So I'm walking back to the office, and I walk past a guy with this great hat. It says, “WINE 'EM, DINE 'EM, 69 'EM.” Man, I thought to myself. Now there's a guy that must get a ton of play. He must beat 'em off with a stick. [When he's not wining, dining, or 69-ing 'em.] A bold, and apparently effective--if mutually delivered oral gratification is your goal--dating strategy like that deserves a closer look.
WINE 'EM
Clearly the first step in any amorous activities is plying your date with copious amounts of mind-altering chemicals. In this case, alcohol is the chosen drug, specifically wine, which has a “classy” air about it, even when poured out of a box. However, I'd like to suggest that this might be a symbolic placeholder for any drug which lowers the inhibitions, for the sake of a catchy pneumonic device. “Roofie 'em, Dine 'em, and 69 'em” just doesn't have the same ring to it, ne-c'est pas?
DINE 'EM
Step two is a little more revolutionary. To my mind, this step has more to do with impressing your date with your cultural savoir faire than the effect that the dining experience will have on your dates booze-debilitated body. Why kill the buzz by dumping a bunch of food on top of it? Certainly projectile vomiting would be a bumpy side-road to get lost on whilst heading up the onramp to Rte. 69, the Superhighway of Suck. While I don't purport to understand the full theory behind this paradigm-shifting headgear, I will suggest that the Dine 'Em step be handled with the greatest care. Perhaps a fancy fine dining place where miniscule, yet aesthetically pleasing portions are offered, and an underfed and ill-tempered Frenchman will happily check your “WINE 'EM, DINE 'EM, 69 'EM” hat while your date smiles broadly enough to cause the retainer to drop out of her mouth while she exclaims, “Gosh [Your Name Here], you sure are classy!”
Also keep in mind that introducing a turgid, fleshy probe into the aforementioned oral entryway which is connected via esophagus to a full stomach, but not before passing a little-known organ called the uvula, well…it could be risky. Then again, so could booze on an empty stomach. Maybe the “Dine 'Em” edict is simply to suggest a temporal gap between the fast and furious quest for inebriation that initiates the encounter, and the tongues akimbo fellatio fandango that, God willing, brings the evening to fruition. By all means, if it seems to be merely a case of settling the sloshing, head to the nearest 24 hour doughnut emporium and throw some doughnut holes down her gullet.
[I say “her,” but please, don't let the sad sexism of English pronouns bring you down. I would be more than happy to accommodate any ladies willing to place me on the receiving end of such a visionary courtship plan. I don't drink, however, so we may have to use near beer for the first part. I promise to act drunk.]
69 'EM
Is this as foreplay to the flagrante delicto? The “beast with two backs” as Shakespeare called it? Or, for those of you inclined to the modern idiom, “the hobby horse,” as Judd Hirsch says in the John Hughes coming of age opus, The Breakfast Club. (Not to be confused with every other John Hughes coming of age opus. He sure did milk us for our allowance when we were teens, huh?) Or am I just hopelessly animalistic, regressive, reptile-brained, yang-oriented, and thoroughly, shamelessly male to think that penile/vaginal penetration is the ultimate destination of the Love Bus? Fucking is so fin de siecle (“end of the century,” for you Ramones fans/ non-French speakers). Making out replaced it in 2000 and had a good run, but, if our friend's prophetic hat bodes anything for our collective romantic proclivities, the new millennium will henceforth be dedicated to oral.
As an HIV test counselor, I can tell you that oral sex (“oral not sex” if you're President Clinton) ranks relatively low on the risk continuum. At least in terms of contracting HIV. May I suggest no vigorous tooth brushing or flossing beforehand-you don't want to make your gums bleed. In terms of other maladies of Venus, however-you can still get just about anything else through oral sex. Warts, hepatitis, black hairy tongue, herpes, who knows what all. Herpes, Jesus. What is this, 1981? No one worries about anything that won't kill them anymore. Dive in there, Sparky! This is the moment you've been waiting for, there's no time to be finicky.
IN CONCLUSION
I can't tell you who's the bigger visionary: the cloistered philosopher who came up with that saying/stratagem, the intrepid designer who followed his heart and had it screened in puff ink on a mesh hat cobbled together by a preteen Malaysian, or the Sidewalk Superstar who had the foresight to pick a winner, and the cojones to turn his dreams into reality.
Hats off to you, good gentlefolk.
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