27th Wedding Anniversary!
Length 01:42:34 Date: Apr. 13th, 2019
It’s our 27th wedding anniversary!
Actually, it’s the day after our 27th wedding anniversary, which Capt’n Max and I spent together, just the two of us, gazing upon lush green and “purple mountain majesties” and saying corny things to each other about who loves whom “more.”
We also went swimming (well, I went swimming), drank champagne, ate delicious lobster and bad oysters, watched really bad TV, and had great, loving, lusty SEX!
Oh sure, it was old-people sex; not very athletic, but ultra-orgasmic!
Some things get better with age, even some sexual things.
Other things don’t. After a really good orgasm, watch out for those foot cramps!
Don’t Wash Your Oysters!
We checked ourselves into the DoubleTree by Hilton Monrovia, a decent, corporate hotel with an unexciting style, helpful staff, odd room design, great pool and a really great bed. We spent the best hours of our day and night in that bed, and maybe never should have left it.
And we practically never did! But we got hungry, so we sauntered next-door to Red Lobster, which cooks up a pretty good crustacean. It’s pretty awful to look at the poor lobsters being tortured with rubber-band-bound claws trapped in a tank. But my hunger and desire for the luscious texture and savory flavor overcame my disgust with seeing dinner displayed like it’s on Death Row. I also have a sentimental feelings for lobster, as whenever my Dad wanted to romance my Mom, that’s what he’d take her out to eat, so unless it’s really badly prepared (which this wasn’t), I love it. The Sangria was also scrumptious, with a strawberry (probably genetically engineered, and definitely yummy) the size of my fist perched on the side of the glass.
However, if you like fresh oysters, do not get them at Red Lobster. Ours were preternaturally big and fat, deceiving us into thinking they’d be delicious. But after a listless lick and a bland bite, we realized these so-called oysters didn’t taste like Aphrodite’s pussy like they should. They tasted like tofu, but more tasteless. Apparently, Red Lobster washes their oysters, Max explained, “cleaning” the distinctive flavor of the sea (and the Goddess of Love), along with its aphrodisiac properties, right out of the shell. Never wash oysters, unless you want them to taste like tasteless tofu.
Good thing we weren’t depending on the aphrodisiac properties of good, fresh, zinc-packed, ocean-salty oysters to get us horny.
Great Sex & Game of Thorns
Our Hilton Doubletree “Honors” room (in high school, I was in the Honor Society; now I’m in the HHonors Room… Is that an upgrade?) was on the 7th floor which seemed lucky for the 27th anniversary, about which the internet has nothing special to say except that the gemstone is “jet.” So, the traditionalist that I am, I wore mostly black, which made me look a little like I was going to an imaginary funeral for that creepy “27 Club,” so exclusive it’s populated solely by great souls who died at the age of 27, mostly due to drugs and alcohol, like Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Amy Winehouse. We’re all for good drugs, alcohol and other Dionysian delights, but not to the point of killing ourselves or our marriage. Yikes! Let’s get to the 28th already!
Our room was nice and spacious with a superb view of the mountains, but the furniture was configured so that you didn’t face the windows from the couch or bed; you had to sit on one side of the bed or look at the mountains over the air conditioner with cold air blasting in your face. The oddest thing was that the coffee pot cord didn’t reach the plug. The room seemed to not have been designed by a human, or even a well-programmed computer.
Nevertheless, the bed itself was heavenly which set the stage for that marvelous marital sex. In between rounds, we were dumb enough to turn on the big-screen TV which offered up one extremely violent show after another, Game of Thrones holding our interest for a few minutes more than the others because of the cool dragon character and gorgeous, pensive queen (especially when she mounts the dragon), and the fact that it’s produced by HBO… like our old shows.
But Game of Thrones (which Max kept calling “Game of Thorns”) is the opposite of our show in content, with tons of murder and mayhem and virtually no healthy sex.
I guess that’s why it’s still on HBO, and we’re not.
Bourdain, Fieri & Food vs. Sex TV
He wasn’t in the 27 Club, but before he unceremoniously offed himself, whenever we stayed in a hotel, we’d watch the late, great, sublime-like-fine-wine Anthony Bourdain sampling exotic food, culture and people around the world.
