LustMongers | A Blog About Sex, Pop Culture and Other Confusing Things

Guest Post: Halloween Rabbit in New York City

2011-11-01T02:59:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-18T04:04:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-01T03:57:00.000-07:00

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

Greatest Award Acceptance Speech Ever

2011-07-08T06:09:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-21T03:09:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-11T03:23:00.000-07:00

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'.

Another Reason Friday Rocks

2011-04-22T07:11:00.000-07:00

Today is Friday, which is casual day at my place of employ. This means that, even as I type these words, pretty much every woman from 18 to 52 who works in our financial division is wedging herself into low-slung, too-tight jeans. This is not a day for me to be making decisions that could affect the fate of our organization or my position within it. That's what Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday are for. Today, I just slip it into neutral, and soak it all in.

The trick to getting the full show: Slide a manila folder under your arm. That's your "hall pass," so to speak. As you wander aimlessly through any place of business, so long as you're carrying a manila folder, peeps figure you've obviously transporting something of grave importance. This is particularly critical to getting into the IT wing, where many a cute young lass waits. And very likely bent over a server. Bonus!

Er, hold my calls.

My Reputation and How It Is Slowly Destroying Me

2011-04-18T07:19:00.000-07:00

As anyone who's ever read this blog can tell ya, I'm a bit of an ass man. So, for my money, the single greatest thing in the world is being on the business end of a 69. Equally spectacular is seeing a fair lass assume the "ready for action" stance on all fours, waiting eagerly for me to stop reading from my dogeared copy of The Great Gatsby and go to work.

Problem is, I'm something of a watcher. That is to say, as I move in for the kill, I often find myself mesmerized -- almost hypnotized -- by the round ass before me. Suddenly, I'm the 6 year old kid finding a shiny new bike under the Christmas tree -- Holy Jesus! A girl's ass! -- and I just have to stop and admire it for a while. Literally. As in just sorta staring at it, gently rubbing my hands over it, for a long stretch o' time. Thing is, I've found through the years, it doesn't do much for the Kenette in question.

"What are you doing back there?" they'll typically ask. Others kinda casually glance back, making sure I'm still actually in the room. One former Kenette, increasingly frustrated with my modus operandi, asked for a pillow and a magazine to keep her busy while I went through the motions.

Why bring all this up? Because last Friday, against my better judgment, I slipped out to Panera Bread for lunch ["Have you tried the roast beef? It's only $12.65 today!"], and ran into an old friend of said former Kenette. It was one of those awkward, incredibly uncomfortable neither-of-us-has-anything-to-say-to-each-other-so-we-babble-incessantly-for-ten-minutes things, and at one point, she inevitably offered an update on the Kenette.

"She's doing great," she said. "Actually, your name came up the other day. We were talking about old boyfriends, and she said, 'if you look beyond that weird ass thing, Ken was a pretty cool guy.'"

It's official. Time to move to the west coast.

By Any Other Name...

2011-04-11T06:48:00.000-07:00

So I happen to overhear a conversation between two female coworkers this morning, and one of them starts talking matter-of-factly about her boyfriend's "dink."

"Dink"?

Honey, I wanted to say, you do your man no favors by calling it a "dink."

A newborn baby has a dink. Possibly some midgets. But not any male over the age of 16. That's about as sexy as some chick getting me all hot n' bothered, then asking if she can hold my "pee pee." Just like that ::finger snapping sound::, the tower collapses and the game's over. Thank you, and good night.

For the record, I use "cock." Not "dick" or "wang" or "Love Missile F-11." Okay, maybe there's the odd occasion where I'll use "Little Jimmy O'Sullivan," but that's typically relegated to St. Patty's Day. Or, y'know, when I'm on "bizness."

Similarly, I like it when a woman refers to her holiest of holies as her "pussy." And I'm man enough to admit that "cooter" is pretty hot too. Yeah, that's right. I said "cooter." Represent!

The Ass That Stopped Traffic. Literally.

2011-03-22T06:32:00.001-07:00

So I'm driving back to Boston from a weekend up north. And all of a sudden, traffic hits a standstill. And it wasn't in one of the typical places either (i.e., the New Hampshire tolls, the Zakim Bridge, Ma Kessler's Handjob Ranch). So I figure it's gotta be an accident. And I sit and I stare and I crawl along and after thirty minutes pass I'm starting to wonder where the fuck this parade actually ends.

And then, up ahead, I see what's keeping us down. A car by the side of the road with a girl in impossibly tight pants bent over it, checking something in the trunk (no pun intended). People were literally slowing down to look at her ass, and I even saw a couple dudes in a Jeep in front of me taking pics with their phones.

Not too many people can say they have an ass that actually caused traffic to stop. This girl can.

Oh, and I totally stroked it the rest of the way home. Hey, anything to keep myself awake.

Lipps, Inc.

2011-03-18T03:42:00.000-07:00

There are certain things I can overlook in a relationship. Psychotic behavior. Rambling stories about the ex-boyfriend. Threatening me with an empty Heineken bottle. Having to be carried out of your best friend's wedding because you drank 15 Jaeger shots and proceeded to vomit on every inch of carpeting in the reception hall. Rambling stories about how the ex-boyfriend liked your blowjobs. Erratic, almost irresponsible driving. Refusing to tip the paperboy because he "seems Mexican." Throwing all my clothes out into the driveway because I was a half-hour late coming home, even though you knew I was tending to my sick aunt.

But one thing I can't overlook is a bad kisser.

And, man, they're out there.

How To Win Any Argument With a Guy: A Useful Reference for Women

2011-03-14T06:31:00.000-07:00

Ken [looking at a photograph]: Honey. Did you fuck Bob?

Kenette: Now why would I screw your best friend?

Ken: Not sure. But someone just mailed me these photos of you fucking Bob.

Kenette [glances about nervously, then...]: Hey! I totally want to blow you right now!

Ken: Really? Hot damn! [Tosses aside photo, pants.]

As If They Needed Another Reason Not to Send Me to the Conference...

2011-03-10T04:56:00.000-08:00

I find that whenever I'm at any kind of Conference, whenever there's a female speaker at the podium, all I can think about is how it would feel to go down on her.

Seriously. From the minute she steps on the stage to the minute she leaves, I just sit there, tracing the outline of her legs with my eyes, trying to pinpoint exactly where on her body I'd begin my descent, and mentally conjuring what her reactions might be.

Have I reached the point of irreversible perversion? Do other guys do this? Do women do this when watching men speaking at a conference?

Not Much of a Boob Guy

2011-03-04T03:43:00.000-08:00

Actual conversation [as best as I can recollect] between myself and a former Kenette, whom I recently met for a post-work drink:

Kenette: See that girl's boobs? That's the worst boob job I've ever seen. She should sue.

Ken [glancing up from beer]: Huh? Sue who? You're suing someone?

Kenette: My god, why am I even pointing this out to you. You wouldn't know a set of boobs if they hit you in the face.

Ken [keeps pulling from beer]: Huh? I like boobs.

Kenette: Ken, back when we were dating, you had your tongue up my ass before you'd ever even touched my boobs. That's never happened to me before. With any guy.

Ken [takes another sip]: You sure?

Kenette [nods as she takes a swig of her beer]: Rimmed me before you'd even felt me up. That's when I knew you were a sicko.

Ken: I notice you hung around for a year. I must have done something right.

Kenette: Part of it was fascination. How long will it be before this guy actually has his mouth on my boobs.

Ken [trying to think back]: I'm sure I did... at some point, right?

Kenette [shakes her head in mock disgust and finishes her beer.]

Never Underestimate the Power of the Finger Smoothie

2011-03-02T03:25:00.000-08:00

So I'm out last night after work and I run into the Kenette v2002. She, recognizing me for the hobo that I am, offered up some of her pizza and beer. And within a half hour we were on the Last Train to Sloshedville and reminiscing about "back in the day."

That's all well and good. It's nice to sit down with your former paramours and have a civil conversation that doesn't involve knifeplay. But at one point, I noticed she had a fine string of cheese hanging from her mouth down her chin. Ever the gentleman, I moved to whisk it away, and as my hand approached, she took one of my fingers into her mouth, instantly applying a four second "finger smoothie." She then giggled and got back to munching her pizza. I sat with a flustered look on my face and my cock slowly snaking its way up my trousers.

Ladies, what I need to tell you is that the "finger smoothie" must only be used on those occasions in which you actually plan to give the actual owner of said finger an actual blowjob. When done purely for the amusement of it, as was the case with Kenette v2002, it's just a tease. A damn good one, might I add. But still a tease. A painful, man-I've-got-to-get-home-and-wank-myself-into-oblivion kinda tease.

The "finger smoothie," at least in my book, is and should always tantamount to the real McCoy. Am I right?

There Goes My Morning Productivity

2011-03-01T02:48:00.000-08:00

Today was supposed to be a big day for me. A couple reports to finalize. A last-minute conference call. Meeting with a vendor.

Then my buddy Raster sent me a link to a website called "Girls in Yoga Pants." And everything kinda unraveled from there.

So now if you'll excuse me, I have to go masturbate myself into a state of unconsciousness.

::Places "closed" sign in window.::

Sexual Harassment in the Workplace: Wrong, But Highly Amusing

2011-02-24T04:37:00.000-08:00

Last week, as part of our company's new "let's cut down on the blowjob jokes when clients are in the building" campaign, management -- of which, amazingly, I am a part -- was required to view an online sexual harassment tutorial.

Sadly, it wasn't an educational piece, designed to help me coax Laurie from finance out of her ridiculously tight jeans, but rather a painfully explanatory piece on what constitutes "unwanted harassment in the workplace" [Surprise! You shouldn't look at porno on your iPad during a meeting or feel up your co-workers while they're reaching for sugar in the cabinet over the coffee machine].

The video was amazingly hilarious, and my only regret is that I couldn't somehow capture the fucker and post it all here. But I think the screenshots presented above pretty much get the point across.

Personally, my feeling on unwanted sexual harassment in the workplace is that the key word is "unwanted." I think there are plenty of folks in my building who show up purely for the chance to gawk at or to be gawked at by fellow workers. Swing a stick and you can hit at least fifteen women in my office who seem to treat their eight hours away from the hubby and four kids as if they're heading to a Bon Jovi concert, with their hair teased up for miles, tighter-than-tight skirts and pants, and heels that would make any stripper envious. I've often wondered who these women were dressing up for... until I came to believe it was me. And any other guy in the building (yes, even Clive from accounting). They seem to be asking -- nay, begging -- for one of us to complement them on their physical attributes. And that's when HR has to step in and quash the good times.

Not cool. Because, as I see it, nothing makes the day move faster than a random "nice ass!" or hearing a couple girls in sales making cunnilingus jokes. In fact, I say bring this shit up at hiring time. All new employees should be warned: "Work here, and we will speak openly about your ass, examine your package daily, and, if liquored up enough, possibly try to bang you in the copy room. If you have a problem with any of that, perhaps WalMart would be a better match for you."

Guest Post: What WON'T You Do in Bed?

2011-02-17T15:19:00.001-08:00

Well, shortly after I wrote my last post I contracted a double cock-punch of the flu and a strep infection -- none of which, I'm sure, has any connection to the woman I was rimming just two nights prior. Anyway, I apologize for the lack of posting and figgered I'd kick off the return with another scintillating guest post. This one's from the lovely Simone of Skinny Dip. And it's damn good:

* * * * * * * *

What won't you do in bed?

I'm pretty open-minded when it comes to Sex. My whole philosophy is "everything is worth trying at least once" (well, almost everything). When Ken asked me to write this post about Sexual Deal-breakers, I actually had to sit down with a drink and ponder, "What exactly WON'T I do in bed?". After some deep soul-searching and a couple of glasses of Bailey's Irish Cream, I've come up with my master list of Sexual Deal-Breakers. In other words, "a list of stuff that the mere mention of is guaranteed to turn my girl parts inwards" or alternatively titled "stuff to do if you want me to kick you out of bed". Drum-roll please!

1. Water-Sports: The thing that you have to understand about me is that I am your text book Virgo. I love cleanliness, I love order, I love crisp white sheets. I'm kind of obsessed with all things bedroom and bedding related. I make my bed every morning as soon as I get out of bed because if I don't I feel like it sets a bad tone for the day (I even do this when I stay in hotels, even though I know I don't have to). I lust after designer duvet covers & keep my bed in tip top shape because I want it to always be this fresh, fluffy, cozy oasis for sleep & sex. With that said, any kind of sexual activity that involves urination will never take place chez moi. Its not so much the idea of peeing on someone or having someone pee on me (no, wait I TOTALLY DON'T WANT ANYONE PEEING ON ME) its more the clean-up factor. If you think you're going to get me to pee on you while you're lying on my 300-thread count Hungarian down duvet you're out of luck. The only way it might work is if there was extensive plastic sheeting laid out before hand. But, who really wants to stop mid-sex so they can create a condom-like bedroom environment? Which brings me to my first rule of thumb when it comes to sexual experimentation: If a sex act requires me to make my bedroom look like one of Dexter's "kill sites" or involves extensive "clean-up" afterward, its not happening.

