since when did paying for everything become proof positive of a man's feelings for a woman?

I may not be Rockefeller, but I'm still a rather generous guy, and don't mind treating a lady during courtship and relationship, as much as my income allows. But I work hard for my money and she makes the same amount, if not more, than I do.

Am I really being such a stingy asshole? Confused about my heart and wallet! Please advise!

Yours truly,

Male Platonic Friend"

Dear Male Platonic Friend,

You just opened a can of worms and they have all slithered out onto my desk and into many little loopholes! When the issue of money gets wrapped up in the sheets, things get ugly.

As I have known you for donkey's ages, I can vouch for the fact that while not wealthy, you are a generous man.

And although I barely know this woman, I say she's an idiot.

You know, true friendship is all about tough love, and if I thought you were being a miser, I'd be the first one to say "dude, you're being a miser." But you don't hoard wads of cash in the bank and you never flaunt fake wealth.

What went wrong? Old-fashioned expectations on her part and lack of communication between the two of you regarding who pays for what. She probably assumed your request to join her was an invitation for weekend-long free room, board and entertainment and here's where I must give you a little slap on the wrist.

On the other hand, her testing is decidely passive-aggresive yuck. Woman, if you're expecting the man to pay, don't test and then backstab him with an angry break-up letter. Speak up or forever shut up.

Woman, you want cheap? How about the man who tried to impress Manola with dinner at one of those all-you-can-eat sushi for $10 dives on South Beach, complete with flourescent lighting and loud TV blaring sports, while talking about how he's buying a million dollar waterfront condo? How about the man who drove from South Beach to Aventura just so he could treat Manola to drinks at a chain restaurant where his friend would serve giant margaritas filled with gummi bears at half-price? After one-hour of debating why she refused to have sex with this disgusting, groping tight wad, Manola called a taxi from the WC and spent more on the ride home than he spent on women over an entire year.

But I digress ...

Male Platonic Friend, knowing that there's one thing you don't buy -- that macho crap when men buy love with money and women buy men with sex -- I absolve you of this most unfair accusation.

But don't let this unfortunate experience sour your generosity. Old fashioned courtship lets a man show he cares and gives a woman the chance to let him be a gentleman.

Ah, somewhere between the dinner bill and the bedroom there has to be fair game.

What's Better Than One Penis?

A batch of seven, fondly awarded by Mighty Dyckerson, who apparently fondled his way to a box of Kleenex after noting "(1) Manola's ample bosom, and (2) the firm grip she has on that giant orange phallic symbol."

Ah, boob and squirt gets 'em all the time, doesn't it ladies?



But Mr. Dyckerson, after you've had a moment to wipe off your spontaneous expulsion, I hope you'll take the time to see the blog from the boobs!

Strange blogfellows: Mr. Dyckerson and Manola share the honor of being two of Dubious Wonder's future drinking companions. Mr. Dyckerson is also the ruler of his own empire, with affiliate lords and ladies sporting some very interesting domains!

Considering the cost of batteries, seven penises should be more than enough to get Manola through hurricane season. What great timing! Thanks, Mr. Dyckerson!

Bite Me, Baby ...

... because this bites! After making an executive decision, the board of directors at SATB -- me, myself and tapeworm -- have taken on the labor of love to rebuild each deleted entry on blogger, while planning a long-term expansion of Manola's enterprise. I intend to take over the world, infiltrating one I PEE address at a time!

I realize now, after twenty years of professional writing and just over six months of blogging, that the latter is like no other: it lacks the finitude of a published poem in a literary journal or the closure of an invoice for work rendered. So many words I've written that I've forgotten, especially the ones that intended to sell something, get money -- oh all those sell-out words and money being the only motivation -- those words that put daily bread and wine on the table. The slave-words of writing for a living when you can't afford to write for love.

But you do it anyway, even if it costs you what many others covet: the perfect husband, the perfect children and the white picket fence house. No, you write those words of love, regardless, because you know your reason for being. An entire lifetime of choices made because nearing forty, you'd be creating a character named Manola. Ridiculous, maybe. Real, YES.

