From the monthly archives:

July 2008

How To Kiss A Boy and/or a Girl

2 Boys + 2 Girls = 8 Juicy Lips. Picture this: New York City. A couple months ago. I meet my friend Irene in this tiny, dingy place near Times Square with stained glass paneling decor that serves up pub food like crunchy french fries & red ketchup on cold white plates. When I arrive, I see sexy Irene perched on a brown wooden stool. She’s flanked by two Dutchmen I’ll simply call Alex and Jorrit because they gave me permission to use their real first names.

Alex is typically Dutch — very tall with thick blonde hair and thin lips. He’s “appropriate” in his introduction, shaking my hand firmly & dotting the gesture with a warm smile and extended blink. Though he’s covering his body with denim jeans and a white polo shirt, I assume the 30-something gentleman wears a suit on weekdays and works in finance. “I am Alex,” he greets me in accented English. “Ik spreek wel Nederlands, hoor,” I respond politely telling him it’s okay to speak his mother tongue. “Wij kunnen in het Nederlands praten.” His face brightens. Everyone loves to be spoken to in their own language.

Alex’s wingman/sidekick/friend is called Jorrit (pronunced kinda like tag, you’re it.) The tagman seems an inch or two taller than his friend, more expressive with his hands and extremely flirty. But, I don’t think Jorrit is trying to pick anyone up. He just seems like the deliciously horny type who enjoys the best of life’s pleasures — fashion, women, fine wines, tasty beers, and well-prepared international cuisines. Hmmm … Trouble. I kinda have a “thing” for the Dutch. Irene and I both lived in Holland (that country where you’ll find Amsterdam). If my memory serves me well, we teased the Dutch boys like this in Midtown that day:

Irene: “Dutch boys can’t kiss for shit!”
Twanna: “Maybe, that’s true … But Dutch boys typically have really nice lips!” [ Exhibit A , B , C and OMFG!!! ]
Irene: [laughs] “Imagine that! You’ve got the tools, but you don’t know how to use them?”

Fast forward to the present. I hope you’re all sitting down for this, because what I’m about to say is really really very important. I think EVERYONE who reads Funky Brown Chick should know how to kiss. It’s a skill. It’s not that difficult to master, but once you’ve got your advanced lip and tongue muscle maneuvers down, you’ll notice a HUGE difference in your sex & dating life. Soooooooo, without further ado, I present you with detailed instructions courtesy of wikiHow‘s “How to French Kiss” as well as VideoJug’s action-packed kissing video. Enjoy!

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NOTE: No kisses were exchanged during my time with Jorrit, Alex and Irene. Irene and I are friends, and Alex & Jorrit were visiting tourists that I didn’t see again. We all swapped emails, and Alex recently sent me a message casually mentioning the boys noticed I never wrote about them. Well, voila! Genieten van de “kissing video” en groeten vanuit New York!! :)

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{ 17 folks got down with the Funky Brown }

The Dude Who Wanted to Kiss My Vajayjay

Oh. yes. It happens. Rare. But, it does indeed happen. Ever so often, some guy asks, “Why didn’t you blog about [insert random event]?” Scratch that. I lied. People aren’t usually that direct. It’s typically something like: “Ooooh, sooooo I notice you didn’t blog about X. I was, you know, wondering what you thought about that.” Exhibit A. My platonic manfriend John Li asked me if he could put his tongue on my hoo-ha because he wanted me to evaluate his technique. Did I blog about that? Not then. Was he disappointed? Apparently. So, by way of example, I’ll tell you the full story now.

I used to regularly hang out with John and this chick Chrissy Chan. I still see Chrissy, but I haven’t seen John in ages. Anyway, so, John, Chrissy, another dude and I went out for drinks and the four of us ended up at John’s place in Midtown East drinking scotch from little ice-filled glasses. John had to pee. I accompanied him to his bathroom. Kisses (but nothing else) exchanged. When we came out of the bathroom, figuring John and I wanted to be alone, Chrissy and the other dude disappeared. Moments later, horizontal on his fluffy couch with the big pillows, John was on top of me and we were kissing by sticking each others’ tongues in our mouths. My pencil skirt was hiked up as I felt his erection pressing against my white lacy panties on the other side of his dark blue jeans. Sandwiched between my warm brown legs, John asked me if he could go down on me.

“Nope.”