Now the big TV restaurant-whisperer is this slob-next-door type, Guy Fieri. I don’t know if he washes his oysters (take that as you will), but he sure is an uninspiring substitute for Bourdain. It’s true that Bourdain was not a good role model (don’t kill yourselves, kids!), but he made great foody TV.
Capt’n Max and I make great sex TV on a tiny fraction of Bourdain’s—or Fieri’s—budget, but sex is a lot more controversial than food. This is why, pound-for-pound, so many Americans and other “First World” peoples consume tons more calories than we expend. Sex is a fine way to burn calories. You don’t even have to get out of bed for it, but it pushes that heart rate up, even if it’s not too athletic, especially right around orgasm. The Captain and I took turns wondering if we were going to have heart attacks, but no ambulances were called, and here we are.
It may not “just happen” spontaneously like it does when love is young, but having fairly regular sex—even scheduling it, like for your anniversary—as you grow old together is one key to keeping your love alive.
Though love cannot live on sex alone, at least not for 27 years. Fortunately, Max and I enjoy just being together, doing other stuff. Of course, we go our separate ways sometimes, like when I conduct therapy sessions or he goes shopping. But we probably spent more time together just this weekend than Melania and the Donald have since Barron was born. That doesn’t mean we don’t fight sometimes; like bonobos, we do. We just don’t kill each other, try to harm each other, or take prescription drugs in order to put up with each other. Wild, kinky and pansensual as we are, we’re also very much married, constantly recreating the magical, playful romance that brought us together over 27 years ago, sharing everything, baring our bodies and souls, and bearing “witness” to each other’s lives.
But no couple is an island, least of all Max and me, and we are so grateful to everyone—friends, enemies, lovers, collaborators and the rest of the universe—for contributing to our great good fortune and our cause of bonobo love and conservation, especially the constantly evolving core group that populates the place we call Bonoboville.
Thus, much as we hated to leave that lovely hotel bed, we were happy to go home and get ready for our Saturday night live broadcast.
Testing 1, 2, 3… 478,652
It’s our second show in the new Bonoboville, and we’re almost ready to stop calling it “new,” but we’re still testing our broadcasting equipment, some of which just will not work.
PHOTOS: HARRY SAPIEN
Actually, the equipment that’s not working, a complex Sling Studio system, is exceedingly new, arriving on the very day that Max and I were busy having bad oysters and great sex. Our tech department struggled with it valiantly, like Odysseus battling the stormy seas, and “almost” got it to work, like 30 times in 30 different ways, and we could have kept trying another 30 different ways, but we had to ultimately admit defeat and go back to the old one-camera system.
Not that it’s really a “defeat”—though the live broadcast is delayed for almost two hours (I attempt to pass the time by “riding” a stuffed banana, posing with my bonobo gals, and indulging in other silly, slightly stimulating whims)!—because it’s another great show.
Again, we don’t have guests, and it’s a good thing, because the 120-minute holdup would have driven them nuts. As it is, our in-house staff gets dangerously close to completely bonkers, but “the show must go on,” and on goes this awesome show.
It being our anniversary show, Capt’n Max and I spend much of the program bloviating about how great we are, and sharing the “secrets” of our marital longevity. Last year, for our 26th wedding anniversary, we had a huge orgy filled with naked singers, dancers, wrestlers, sploshers, suckers and fuckers. Other couples might have billion-dollar bank accounts, million-mile upgrades or thousand-carat his-and-her diamond rings, but nobody throws a gazillion-watt, raise-the-rafters, orgiastic, Felliniesque, bonoboesque blast of a wedding anniversary bacchanalia like we do, as we also did for our 25th, 24th and for many anniversaries before that. But we’ve also enjoyed more intimate celebrations, and thankfully (considering the tech difficulties), this is one of those.
Introducing Shannon Sweet of Texas
We manage to stop talking about ourselves long enough to chat with the newest bonobo in Bonoboville, our lovely and smart new editorial assistant, Shannon Sweet, all dressed up like a sexpot bridesmaid in a skimpy, lacy, banana-yellow frock that matches her long, banana-yellow hair, with sparkle-starred, stripper-style stilettos.
Shannon sits on the couch with my kitty cat show assistant Blossom Green, also looking quite sexy in a bright red halter top that matches my red hat and roses, though as the show flows on, both get up and share my giant leather queen’s chair (an 11th wedding anniversary gift!), which can fit two, but not quite three, and Max makes four.