2. The "Hot Lunch" or the "Blumpie". Rule of thumb #2: if a sexual act requires me to do a search on Urban Dictionary to find out what it is, its also probably not happening. This is definitely the case with the "Hot Lunch" and the "Blumpie". Did you read the definitions?! Are you throwing up in your mouth yet? ARE YOU?! Because I am. Also, I think the inclusion of both of these on the Sexual Deal-breakers list is pretty self-explanatory. Sex and making a shadoobie are two things that in my opinion just shouldn't go together. I know there is a bumper sticker that says "Is Sex Dirty? Only when its done right!" however, the "Hot Lunch" takes that to a whole new level. I'm guessing post "Hot-Lunch" probably involves some pretty interesting clean up. The only good that has come from learning the definition of a "Hot Lunch" is that now whenever I pass that diner in my hometown that has a sign that says "We specialize in Hot Lunches", I burst into hysterics.

3. Furry Sex: Once again I had to consult Urban Dictionary for this one. "Furry" sex is a term usually used to describe the act of two people having sex with each other while dressed in furry animal costumes. I think its pretty obvious why most people wouldn't be into this. Lots of people fantasize about having sex on a bear skin rug, very few people fantasize about having sex with a bear skin rug. I mean, I'm not even into chest hair - the last thing I want is for you to try and bone me while you're dressed as Tony the Tiger and I'm wearing a fuzzy unicorn one-sie. Furry sex mystifies me more than anything. How does one actually have sex while also wearing a fuzzy animal costume? Do the costumes include some kind of "trap door" like those old school pajamas with the bum-flap? Or, do they work more like a giant pair of fuzzy crotchless underwear? Where does one buy a crotchless animal costume? I guess I could Google this but honestly I'm afraid to find out.

4. Rape Fantasies: Besides the obvious power dynamics at play here, I've never understood why guys have the fantasy of sleeping with a woman who's pretending to not want to sleep with them. I love to please my partner & I'll gladly act out most fantasies (as long as they don't involve an animal costume) but, this is one I just can't do. The only time I've tried this, I felt like my skin was crawling & I was going to throw up. I don't mind a little bit of hand-cuff play & light spanking but, generally I don't like to be dominated. I'm more of a "tie you to the bed with a pair of my thigh highs & do naughty things to you while you beg for mercy" kind of girl. That's just how I roll.

5. Biting: Years and years ago, I dated this guy who would try and bite me every time we were in bed. After we broke up I found out he belonged to a group that put on "Vampire Role Play parties" and that he was a two-timing creep who liked to have his cake and bite it too. Now, whenever I feel teeth brush against my neck or any other body part I get this sicky feeling and I am reminded of that guy, his basement apartment that smelled like marijuana, his creepy friends & the fact that he kept a life sized stuffed plush tiger on his bed. Wow, that's a lot of deal breakers in one paragraph! Simply put, I just don't like biters (or adult males who own large stuffed animals). This also applies to the guys who think its OK to use their teeth while going down on a girl. I've had enough experience to know that treating my lady parts like you are eating a cob of corn at the State Fair does not constitute "doing it right".

I realize that this list is completely subjective. What makes me cringe, might have the complete opposite effect on someone else. Some of you may think this list makes me incredibly close-minded. There are no right or wrong answers here. Everyone has their own tastes & preferences. That's what makes sex so fascinating.

What are some of your sexual deal-breakers?

Screwing in the Office: A Primer

2011-01-21T04:51:00.000-08:00

1. Remember that the building is never empty. Even if it is empty, tell yourself it isn't. Because then you'll always take the precaution of locking your office door. And this is perhaps the most important rule. Unless, of course, you want to spend the next three months explaining to your IT guy why Jenna from Accounting was sitting on your face when he walked in to upgrade your PC. I've been there, buddy. He's not gonna buy it.

2. Clear off your desk before fucking on it. Sweat and pubic hair aren't going to improve the Kresgee Report. Actually, they might improve it a bit, but the folks at Kresgee probably won't appreciate it.

3. Clean off your desk after fucking on it. I know this flies in the face of the sentiments expressed in my last post. But it might make sense, especially when you consider that the life of the average night cleaning crew worker is fairly boring, and nothing makes the evening move faster than a spirited game of "find the ass prints." Don't let 'em find any on your desk.

4. Again, lock the office door. Even if it's not your office. Lock that fucker.

5. Discretion is key. The two of you can't just casually walk out of your office at 10:07pm with hair askew, smelling of ass and sweat. Because, as you'll recall, the building is never empty. One of you must casually leave the office and head outside while the other remains quietly in place, waiting at least ten minutes before following suit. If you hear a noise or suspect a coworker may be lurking, one of you should leave while the other heads out the window and repels down the side of the building.

6. If you know you're "working late," wear a skirt, Ladies. While you look pretty fucking smoking in those tight white pants, getting them back on quickly -- as in "Did I just hear someone working the copy machine?" -- can be tough. But the skirt rolls back into place rather seamlessly, in case of emergency. Or so I hear.

7. Never let on. Most office flings are eventually undone by inability to keep one's emotions in check until the next snog session. It's important to remain an enigma, and keep the hounds off the trail. For example, let's say you've been screwing Debra, and one day, as Debra walks by, Phil from Accounts Payable says something like, "Man, I'd give my mother's last kidney for a taste of that." Repress the traditional male urge to extend your thumb and pinky and wave your hand at the wrist while chuckling, "Dude, I've been there, and it's freakin' amazing." Instead, throw out something like, "I prefer a snazzy dresser, like Johnny Kwan in IT." Works every time.

8. Lastly, always, always lock the door. Nothing ruins a blow job more than your boss watching you get one. Trust me.

Did I miss any? Please feel free to add your own tips in the comments.

The Tell-Tale Desk Stain

2011-01-12T05:39:00.000-08:00

About eight years ago, neglecting the golden rule that you just don't swim pantsless in the company pool, I got in bad with a girl from the office. She was married and apparently suffering the one-year itch. I was the object of her desires, and since my inbox wasn't exactly toppling with blowjob offers, I just rolled with it. We did the drinks-after-work thing, the three-hour make-out/heavy petting sessions in my car, and then, throwing caution to the wind, we started fucking right there in the office.

One night, after the place cleared out at 5:01, she shuffled into my office with her bag and closed the door behind her, locking it. She then sat on the edge of my desk, hiked up her skirt, and begged me to come hither. So I finally got something done at work that day, going down on her for a good 90 minutes.

The next day, I walked in to find... a mark on my desk. A stain, to be precise. Right where she had been sitting. I was immediately obsessed. I shut the door and examined it closely, actually making out the traced lines of her pubic hair and two perfectly round sweat stains where her buttocks had rested.

Common sense would have said, "clean that fucking thing off and get on with your life." But I couldn't do it. It was so perfect... and so... I dunno... awesome that I just couldn't bear to Lysol it into oblivion.

So it stayed. For weeks. Months. Years. Literally. I couldn't bring myself to ever clean that one area of my desk, eventually putting an inbox over it to protect it from overzealous janitors. Whenever the job got too shitty or started spinning out of control, I simply glanced down at that ass mark and was instantly transported to the night she wrapped her legs around my head so tight I saw my life pass before my eyes.

The girl? She eventually moved on. To another job, maybe another guy. I may have been the fling she needed to help get her head straight. Whatever. The desk is long gone too, lost in a major office renovation a couple years back. I have yet to dirty up my new desk, but I'm always looking for worthy candidates.

Why Kurt Russell's Life Is Infinitely Cooler Than Mine

2010-12-30T03:10:00.001-08:00

Besides the fame and money, here's three reasons:

1) He was Snake Plissken, goddam it.

2) He spent the better part of his life tagging Goldie Hawn, whose ass stands as one of Hollywood's finest.

3) He got paid for this:

Thanks to Dana for the vid.

All I Want for Christmas... Is In Your Pants

2010-12-23T03:21:00.000-08:00

I'll come right out and admit it: I'm queer for Christmas.

The stores packed with people. The crunch of snow under my size 12 boots. The wobbly mecha-Santas and inflatable Rudolphs. Hell, I even love the music, which starts playing 24/7 on the radio after Halloween (at least in my neck of the woods). Hearing Bing Crosby and David Bowie tackle "The Little Drummer Boy" for the three-thousandth time in a two day span might push lesser men over the edge. But me? I live for that shit.

Something else that makes me win at the holidays is that unlike some folks who can waffle on for hours over whether to ask for a Droid X or an Ikea lamp, I know precisely what I want for Christmas.

Folks, I want ass.

And please note that when I say "ass," it's not code for sex, as in "man, I could use a piece of ass." I literally mean ass. Like, spending Christmas day with my face securely buried under some random female's derriere. Just like they did in the old days, before fireplaces and Entertainment Weekly.

As Frank Sinatra noted in his now-classic tune, "It's Christmas, Get Over Here and Sit On My Face," there is perhaps no better way to spend the holidays than being surrounded -- or even engulfed -- by the things that we love most. In my case, it's ass. So that's all I need under my tree.

Some guys love electronic gadgets. Others like books or video games or fancy cars or cashmere sweaters. But give me a willing woman with a round bum and I can literally entertain myself (and, hopefully, her) for hours. As I see it, I'm never any closer to heaven than when a female is kind enough to straddle my chest, facing my feet, and starts lowering that majestic backside down toward my face. If that doesn't spell "Christmas," then, seriously, nothing does. You wanna go out caroling and tossing dimes in the Salvation Army buckets and wrapping gifts for the homeless? That's all well and good, and I salute you. But I'm fine right here, in my dimly-lit apartment, being facesat within an inch of my life as "Dominic the Donkey" spills out of the speakers.

Of course, we learn at a young age that getting exactly what you want at Christmas is directly proportionate to how well you've behaved. So I'm forced to ask myself, "Do I deserve ass this year?"

Fact is, I may not. The ladies like a guy with game and I've got none to speak of. I'm also pale and nerdy, and despite my 6'2", broad-shouldered frame, my heart and stomach do the flippy-flop whenever pretty women approach me. And the very fact that I just used the term "flippy-flop" will likely force some women to cross me off their lists.

But what I can offer is the full-on ass-worshipping experience. You may think you've got an "okay" ass, but after you flex that thing in the direction of a full-time ass fetishist like myself, and gauge my reaction as I nervously move my hands toward it with genuine awe and glassy-eyed reverence, you'll realize the true majestic grace of your buttocks--an experience which I've had women describe as both "fucking awesome" and "really, really freaky."

Also, I've got a tongue that I'm not afraid to use. Some men may fumble at the altar of pussy, but I've never been that guy. My job is to make it worth your while; to give you incentive to straddle my face. That's where the tongue comes in.

The best part is, it's the cheapest Christmas gift you'll buy this year. It's already there, following you around, burning my eyes from across the packed mall parking lot. All I'm asking is that you bring it to me (or to some mutually agreed-upon halfway point), and plant it firmly on my nose for a couple hours.

So if you're female and you have an ass, hit me at celtic1978ATgmailDOTcom. I can't guarantee that it'll make for the most memorable Christmas of your life. But by sitting on this nerd's face, you'll be "paying it forward" at a time of year when giving is on everyone's mind and tongue.

And that's what all this holiday bullshit is really about anyway.

Originally written as a guest post for Met Another Frog.

My Christmas Wish...

2010-12-15T05:40:00.000-08:00

The folks at Met Another Frog were kind enough to give me the floor today, and my guest post is all about Crizzmazz:

I’ll come right out and admit it: I’m queer for Christmas.

The stores packed with people. The crunch of snow under my size 12 boots. The wobbly mecha-Santas and inflatable Rudolphs. Hell, I even love the music, which starts playing 24/7 on the radio after Halloween (at least in my neck of the woods). Hearing Bing Crosby and David Bowie tackle “The Little Drummer Boy” for the three-thousandth time in a two day span might push lesser men over the edge. But me? I live for that shit.

Something else that makes me win at the holidays is that unlike some folks who can waffle on for hours over whether to ask for a Droid X or an Ikea lamp, I know precisely what I want for Christmas.

Folks, I want ass.

Get over to Met Another Frog to read the rest of my not-so-veiled attempt to get more butt.

It's Tough Out There for a Gentleman

2010-12-10T03:21:00.001-08:00

So I'm walking out of the mens' room yesterday at the office, and just ahead of me, walking out of the womens' room, is one of the premier office hotties. Let's call her L.

Naturally, my eyes descend to her hindquarters -- which are quite remarkable, I might add -- where I see, to my horror, that she's trailing about a foot and a half of toilet paper from the back of her skirt.

