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The one that got away I remember a term a friend told me. Blututan. As in Bluetooth-an. Bluetooth-ing. As if it’s a verb. Meaning sitting around in Starbucks, turning your Bluetooth on and sending whatever. Of course, your pics, your music, or anything you send out would also be caught be anyone who would happen to also have their thing on. Best experienced with friends giggling around. In the spirit of fun, likesay. I read somewhere that in Britain, there’s such a thing as “toothing,” or Bluetooth-enabled hook-ups. A guy or a girl would be somewhere, like a train or something, and he or she’d turn her Bluetooth-capable gadget (like a phone or something) and send out something like, “Toothing?” And then some other person by chance also has his or her Bluetooth toy on, and when hormones flick appointments are set.
It was described as a “craze.” It’s a new form of anonymous sex. Some say it’s more exciting than sex-eyeballing in chat, because you know for a fact that your “partner” is within a 10-meter radius from you. Plus it’s free. Imagine the possibilities. It’s, and I quote, “...employing expensive, complex toys to find the most basic form of entertainment.” Touché. Makes you want to cash in on it. Like what most money-hungry opportunists would do to texting, music, sex.... And they have entire websites dedicated to toothing. Some of them in German. Gee, when would this catch on in DaPilipens, you ask? You horny little thing, you. What’s so nice about anonymous sex? If you ask, you probably haven’t had any. Then again, it’s not really a thing one would readily admit, wouldn’t it? At least not usually. By “usually” I mean at least in my circle of friends. It’s like having the guts to buy disposable porn off the streets. When sex comes to you, let it lord over you. Like when you’re in love, the world is but a blur. Like, world-blur-I-have-had-anonymous-sex-blur-world. In that particular order. Then again, sometimes, it’s not really that. You meet up. You talk. You ask for each other’s names. You ask what she does for a living. You ask what school she came from. You ask if she has kids. You quickly ask if she’s married. So much for anonymity. The one night stand. Some say it’s different, mainly by virtue of where it starts. One night stands can’t begin in chat rooms or via toothing. They start in social places. Like bars. Well, supposedly. If you’re too technical, you’d say, “hell this can happen with friends!” Tsk tsk. One spots the other. One buys the other a drink. They chat. As in talk. One flirts. The other hopefully would flirt back. Pheromones would ooze. Sometimes, pre-cum would, too. Panties would get wet, and it’s off to whoever’s place it is. It’s supposed to be more traditional. You use more of your brain and less technology. But then, there’s the flesh trade. Need cash? I need pussy. Wanna swap? This time it’s a bit less personal. Little pussies for hire. No personal questions necessary. Investigative journalism discouraged. Forget your RELSONE (or CL, if you’re still in high school; and “Religion Class” if you’re totally confused with what I mean.) and stick you schtick into my (what rhymes with schtick?) twat. I could say a few oh yeahs if you pay me a little more. Business and sex. Again. Point is, it happens. Anonymous sex, in whatever form. Thing is not to have the other as a friend (as defined here). Maybe you’ll be friends later, but not before. To some, this is stock knowledge. To some, this is imagined stock knowledge. To some, this is “like brushing my teeth” type of knowledge. To some, this is “reeeeeeeeeaallyyy!?!?!” Interesting questions come from the interested. Maybe it’s time somebody else write something about this (ha!). No, really, it’s an interesting feeling. Almost fascinating. Something magical to it if you do it the first time. I’m talking about anonymous sex. Then comes the interested’s question: What if you want more out of it? Yea, what if? What if you felt a connection? What if you felt that you wanted something more from her? What if you felt like she also wants something more from you? Not love, stupid. At least not necessarily. Don’t let that Pretty Woman bullshit get into your head. Not that it couldn’t happen, I mean. But anyways, what if you wanted to meet up again? Even just for the company? The cuddling? The warmth? The thrill? The novelty of it all? What if you miss that feeling that you were a man? I mean a real man. Someone who made some girl’s fantasy come true. Someone who was a sweating, drooling, steaming sexual toy summoned by the queen ant to fulfill her essence as a woman. Someone who in turn fulfilled his own essence as an entity with a spitting piece of red hot meat. Makes you hungry more than it makes your meat throb. Good thing we have that analogy to come by. If ever this happens to you, you’re screwed. You end up regretting you didn’t get her number, and if you did, you’d end up frustrated why you got her number wrong, and even delirious if she gave her number wrong on purpose. A piece of hot meat lets a throbbing dick un-throb. So go get some spam, choke chewing on it, and be the slob that you are. And go read BusinessWorld. Article written by: Iñigo Mortel Iñigo's stuff are also posted in http://nyigs.blogspot.com. Wherever's his stuff's posted first, he doesn't care.  Recommend this article to a friend! Have a comment on this article? Send it
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(Where do I get this kind of stuff? Try BusinessWorld. Yes, it’s a newspaper. And yes, those things can contain things like this. Business and sex? Who knew? So go get rid of your cigarette and start another habit.)