January 4th, 2012


Fisting Myself

I usually enjoy a single finger. And really, who doesn't? There's nothing obscene about it. One finger establishes thyself on the more prudent side of that fine line between class and crass. I have had more fun with single-finger action than I am willing to admit here. This is not to say of course that on occasion two fingers is not entirely acceptable.

Two fingers almost always means a good time - no matter what position you're in, but can be a little reckless in the wrong company. I'm not going to go so far as to suggest you ask permission, but you need to be able to read the situation. It can dramatically alter the mood, and quickly - both for better or for worse, so be prepared before you get in over your head.

Which brings me to the topic at hand - fisting; the granddaddy of all eyebrow raising endeavors. This technique has elevated some nations, and brought others to their knees. And not just on a national level, for what is a nation outside the collective nature of its individuals? If there's a fine line between class and crass, fisting is a thermonuclear blast which always levels the playing field, and I should know, because while I'm always conscious of the eventuality, I don't wear its desire around my neck like a gaudy lavalier.

But this past weekend, I got damn close.

A finger of Scotch just didn't do it for me, and I very nearly went "all in."