And suddenly I'm faced with a dilemma:

If I call her on it, I'm the perv who's checking out a fellow worker below the waist (which, any good HR person will tell you, simply isn't allowed. It's best to think of your coworkers as disembodied heads that you only need make eye contact with to ask about the McClasky file or Sheila in Purchasing's birthday).

If I don't... well, I guess I'm a sort of tool for letting her walk onto the floor, amongst all her catty female colleagues, with a paper tail.

So I cleared my throat and called her on it. And she swiped it away, embarrassed but thankful.

As I saw it, I'm already the office perv. I sure as fuck don't want to be a tool as well.

Guest Bloggess: Turkey vs. Pussy and 11 Other Reasons Why I Love Ken

2010-11-30T04:47:00.000-08:00

Today's guest post comes from Skye Blue from Met Another Frog, a woman whose talent and humor and mad writing skillz are equaled only by the unstoppable awesomeness of her derriere. And you're damn right I always find a way to mention the ass, because if there's one thing that all of the fine female bloggers who've been checking in here at LustMongers have in common, it's a majestic bum. But Skye owns a special chunk of my heart, as she's the one who stepped forward and offered to help corral our various guest bloggers when Ginger moved along. She's also hot and Canadian--the winning combination. So, naturally, I am smitten.

Anyway, just when I thought I couldn't love her any more, she sends me the following post. Now I've got the full bug. Skye, if you're reading, my standing offer of three hours of unreciprocated oral has just been upped to five. Come, throw off the shackles of your job, and meet me in an abandoned alley for some hot snogging and gratuitous ass grabbage.

I'll let Skye take it from here.

* * * * * * * *

Okay, so there I was sitting in front of my computer on US Thanksgiving morning, wondering what the hell I could write that would be worthy of being featured on the awesomeness that is Lustmongers. At first, it was a bit of a struggle. Nothing juicy enough was coming to mind. But then, as I started to think about:

1. The fact that I had made a commitment to my good buddy Ken and I couldn’t let him down; and

2. The many reasons why I think he’s the bees knees, the cat’s meow, the shit, so to speak.

The bestest idea ever (at least IMO) came to me. Just. Like. That.

“Skye, you adore the guy. Why not write a piece celebrating Tenacious and oh so delightfully Salacious Ken?”

Now I could’ve tackled this subject from many angles, most of which would include a whole lot of gushing – but even I don’t want to read that. So, I decided to let Ken and his words of wisdom, what I like to call @Tenacious_Ken-isms, highlight all the reasons why I have come to love the tall, pale, dorky, Irish redhead behind this insanely funny blog...

He’s the HPIC (that’s Head Perv In Charge):

Kissing and telling is awesome. Especially when you just bypass the "telling" entirely and replace it with dry-humping.

Even at His Day Job.

Facesitting. In the office. Man, I love when the boss is away.

If productivity was measured in sheer horniness, I'd be, like, the office's top performer today.

Seven hot girls from accounting in a closed-door meeting. I just KNOW part of the agenda is a banana-eating contest. Gotta be. Right?

He Takes His Role as Office Perv Seriously, Because He Knows There is No “I” in Team.

Think it's easy being the office perv? Some women get pissed if you check em out as they walk down the halls; others get pissed if you don't.

What this office needs is legalized prostitution. As a morale booster.

He Worships at the (usually while lying on his back with his face smothered beneath it) Altar of Ass.

Ass. Is awesome.

Let me clear off a place for you to sit. ::Lays down on floor, brushes off his face::

He Readily Admits His Frailties and Is Quite Appreciative of Others’ Strengths.

The way a coworker's ass is moving under her skirt has literally rendered me incapable of rational thought for the balance of the day.

The ass-in-the-face maneuver. Always a classic. And my weakness. Well played, new girl from accounting.

He’s a Hard Worker. Really, Really Hard.

Struggling with the embarrassing all-day hard-on at the office. So I reach for the handy FedEx box whenever I have to head down the hall.

Not sure what's worse: walking around the office all day with a raging hard-on or no one noticing. I'll guess the latter.

He Unabashedly Enjoys a Good Round (or 10) of Self-Cultivation.

Just had breakfast. Now ready to masturbate for the fourth time this morning. Man, I love vacation days.

Dying to start jerking off in the office so that when someone comes by and asks what I'm doing I can simply say, "Oh, just masturbating."

He’s Always Game for a Little Field Work in the Name of (un)Science.

My extensive research has led me to the conclusion that receiving a blow job is pretty fucking awesome. Like, ridiculously so.

My recent not-so-scientific survey tells me that getting laid is way, way better than not getting laid.

Word on the Street is He Has a Hurricane Tongue (which I have yet to experience. FML! And, yes, me and my girl parts are pouting).

2 months into dating, an ex told me "you've had your tongue up my ass more than you've had your hands on my boobs." #notmuchofaboobguy

One of my exes during dinner this weekend: "You were like a magical, pussy-eating robot." Wasn't that also the name of a Neil Simon play?

I can literally perform oral on women for hours. Hours! If a woman is kind enough to let you pray at the altar, you have to deliver.

He Knows How to Make a Girl (and all her female tweeps) Feel Special:

#FF I pray to be reincarnated as these women's jeans:
@skyemetafrog @thenakedredhead @elizabethrose_m @missalphawrites @_Lola_Nicole_

@elizabethrose_m I love you, Elizabeth Rose. Though that could be the lust talking.

#FF vibes to @man_shopper, whose underwear I am profoundly jealous of. And "profoundly" is worth 36 Scrabble points, mind you.

He’s Lived Out His Dream (he survived a face-sitting session with a porn star).

@SinnamonLove just finished an awesome smothering session @tenacious_ken w/some excellent Tease & Denial. Silly boy kept choosing breathing over a handjob.

Just had my goofy white boy face buried between the spectacular buttocks of @SinnamonLove. Now I can die a happy man.

He Understands that There Are Times in Life You have to Make Sacrifices.

Turkey vs. Pussy. Only one can win.

He’s Among the Very Few People Who Know the Truth About Thanksgiving – That it Has Absolutely Nothing to Do with Native Americans, Pilgrims or any Kind of Harvest.

Man, do I love Thanksgiving. And by "Thanksgiving," of course, I mean "going down on women."

Guest Bloggess: The Truth About Brazil

2010-11-26T08:10:00.000-08:00

Today, in the wake of a turkey- and ass-induced haze, I am happy to present yet another spectacular post by another fine female guest blogger. Today, it is the stunning Elizabeth Rose of Met Another Frog, an English lass who has conjured many a British-school-marm-and-undisciplined-punk fantasy in my fevered brain. Sit back. Soak it in. And see if you, too, don't fall under her spell.

* * * * * * * *

Brazilian women. Only Swedish women may come close to having the same mythological aura. It is a legendary level of hotness. Something mere mortals cannot hope to aspire to.

Or so they say.

I visited Rio de Janeiro recently and before I arrived I was worried about what such specimens would do to even my infallible confidence. I flew with my beloved British Airways, and had a very pleasant flight by any standards. By business class standards even – Elizabeth Rose does not fly economy – I was actually bemused by being served both lobster and steak on an eleven hour flight.

My flight landed late, and I hurried to join my friends for our first (Saturday) night in Rio. As it was, we managed to check off one vacation “must-do” that night: doing the waiters of the local bar. I wasn’t paying much attention, but I don’t remember seeing any “Giselle”-like stunners around to eclipse my dear friends and me.

The next morning, I was in the arms of a waiter checking off another vacation tradition; taking a romantic walk to watch the sunrise. And later that day after some rest, hydration and a long hot shower our bikini-clad bodies headed to the beach.

It was during the first leg of this constitutional that I became aware of one of my favourite aspects of Brazilian culture: Perving.

It is entirely acceptable to stare openly and appreciatively at others’ anatomy. The lewd looks our little trio scored from the men about were quite soothing to the ego, I must say.

I did my fair share of perving too. There were some truly delectable male specimens along Copacabana and Ipanema beaches. Made all the more enjoyable to the eye as they were often found at the exercise stations working out. Mmmm…rippling muscles overlaid by tans and tattoos. (As you can imagine, I have quite the “scenic” vacation album from my trip.)

After taking a whiplash inducing stroll of the beach, it dawned on me...

“Where were all these undiscovered supermodels of Brazilian lore?”

There were pretty girls; there were average girls; there were stunners; and those who hit every branch of the ugly tree on the way down. In short, there is the same glorious mix of looks, shapes and types of women as can be found in any city of the world. Really not the intimidating glimpse of Amazonian perfection I was led to believe existed there. Quite a relief all told.

However... Brazilian men are fine.

They are tanned. They are toned. They are tattooed. They are the undiscovered natural resource of that wonderful country. This isn’t something I had heard tell of before; which leads me to conclude that there may be a very cunning conspiracy by Brazilian women afoot...

In order to keep the abundant fineness all to themselves, they have created this beauty myth, scaring other females away from their “sperm bank."

And now that you know the truth about Brazil, I’d like to encourage you all to pack you tiniest bikini and book the next flight to Rio so we can all share in the testosterone available. Just don’t show up when I’m there – I’d like them all to myself.

Fantasy vs. Reality. Or the Night I Almost Broke My Nuts

2010-11-18T06:02:00.001-08:00

Every straight male has had the "doctor's office" fantasy. No, not the one in which you find yourself tied down to a table as Charles Nelson Reilly walks in to administer something he calls "the full tomatoes." I'm talking about the one in which two [or possibly three] sexy-ass nurses come into the examining room and proceed to "manhandle" you. But in the good way.

My version of this fantasy always began with a routine exam for, I dunno, a sprained index finger. The nurse would ask me how it felt and if I could bend it, and before I could pick out which color splint I'd prefer, she's mounting my face like it was a front row seat to the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular.

That was before last week. When I took an unfortunate tumble off a ladder and landed balls-down on a can of paint.

Pain? Check. Mind-numbing, in fact. And the next day, with my boys still feeling like someone had them in a vice [and my el sacko now an impressive five sizes bigger than before], I sucked up what little pride I had left and went to the emergency room.

Of course, once there, I didn't want the world to know I'd hurt my nuts. So I told the woman at the desk I had abdominal pain and I took my place in the waiting area. Sure enough, when my name was eventually called, it was by the most stunning blonde I'd laid eyes on in some time. Six foot ten or something close, bright blue eyes and an outfit that fit so snug I had to blink to make sure it wasn't painted on.

So I went back with her, got seated in a little exam room, and when she looked at me with those goddamnfuckingmarvelous blue eyes and asked about my abdominal pain, I had to come clean, and explain that it was actually a bit lower. And she cocked an eyebrow. And said, "Oh?" And I melted. Because that was how I'd always dreamed it would begin.

But the Issac Hayes music never kicked in. Instead, she proceeded to ask questions. About my balls. And I talked to this gorgeous, statuesque blonde for ten minutes. About my balls. How I hurt them. How one is now larger than the other. How the ol' bag has inflated significantly since the tumble. And as I talked, I almost couldn't even hear the words spilling out of my mouth. Because all I could think about was how I was talking to this woman about my balls. In detail I've never spoken about my balls in my life. Ever.

So she finished her notes. And got up and smiled. And said the doctor would be in soon.

And me and my balls just sat there. For twenty minutes.

And in walked the doctor. Again, a pretty woman. This time, she's Asian.

And she looked at the chart. And I wanted to laugh because I knew she was reading about my balls. And it was funny and horrifying all at once.

So she asked me to take down my boxer briefs. And I did. And she started feeling my balls. And she asked if this is the swollen one and I wince and say that it is. And she kept squeezing and feeling. But there was no mood music. No sudden change in her grip. No quick massaging of the shaft. No comments like, "Mr. Ken, what you need is just a bit of release" or "let me get my friend Buffy in here to give a second opinion."

Just a gloved hand on my balls. And then it ended. And she explained that sometimes when your nuts are struck, there can be swelling that lasts for days. But I should have an ultrasound, she recommended, because on occasion, you can get what is scientifically referred to as "twisted testicles" [which, it turns out, is not the name of a new Broadway show starring Nathan Lane]. And when they twist, it's bad. Because they get no blood. And then, well, they gotta go.

So I panicked for a couple more days, then had the ultrasound. This time, a cute, middle-aged nurse was holding my balls, and even applying a warm, gelatinous goo to allow the machine to see them clearly. But I was immune to it all. I just wanted it to end. To let the boys live in peace. Just let me clear this hurdle, I prayed, and I'll never set foot on a ladder again.

And the results came back. And my balls were fine.

So I breathed a sigh of relief and went home, more than eager to close this chapter of my life.

But now, some days later, I find myself reflecting. About how vulnerable and fragile we are. And how life can change in the blink of an eye. And how your health really is everything.

And wondering if maybe, just maybe, that cute Asian doctor is sitting at home, thinking about the night she held my nuts.

