Thursday, March 27, 2014

What I Enjoy in the Bedroom (a bit of NSFW standup i'm working on)

My favorite position when it comes to sex is, and I realize that this might surprise many of you, the position known as missionary.

Hear me out.

I know that many of you, simply from the fact that you know me and follow my work, likely run with a fairly hip, bohemian crowd, and as such the majority of you like different things, very different things in some cases. And trust me, I understand and completely respect that. That’s beautiful. Your bodies and their myriad sexual desires are beautiful and deserve to be celebrated, because all bodies and all sexual desires, within certain bounds of sanity and consent, deserve to be celebrated, and as such I’d be the first to raise a glass to yours. The Heart wants what it wants, after all, and I would never deny The Heart that which it desired.

On an unrelated note, I’ve nicknamed my penis “The Heart” recently, I think it’s going really well so far. But that’s neither here nor there.

The point is, while I respect, indeed applaud, whatever you might indulge in in the privacy of your bedroom or neighborhood sex-dungeon, for me it will always be missionary style sex that at the end of the day drives me wild. I don’t know why, it’s more an instinctive desire than an intellectual one. And really, shouldn’t all sexual desire be too primal and visceral to properly put into words? Some aspect of missionary sex puts me over the edge, and perhaps it’s best simply to enjoy what I enjoy and not put too much thought into it. Because it’s sex, and sometimes over-thinking the matter only detracts from enjoyment of the act.

So no, I can’t quite verbalize precisely why I love missionary sex the way I do, I just know that I do.

I love every part of it.

Travelling around the world.

Experiencing different cultures.

Meeting interesting new people.

Having sex with them.

Trying to convert them to the type of sex that I enjoy.

And let me tell you, the type of sex that I enjoy does get weird. Converting people to it isn’t always easy to do, however much I might think they’ll love it if they just keep an open mind. Missionary sex can be long, hard, sweaty, punishing work, it can exhaust you physically, mentally AND emotionally, and leave you so drained that you can barely move. There are moments when you feel you can go no farther, can take no more, where the end is nowhere in sight, when the sun’s about to come up and you suddenly realize that you have to be at work in two hours. And in moments like that, yes, I’ve been tempted to give up missionary style for good, tempted to accept that I’m growing older, that I can no longer behave as though I were eighteen years old, and put missionary sex aside in favor of other, less taxing erotic pursuits.

But, when my gasping new convert is there, on his or her knees, in front of me, hands in the air, eyes wide in a mixture of shock and ecstasy, sweat glistening across fevered face, head thrown back as though to scream “Hallelujah”, and I know I’ve made a new believer, it makes the whole process worthwhile, both spiritually and, every bit as important, physically.

Is my attitude toward sex and sexuality old fashioned? Perhaps a tad. Does it carry with it certain parochial, Eurocentric colonialist baggage? It might. The Heart does, nonetheless, want what it wants, and by The Heart I again mean my penis, and I apologize for none of my desires in any of their bizarre, twisted glory. Nor should I. When you love something, after all, it’s natural that you’d want to share it with the world, and I in no way regret one moment of my time spent evangelizing.

I’ve loved every moment of it.

That’s why I love missionary sex, and why I make such a good Sex-Missionary, one who wears the title and all that comes with it both freely and proudly.

I likely always will.

Now, if you happen to have a moment to talk further about this issue, may my associate and I come in?

Sunday, March 23, 2014

Weekly Prompt Story: Any Town But Funkytown

Reflections Upon Your Town and Mine
By Christopher Munroe

There are lots of towns out there.

And, each in their own way, all of them are funky.

Detroit has Motown, Memphis Stax. James Brown grew up in Augusta.

Even Minneapolis has funk. Prince, Morris Day and the Time and more, who thought Minnesota would be funky?

But it is. Every town is.

Every town is funky.

It’s a beautiful thing.

I tried to write a story about a town other than Funkytown, and found that I could not.

But that’s okay.

Because finally I’ve realized: I don’t have to take you to Funkytown.

You’ve been there the whole time…

Thursday, March 20, 2014


I believe in myself.

I believe that I exist.

Moreover, I believe that I’m as young and strong as I ever was.

I mean I’m not, and a mountain of evidence exists to prove that simple fact, but you know what I mean. I may be growing older, everyone is, that’s the nature of time and of entropy and its effect on the fragile human form, but in spite of this I believe I can still BE young.

My body, after all, is nothing more than a vessel for my mind, a tool at my mind’s disposal. And my mind, however old my body becomes, is still young and strong.

And what it wants my body to do, my body will do.

It will.

I will bend it to my will, because my will is strong, and my body must be forced to obey.

I turned thirty-six this past Monday.

I celebrated this event Sunday night.

I can indeed still party like an eighteen year old.

And I did.

And it was fun.

And I will do so again, when the mood strikes me and circumstance demands it.

Because my mind is the boss of my body, and physical limits exist only so that they can be pushed, and overcome.

