Cunnilingus

Cunnilingus: (n) the act of orally stimulating the female genitals

I never try to fix my light switch when there’s an electrician in the room.

I know this sounds like an obvious statement, but we know there are individuals who are so sure of their own ability that they would go ahead and fix the light switch with an electrician nearby.

Perhaps they would consider it initiative.

Maybe they would insist it was a showcase of their self-confidence.

But as for me, I think it’s arrogant, shortsighted, and can result in a light switch that does not work.

For thousands of years, we have viewed human sexuality through the peep hole of the male penis.

Movies, songs, books, conversation—all have insisted that if a woman can be dominated by an erection and adequately tosseled through intercourse, she will be delighted—and also submissive.

The fact that nothing could be further from the truth does not seem to hinder the proliferation of this idea. It has been my finding that the best person to talk to about human sexuality is a woman. Just as I would trust an electrician with my lighting concerns—because he knows the inner workings of the wiring much better than me—I likewise would listen to a lady explain how her wiring works.

If a woman is not sexually engaged and passionately involved, then sexual intercourse can quickly become boring, perfunctory, and appear to be a male-controlled activity, only bringing ultimate satisfaction to the man-person.

We live in a society that still giggles, sweats and becomes extraordinarily nervous when the word cunnilingus is said aloud.

Although a woman would probably tell you that stimulating her genitalia through making direct physical contact with the clitoris with fingers or tongues is an extremely strong provider of an orgasm, men still insist that they do it with their penis, which has proven to be a much clumsier and ineffective apparatus.

A side note:

I once sat in a workshop in which a young man was giving a report on speaking in tongues—and he unfortunately had confused the word cunnilingus with the word glossolalia. Half the audience was unaware, and the other half of us did not know whether to burst out laughing or sit very still—to protect the young man from the memory of a life-long trauma.

Yet, even when I’m involved in glossolalia, I always use cunnilingus if I want to satisfy my lover.

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Crop Up

Crop up: (v) to bear or yield a crop; the result

Occasionally, I find myself sitting in a meeting with people from a ‘planning committee,’ and because a certain subject has drawn extensive conversation and disagreement, the chairman of the event will close off the topic by remarking:

“Well, let’s just see what might crop up.”

It is one of those statements we make when we think further debate is more tedious than something that might attack us because we did not prepare for it. Of course, often we are either too smart or too intimidated to settle for such an ambiguous assertion.

For instance, if four or five of my friends and I were standing at the bottom of a mountain, and someone said, “Let’s just climb up,” and one of my buddies responded, “But we don’t have a rope and we’re old and out of shape.” Then if another fellow piped up to object, “Listen, let’s just get started and see what crops up,” truthfully, we would not follow that advice.

Certainly, when we were younger and experimenting with our sexual loins and we became so excited that we were ready to indulge in intercourse with another human being and this partner said, “I hope you don’t mind—I have chlamydia,” the normal reaction would most definitely not be, “That’s ok. Let’s just see what crops up.”

What I’m trying to say is that there are moments when we are of sound mind—even when we seem to be possessed of unsound intentions.

So why can’t we make voting one of those?

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C


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Cocaine

Cocaine: (n) an addictive drug derived from coca

Some folks might find me very interesting if I talked about my use of cocaine or my addiction. But even though it was plentiful in Nashville, Tennessee, in the 1970s, and I was offered the white dust frequently, I passed.

Now, I did not decline because I was self-righteous or anti-drugs. I passed because of the reasons I was given to snort.

“You’ve gotta try it, man. It makes you more creative, it makes you more horny and it makes sex feel twice as good.”

That’s some pretty heavy-duty advertising. But I went down the list:

I did not want to be creative because a drug expanded the walls of my arteries and forced blood to my brain. I wanted creativity to come from a different place in me. I wanted it to be real. I wanted it to be mine. I was jealous. I didn’t want cocaine taking credit for my writing.

I didn’t want to be more horny. The danger of being more horny is that you start screwing people you don’t care for all that much. I like a little romance with my sex, if you don’t mind. I did not want cocaine picking out my sex partners.

And you can call me conventional, or too well-satisfied, but I have found that the big bang available at the culmination of the sex act is quite enough for me.

Of course, the danger is that if you convince yourself that you need cocaine to have good sex, the intercourse, which would be very beneficial to your health, might be greatly diminished by the cocaine, which is similar to setting off a hand-grenade near your heart.

Beware of those who always want more.

Honestly, I don’t settle for anything–but I do have the capability of “gettin’ my own” without taking a hit from anyone or anything.