And then those words I love, those sentences that linger in my imagination, not filling my belly but keeping my spirit alive. Day-to-day blogging creeps under my skin, an ever-evolving voice that begins but can never end, so long as Maria the writer lives and breathes. Blogging seems so much more alive, even though there are books on my shelf collecting dust, with covers and spines containing some of my love-words forever etched in ink, approved and stamped by editors.

And yet, because I've managed to eradicate in one fell click the thing I didn't even know I loved, I find I must put the pieces of Manola back together, finding the greatest writerly pleasure of my entire career through some ridiculous alter-ego named after shoes I can't even afford, precisely because the luxury of blogging is what Virginia Wolf called A Room of One's Own.

And I love this room: it's got a closet full of gorgeous high heels, a luxurious bed, an antique desk with drawers brimming with handmade paper, sharpened quills and bottles full of supple, runny ink, chilled albariño wine, and most of all: freedom to write. It's like putting words together and writing at the same time. It's like having sex and making love at the same time. Like my greatest love and I, writing and Maria: inseparable. Oh and yes, somewhere in between the crumpled sheets of my bed and the scratched-off sheets of my writing tossed into a wastebasket -- the most amazing man I have yet to conjure from my heart's desire whom I will honor with an even greater love.

... which reminds me ... all you macho studs waiting outside my door to audition for seasonal boyfriend: take a number!

HA! I have a nagging feeling, no -- it's an itchy feeling, actually -- that it's going to be long, lonely summer, but that's ok ... IT'S THE SEED THAT'S HOT ... NOT THE FLESH! So keep biting ... and writing ... it's the only way to taste life.

musical accompaniment

Clap your hands. Some quick sound pleasure from Manola's friend Cyan.

Mankini

Never take candy from strangers ... unless you're dealing bubble gum on that cell phone!



Via email from Mrs. LL Cool Babe in Tallahussy. Photo by Bart.

tags: mankini

The Importance of Being Well Shod

I've been thinking much about shoes lately because I've just returned from a trip to Spain -- for which I packed only one pair of stylish, closed-toe, all purpose, all terrain shoes -- to a closet full of little pieces of my life, impractical things called heels on which I tread through many successes, failures and a some kind of wonderful mundane in between.



I own forty-something pairs of shoes, most of them high heels, the quantity approaching my age, although I still have a few years of experience left before the number of shoes in my closet matches the years I mark in this life.

I know women who pay no mind to shoes, dear friends of mine who call me Imelda Marcos on a good day, women who mark their lives by other means -- husbands, children, lovers and jobs -- who are perfectly content with a pair of flip flops to get them through life.

And that's commendable; to each her own. But I've dispensed with husbands, children, lovers and jobs -- only to find myself recalling the past by pairs of shoes.

Shoes are works of art. Sometimes better to look at than to wear and in the wearing, like Cinderella's slipper, but not some magical hocus-pocus transformation. Oh no, you have to earn the pumpkin-turned-limo. Becoming something other than the dim reality of your body, transforming yourself into, stepping into a work of art called your life. The grand architecture of self, the very core, pillar and foundation of being an ambulatory creature, much more durable than rags, and more important besides. The only means of putting yourself together and moving -- moving on, moving forward, putting it all behind -- taking that big step into the unknown when you had no ambition other than staying in bed, ailing a broken spirit.

Walking in a pair of heels and walking well is something most take for granted. Those of us who choose vanity over comfort know the challenge: if you notice I'm wearing heels, you've noticed too much. Even the most statuesque Vogue cover model will fall to pieces if she can't manage the walk. Heels brings grace, eloquence and elegance to the mundane schlepping, trekking and hauling of everyday life. I might have hips, but I've also got heels -- oh and the balls, do I ever -- to walk as silky smooth as my skin. I'll traipse right by you and you'll wonder what flower just bloomed.