Eyes Wide Shut

2010-11-09T02:56:00.000-08:00

Dear readers, I have a confession: I am something of an oddity in the animal kingdom.

No, it's not because of my obsessive love of giving women rimjobs. Or that freaky, irrepressible part of my psyche that can't get through a first date without asking a woman if she'd be willing to sit on my face. Or even my fondness for dressing up as Garth Brooks and hanging outside the local bakery.

It's because I'm a guy who doesn't like watching porno.

Two chicks going at it? I'll watch that any day. Three or five chicks? Even better. But watching a guy and a girl get into some straight-on fucking? Honestly, I can't watch it.

Not that I'm against fucking, mind you. In fact, I've spent the better part of my professional life trying to better myself in that department.

The problem is, nothing sickens me more than the male "money shot."

In college, my roommate and some of his drinkin' pals used to live for that shit. "Here it comes!" they'd shout in anticipation, right before the obliging female porn star got drenched. But I couldn't even watch. Guys, I wanted to yell, that's a fucking dude shooting his load. You see, I have a limit as to how many times a day I need to see a guy shoot his load. And that limit is "zero."

And when it comes to, y'know, wanking to porn, I have another problem. Because the law of averages dictates that you're every bit as likely to be staring at Ron Jeremy's greasy o-face when you reach climax as you are Alexis Texas' exquisitely contoured ass.

Too risky, as I see it. So just hand me a DVD copy of Swedish Lesbian Stewardesses in the Jungle of Doom and I'll be fine.

Guest Bloggess: Shopping for the Ideal Man

2010-11-05T04:02:00.000-07:00

Today, we come to yet another guest post, this one from the unstoppably awesome Man Shopper, checking in from her base of operations in Paris. While I have always been a fan of MS's prose, I am particuarly fascinated by her appreciation of the derriere, which almost matches the intensity of my own. And though I could go on about how I've filled many nights with dreams of lounging with her on the banks of the Seine, my head resting comfortably on her buttocks as I feed her bread and wine, I'll just cut right to the chase and get on with her spectacular post:

* * * * * * * *

If you look only at my blog entries, you’d think that I spend 100% of my dating time being a brutal buzz-saw – that all I do is gut my Parisian victims as if they were animal carcasses in my own personal slaughterhouse. I’m terribly offended that anyone could possibly think this of me. Unlike my mother, who was born without tear ducts, I am somewhat human, and I am here on Lustmongers to combat these vicious assumptions.

For the record, I only spend 99% of my time being the Man-chopper, so to speak. There is a whopping 1% of positive thinking that goes on, I swear. To prove it to you, this post is dedicated to unveiling the Man-shopper’s ideal man.

Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t focus ALL my energy on finding fault with my men. Even though I find myself assuming the worst of Parisian ‘gentlemen’, there is an itty-bitty-teeny-weeny-yellow-polka-dot-bikini part of me that still holds out hope that my ideal man is out there.

Who is this fairy-castle-in-the-sky of a man that I’m looking for, you ask? Brace yourself. This list is so profound that it very well may change your life.

He adores me.
Duh.

He makes me laugh.
Not fake laugh. LAUGH. Even better, he makes me giggle. Dear readers, I don’t giggle. If I giggle, that means that I’ve got a severe case of totally-into-him. I make it a point to be disgustingly healthy, so this is a rare affliction for me, but it’s been known to strike me down from time to time.

I make him laugh.
He needs to think that I am drop-dead hilarious. What can I say? I’m vain. Besides, I AM hilarious, dammit.

He has a certain appreciation for my nerdly pursuits.
These include but are not limited to activities like crosswording, popular science books, obscure documentaries, Scrabble, and partitioning my hard drive (no, that is NOT a euphemism for anything; get your minds out of the gutter, you gutter-dwellers!).

He is adventurous and physically fit enough to keep up with me.
Aside from the obvious sexual innuendo that can be read here, I also mean that he would go cycling with me, go rock climbing with me, be my sparring partner, or at least go to the gym with me.

He has broad shoulders.
I need to have a good spot to lay my head when I snuggle with him. It’s MY SPOT.

He wears sweaters.
Sweaters are adorable. If you disagree, go away. I love a man in a manly sweater. Moreover, I like to wear his sweaters when I want to feel thin.

He has a great butt.
I just like a nice bum. Ken understands. I would have put this at the top of the list, but I didn’t want to seem too superficial.

He likes dogs.
I love dogs. I intend to have one soon, and he is going to be a French bulldog named Pickle. If I were forced to choose between some dude and Pickle, I’d choose Pickle. Pickle may be strange-looking, slightly incontinent and incapable of controlling his snoring, but he would never betray me. Pickle adores me. And he wears sweaters.(Don’t pity Pickle, he loves wearing sweaters. It’s not animal cruelty, I swear.)

He likes to clean.
I like to cook. I believe this to be a reasonable and reciprocal arrangement.

His mother loves me.
Hey, I did warn you that this is a list of IDEAL characteristics, not ACHIEVABLE characteristics.

He is faithful.
Like I said... IDEAL characteristics. I’m going to have to move out of France to get this one checked off my list.

He has a great butt.
I thought that this point deserved reiteration. Moreover, this is Lustmongers, and I believe it to be my solemn duty as a guest blogger to take another moment to give another nod to the ass-worship for which Ken is so famous.

And there you have it: my list of the thirteen essential characteristics of my ideal man. The number ten is so... jejune. So I came up with thirteen for you.

It was exhausting for me, so I hope that you all appreciate my efforts to think in positive terms instead of making a list of things that I DON’T want in a man.

THAT list is actually going to be my great American novel, so stay tuned.

N.B. Big shout-out to Skye for the idea for this blog post! She is goddess.

Guest Post: Treasure Down Under

2010-10-27T00:13:00.000-07:00

The parade of awesome female guest bloggers continues. This week, it's the scintillating and verbally dextrous Zia, who turned down my every request that she use my face as her personal sofa, but did offer up the following post. After reading it, I want her even more.

* * * * * * * *

When you think about all the things we name, you start to wonder: why do we do it? We name pets, cars, GPS systems (mine is Betty), and tons of other inanimate objects. Why? It shows ownership, pride, and a connection. So naming your “family jewels” or “lady business” should not be any different. You own it, it’s definitely connected to you, and even though it is usually inanimate, it has moments of animation which you take pride in and, in turn, want to show off its talents.

In general, you may have a codename for how you address all people’s parts. For example, the grandmother of a girl I knew in high school addressed the female southern region as a twidgette. I personally use hoo-ha. A college friend of mine refers to the male southern region as accessories. But when it comes to naming your own, there are a few different approaches.

Some people like to go with a one-name approach. My dear friend, Mama J, addresses hers by Flower—a name that’s simple, clean, and implies that it smells nice. Her husband, Hubby J, on the other hand, prefers the two-name tactic and calls his member Papa Rocks. Papa gives a, how shall we say, “grandness” or “commanding” presence, while Rocks, in the vernacular, implies that it is a good time.

In my naming research, I found that some people like to use the word “ the” to help clarify their name. Normally, we use the word “ the” for specification. So in translation, when Sarcastic Bride calls her area The Zone, it makes it sound like it’s the one and only place to be.

A few people choose to add the honorific Mr., Ms., or Miss, giving a more professional attitude to their bits. However, I found many of my female friends prefer the possessive “honorific” - My. I have heard My Valentine, My Christmas, and My Princess.

The most unappealing use of “my” was my former college roommate – My Stuff. Really? Stuff is defined as an unspecified material substance. Unspecified? What’s the use of using an honorific if you are showing no honor to your hoo-ha?

Living with her got me to thinking and that is when I came up with my name. Well, names actually. I use a multi-name method. How could I choose just one name when this area has many different moods, emotions, and situations? Think about it: if your significant others’ name is William, you may call him William (professional), Bill (casual), Billy (youthful), or scrap them all and call him Sweetheart or Honey (endearing).

So, with this in mind, I came up with My Happy, in general or after a good roll in the hay. If the roll in the hay was exceptional, My Dopey pays a visit. When I find myself in a position where the guy has no clue what he’ s doing down there and I need to give directions (a.k.a. a prescription to make things better), My Doc is in the house. My Bashful walks into the gynecologist and My Grumpy walks out. My Sleepy appears when I’m in between “ action” (current status), but if it ever becomes My Sneezy, I’m seeing a specialist.

Speechless

2010-10-23T15:11:00.001-07:00

Someone sent me a link to this video:

That person is the greatest human who ever lived.

Even if you're a heterosexual woman, how could you NOT want to be under that ass? Straight girls, help me out here.

Everything I Know About Love & Sex I Learned From Pop Culture

2010-10-18T03:57:00.000-07:00

Last month, with the help of the glorious and all-too sexy Skye from Met Another Frog, I recruited a number of impossibly cool female bloggers to help balance out the massive amounts of testosterone flowing through this place since Ginger left. This week, I'm happy to present a post from the brain behind No One Reads the Copy. I have dubbed her The Greek Goddess of Awesome, because she is hot, funny, well-read in all areas of pop culture, and also because I desperately want to eat ice cream off her ass.

So here we go.

* * * * * * * * * *

I know a lot of things.

Admittedly the things I know are stupid inconsequential things mostly related to pop culture. The only time this ever proves to be actually useful and not just something I can secretly gloat or feel superior about is when I’m trying to win a free round of drinks at Trivia Night in a bar.

When girls my age were turning to Cosmopolitan to learn the feminine art of “pleasing your man” and reading guides to giving the perfect blow job, to make the all-important pubescent transition to womanhood easier, I regarded another publication as the holiest of sources for all the information I needed: Entertainment Weekly.

So as I sit here, a mild to moderately attractive (depending on how much junk you like in a lady’s trunk) perpetually single female in my late 20’s, who knows a whole heck of a lot about The Bachelor (even though I’ve never watch it – I SWEAR) and can speak eloquently about the metaphysics in LOST, I can’t help but wonder:

How did the nerdy 14 year-old who translated Shakespearean English into contemporary English for, you know, FUN, end up having every romantic situation of her adult life feeling doomed from the start? Relationships that are the source of lots of tears and self-doubt and self-loathing, and on occasion, a shoe thrown dramatically across a room? And of course, a ton of emotional and/or passive aggressive texts and emails?

Where did I go wrong?

My therapist and I sit together pondering that very question every week, and we’ve concluded that it’s because everything I know about love and sex I learned from pop culture.

And besides I’m a writer. Drama is kind of my thing.

Here is the number one (just the top one really. There are a lot more examples. But save something for the book, right?) thing that I believe has shaped my love life and ultimately made me a very frustrated person.

It’s not real love if it’s not very, very, VERY dramatic.

If your current love interest is not:

-- exorcising a demon/the Devil out of your body - Days of our Lives;
-- running dramatically across a field with his hair waving in the wind as he offers his life for yours to a Indian chief - The Last of the Mohicans;
-- plotting to steal your virginity but then falling in love with you and appearing mostly-non-creepily at the top of an escalator - Cruel Intentions;
-- defying the laws of nature itself and traveling through time to leave you love letters in a mailbox that should not in actuality exist - The Lake House (I don’t have to actually enjoy a movie like The Lake House to have it affect my psyche and expectations of a man).

Well then... I guess he’s just not that into you.

Honestly though, I still think it’s gonna happen for me one day.

She's the Boss.

2010-10-07T00:07:00.000-07:00

My name is Ken. I work smackdab in downtown Boston. And I totally want to have sex with my boss. Good morning.

My boss is about 56 years old. Blonde, roughly 5'3". Prolly 100 pounds soaking wet and holding a sack of potatoes. She is a mother of four from one of the city's affluent suburbs. And, holy mother of god, I want to bury my face between her legs with an intensity that only guys who've been in prison for twenty years can appreciate.

Why do I wanna bone a woman who is roughly ten years younger than my mother? Because she's my boss. Sure, she's also an incredibly hot 56-year-old professional who has her hair done on Newbury Street and depends on a team of twenty five Vietnamese women in Newton to keep her nails appropriately chiseled. But, dude, fucking the boss? That's gotta be bonus points the likes of which my feeble mind could never comprehend.

It's also never going to happen. Because she's the boss. And she didn't get to be the boss by throwing herself at goofy, pale, nerdy subordinates.

Not that there isn't something there. We've been on countless business trips together, during which jokes about sex and making out and getting fingered fly fast and furious [that last one being a story she told me about her high school prom that had me up all night in my hotel room jerking off to the dulcet tones of CNN]. Once, while we were setting up our company's booth at a trade show, she bent over and inadvertently backed up squarely against my crotch, then stood there for a beat, noting, "Hey, I hope you at least buy me dinner after this." And, voila, I had enough masturbatory fuel for, oh, ten months.