“Why not? I wanna know if I’m any good at it. I figure you’re the expert.”

“Why would I be an expert at eating snatch?”

“No, silly, I mean an expert at telling guys how to do it.”

John had a girlfriend, and I had weird ideas about cheating. Had I cheated on any of my boyfriends? Absolutely not. And, as far as I knew, no one had ever cheated on me. But, would I cheat with someone’s boyfriend? Sure. Been there, done that. I thought maintaining relationships was like housekeeping. I kept my relationship “house” organized a certain way, but I didn’t judge others for their preferences. Hmmm … That was a respectable adult answer no? If you wanted even more honesty, I’d tell you this: In a really sick and twisted way, I think messing around with “taken” boys was a self-preservation thing. When I did it, I think I fooled myself: “See, look, selfless love isn’t for real. EVERYONE cheats.” So, prefering my side of the equation, I justified it was better to be single bedding a cheat than dating & sleeping with a cheater.

I loved hot Asian guys, all hot guys actually. So, why didn’t I let John go down on me? My best answer? I didn’t know. I guess part of me wanted something more. For the moment, I needed to believe somewhere in New York City there was a man who enjoyed my company enough to desire it for his own. The next morning, I didn’t blog about John. But, because girl talk reveals all, I told Chrissy that our little friend John asked me if he could kiss my vajayjay. Chrissy told me John had already been to my blog, and he was dissapointed that I didn’t mention him.  Her witty response to John? “I told him, ‘You couldn’t have been that good or else Twanna would’ve wrote about you’.” I didn’t tell Chrissy she’d have to ask John’s girlfriend about his prowess because I wouldn’t know.

Hot damn that felt  good. I’m kinda in a blabby, tell-all mood about the guys I’ve encountered in the city. I’ll be back tomorrow with another post about a dude who wondered why I never wrote about him. Two dudes, actually. Dutch dudes. Alex and Joritt. I met them several weeks back while out with my friend Irene. 2 Girls. 2 Guys. 1 shared connection to Holland. Did we have a foursome? Hardly. But, we did talk about, well, you know, kissing. Hmmmm …. More about THAT tomorrow.

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Photo credit: Image originally uploaded by Scott Snyder

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{ 18 folks got down with the Funky Brown }

Manly Monday: Twelve Angry Men

I’ve been summoned for jury duty. Typically, I was able to get out of it because I never lived and voted in the same place. I was an absentee ballot voter for AGES. Now that I live, work and vote in New York (and I have an NY driver’s license), I’ve been summoned. There’s wifi in the juror’s holding room, hence I’m able to blog. But, needless to say, I’m pretty sure they don’t want me to blog about any details of the case — that’s if I’m selected. Right now, we’re all just waiting.

Part of me wants to be selected because it seems like the right thing to do. I started out pre-law in college, and several of my friends are lawyers. I have a really strong sense of right and wrong, fair and unfair. I’m lovin’ on the walls of justice. Plus, you know, I liked shows like Perry Mason and Cold Case. (Sidenote: I’ve named each of my fists — though, I’ve not selected “truth” and “justice.” My right fist is “Jackie Chan” and the left is “Chris Tucker.” But, I disgress.) That said, part of me really doesn’t want to be selected for the jury. What if it’s something really gruesome and horrible? I sooo don’t wanna look at pictures of mutilated children or some random shit like that.  :(

In the end, I’m pretty sure everyone sitting in the room with me right now feels the same way. Some really wanna be picked, some really don’t want to and most probably fall somewhere in the middle. How about you? Picture this: You open your mailbox and realize ‘re summoned for jury duty via that little red and white trifold paper. Do you: (A) scream “hell yeah” and get really excited about performing your civic duty or (B) scream “oh, fuck no!!” and try to get out of it?

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{ 18 folks got down with the Funky Brown }

Found A Random Video: License to Fornicate

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{ 14 folks got down with the Funky Brown }

Kind Kisses: Friends with Benefits

By now, you’ve probably seen the brilliant “Your Handy Guide to Friends with Benefits” my lovely pals over at Boinkology cooked up. I see absolutely no problem with sexing it up with a bud of a different (or same if that’s your inclination) sex as long as neither one wants it to be something more. I have male friends, and I’ve slept with a few of them. Rewind to Millenium Park in Chicago. Four year ago. My friend … um, fuck, I should give him a fake name … Let’s call him Biffo.