And because I believe in myself.

And partying like an eighteen year old is something I’m still very capable of.

Though WOW but I feel it the next morning nowadays…

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Weekly Prompt Story: Where has the time gone?

Floating Through the Day
By Christopher Munroe

You shiver, then whimper, naked and drained.

You assure me you’ll only need a minute.

It takes more like an hour.

I’d like you to stay, but you need to be at work in the morning, so do I, and I totally respect your decision to sleep in your own bed.

You thieve my pajama pants and TShirt, swimming in their size, and I walk you to your car, kissing you as you climb in, watching you drive away.

On the way back, it’s my turn to shiver.

My weekend is drawing to a close.

Where has the time gone?

Thursday, March 13, 2014


Upon my death, I willed my self to my friends.

By “my friends”, I mean a carefully selected number of friends I’d vetted whilst I was still alive.

I plan for everything.

Not my closest friends, nor my best, but the ones who could most easily handle me. The funniest, wittiest, most creative amongst them. These were the friends who I knew I could trust with my self, and thus they were the ones I willed it to.

By “my self”, I mean my online presence, and my work. They received my laptop, with careful instructions to delete the porn, nobody wants to see that, and the account details and passwords to my Twitter, Smashwords, email and flash fiction blog.

Using these things, and the detailed notes and story ideas contained within my laptop, they could continue to update my social media as though they were me, as well as writing and hopefully occasionally publishing stories based on ideas I’d had, under my own name.

They could not do this for ALL my social media, obviously. A novel based on my outline could be sent to publishers, or published in eBook through Smashwords, but a podcast novel on Podiobooks would give the game away without my actual voice narrating it. Facebook, similarly, would eventually find it suspicious that I updated my status regularly and continued posting amusing cat pictures without ever uploading any new photographs.

But really, who pays attention to Facebook anymore?

So they took my laptop, wrote the stories I’d never gotten around to writing, tweeted the sorts of jokes I’d tweet and, in doing so, gradually mastered my authorial voice to the point that they could create completely new content indistinguishable from what I would have created while I was alive.

And in doing so, I was alive.

I was immortal. Or at least as immortal as social media might be. My self, my true self, my work, would carry on uninterrupted, as though I’d never passed, and in doing so every part of me that mattered lived on.

People who actually lived in Calgary and had spent time with me in person knew better, of course, and they no doubt grieved me greatly, but so far as the wider, vaster web of connections I’d made around the world, the enormous, bizarre surrogate family of weirdoes and creative types I’d created for myself through words and ideas thrown out into the online ether, knew, I was still plugging away, writing with only the most modest of success and tweeting random references to Mr. T, Robocop and Centaurs when the mood struck me.

So far as any of them knew, and there was no way for them to learn otherwise, I had never succumbed to untreated pneumonia in December of 2013. I’d recovered, and was finally getting back into my writing. I had a NaNoWriMo novel to edit, after all, and any number of ideas for short stories rattling around my laptop waiting to be written.

And this polite fiction was maintained, because I have very good friends, to whom I had willed my self upon my death.

And they had received my self, and taken their responsibility to be me seriously.

Because they miss me.

And so long as we miss him, we’ll never let him go…

Sunday, March 9, 2014

Weekly Prompt Story: Private

The Age of Privacy
By Christopher Munroe

Once upon a time, we had a concept called “Privacy”.

Essentially, people could if they chose be alone. No social media, no CCTV, no NSA monitoring, nothing. Simply an individual, alone with his or her thoughts.

Communication, in the age of “Privacy”, happened face-to-face, between small numbers of consenting citizens, unrecorded. No detailed records were kept, indeed the idea of recording “Private” conversations was considered uncouth.

Because we were all isolated then, every one of us, even in groups.

We must’ve been desperately lonely.

Barbaric, isn’t it?

But that’s how we used to live.

We’ve come a long way since…

Thursday, March 6, 2014


A weak mind is fertile ground in which to plant a rumor.

Indeed, if your idea is strong enough, it can take the place of established information in the thoughts of the feeble-brained.

Simply state your rumor clearly, be sure it’s in-keeping with what your idiot listener wants, and watch his or her imagination fill in any details your fanciful story might lack.

In this way, fools are better controlled by lies than they ever could be through the truth.

They want to believe, so they do, and they give it no more thought than that.

Or so I’ve heard…

Sunday, March 2, 2014

Weekly Prompt Story: Again

By Christopher Munroe

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.

If you still don’t succeed, stop.

Just stop.

You can’t be good at everything, there will always be things where no matter how hard you try, you’ll fail, and fail spectacularly.

And that’s okay.

Nobody’s expected to be good at everything, if you fail over and over, maybe it’s time to quit.

Not popular advice, but good advice.

It’s about opportunity cost, after all.

So yes, try, and try again. But past that point don’t be fanatical. Quit while you’re ahead.

Because quitters do win. They just win at something different…