But, again, I can fantasize all I want; I ain't gettin' in the boss' three-hundred dollar pants. Although I would like to assure her that letting me bone her in the Executive Conference Room wouldn't shift the balance of power. In fact, it would probably make me an even better employee, as I see it.

Perhaps, in the dark recesses of her mind, she's thought of this as well. And is even considering throwing me a bang before her retirement. In any event, I'll be here, waiting for the Boss to come to her senses and swoop me up in her streamlined Mercedes for a night of passionate snogging and backseat screwing.

In the meantime, I may try my luck with the 62-year old Haitian cleaning woman. I see the way she looks at me...

Guest Post: I Still Got It

2010-10-05T04:32:00.000-07:00

As you may or may not have noticed, the lovely Ginger has been absent from these pages for some time now, as she pursues other ventures. For fear that this blog may start bursting at the seams from all the testosterone I'm pumping into it, I reached out to the lovely Skye at Met Another Frog, who helped me recruit a dazzling array of fine female bloggers who have agreed to contribute some guest posts, provided I cease and desist with my constant begging for them to sit on my face. With that, I give you the first of these guest posts, from Lucky Girl of the blog How Very Lucky:

* * * * * * * * * *

There’d been too much disappointment. Heartbreak. And far too many 60-something comb-overs wearing mom-jeans trying to enter my digital domicile in the online mating marketplace.

No, sir. You do not look young. You look exactly your age. Maybe even older. The fact that your ex-wife and last girlfriend were both 30 years your junior doesn’t at all make you more marketable in my eyes. It makes you creepy.

When I find it rising in me, that cynicism, like a pot of rolling milk, rising, erupting into to an overflowing boil, it’s time to remove the pot from the stove. I needed a break. To reconnect with myself, to restore my faith and optimism. To remember that I am not a magnet for losers. But that the interweb sometimes is. Right?

So began my dating vacation.

My allergies were bad that Friday. I decided, impulsively and impetuously as I am wont to do, that a major spring cleaning was the solution. I put on the 30-something girl’s equivalent to my grandmother’s housedress. Minus the dress part. The point is, it wasn’t meant to be seen by anything other than the tile floor I was scrubbing.

But then I decided to wash the rugs and curtains. At the laundromat.

I walked out of my apartment. An unkempt, caramel-skinned man stood on the corner, singing. I smiled. He shifted to Sam Cooke’s “Cupid”, and followed me on my journey to the laundromat. I felt like the Pied Piper.

It was a moment that I should have appreciated. Normally would have appreciated. But instead I was annoyed. Who follows a girl that looks like she should be cleaning your toilet singing “Cupid”? Apparently, this guy does.

I quickened my gait and turned the corner nearing the laundromat. But not before a man sitting on a stoop, smoking a cigarette and talking to his friend stopped me.

"Excuse me. Miss?"

Ugh. What does he want?

He rose. What I’d hoped to be “Can you tell me the time?” or “Do you know how to get to _____” turned out the be this man’s poor attempt at a pick-up.

"So. Um. Yeah. Um."

He was a close talker.

"Yeah. Um. I just wanna talk to you. You know? Um. Yeah. Do you have a quarter?"

Wow. I’m standing there holding a huge bottle of Tide, two rather large and heavy rugs wrapped in a pair of brown silk dupioni curtains (which, incidentally and much to my dismay, later proved their dry cleaning tags correct), and a couple rolls of quarters in plain site. This sucked. But giving him one would be easier than saying no.

I couldn’t quite see over the heaping pile of laundry in my arms, but managed to free a quarter from the roll and hand it to him. And that’s when I saw it. He was holding his penis in his hands, smiling.

"You know what? A simple thank you woulda done it."

Unbelievable. In broad daylight! Jesus.

I duck into the laundromat. I drop the motherload in my arms onto the floor with relief and proceed to pack the rugs and curtains into three super-sized machines, plugging each of them full of the 22-quarters they required. I added detergent and grabbed the small bag I’d brought along. There were three empty seats along the east wall. I chose the middle seat. I reached into my bag, placed a ball of yarn on the seat next to me and started to knit. Yeah, so I’m that lady now. Single. No prospects. Proud cat owner. Proud cat owner who knits.

I know what you’re thinking. Prize. Clearly.

Anyway, I’m minding my own business when a man walks in. There are other seats surrounding the laundromat. All of which are empty. But he has to have the one next to me. The one with my knitting supplies. Damn it.

I begrudgingly move them and slide down to the next chair.

"Excuse me. Miss?"

Jesus, really? Can’t a girl just do her laundry and knit in peace? Did I really just think that? God. I did. This is why I’m on vacation.

I look at him. With attitude.

"Yes?"

"I just want to talk to you. You’re a really beautiful woman."

Oh god. I ignore him. Slip. Slip. Knit. Yarn Over.

"Miss? I said you look beautiful."

Seriously? Pony-tailed, no make-up, dirty yoga pants and a gray t-shirt with a stain looks beautiful? Well, I did get a serenade and a strip tease...

"Thank you."

He goes on. I’m trying to count. I’ve already fucked up this baby blanket three times and had to start over.

I look at him. I look annoyed.

"Please. Just stop…"

But before I can finish, two cops enter. My wishful boyfriend jumps up. He walks coolly around the folding table to the other side of the room, clutching a large gym bag. The officers approach slowly, taking position on opposite sides of the folding table. My laundromat libertine is cornered. He pauses for a moment and then takes off in a tornado, running full-speed into a woman in his path who is slowly sorting whites from colors. She wobbles like a Weeble but thankfully is left standing, terrified and stunned. The cops sway side to side like linemen ready for a tackle. One goes for the bag, the other for him. The Don Juan of Detergent gets away. They get the bag.

I return to my knitting. I guess I can add petty thief to today’s list of Lotharios.

So in summary. I still got it. I don’t need the interwebs. I can attract losers everywhere.

Sometimes You Just Have to Come Right Out and Ask Them

2010-10-02T06:27:00.000-07:00

In my never-ending quest to convince women to sit on my face, I've employed many tactics: buying dinner and drinks, laying on the compliments, bragging about how I've spent most of my adult life hunting the killer whale that devoured my uncle. And so on.

Never, ever had it occurred to me to walk up to 'em in a public square, lie down on the concrete, and simply ask 'em, point blank, to use my mug like a sofa.

But that's exactly what this guy did:

I can't imagine the guy didn't get his ass whipped at some point during the proceedings. But the fact that he somehow talked two rather attractive and well-arsed lasses into sitting on his face instantly makes him my write-in candidate for mayor.

Open Letter to Myself: Please Don't Go Drinking With the Crazy Girls from the Office

2010-09-23T04:46:00.000-07:00

Dear Ken: Next week, you will be representing your company at "the conference." While you are at "the conference," you will be in the company of several coworkers, all of them female, between the ages of 23 and 46. These girls, as you well know, like to drink. Often to excess. This note is to remind you that no matter how much you want to, you should not go drinking with the crazy girls from the office.

Part of the reason is that you know how you get. A coupla beers and suddenly you're going on and on about how you've mastered the art of eating pussy. How you gently suck the clit and hold it between your lips, appying gradual pressure while briskly racing your tongue across it. These are not the sort of things you should be saying to women you work with. So please, don't go drinking with the crazy girls from the office.

Also, you know they like to dance. Remember that night they pulled you onto the floor with them at the Hong Kong? If you go drinking with them, you'll invariably end up dancing with them. Which means Loretta from Customer Service will sashay up to you and arch her not entirely bad ass at you, inviting you to start dry humping it to the dulcimer tones of "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." And you'll do it, because you're drunk and, well, it's a female ass. And, because you're a heterosexual dude, you'll begin to stiffen. And suddenly Loretta from Customer Service is giving you a hard-on. And that's not what you want to happen, dude. It just isn't. So please, don't go drinking with the crazy girls from the office.

Remember, also, that these girls never know when to quit. And because, as Tom Waits once sang, "the night does funny things inside a man," you'll invite them all up to your room after last call. Because you've got "the big room." The Executive Special that comes with a big-ass conference table and a wet bar. And you'll imagine them all fighting over who gets to blow you first, but they're really just coming to drain your minibar. And the closest you come to naked flesh is when Janet inexplicably pulls you into the bathroom with her, locks the door, and forces you into the shower and closes the curtain so she can take a whiz. When you come back out, you see Frances polishing off a bottle of champagne which, according to the Hyatt mini-bar pricelist, just cost you sixty dollars. You don't need to be explaining such expenses to your boss, so please, don't go drinking with the crazy girls from the office.

Dude. Seriously. Do you really want Loretta telling people that she gave you a hard-on? Just don't even give it a chance to happen. Don't get yourself into such situations. There's probably a good movie on. Hell, get a porno and spank it till the wheels fall off. But don't go drinking with the crazy girls from the office. There's just nothing good that can come of it.

Note: The conference was actually last week. And, yeah, I went drinking with the crazy girls from the office.

Homeless, Yes. But Well-Laid.

2010-09-20T04:51:00.000-07:00

So last Friday, me and my man Sully were taking lunch at a bar near Kenmore Square. And there's this skeevy looking dude sitting all by himself at a corner table. A dude who seriously looked like a bona fide homeless fella, with a tattered Herald under his arm, one of those hand-held transistor radios they stopped making back in the Carter administration, and hair like he'd just brushed it with a pillow. Sully and I started wondering aloud how long it would be until a waitress or bouncer kicked him out.

About four beers later, this cute, professional-looking woman walks in: long brown hair, tight skirt, smokin' hot ass. And as Sully and I suck in our chests and start involuntarily flexing our biceps, she passes us and beelines for the hobo. Gives him a kiss on the cheek. Runs her hand through his impossibly scroungy hair. And I'm thinking this has gotta be a joke, A B.U. sorority chick "let's tease the homeless dude" thing. But as they're talking, he places his unkempt hand on the spectacular curve of her derriere. And it stays there. Until she kisses him again and joins him in the booth.

So Sully and I start doing the math. A hand on her ass. Kisses on the mouth. It's not her dad [and if it was... ewwwww]. Not a brother. Might be a cousin, but... who the fuck feels up their cousin's ass? No, we figured. These two must be romantically involved. And as they sat there, her perfume covering the dirt fumes rising off his scalp, you could see that she was actually enjoying his company. Christ almighty, she was there by choice!

And it gets us thinking... how do guys like that [and you see the photo above, folks? Not that far off.] score premium trim like her? It's the one thing that always blows my mind when I see a guy who by all accounts is either destitute or filthy with some hygiene-related disease or barking madly at a wall in a Heineken-inspired haze and he's got a fucking hottie on his arm.

What is it, ladies? Do these scumbags have money? Huge cocks? Real estate in Miami? Or is it a sympathy thing? Because I'm ready to give up on the whole showering bit if it lands my mouth between your legs with greater frequency.

Oral in the Car. And Why Not?

2010-09-14T03:02:00.000-07:00

The blowjob in the car is one of those things that is awesome simply in and of itself. Slightly cooler than the blowjob in the hammock but a little less fantastic that the blowjob in the space shuttle, the car smoothie is intensified by the fact that it adds a precise element of danger to the proceedings.

As the driver of the car, I know I have to keep my focus on the road. Because, man, there's big-ass trucks and crazy seventeen year old girls trying to simultaneously text their BFFs and steer a Lincoln Navigator across six lanes of highway out there. But as the recipient of the blowjob, I also know that the lifeblood which is so necessary to keeping my brainwaves nice and snappy is being filtered away to my lower extremities, giving me that slightly dizzy, slightly buzzed, holy-shit-I'm-getting-a-beaner-in-the-car feeling that truly dulls the reaction times.

Also, if it's a particularly long drive, and said blowjob is helpful in keeping me from slipping off into a narcoleptic coma on interstate 95, then I certainly want to prolong the sensation and retain my seed for as long as possible (which for me, ladies, ain't all that long). But that increases the risk of being discovered by a fellow driver who might snap a quick vid of the proceedings and throw it up on YouTube.

Worst of all, as a guy who just hasn't mastered the art of post-orgasm smalltalk, I find myself in a precarious situation once the BJ has officially ended and I realize I've still got 65 miles to Boston. Once, after a Kennette obliged me in the car, I simply nodded, smiled, said, "Woah" and "Awesome" and then proceeded to mess with the radio buttons for the next twenty minutes.

Thong vs. Teeth

2010-08-05T06:17:00.000-07:00

Confession: I'm obsessed with female underwear.

Naw, I don't wear it myself -- at least not since the "college days" -- but I absolutely fucking live for that moment when the random female I've somehow conned into coming back to Le Pad de Ken unbuttons her jeans then slowly sheds them, revealing the magical undergarments. There's also a lot to be said for the sight of said underwear balled up on the floor the next morning, or hidden between the sheets. Hell, sometimes I'll even bury my face in a Kenette's underwear drawer like a friggin' six year old bobbing for apples, just for the sheer delight of it.