Walking well in a pair of heels is not only an art, but the most comforting and empowering affirmation that each step is girl -- not interrupted -- but flourishing. I am woman through and through. I am me from head to toe and from flank to shank, specifically. Talking the talk, walking the walk, writing the words, speaking my truth -- but always, always well shod. Always gliding, slick and smooth, riding out the turbulence of life in a favorite pair of heels. This aint your skinny scare-crow cat walk model walk, baby. This is Charlotte Bronte and Virginia Wolf giving up the saint, ok? This is your real woman living the grind managing to catch your eye because she's pirouetted gracefully across the room, against all odds. She's caught your eye precisely because she flitted by unnoticed. The heels lend confidence. If I can walk this way, I'll live this way and give me a kiss, if I'll let you. I'll drink that cosmo straight on and cross my legs on the bar stool knowing exactly who I am because my heels are faithful companions.

I cannot imagine a life without heels. Somewhere in the struggle, shoes tell me it's time to get up and move on, in style, arch lifted and chin high and proud.

manola's closet

•The shoes I wore to my nephew's wedding, which always remind me of how Mr. Thinks He's Huge broke my heart, but damn it, as I live and breathe, I will wear those beautiful cyan heels again and with pride, walking hand in hand with a man truly worthy of my love.

•The shoes I didn't wear when, years ago, just after my high school sweetheart, who was then a gourmet chef in training, had just rented his first apartment. "Maria, hand me the thyme," he requested. "It's the lid marked with a T." But I couldn't see it, because at six-foot-one, he had failed to note that at five-foot-three, I wouldn't be able to see the top of the jar unless I was wearing heels. A love long lost still brings a smile to my lips and the scent of olive oil and onions to life.

•The pair of flats I wore to my first trip to Spain, just slightly ragged at the edges from walking on cobblestones, still bearing scuff marks from the dry terrain of the land where Don Quixote fought imaginary windmills. My feet shook after September 11 - - witnessed from a TV screen in Segovia, where Queen Isabela and King Ferdinand bade farewell to Columbus.



•And most importantly, the pair of pink baby shoes I brought at a thrift shop for two dollars, because I thought that if ever I had a daughter, she'd appreciate and be proud of stepping forth in style against all adversity, just like her mother. These little somethings send a message to a daughter I might never know:

". . . if only at the time you'd know all the steps you're going to have to take, all the shoes you're going to have to fill, the least thing, those little problems called life, men, careers, children, life ... little girl, at least do it beautifully, well shod and with grace. Your life, your shoes -- make it all a work of art. Tread light and proud ... put your foot down when you need to ... and know that you will inherit the earth, as well as a closet full of gorgeous size 8 heels."

The New SoBe Dining Trend

I mean no disrespect, but I couldn't resist ...



... and revenge certainly doesn't come cheap!

The Chronicles of Crackass

Just returned from Spain only to find that evil has left the premises!

Guess it's time to put the bow and arrow back into storage! Oh, oh oh ... I mean a very lounge-singer throaty kind of oh, oh, oh ... please, wipe the sweat of anxiety right off my brow, for sure, kind of oh, oh, oh ...

Heck, batten down the hatches and tighten those chastity belts! Forget obnoxious, criminally inclined neighbors and ice-cold slurpee anemic queens ... in the coming weeks, way too many hurricanes will have to be dealt with, not to mention wished-for sex with shutter-hammering, mosquito-slaying, generator-owning princes of dark nights who imbibe cold Miller lights in styrofoam goblets and give Manola well-deserved foot massages with battery-operated ... ehem ... multi-purpose barbaric camping utensils!



PS ... if you are unfamiliar with Crackass, drop me a line ... SATB is still recovering from its own personal deletopalooza.

image credit

Manola Returns Unscathed from the Land of Bulls, Beans and Beer

Saludos Amigos! I'm back from a journey I can barely begin to process and I'll need a few days of reverse culture-shock adjustment before SATB gets crankin' from my little slice of paradise called home.

I noted from the airplane window that Miami retains its flapjack flatness, proving beyond a doubt that the world is a square, at least in South Florida. As well, the air remains just as hot, dirty, sticky and humid when you step out onto the curb at concourse E. Flat and humid always. This is comforting. Oh ... and how delicious to speak English again!

Did I miss any headline grabbing news and juicy gossip since April 29th?