“She won’t leave me alone,” Biffo says as he pops a cold purple grape in his mouth. We’ve slipped a small blanket topped with a bottle of red wine, gouda cheese, strawberries and grapes between us and the grass. We’re waiting for the summer outdoor classical music concert to begin.

“Who won’t leave you alone?” I ask wondering which of Biffo’s many psychopathic / fucked up / wacko floozies is the culprit now. He likes ‘em crazy. He once told me: Having a crazy girlfriend is like having a wild African tiger as a pet. The other guys have cute little kitties named “Precious”, but I have a tiger. Apparently this tiger’s name in Ayalah.

“Ayalah,” he tells me.

“Who’s Ayalah?”

“Ayalah’s this Israeli girl I met over break. She’s a stripper. We were friends but then we began sleeping together and now she won’t leave me alone.”

We talk about Biffo and Ayalah’s (supposedly) past sex life. He tells me that he broke it off with her, and I assume he’s telling the truth. When we’re both single and horny, Biffo and I sleep together. We’re adults. He knows that I’ve slept with other people in my past, and I know he has too. But something seems off about his Ayalah story. “What do you mean?” I ask.

“I told her that I don’t want to see her anymore. I don’t like her. I just want to be friends, but she won’t get in through her head that we’re not going to date. It’s like I see it in her eyes. She still has hope. And, she keeps calling me,” he rubs his temples, “She’s always calling me.”

“Well, stop fucking her,” I laugh at the absurdity.

“Why do you assume I’m still sleeping with her?” Biffo asks before growing really quiet.

“Sweetie, I know women. If this woman keeps calling you … If you’re telling her that you only wanna be friends but she think it’s something more, it’s because you’re obviously still sleeping with her.”

“You think you know everything,” Biffo says in that I’m-angry-but-I-don’t-wanna-show-it voice.

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Sleeping with her?”

“No.”

“No since when?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean when’s the last time she sucked your dick or you slipped your penis inside of her. Has she tugged you off? I mean, ‘When’s the last time or you did anything sexual?’” If he wants to throw me silly questions, I’ll play his game. Besides, I know men. If you don’t ask for specifics, you’ll get a mush of nondescript answers. ;)

“Last Tuesday.”

“You slept with this chick last Tuesday?!?!”

Biffo doesn’t respond.

“No wonder she thinks she’s still got a shot!”

The concert starts and Biffo barely speaks to me for the rest of the evening. He hates it that I know women better than he does. ;)

Here’s a question for you today, my lovely readers: Do you think it’s possible for two people who find each other sexually attractive (and who’ve slept with each other) to maintain a friendship after the sex stops? I’m especially curious to see if there’s any pattern in guys’ opinions on the topics vs. womens.’ You know the drill; use the comments section to share your thoughts on the matter.

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Photo credit: Image appears online at Boinkology. Click to go to the original article.

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{ 32 folks got down with the Funky Brown }

Manly Monday: Why Do Men Date GILFs, MILFs and Other Older Women?

“Harold is 20, very rich and very suicidal. Maude is 79¾, very poor and so full of a sympathetic life-force that she grieves for a small tree, suffocating in the city’s pollution,” reads the original 1971 New York Times review of Hal Ashby’s cult classic Harold and Maude. Great flick. Rent it if you haven’t seen it. Best part? The hot cougar-on-cub GILF sex scene. Soooo worth it. Wondering “what does GILF stand for?” Let’s just say it’s a grandma I’d like to … “Whaaaaa? He boinks a grandma?” Yep.

Why this topic today? Well, like every Monday here at the brown (funky brown that is), it’s Manly Monday. I wanna talk about younger men who date older women because I recently randomly stumbled upon Wikipedia’s age disparity in sexual relationships page. (EVERYTHING is on that site these days, but that’s a topic for a different post.) Anyway, so, halfway down the page, I see the “motives” section. Factors leading into a search for a younger individual with whom to share an intimate relationship can vary wildly, they say. A common perception is that younger mates serve the purpose of a ‘trophy’, or object of status. Hmmm … methinks they had older men / younger women pairings in mind. After all, no one ever accuses older women who date younger men of hunting for ‘trophy husbands’ do they?