Simply put, female underwear = awesome.

But it ain't always magical.

Case in point: Once upon a time, after a random Kenette and I completed a little something I like to call the bedroom floor facedown slalom, I found her thong in the corner of the room. Joking, I picked it up and stuffed it in my mouth, as I've threatened to do on many occasions. Stunned, she turned around quick and blurted, "Hey, those were expensive."

With that, she plucked the tiny millimeter of fabric still outside my mouth and gave the undies a solid yank, retrieving them, along with a bonus prize in the form of my permanent retainer -- a small, two-inch-long piece of metal which runs along the back of my bottom teeth to prevent nature from undoing years of orthodontics.

Now, the fucking thing's been there since I was 16, so, as you might imagine, it hurt like a world class motherfucker. So I scream. And my mouth starts gushing blood as the metal scraped my cheek and tongue on the way out. So she starts screaming as well. And I'm standing there, watching blood pour from my mouth wondering how something that seemed so cool at the time could have gone so horribly wrong.

A few hours later, calm was restored. My dentist replaced the retainer the following Monday morning, and I duly promised to never ever again attempt to ingest a Kenette's panties.

Unless, of course, she's wearing them.

I Still Don't Understand Women

2010-07-23T04:51:00.000-07:00

So the other night I meet a female pal of mine for dinner. As we sift through the appetizers, she tells me how her lovelife's been pretty lame of late, and with each successive glass of booze, she gets a bit more descriptive as to what it is that's got her bummed. Apparently, the last few guys she's dated haven't gone down on her, and she's absolutely "dying" -- her words -- for a bit of tongue-lashing.

This being a long-time pal of mine, and quite a hot little number to boot, I assure her that those guys must be crazy or perhaps even a bit queer to not want to work her over, and that everything will likely change with the next boyfriend.

And she starts to explain how she just needs to be sucked on so badly that she's just looking for someone -- anyone -- who'll go down on her with no strings attached. Just so she can remind herself of what it feels like.

And I tell her again that the next man who comes into her life will probably be the guy for the job. I also add that if all she really wants is a little downtown action, I'm sure any guy in any bar in any part of the country -- provided, y'know, he swung that way -- would be more than up to the task.

And she says, no, she doesn't have the time to filter out the psychos and sissy-boys and Dave Matthews fans. She needs someone she can trust. Someone who'll just do the job like it needs to be done. As she puts it, she literally just wants to lay down, get eaten like there's no goddam tomorrow, and put this cursed drought behind her.

So I, fueled purely by alcohol and a prolonged look at her derriere when she got up to use the ladies room, lamely offer my services, seeing as how she almost seems to be steering the conversation in that direction. Hell, I'm always down to go down, as the Cub Scout Mantra dictates.

And that's when she quickly changes direction. "Oh god, no," she says. "We couldn't do that."

But at least I offered. And perhaps that all she wanted to hear.

Don't Be That Girl

2010-07-13T00:02:00.000-07:00

The company I work for encourages volunteerism among its staff. A noble thing, to be sure, and being a noble gent of sorts, I anted up and put in for some hours last weekend at a local food pantry. The work is fairly easy; you just sort packages of food into boxes, then seal up the boxes. Then we all go home or get liquored up and chase tail.

At the volunteer site, I got paired up with a girl from my office who I'd never met. We'll call her Sandy. Sandy's job is to tie three boxes of food together, then she hands them off to me and I pack them six-deep in a large crate. Sandy is chubby, with a flat ass, large round boobs and a pretty face. Not my type at all, but she seems friendly and I anticipate at least some decent conversation to make the time pass as we're sorting and packing.

Turns out, Sandy's a Talker. Talks about everything. Did I see The Bachelorette the other night? Don't I just hate the MBTA? Isn't Game On the coolest place to hang out?

So I nod and politely smile and put in my two cents where I'm allowed. The clock is, thankfully, moving along nicely and we're stacking up crates at a respectable pace. She keeps yammering and I keep smiling, and then at one point, out of the blue, she blurts out, "Oh, I should tell you, I have a boyfriend."

Well, thank christ she cleared that up with me. I mean, she obviously noticed, as my eyes glazed over with each passing box of Triscuits or deviled ham, that I was clearly sizing up her ass for a right good fucking. I glanced over and acknowledged it with a quick smile and a, "Well, he's one lucky guy." Then we got back to the work at hand.

So where, exactly, does this sort of thing come from? Is it just the need to let the entire free world know you're getting laid? Or has my "warning: pervert at large" vibe becoming increasingly obvious with each passing year?

Open Letter to Myself from the Future

2010-06-29T10:25:00.000-07:00

Dude, on Saturday, Neal's going to call. And you know what Neal wants to do. He wants to go to the strip joint.

This message is to tell you do not go to the strip joint with Neal.

And whatever you do, do not get drunk before you don't go to the strip club with Neal.

Because you know how you get when you walk into the strip joint and your alcohol-soaked brain gets filled up with that perfume and music and thongs and those boots. For starters, you get that look in your eyes -- you know, that glazed-over, fattened tongue, "Man, I haven't so much as touched a girl in a month" thing you do. And the strippers can spot that a mile away.

So don't talk to the strippers. When they approach you, simply tell them that you're here for a bachelor party and it's currently raging downstairs in the "Shower Room" and you just stepped out for some air but you have to get back and thank you very much. Because once you let them get you into the corner and put their arms around you and get all up in your face with those lips and that perfume and those boobs, you're toast. So don't sit down. Not there. Dude, especially not there on that corner sofa. Because then you're cornered and she's going to sit on your lap and once she does that... oh, fuck.

Alright, we can still work ourselves out of this. Again, use the bachelor party story. Even better, say you don't have any money. Because that will get her off you quicker than setting yourself on fire. But it's tough, isn't it? Because there's this gorgeous 19-year-old stripper sitting on your lap and rubbing your neck and you'd rather swallow a cup of crushed lightbulbs than move right now. And you're gonna say to yourself "How much can one lap dance hurt?" and before you know it, you're sixty bucks in the hole and all this girl has done is rub her curvaceous and hot damn! ass all over the crotch of your jeans for five and a half minutes. And then, like Keyser Soze, she's gone, and you're sitting there with a ranging hard-on, an horrific case of blue balls, and a hangover that's rapidly staking out property across your forehead.

At that point, just leave. Don't even look for Neal. Because you know where he is. He's downstairs, in the wrestling area. And he's watching the strippers wrestle these drunken buffoons and they're all covered in shaving cream and slipping and sliding across each other and you know what Neal's thinking. He wants in. But he's not going to do this alone, you see, which is why it is absolutely imperative that when Neal asks if you want to wrestle, you say no. And when he calls that girl in the American flag short shorts over and starts asking her how much, don't look at her, and especially don't look at her ass. Because then your jaw will drop at its sheer awesome-ness and she'll key into this and get all Superfly Snuka on you, dropping down on the bar, wrapping her legs around your head and pulling your nose right up against her buttcheeks. At which point you'll surrender, throwing down cash and credit cards and social security numbers and whatever else she's trying to shake out of your wallet.

So when you're back there, in the changing room, getting into a grimy pair of wrestling shorts and waiting for the "ref" to call you out to the ring, I suggest that you just run. Don't look back. Don't even collect your clothes. Just bolt out into the Sunday morning air and be done with this madness. Because once you step into the ring, you're going to realize that these chicks mean business. And it's almost like they're trying to fuck you up. And when one of them flies off the top rope to elbow you in the chest, you swear that six of your ribs just splintered. And Neal's next to you, face down in the shaving cream and getting pumelled by that redhead and you're not sure if he's even still alive, but you can't worry about that now because holyfuckingshit here comes your girl off the top rope again and all you can do is shield your package and pray god she doesn't pierce your skin. And when she actually does sit on your face, it's only to grind a couple pounds of shaving cream up your nostrils and into your eyes and down your throat. Then, just to add an exclamation point of humiliation to it all, she stands you up and pours a pitcher of ice down your shorts, painfully extinguishing whatever semblance of a hard-on you could muster at that point.

Don't even look at your credit card invoice. Because when you realize how much you just paid to have your nuts slung up, you'll want to drop some arsenic. Better to just scurry backstage, wash yourself up, and slink back to Boston.

Better yet, when Neal calls, don't even answer the phone.

Things Are Tough All Over

2010-06-25T02:14:00.000-07:00

So Joran van der Sloot -- the dude who confessed to killing some girl whom he invited to his hotel room and likely killed Natalee Holloway -- is fielding proposals of marriage. From women.

Here's where I have to ask, is the dating scene really all that bad in these women's cities? Have they literally torn through all the law-abiding citizens in their respective zip codes, and have decided to start branching out? Is the pool of available guys so shallow that they've decided to lower their criteria to the point that "accused murderer" is no longer a deal-breaker?

Frankly, I'm sure the women offering themselves to Slootie are fairly psychotic themselves. But the fact that he's got a line of women willing to bone him and I've still gotta go out and garner my leads the old fashioned way or find me a great Vancouver escort is fairly depressing.

Ladies of the world, let me just say this: Before you go offering your heart and/or loins to a murderer, consider the alternative.

Namely, me.

I'm not nearly as dashing or connected or rich as van der Sloot. But I eat pussy like a madman. And I've never killed anyone.

Me? Emotional? Irrational?

2010-06-23T15:31:00.000-07:00

My friends at MetAnotherFrog have asked me to contribute another guest post. This one on the subject of irrational, reactionary, emotional women. Here's a taste:

There may be one or two exceptions in my chequered past. But for the most part, they’re all the same. If I’m a few minutes late coming home, I get a crazed call screaming, “Who is she?” If I can’t make her Dad’s birthday party because of a business trip, she insists I hate her parents and want them dead. If I fall asleep during the chick flick we’re watching, I’m not sensitive to her feelings.

I’ve had girlfriends break down in tears because I was too slow to notice a new haircut. One who threatened to punch out a female ticket-taker at the local movie house because she thought she was “making a play for my guy.” Another who stopped talking to her best friend for three years because she was convinced the girl wore the same dress as her to a wedding out of spite.

Again, I can only base this on the women I know. And with my predilections and obtuse desires, it could very well be that the women I know represent a small demographic. But in my experience, if there’s a conclusion to be jumped to, a handle to be flown off, or a boyfriend to be kicked in the balls based purely on suspicion and nothing resembling hardcore facts, women are gonna do it.

Check the rest, baby. Right here.

Up Your Irish

2010-06-21T04:57:00.000-07:00

During my junior year of college, I had an internship with a Boston-based publishing company. Not the most exciting of gigs, but one of the magazines I worked on was for nurses. So I got to enjoy brief moments of exhilaration when we'd visit local nursing colleges to hold little "informational sessions" with the students -- a chance for us to chat them up while not-so-stealthily promoting our publication.

During one such visit, my boss, a pretty friggin' hot 47 year old if I may add, gave her introductory spiel to the crowd, then turned it over to me. As a witty aside, and knowing the room was packed with 18 year old goodness, she added, "And Ken blushes so easily. It's awfully cute."

Caught off guard, and my head already spinning from watching the blonde in the front row working over a lollipop, I stepped up to address the crowd with a hearty, "Yes, that blushing is a curse of the Irish."

Then, thinking an alcoholic reference might be just what this situation calls for, I added: "There's another Irish curse. But I won't get into that right now."

A few titters from the crowd. Chicks eyeballing each other and giggling. A few glances down past my belt. It was then I remembered that other other Irish curse. And I could almost hear the sound of my pride crashing down around my ankles.

Too late to reel it back in, I forged ahead, realizing any dreams I harbored of seven nursing students asking me to join them for a post-meeting fuck-a-thon would likely have to be shelved.

But, lesson learnt. Clearly, the wrong way to win over a crowd of hot nursing students is, "Hi, I've got a small pecker. And now, let's talk about our editorial submission policy."

Problems I'll Never Have

2010-06-20T05:12:00.000-07:00

Oh, come on now, Photoshop. There's always something to stroke.

Biding My Time...

2010-06-16T11:10:00.000-07:00

So, er. Is Miley Cyrus legal yet?

Not asking for me, of course. For my nephew. Who's 63.

"Hey, You With the Boobs. And the Eyes. And the Hair..."

2010-06-15T04:34:00.000-07:00

There's a girl at my office with the biggest rack ever.

I mean, there's simply no other way to put it. Hindenburg-huge. Preposterously gargantuan. Incapable of being restrained by the strongest of sports bras or tightly-knit sweaters.

They are, for lack of better terminology, ginormous.

And everyone knows this. Her boss knows it. Her coworkers. Every guy in the mailroom knows "Sarah with the boobs." Christ, the vending machine that spits out our coffee and candy bars knows it.

Folks, her boobs are fucking huge.