Like I said, we’re testing a lot of things!
Shannon’s from Texas where “everything’s bigger,” except Shannon who’s tiny as a doll. But Texas is notorious for its bigness, so when the Trumpus observed earlier this week, “Texas is big… tremendous… We don’t see that,” people were amazed. I mean, who doesn’t “see that” Texas is big? Isn’t that why they call it the Jumbo State? Then our “stable genius” Presidunce went on to say that New York’s “5th Avenue connects to Park Avenue,” even though these streets are famously parallel to each other. Of course, his beloved base doesn’t give a flying fandango about their hero’s lack of geographical acumen. In fact, they love that it drives liberals crazy, spreading Trump Derangement Syndrome and Post-Trump Sex Disorder, the mental plagues of the Trumpocalypse.
This is why we keep our Trump doll under gag order with a penis pacifier here in Bonoboville. We do let him sit (tied up) on my Mom’s original mid-century Eames chair, so though he’s in bondage, it’s very classy bondage.
Trump isn’t the only one saying dumb, dangerous things in the Lone Star State. Republican Texas lawmaker Tony Tinderholt wants to execute women who have abortions, and put a bill before the Texas legislature to accomplish just that. Tony’s from Arlington (near Dallas), and Shannon’s from San Antonio, and Texas is SO big, there’s a world of difference between the two cities. Still, good for Shannon for getting out of there—before the Great State of Texas turns into the Republic of Gilead—and joining us here in beautiful, beyond-liberal Bonoboville, California, the only contiguous state bigger than Texas.
Mickey & Minnie
While Max and I were busy having bad oysters and great sex, Blossom was busy getting us balloons and the perfect anniversary card. Pretty much all the in-house bonobos signed it—in different languages! Even though, between my fake eyelashes and shifting contact lenses, I can’t read precisely what they wrote on the air, it’s really heartwarming just to see the different styles of chicken scratch.
But what really makes the card perfect is that it portrays Mickey and Minnie Mouse in love. And the amazing part is that Blossom didn’t even know that, besides bonobos, Mickey and Minnie are our totem nonhuman animals (well, cartoon animals) since Max’s nickname has long been Mickey, and I’m sort of a “mini” human… though I look big on TV (when I’m alone).
Sometimes life just leads you to the perfect choice, and you don’t even know it… until you do (maybe 27 years later).
Thank you Blossom and thank you Bonoboville for the card, balloons, and all you do that helps to keep Mickey and Minnie in love.
And thank you Capt’n Max, my Mickey, Massimo, Prince Maximillian Rudolph Leblovic di Lobkowicz di Filangieri, for being my perfect choice.
Bonobo Way Bound for DomCon LA
Shannon and Blossom bond during the technical difficulties delay, so I ask them to try “hoka hoka,” also called “genito-genital rubbing” or “GG rubbing”—the lady bonobos’ vulva-to-vulva twerking tango that brings them a strong sense of female solidarity which underpins their power, along with giving them orgasms so intense they sometimes fall out of their tree. Fortunately, they know how to land safely. Bonobos are like cats that way.
The bonobo pelvis and genitalia are also a little different from the human, but we can still hoka-hoka; butt-to-butt being somewhat easier to pull off, if less authentic (and intimate), than vulva-to-vulva.
This is actually another test, or you could call it a warm-up, because Bonoboville and The Bonobo Way are bound for DomCon LA—2019 will be our fifth DomCon—and Blossom and Shannon will be part of our Commedia Erotica cast, along with “Most Well-Rounded Kinkster” SUZY award winner, MFA and award-winning filmmaker Rhiannon Aarons and Block Institute sex therapist Del Rey, and hoka-hoka will be on the agenda, along with penis-fencing, making peace through pleasure, and leading a male by the balls.
And join us for DomCon 2019 on Saturday, May 11 at 1 PM, when we present The Bonobo Way: FemDoms of the Wild.
I’m skipping around (this show went live so late, it happens like a dream), but at some point between Texas and DomCon, I get on my soapbox to say: FREE JULIAN ASSANGE and CHELSEA MANNING. It is just unconscionable that these two are in jail. They are not criminals; they are whistle-blowers on war crimes.
