The Type of Party I Never Seem to Get Invited To

No idea what the ladies in this photo are doing. But, honestly, so long as they'd be willing to let me watch, I could care less.

Guest Post: Halloween Rabbit in New York City

A few years ago I was on a business trip in the US which included a 2 night stopover in New York before pressing on to Dallas Fort Worth. At the time I was working for an online travel company and travelled quite a bit visiting our offices from London to Singapore. Apart from the obvious “perk” of being able to see the world at the company’s expense, there’s not much else going for business travel because you rarely get any time to yourself.

This trip to New York was exciting because New York is exciting, even if you only have 5 minutes to yourself. This trip to New York was also the most outrageously brilliant business trip I think I have or ever will experience… and not for business reasons, but because of the rabbit incident.

Upon reaching my hotel from the airport I had bags of jetlag, but also an appetite to dump my bags and explore the city. I wanted to enjoy a bit of New York while I had the precious time available to me on these trips for exploring. To finish the day I sought a bar close to my hotel so that I could roll my jetlagged self a short way to bed once the night was done.

I found a bar that was, like all the others, suitably decorated with Halloween fixtures and which included other essentials like friendly staff, good beer and a couple of TV screens to stare at.

After a few pints, a couple sat down next to me at the bar and upon hearing my English accent struck up a conversation with me as he too was an expat living in New York with his American girlfriend. They were also friends with the bar staff and were all gearing up for a Halloween party later that night.

As the evening progressed, more and more party goers were arriving in their costumes and we were treated to a fashion parade of naughty nurses, French maids and a dominatrix outfit. My new friends weren’t wrong when they said, ‘Halloween is the best time to be here because all the girls love to dress like sluts!”

One of the naughty nurses was carrying a rabbit vibrator round her neck and after a few drinks started waving it around and simulating fellatio with it as the party goers danced to a selection of music from the jukebox that ranged from Bon Jovi to Bob Marley. And then it happened…

It was nearing closing time and most patrons had moved on to other Halloween parties. All except my new friends and the troupe of slutty girls, including the naughty nurse with the vibrator. Now I have played my fair share of drinking games, but nothing I have ever witnessed comes close to what I was about to see.

The girls were all sitting around a long table against one of the walls and were ordering shots of tequila and who knows what else. They were playing a drinking game that I have absolutely no recollection of the rules, but the outcome of which resulted in them taking turns to expose their breasts and later removing their underwear. Then the girl with the vibrator held the rabbit in the air like Excalibur’s sword, switched it on and slowly lowered it under the table where she began to work on herself in front of her friends who were egging her on.

Before long she reached climax to shrieks of delight from her audience and then slumped back in her seat with a ridiculous grin on her face. It was at this point that I realized the girl next to her in the French maid’s uniform had commandeered the vibrator and was now pleasuring herself.

This went on to at least two more girls before I had to quietly leave the pub as the spectacle was becoming too much for a sensible business traveler like me. I paid my tab and left enough to buy the girls a round of drinks as a special thank you for my evening’s entertainment

The Business of Perversion

Last week, a day of seemingly endless meetings finally ended, and I found myself heading out for after-work dinner with some coworkers. Some I knew quite well; others I'd never met. But one of the ladies with us possessed a remarkable ass, which a male coworker friend of mine and I had spent the better part of the day's meetings drooling over. And getting to ogle it for a few more hours was good enough for me.

But not enough, apparently, for my friend. As we're walking into the restaurant, I see him walking close behind her, fumbling with his phone. A couple minutes later, inside the restaurant, he sends me a photo. Of her backside. Now the pic doesn't really do that bum justice, but the point is he sent me the photo, I laughed, saved it (of course), then went about my business.

Until last weekend, when I attended a family cookout and got all silly with the Bud Light. My six year old niece, who loves playing with phones, asked if she could see mine and I quickly obliged. So she goes off, pretending to talk to someone on the phone and I get back to my drinking. Then, a few minutes later, my niece is waving the phone at her mother, my sister.

"Ew, Uncle Ken has a picture of someone's bum on his phone."

My sister took the phone from her daughter, gave it a look, raised an eyebrow in disgust, then scanned the crowd for me. I was already sprinting her way, wishing myself invisible, and blabbering whatever excuses came into my head: "Oh, yeah, a friend sent me that as a joke and I meant to delete it but I kept it andohboyisthisweirdbutitreallyisn'tmyphoneandanywayIjustneedtoblahblahblah..." I took the phone from her, and faded sheepishly into the background, where I remained for the balance of the night.

See, I can handle everyone at work thinking I'm a world class pervert (hell, no way to change their minds now, anyway). I can handle the Kenettes who wander in and out of my life thinking the same thing. But my family? Something about one of my sisters knowing I had that photo on my cell phone... it just makes me wanna join the French Foreign Legion.