So the other day, myself and Sarah and her boobs and a few other coworkers find ourselves at the local "TGIFridays" -- where the good times are incessant! -- for that most gut-wrenching of office niceties, the birthday lunch. And one of the girls is showing off her new tinted contacts, and she's apparently quite happy because she'd rather men focus on her eyes than what she deemed her "beak-like nose."

And Sarah chimes in that she's quite proud of her own deep blue eyes, because, and I quote, "they're the first things guys notice about me."

Not on this planet, hon. Not in this lifetime.

But it did get me thinking. Are we fooling ourselves with what we truly think are our best features? I recall a former Kennette who had a model-quality ass, the kind that snarls traffic and turns men to stone at first glance [how I let that one slip away is still a sore subject]. But she was convinced her impossibly curly blonde hair was what drew myself and countless other guys in.

Hell, I even fool myself. Hours of sweating my balls off in the gym have convinced me that my arms and chest are what keep the ladies coming. But if you ask the ladies, they'll probably tell you what they really dig is how I always pick up the bar tab.

My Brilliant Career... in Romance

2010-06-09T06:20:00.000-07:00

I don't smoke. Unless I've been drinking. When I'm drunk, man, just hand me those fucking cigarettes because I'm gonna tear right through 'em. Problem is, the combination of stomach full of booze and lungs full of smoke invariably leads to barfing or, worse, barfing on someone. And we can't have that.

Right outta college, I worked for a small medical supply company. Every Friday night, some knucklehead would go out and grab a case of beer, and we'd sit and drink for a few hours at the end of the workdasy until we went off to our respective better lives. One night, me and an older woman --one who intrigued me, might I add -- stuck around, drinking and getting increasingly touchy-feely. She started smoking so, being half in the wrapper, I asked her for one. About an hour later, the only ones left, we started making out. Then things got a little more heated, as she grabbed right for the Captain. We moved into the office area, and I sat her up on the Xerox machine, prepared to give her the oral stimulation of her life.

Turns out I got about two licks in when the smoke and nicotine and cheap beer hit me like a sledgehammer. No denying it: I had to puke. But, man, is there a worse time to throw up then right after you've started going down on some woman? I mean, what kind of message is that sending?

So I summoned my last ounce of jedi strength, kept the puke down for a good four minutes, then excused myself, claiming I had to take a massive whiz. I ran down the hall, ducked into the men's room, puked my brains out, then returned a few minutes later. At that point, she was slipping back into her jeans, the mood effectively trampled. But, hey, better she think I can't hold my liquor than god knows what she might have thought if I just broke loose and threw up after getting between her legs.

My Pioneering Ways

2010-06-07T10:13:00.000-07:00

In another example of my dreams becoming reality, Gawker reports that the newest dance craze in Brazil involves women slamming their asses into guy's faces.

You can thank me in the comments.

My Own Worst Enemy

2010-05-28T01:15:00.000-07:00

Ken [adjusting tie as he scrambles to the toaster]: Alright. Five minutes for breakfast, then I hit the 7:30 D Train.

Inner Ken: Hold it.

Ken [munching toast furiously]: What?

Inner Ken: Did you want to watch the news? Check the weather?

Ken: No, no, no. No TV. I'm all set. Nice day today. Mid-70s.

Inner Ken: Come on, let's just flip it on for a sec. You never know when a monsoon might hit. Here we go. Okay.

Ken [trying to look away as TV flips on]: I really don't have--

Inner Ken: Uh-oh. This ain't the Weather Channel. Looks like a new episode of In Shape With Sharon Mann on FitTV. Or is that Denise Austin?

Ken [looks at watch]: Fuck. Shut it off.

Inner Ken [staring at TV]: Oh my god. Those shorts. That body. Christ, her ass looks like it's carved outta marble.

Ken: I don't wanna see. I've got a train to catch. I can't be late again.

Inner Ken: Dude, just check it out for a second. It's glutes day! She's doing squats!

Ken: Squats? Fuck. Maybe I could just check it out for a sec.

Inner Ken: Totally. Jesus, look at that form. Imagine backing right up to that and... [does the patented, goofy-ass "white boy gettin' some" jig].

Ken: Haw fuck. And look at those legs. [Checks watch] But that's enough. I gotta go.

Inner Ken: Just a few more minutes. It's almost stretching time.

Ken: I know what you're up to, and it's not gonna happen. I'm not gonna make my self late for work again by jerking off to another women's exercise program.

Inner Ken: Whatever. Hey, check it. Leg scissors.

Ken [drops toast]: Holy jumping Jesus.

Woman on Exercise Show: Alright ladies. Now it's time to work that tush.

Inner Ken: Oh, yes!

Ken: Alright. The 7:45 train. Can't miss that one.

Inner Ken: Right, right. We won't. I promise.

Ken: 'Course I could always tell the boss the train got derailed... or there was an electrical problem... [starts jerking off to another women's exercise program.]

No Way She's In It For The Money

2010-05-26T13:02:00.001-07:00

Lots of folks would cynically surmise that Christine Peters, girlfriend of billionaire Sumner Redstone, is only in it for the dough.

But seeing them in the photo above, it's pretty clear to me that she's looking beyond the bank account. And as she lays down each night for a heapin' helping of withered, old man testicles, I'm thinking the last thing on her mind is the Mercedes she's gonna make him buy her the following morning. Instead, I'm sure she's focused entirely on keeping that leathery, Geritol-guzzling man of hers infinitely satisfied.

Which is fine, but it still pisses me off. Because it's just another hot chick I won't be banging. Ladies, I have to be honest: I'm way, way hotter than Sumner Redstone. I'm fairly certain my physique would trump his any day of the week, I'm less likely to fall asleep or lose my train of thought while delivering merciless cunnilingus, and I wouldn't bore you with stories about how I once met Grover Cleveland or what life was like in 1852.

But I don't have shitloads of money. And there's the rub.

So while Sumner's watching the revolving door of premium trim line-up at his mansion and townhouse and airplane and blimp (complete with jetpack-sporting butlers), I'll be out there hitting the bars, working the trenches, trying to convince the ladies that they could do worse than a roll in the hay with my pale, white ass.

It's a tough gig to be sure. And knowing that Sumner's old man cock sees more action in a day than my young man johnson attracts in a year doesn't make it any easier. But I can assure you of this, women of the world: I work harder to earn your booty.

Hola, Chicas

2010-05-14T04:48:00.000-07:00

Everyone knows the Spanish Channel. If you're a guy, you likely spend an inordinate amount of time staring blankly at it.

And, like me, you probably don't speak a word of Spanish.

This is like TV from another planet, where hot chicks aren't relegated to soap operas and sitcoms, but roam freely through news shows, weather reports, sports shows. Skintight pants. Oversized hair. Breasts that don't simply defy gravity, but taunt its wife and children as well. The Spanish Channel is a good place, and I like spending time there.

Even the kids shows are frighteningly well-populated by golden twenty-one year olds who, in between elaborate, booty-centric dance moves, relate such important lessons as "drugs are bad" and "stay in school" and "Would you please ask your dad to leave the room because I can feel his fifty-year old eyes burning a hole directly through the television screen and it is freaking me out."

The Spanish Channel is my oasis. My escape. Where I don't have to hear about the sunken economy or who's being voted off the island or how many North Korean missiles are aimed at my house. Everybody's dancing. Everybody's happy. The chicks are smoking hot. And I can't understand a bloody word they're saying.

Somebody's Got to Do It

2010-05-11T04:40:00.001-07:00

Not to go off on some porno tangent [twist my arm, why don't ye?], but I must say I've always been intrigued by the employment opportunities offered by this robust industry. Not acting, mind you. Christ, I can barely keep my mojo working long enough to keep one lady interested, let alone a room full of gaffers and cameramen.

No, what truly intrigues me are the guys [and ladies, I suppose] who get to write the little blurbs on the back of the DVD cases.

Seriously, talk about overkill. I mean, imagine for a moment that I was interested in a certain genre of porno flick. I dunno... let's say, oh, facesitting. Wouldn't seeing a photo like the one above on a DVD case pretty much tell you everything you needed to know? It's like putting a picture of a bowl of Frosted Flakes on the front of a box of Frosted Flakes. "Hey dudes, guess what's in here?"

But as much as it may seem overkill, these video blurbs provide some intriguing and ultimately hilarious reading. So much so that you may forego another Saturday afternoon at the Chelsea Library to hang at the adult video store and just work through the stacks. My personal favorite these days is this one, from a cinematic classic called Saddle Face:

Paige Richards is an arrogant, imperiously cruel Femme-Domme who dressed in black lingerie. Her subby boy alix tries to impress her with a gift -- a stuffed owl. Mistress Paie is NOT pleased by this gesture. "Are you out of your mind? Is this a joke?" she asks as she slaps his face cruelly. "Look at how fabulous I am. Is that how you show me you adore me?" Using her gloved hands, she wrestles him to the ground and uses her hands to block completely his access to air. "You see these? Aren't they beautiful?" she asks as she unveils her glorious rack. But she does so only to taunt alix (and us!). "You'll never touch these again!" she promises.

Trust me, it only gets better from there.

Today, I'll be writing a tech manual. Somewhere else, some dude will be writing blurbs such as these, pondering at the keyboard, asking himself "How can I most effectively convey the vast amounts of fucking contained on this video?"

To him, I raise a glass.

Health, Shmealth

2010-05-07T04:46:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I work out. Thanks for noticing.

And I realized something about working out last weekend, as I sloshed my way through another set of Romanian Deadlifts: I don't do this shit for my heart. The damn thing's been beating just fine on its own without my help, and despite the occasional Triple Whopper and Vodka belt, so who am I to interfere? Nor do I give a flying handshake about my circulation, pulse rate, or "core."

I bust my ass in the gym so I get that extra look from Shirley in Accouting. So that future Kenettes will say, "nice," when they run their hands along my chest. So that the college chicks in the apartment next door will stick their heads out the window to watch me watering my lawn sans shirt [as will the mailman, who will sulk away, knowing he's but half the man].

Simply put: I workout so that I look better for the ladies. And if the girl across the gym from me, who's been pounding away at the "Butt Blaster" for over fifteen minutes, is here out of concern for the aging process and not thinking about how her aerobicized ass is going to turn every third guy at the Rattlesnake Bar into drooling fiends, then I'll eat my towel.

On the Night Shift

2010-05-04T00:02:00.000-07:00

Back in January, realizing that huge chunks of my income were being siphoned away toward electricity, gas, food, hookers, whiskey, child support, alimony and that damn blackmailer who's got the photos of me with the shop-vac, I took a part time job. It wasn't much; just working the desk at a hotel within a couple minutes of my place. It was time alone to read, write and reflect, hand the occasional guest a room key, and get paid.

A couple months later, I got a promotion at my day job. But I kept the hotel gig. Because I dig money, and there's always room for extra. And also, the hotel I'm working at is a veritable hub of sexual activity.

Seriously. In the four months I've been working there, I've heard literally 5,000 excuses from guests for having to check out early. As in roughly three hours after they checked in. One guy said his big sales meeting was canceled. Another said one of his kids came down with the flu. Yet another said he needed a place closer to the city. All of them ushered a female pal out the door as they shuffled toward the exit.

I've seen the married couples looking to spice up their lives with a little "hotel action." I've seen escorts and dommes stop in to set up shop for the weekend. I even had one guy ask me where he might find a women who would come to his room and let him wash her ass with Windex.

I also get propositioned by the occasional private investigator. The guy who comes in, drops a fifty dollar bill on the desk in front of me, and asks if I've seen anyone check-in under the name "peachy peach" or "kissy kiss." Because I am a man of some moral fiber, I never take the bait. Who's dogging who isn't really my business, so long as they leave a valid credit card and don't bother their neighbors.

And in my four months of employ at this hotel, I've learned the following things:

1) If you're looking to make an adulterous connection in a local hotel/motel, don't enter and leave at the same time as your companion. It seems such a simple thing, but I've seen more buffoons waltz in and out with the object of their illicit affection on his/her arm, creating a private investigator's wet dream. Intent and opportunity is half the argument, folks; always make sure one of you exits the hotel, say, fifteen minutes after the other.

2) Hotel sex is apparently way, way hotter than regular "at home" sex. And why not? When you're in a hotel, that ice cream smeared on the sheets, the whipped cream on the rug and the whip-marks in the wall are the cleaning crew's problem. At home, they're just a nagging reminder of what a freak you are.

Not the Hiring Kind

2010-04-29T05:04:00.000-07:00

So last week, I went out with some folks from the office. Never a good idea. But in this case, there were some hot girls from the finance department so I figgered it'd be good to tag along.

So we're out and about and drinking and laughing and all is good. And I found myself having a nice conversation with a pretty girl I'd seen passing about in the halls but never spoke to. And about three hours into the night, she kinda laughs out loud, moves in a bit, and, apparently emboldened by alcohol, says to me, "You know, me and the girls have a name for you."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. We call you 'hard-on guy.' 'Cause you're almost always walking around the office with a hard-on."