 

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Chat

Chat: (v) to talk in a friendly and informal way.

To me, “chat” always seemed like a shortened version of another word. But it isn’t. I thought maybe it was short for “Chatterley.” But that was some lady with a lover.

I used to have a friend who tried to lessen his anger by telling me that he wanted to sit down and “have a chat.” I was always aware that this
was bad news. His definition of “chatting” was to begin quietly and end screaming. But I guess I have to give him points for trying.

What is a chat?

It is a collection of words not worthy to be called a “talk.”

It is so lacking in value that it doesn’t even get to be considered a “discussion.”

God knows it’s not an “insight.”

And certainly it isn’t an “intercourse” (which should never be used to describe a conversation. Some words only have one meaning.)

“Chat” seems to be infested with a spirit of nonsense–a sensation of insignificance.

It’s the kind of thing where someone says, “Did you see Aunt Myrtle?” and I reply, “We chatted”–to which everyone frowns and thinks, “Oh. Not much there.”

For instance, you would not refer to it as “The Gettysburg Chat.”

Or “The Chat on the Mount.”

No one goes for “marriage chatting.”

Chatting just don’t get no respect.

It is the Rodney Dangerfield of verbiage.

 

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Chafe

Chafe: (v) to make a part of the body sore by rubbing against it.

In the pursuit of complete transparency, wisdom dictates that some subjects still remain opaque. In other words, keep it to yourself.

I can think of a few:

I don’t want to hear about your bowel movements.

Maybe every once in a while late at night with a really close friend, the subject might offer some entertainment value, but overall, keep your
fiber intake private.

Here’s another one: your sexual prowess.

Please don’t even allude to it. Don’t get in mixed company and talk about how you were voted the best kisser in your senior class as you peer around the room to see if all the hearers have truly heard. I admit, it is rare to find any human being who will be truly honest about their weakness in the bedroom, but please, don’t tell me a bunch of stories or offer affidavits from satisfied customers.

Here’s another one: make your faith in God a visual thing that I can perceive by watching your actions, instead of something you need to recite in detail to make sure you have truly and completely fulfilled your obligation to testify.

Religion should not be personal, but rather, very public–because we live it out. But if living it out is not enough for you to make your point, then passing out pamphlets probably won’t improve your chances.

There are many others I could mention, but let me close by saying that you should probably not discuss how or how often you chafe.

I am an obese man, so my thighs have been known to have unnecessary intercourse with one another during the day, leaving them red and raw. But you don’t need to hear me discuss it or request possible remedies.

Weakness is a good thing if nearly everyone in the room shares it in common and can immediately identify with it.

But if your skinny friends have never chafed, they will probably have neither interest nor sympathy for your red, glowing, puffy legs.

 

 

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Cellar

Cellar: (n) a room below ground level in a house

I could probably write a large volume of underground stories about cellars. Many things come to my mind.

One particular fascinating and disgusting example happened the Thanksgiving of my senior year in high school.

I had a girlfriend. That in itself was momentous. We had begun our highschool affair and had progressed beyond light petting to flirting with
some heavy petting, moving quickly towards petting at will.

So I picked her up on Thanksgiving evening and brought her over to my home. We stood around for a few minutes, talking with parents, though my mind was on bringing her down to the cellar, where we could make out on a couch normally reserved for the dog. (I wasn’t terribly concerned about comfort nor fragrance–really just availability.)

We had agreed not to have sex in the same fashion that teenagers promise their parents that they won’t ride the roller coaster at Disney World.

Trying to stay loyal to our promise of no intercourse, for which we would have no recourse, we just kind of laid there on the couch, rubbing up against each other ferociously. (I realize that such movement has a street name, but it sounds so coarse and really doesn’t capture the full energy and excitement of the event.)

Suddenly, in the midst of a back–or perhaps it was a forth–she pushed me away, leaped to her feet, jumped on her hands and knees and threw up all over the cellar floor.

I was surprised.

Apparently, the gyrations had disagreed with the turkey and dressing or angered some cranberry sauce.

But I learned something about myself. First, I would never be able to keep my promise to not have sex. But secondly, I found out that I cared very deeply for this young friend, because I got down on my hands and knees and cleaned up her throw-up.

I didn’t enjoy it. It felt sacrificial. But I did it.

She was embarrassed, impressed and touched. I was relieved it was in the cellar instead of the dining room.

I don’t think anybody ever knew about the event that night, when my girlfriend threw up…because apparently she was sick of me.

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