I hear they've also got some hot chicks as well.

And To Think He Probably Got Paid For This. Too

Like I always say, there's nothing better than hanging out in a bar with a couple of ladies.

Greatest Award Acceptance Speech Ever

If you can get past the Paris Hilton bullshit, you will witness the single greatest acceptance speech in the history of televised award shows.

Better yet, just forward it to 2:15 for the magic.

The Summer That I Was the Hulk

There was a time when the only music to this fool's ears was the sound of chirping twentysomething girls in crowded bars, sloppily kissing their female pals for the camera and engaging in that time-honored practice of "showing off as much thong as possible without pushing the limits of personal hygiene."

Then there was that summer I became the Hulk. And shit changed real fast.

I should explain. I needed some cash for a trip I was planning, and a buddy of mine was running one of those "spoil the fuck out of your kids with an otherwordly party" places that rents moonwalks, ponies, anti-aircraft artillery and other stuff that transforms an ordinary birthday soiree into a holyjesusgod my pants are on fire sorta thing. And who doesn't love that? Well, besides this guy.

Anyway, the place also had a full complement of superhero costumes, so that Captain America, Batman, or Gene Rayburn could show up if a child so requested. And whenever anyone wanted the Hulk, well, I got to do that.

It was miserable work but it gave me precious cash without a lot of physical labor. And, more importantly, it connected me to a world I'd previously never encountered: the suburban fortysomething mother.

On paper, my job was to mill around and let the kids shake my hand, kick me in the nuts, whatever they wanted. And I had to growl. In reality, I would just kinda stand there, soaking in the sights and sounds of this pulsating sea of sexual angst. And it was a good thing.

First, these women were tight. According to their conversations, they worked out. A lot. Yoga, pilates, jogging, tennis... seven days a week at the gym so they could squeeze themselves into the same $200 jeans that their daughters were wearing. On at least one occasion I fell into a swimming pool while watching Little Joey's Mom bending over at the waist to pick up spilled ice cream.

Second, they talked. About everything. Especially sex. Though I wasn't the person they'd invite over to sit down and have a smoke with them, they didn't have a problem with talking all kinds of sauciness within earshot of my broad, green shoulders. In fact, to them, I was just a bit of scenery... not even there, really, which allowed me to hone in on some very intriguing stuff. Like that hellacious bash in Wellesley, when I came into the kitchen for a glass of soda just in time to hear one mother explaining how her oldest son caught her blowing his college roommate. Actually, all I heard was, "...and Steven walked in just as I was swallowing him," but a little detective work [and the scuttlebutt throughout the backyard] helped me fill in the blanks. Another time, at the same estate coincidentally, four mothers were lounging on the patio, smoking and drinking and casually discussing the pros and cons of 69ing [again, I could only strain to hear so much, but I distinctly recall one mother making a crude fart joke, and the group erupting in evil laughter.]

All I kept thinking as I wandered, half-dazed through this world weekend after weekend was how much I wanted to screw all of these women. Every last one. I wanted them to group attack me, tear the green foam off my body, and suck every ounce of marrow from my bones. I wanted them to throw me in the back of the Lexus SUVs, straddle my face with their hips and let me show them the glory that can be a grossly underpaid Irish dude. I waited patiently as the balloon animal-making clown packed his shit and the moonwalk got deflated, hoping that one, just one martini-soaked MILF would stumble into my arms, ask me for a light and gently run her hand across my chest.

Sadly, they wouldn't have a bloody thing to do with me. I came, I saw, I listened, and I left. But in my mind, I like to think that at least one of those women, while screwing her husband into the wall, is fantasizing about an otherworldly deflowering at the hands of the Guy in the Hulk Suit.

Things Not to Do After a Meeting

Note to Self, #3,765-B:

The next time you're in a meeting in the shared conference room in the farthest corner of the building and the unbelievably hot new admin girl is in attendance, be sure to practice restraint.

Don't stare too long as she works her pen in her mouth. Don't let your mind wander as you see the tips of her well-manicured fingers slowly run up and down the side of her iPhone. And, specifically, at the end of said meeting, don't linger around, flipping through the papers in your hand, until said hot new admin girl and everybody else shuffles out the door. And then don't casually walk to the door just to make sure they've all really headed off down the hall. And in the name of all that is holy, don't -- just don't -- drop to your knees in front of the chair the hot new admin girl was sitting in and bury your face in the seat.

Not because it's kinda freaky, but because that's the precise moment someone will walk into the room. And, not for nothing, they won't buy your "Oh, there's my pen" routine.

Not that this actually happened to me, mind you. I'm just sayin'.