It’s so disturbing to watch all these so-called journalists and talk show hosts cackling over Assange’s brutal arrest, dragged out of the Ecuadoran Embassy in London like a murderer when he exposed murderers, and packed away to continuing persecution and prosecution. Many of the cacklers work for media outlets who reprinted and reposted WikiLeaks’ scoops without paying them a dime.
This is shameful. I personally didn’t like when WikiLeaks released damning but real emails from Hillary and the DNC right before the 2016 election, but I would never question their right as journalists to release it, as well as for all the other journos to pick up the story and run with it. But now here they are, feeding Assange to the bloodhounds of fascism.
They think it won’t happen to them, I guess. But all of us who write, report, design and publish newspapers, magazines and online publications, all of us who host and produce radio and television shows and podcasts–even a little Facebook Live show–we are all Julian Assange. If he can be arrested, we all can be arrested.
I can already feel the chill, and I’m sorry to say that I’m more than a little disappointed that my otherwise hero Bernie Sanders has not come out with a statement in support of Assange. Three cheers and a bonobo beer for U.S. Presidential Candidate Tulsi Gabbard for doing just that:
“The purpose of arresting #JulianAssange is to send a message to the people, especially journalists, to be quiet and don’t get out of line. If we, the people, allow the government to control us through fear, we are no longer free, we are no longer America.”
She probably doesn’t have a chance in 2020, and she has nowhere near Bernie’s credentials and experience. I’m still a Bernie Bro (he just won over a Fox TV audience), but I really like Tulsi, mostly because she speaks a lot of truth, plus she’s very sexy (but so is Bernie, if you like balding men with big ideas, which I do)!
Another sexy female Assange defender who deserves a shout-out is Pamela Anderson. who has called out the fickle UK as “America’s bitch… you need a diversion from your idiotic Brexit bullshit.” The former “Tool Time Girl” and Baywatch star, most famous for a 1995 sex tape she made with then-hubby Tommy Lee (who may not have big ideas, but he does have a pornstar-sized tool), is rumored to behaving a “romantic fling” with Assange, perhaps since they were introduced by Vivienne Westwood in 2014. There may even be a sex tape. Stay tuned, sex fans!
Chelsea on the Line
Despite our technical difficulties, we manage to take a call from Chelsea Demoiselle, a former in-house bonobo, now living in Portland.
We can hardly hear her, and she can hardly hear us, but she manages to wish us a Happy 27th Wedding Anniversary and says a bunch of other sweet stuff.
We love you, Chelsea!
But obviously, our phone call technology needs a bit more testing too.
I wouldn’t be the one to bring the subject up, but Chelsea herself reminds me that she said she’d help us with the move, but then she didn’t. Like so many who, for one reason or another, couldn’t or just didn’t help us with the move, she says that she and some friends want to come visit the new Bonoboville.
People are funny that way, and that’s okay. No hard feelings, but then again, no rush either.
Flogging, Toegasms, Orgasms & Love
Meanwhile we keep celebrating, cracking champagne and making mimosas.
We also talk about how Max seduced me feet first… while he rubs my feet. Ooh la-la, this is my kind of show.
PHOTO 1 & 3: HARRY SAPIEN. PHOTOS 2 & 3: BIANCA. PHOTO 5: SELFIE
This brings out the foot fetishist—and foot hedonist—in all of us, and before we know it, we’re playing footsie.
Hey, shouldn’t the piggies be honored in the Year of the Pig?
Then before we know it, it’s time to close the show.
I spank Blossom’s red bottom in my red-bottom heels with Goddess Phoenix’s fiber-optic flogger, have a chat with Shannon about Jesus (next Saturday is Easter Eve and Kinky Passover in Bonoboville!), and the mimosas flow into the early morning.
When the clock strikes 7, we’re in our own bed, which is just as nice as the Hilton’s, and after a couple more 27th anniversary orgasms that were almost as good as the on-the-actual-anniversary orgasms, we drift off into… our 28th year of married bonobo love.
© April 14, 2019. Susan Block, Ph.D., a.k.a. “Dr. Suzy,” is a world renowned LA sex therapist, author of The Bonobo Way: The Evolution of Peace through Pleasure and horny housewife, occasionally seen on HBO and other channels. For speaking engagements, call 310-568-0066.
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