When the ladies want their hot man on woman sensuality HOT...

Walking to the Orange line at Farragut West today I was beginning to think that it is almost time to break out the baby blue mink/chinchilla jacket. It’s chilly. I’m in my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. Jean Lafont glasses with orange tinted lenses. I step onto a very crowded metro, give the ladies a Front Double Biceps and Side Chest combo before settling into my book. Atonement. Ian McEwan. A good read so far. I know you’re thinking that this guy, running a multinational conglomerate, only has time for the Economist, Business Week, and the Wall Street Journal. Well, you are wrong. Long ago I recognized the importance of being a well rounded individual. Not only do I take care of my body, but I also take care of my mind. The reason men want to be me and their women want to be with me is because of this. This and that I am recognized around the globe as the foremost expert on man on woman sensuality.

It’s like last night at Angles. Indulging my pan-gallic chauvinism, I order a Gratinée de Coquilles St Jacques and Rognons au d’éléphant flambés au Madère and a Juniper Green Organic Gin and Thyroxine to wash it all down. I’m not there 10 minutes and there is Jim. He needs more techniques. His lover is getting bored. Demanding I suppose. I say, “Jim, You tried the Uchchushita?” He’s all, “What are you talking about,” and “I can’t even spell that. What is that?” I’m, “Babe. It’s dynamite. Cup, lift her young buttocks, let your tongue-tip probe her navel, slither down to rotate skillfully in the archway of the love-god's dwelling and lap her love-water: that is Uchchushita." And Jim, he’s all, “Holy crap that is good. But what about me?”

This is Jim’s problem. And frankly it is the problem of many of the prehensile milquetoasts of craigslist. “Jim,” I say, “you don’t want to be that guy, the ‘I love women big rear-end-all race no problem guy.’ You want to be a special guy.” Jim’s all, “Yea, you’re right.” So I’m, “OK, start with the Uchchushita, then the Jihva-bhramanaka. First, cleave asunder that archway with your nose and let your tongue gently probe her yoni with your nose, lips and chin slowly circling. Never fails.” Jim’s taking notes. “Last,” I say,” go in for the kill: Mausala.” Jim’s, “Mausala?” I’m, “Mausala. Stiff as a pole in the bed's center, you make love to your woman, she’s cooing and warbling like a woodpigeon, the jewel of her clitoris well-polished. This is Mausala. And this is your goal.” Jim’s, “Thanks.” Me? I’m hoping he doesn’t fuck it up.

Me? Well rounded. Well traveled in Maryland. Eater of endangered species. Ripped definition. A total force of nature. Keeper of the secrets of man on woman sensuality. You? Tired of those selfish one-trick ponies of craigslist? You know where to write.