Long ago, circa 2001, I used to think men who lusted after older women had unresolved mommy issues. Now, I don’t believe those dudes are pathological at all. I think some men just like their women older. Period. But, I’m curious … Any guys out there have a preference for older women? Ladies, any of you have a preference for younger men? And, if so, why? I typically like younger men because they’re less likely to have exwives, “my exgirlfriend damaged me” issues, kids or other drama. Y’all know I can’t stand kids — unless, of course, they’re my nephews. But, I digress. So, spill it: Besides the sex, why do you think younger men and older women hook up?

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Related funky brown posts:

PS: Hope you all enjoyed great weekends!!! In case you were wondering what I did … I spent Friday night chowing on Dos Caminos‘ mole covered enchiladas and sipping margaritas with Kathy, Bro and Nashwa. Saturday, I saw The Last Mistress by myself, brunched at Rafaella in Chelsea with Desiree, went with Rachel and Nichelle to witness Neal Medlyn’s bulge in tighty whities and had Pinkberry fro-yo with Julie followed by drinks with a boy at Turks & Frogs down in the West Village. Sunday, I rested. Brunch with Karlyn and Bro followed by a quiet evening vegging at home.

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{ 18 folks got down with the Funky Brown }

Single People: Would You Eat Alone at a Restaurant?

Last night. By myself. I have a horrible habit of overbooking. I somehow agreed to: (1) see a DJ acquaintance spin from 6:00 – 10:00pm at a rooftop party in Midtown East, (2) go to Mitch’s 7:30pm private party in Midtown West and (3) drop by my friend Rachel’s 8:00pm erotic reading series at Happy Ending in LES. Three parties in two hours. If you don’t know Manhattan, Midtown East to Midtown West to LES is like one great big zigzag across the island — leaping from finance guys to high school punk kids to edgy writers to wannabe poser hipsters, etc, etc. In the end, I only went to the DJ thing. While there, I bumped into a woman I used to work with ages ago. Hadn’t seen her in months. She looked great. Jet black hair against her butterscoth face, trendy pair of fitted dark jeans, a multi-strand necklace that sparkled with jewels, trendy high heels and a tight white sleeveless T-shirt. We spent hours talking about her career in animation, dishing dirt about the boys we’d dated, dancing our asses off to brilliantly spun house music and programming each other’s new contact info into our tiny little cell phones. At 9ish, we parted and I walked to Mitch’s event. I got there around 9:30ish, but there was a line of high-heeled, short-skirted women waiting behind a velvet rope. They batted their mascara-dipped eyelashes at the suit-clad bouncer.

“Oh,” I said mumbled to myself as I walked to the corner and entered a restaurant, “I sooo don’t have time for that shit.” I didn’t mind the short skirts and heels, I just don’t do the whole “stand in line” thing anymore. I’ve been partying since I was 15 years old; I used to charm door guys / bouncers into letting me cut to the front of the line. I felt really special every time I got in. I thought skipping to the front meant I was prettier, thinner, younger, more popular and sexier than the other people in line. More than a decade later, I stopped tying my self worth to shit like that. I think the change happened sometime around the year I swapped out “drinking buddies” for “friends.”

It was almost 10pm and I hadn’t eaten since my tapas-style lunch. I kept walking from the front to the end of the line and then I kept going till I reached the block’s corner. There, I dipped into a French restaurant (I forget its name) filled with small, wooden tables set for two with matching white linen napkins as well as paired off forks, knives and spoons. “Table for one,” I told the thin white hostess with messy hair. She grabbed a menu and lead me to a dark corner on the north west side of the place. I sat and grabbed a book out of my purse. When the pretty black waitress with the white shirt and dark pants arrived, I ordered the Australian steak special with mushroom pie. “Anything to drink?” she asked. “Water,” I answered skipping the typical glass of din-din red wine. I wouldn’t have minded drinking alone, but I’d already had enough beers handed to me at the DJ party earlier in the evening; I didn’t wanna drink anymore alcohol. I ate as I read aged, yellowed, paperback pages of Michael Ryan’s memoir “Secret Life” borrowed from my friend Royal Young less than a week ago. Eating alone. I’m a fan of it because I enjoy the solitude during an otherwise hectic schedule. What say you about eating alone? “YEP, I do it all the time” or “NOPE, if I wanna eat by myself I’ll order take out hang out at home”. Feel freel to use the comments section to share your thoughts.


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Photo Credit: Vito Covalucci. Tuscon, AZ

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{ 36 folks got down with the Funky Brown }

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