Anyone out there know of a place that's hiring? Because apparently it's time for me to move on.

The Things I Wish They'd Taught Me

2010-04-25T18:37:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, Americans had not completely lost their grip on rational thought, and I learned about the magic of puberty in sex-ed. There were booklets handed out, covered in pink, script fonts, and pictures of girls doing wholesome activities despite growing hair in funny places and the sudden need to invest in a sports bra. Feminine hygiene companies gave us samples of pads and tampons. And I thought my butch gym teacher had armed me with all the information I needed to Become A Woman.

But nobody warned me about the shits that accompany my period.

I knew that sore breasts, mood swings, and cramps were possibilities. But the most debilitating aspect of my monthly curse is the stomach upset. As soon as food or drink passes through my lips, I am in the restroom. I'll be walking through the mall, minding my own business, when my uterus contracts and my entire intestinal tract is twisting more violently than a Russian gymnast and I'm on the dead run to the ladies' room. As an added bonus, I've got more gas than a Shell station on delivery day.

There's certainly some hormonal reason for this. Why aren't we telling America's young women about this? Why hasn't some sitcom writer adopted a guy's wife having the shits during her period as a plot? Do not be afraid, girls: You are not alone. Many women get the runs during their period. You will fart like crazy. Just eat your snack foods and wait for it to end.

The Thing About Stealing Underwear...

2010-04-16T04:46:00.000-07:00

I saw something on the news last night about a dude who got busted for stealing close to a hundred pairs of women's thong underwear out of his college's laundry room. And, of course, it reminded me of something from my past.

In my college days, I had a pal whose dorm room gave him a strategic vantage point of one of the campus laundry room. What this dude would do is sit lazily by his eighth-floor window, tucked neatly out of view of passersby on the ground below, and wait for the hottest chicks to come by to use the washing machine.

After he watched them exit the laundry room -- with their unmentionables tucked safely in the whirlwind of the spin cycle -- he'd get out his own laundry bag, and head on down (at this point, I should probably mention that each of our campus laundry rooms contained just one washer and one dryer). Once inside the laundry room, he'd sift through the booty in the washer before him, grabbing anything even slightly resembling female underwear, and stuffing it in his bag. Then he'd walk back to his room nonchalantly, giving any onlookers the impression that he's just another sad sack who wants to do his laundry but has to wait for the friggin' machine to free up. Little did they know that he had just added to what amounted to one of the largest collections of pilfered underwear that I, myself, can recall.

What's the point of all this? Hell, I don't know. The thought of a guy collecting women's underwear -- even as proof of sexual conquest -- seems a bit odd, even to a perv like me. But there is definitely an allure to women's undergarments that can sometimes get the better of the male species. That's why walking into Victoria's Secret is like a religious experience for most guys.

Yes, the embarrassment factor is high; wander too close to the dressing rooms and you feel like a pervert, let your hand rest a bit too long on that camisole and you feel like a cross-dresser. But there's something about the smell, the atmosphere and the sales assistants that makes my heart do the flippy-flop every time.

And let's not even mention the incredibly uplifting feeling you get when you see a red hot mama casually sifting through a sales rack of thongs. It is, I can only hope, what heaven feels like.

Anyway, there was a point to this. And that point is that if stealing women's underwear from the dryer is a crime, then the terrorists have truly won.

Just Say No to the Romper

2010-04-14T18:46:00.001-07:00

Apparently, this spring's must-have item is the romper. Which, as defined by our good friends Merriam and Webster, is a "jumpsuit, especially: a jumpsuit for infants." Emphasis added by me, because it's a garment for babies that has been adopted by grown-ass women. To be worn in public.

A friend of mine declared her joy at buying one of these atrocities on Facebook the other day, and I recoiled in horror. No one, in the history of the universe, has ever uttered the phrase "Hey, baby, looking good in that romper." Except for possibly Michael Jackson. And look what happened to him.

Give me a pencil skirt, sassy short pleated skirt, or a perfect pair of jeans. Those are the items that make a woman's physique shine. For fuck's sake, this year it's a romper. Next year, will I see the pink skort I wore in 1986 looking back at me in the pages of Elle?

Open Letter to Myself: The Hot Female Bartender Isn't Going Home With You

2010-04-13T04:50:00.000-07:00

There needs to be an official rule for guys in bars. And that rule needs to be as follows: The Hot Chick Bartender is Not Going to Fuck You.

Seriously.

And I'm the worst offender. Seven "black and tans" and I'm drooling over the lassie behind the bar, telling her for the umpteenth time that I'm mad crazy about her and want to start a family with her or at the very least, bury my head between her legs for a good half hour. And when I stop to take a sip or breathe or vomit, there are six other guys who chime in with the same platitudes.

See, the bartender is the only woman in the bar who has to talk to us guys. At least, she has to acknowledge us. No one else has any such obligation. So the bartender hears it. And if she's ridiculously hot, like our friend in the photo above, she hears it non-stop, start of the shift right up to last call. Drunken buffoons in our Banana Republic shirts, thinking we can score the hottie who's working the tap. Or that we're the first guy in the world who's told her that joke or complimented her on her ridiculously tight, round ass. Or that we're the only dude she's ever shown that tattoo.

But in the end, it's always the same. Her Levi's get stuffed with tips. I walk out with nothin' but a headache. And a raging hard-on. And it's go home, puke, take the intravenous Vitamin C, H2O and aspirin elixir, then come back again tomorrow.

Because I'm sure she'll eventually cave.

Creative Writing 101: How Not to Fix a Pipe

2010-04-07T20:24:00.000-07:00

So I get that call from her again. The one I know she's going to make once a week. And I show up, like she knows I will. And I walk in, in my too-tight T-shirt and pants and ask her what the problem is. And she tries to act all cool and innocent and puts down her cigarette and tells me that her sink's backed up. And asks if I can fix it.

I tell her sure as hell I can. That's my fucking job, motherfucker. So I step inside, cool and collected, and ask her for one of those cigarettes. Because this might take a while.

As she kinda stands off to the sides, watching me intently, I reach into the tool box and take out my wrench. This is just right for the job, I tell her, long and hard and with a nice fat tip to ensure that I get a good hold and keep it locked in for as long as I need it. Gently, because I'm still working the cigarette, I ask her to prep it for me. And with a few turns of her thumb, she adjusts it accordingly... just enough to get it ready. And it feels like it's almost getting heavier in my hand, and when I see that it's extended just enough, I tell her it's time.

And I move in slowly, because that's how you need to approach a job like this. And I watch her eyes widen as I gently guide my wrench in and around the problem. First, I press it against her sink. Softly. And run it up and down the side. Because the condensation has already begun to form, and I can see it glistening. And I want to get the wrench all messed up in that stuff to help it glide that much easier.

Then I advance. A quick lunge. And it's in and around. Deep. And I let my hand guide the shaft until it's as deep as it needs to be. And I can hear her getting all hot and bothered because it's been a long time since someone came out to take care of this job and she's gonna enjoy every goddam minute. And I like to take my time, so I make a few short, slow moves, just enough to loosen things. And I work my hands quick and fast and let the tool guide me.

And it's up and down, in and out. A slow twist here, a quick push there. I hear her breathing quicken and I let it be my guide.

That's it, she tells me. That's the spot. Right there. And I work it like a man possessed. My hand slicking up and down the side, hips moving in perfect cadence, because you've got to get your entire body into it, not just the part that's working the tool -- man, that's how people hurt themselves! I softly run a finger down her length to see just how warm it's getting. And it's very, very warm. Getting hotter, you might say. And suddenly I know it's working. So I keep at it. Harder and deeper, every muscle of my body working in perfect time, keeping the tool rigid and moving, moving, moving. It's engorged, hot and throbbing, and I know it's only a matter of time. And she can't believe I've kept it going this long but I keep pushing deeper and deeper and flexing my arm because it's the only part of me that isn't burning with the desire to bring this job to its conclusion. We're sweating and moaning and her eyes are widening and glazing and it makes me even hotter to see the hypnotic effect it's having on her.

And that's when I feel it. It's happening. It's working. I give the wrench a solid twist, working my whole body into it. And just like that, it explodes. Freedom. Sweet, sweet freedom. And she hears it all happening and throws her head back and screams in approval. Because I brought her there. And I hear the warm water gush forth and see the satisfied look on her face and I retract the tool ever so gently so as not to disturb anything. And I calmly wipe it down as I watch her eyes roll back and another cigarette get drawn from her pack.

And I wipe the sweat off my chest and arms and smile and ask if there's anything else I can do for her.

And she says, yeah, the toilet's broke. Can I fix that, too?

Romance Through the Ages: A Brief History as Reflected in Popular Culture

2010-04-05T04:44:00.000-07:00

Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare:

"O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night."

"I Really Like Girls," George Thorogood and the Destroyers:

"I really really really really really really like girls
Yeah, I really really really really really really like girls
I like girls
I like girls
I like girls
I like the way that they giggle
when they walk up and ask you to dance
I like the way that they wiggle
wrapped up in their skin tight pants
they're really really neat
they're really sweet
they're real petite
I like girls."

Stop Stepping Out

2010-03-31T16:34:00.000-07:00

Do not want.

Jesus Christ, can anyone keep it in their pants anymore?

First it was Tiger Woods. Now it's Mr. Sandra Bullock and reality TV staple Jesse James who's seen an array of tattooed women come forward and say he liked to have unprotected sex with them at his office.

I'm all for having as much sex as you can possibly get while you're on this planet. Sex, along with hot pizza and House Hunters marathons, is one of the few pure joys we get as humans. But everybody just needs to be up front about their proclivities, predilections, and desires.

But, as my grandmother always said, you should not make promises you can't keep. If you go on cake tastings, rent a church, and do the chicken dance with a lady and you promise to her that you will be monogamous until one of you dies, then don't put your dick in other women. Or, you know, maybe hold off on that marriage thing until you get tired of putting your dick in a lot of women.

And for fuck's sake: If you are going to have an affair, at least bag it, dude. God.

About Last Night...

2010-03-31T05:23:00.000-07:00

The thing about traveling extensively for work is that I find myself in hotel rooms. A lot. Mostly, things are pretty uneventful. Other times, thanks to fire alarms, whiskey benders and new friends found in the lobby bar, they get interesting.

Last week, I stumbled back to my room after a few too many drinks and flopped down on the bed, still in my shoes and tie, fumbling with the phone to arrange a wake-up call for the next morning's sales meeting. About fifteen minutes in, I hear a steady banging against the wall. Then I hear moaning. Female moaning. I am intrigued, but it's nothing I haven't heard before. So I try to get to sleep.

But she won't stop. In fact, she gets louder. And louder. And the thumps against the wall start coming with extreme prejudice. So I bury my head under the pillow, but I can't escape it. Them she starts yelling things, like "Don't you fucking stop," and "I will ride your cock until it explodes" and "Is there no one on this planet who will challenge me?" (I'm a little hazy on that last one, but that's the best of my recollection.)

This went on all night. Blood-curdling screams, ecstatic moans, bedposts pounding. Eventually, it stopped, when either her partner died or I blacked out. But the damage was done. I was a wreck as the wake-up call arrived, and there's nothing worse than losing sleep over fucking that you're not actively participating in.

I showered, downed a couple Red Bulls and dragged my ass to the door. As I opened it, The Screamer next door opened hers to wheel a cart into the hallway. She was pretty, blond, probably in her late 30s, and while I couldn't see her body under her robe, I assumed she was made of mostly metallic parts. She looked at me without a whiff of embarrassment; I gave her a smile and a nod and headed down the hall to the elevators.

A few hours later I'm in the meeting and jabbing myself in the thigh with a pen to stay awake. Then our Executive Vice President says he wants to introduce our new west coast sales rep. And in walks The Screamer, all dolled up in heels that made her look about fifteen feet tall. She didn't seem to recognize me, and if she did, she was totally unfazed, as if damn proud of her fucking abilities.

She talked about her experience, her performance targets, her sales strategies, blah blah blah. All I wanted to know was the name of the lucky guy she was pulverizing last night--and if his health and/or whereabouts could be confirmed.

Not much of a story, I know. But I'm always happy when the magical worlds of business and fucking collide.

Pornography: A User's Guide

2010-03-30T04:53:00.000-07:00

1. Keep the porn DVDs away from the "non-porn" DVDs. Nobody wants to sit down to watch season two of The Big Bang Theory and be greeted by the dimly-lit image of Jenna Jameson getting fisted. Well, some people do. But your Aunt Netty isn't one of them.

2. A cataloguing system is perhaps the easiest way to ensure streamlined access to your favorite films. Don't make it too complicated; labels such as "Spanish girls with riding crops," "urine-crazed midgets" and "69-ing with mules" should suffice.

3. If using re-writable DVDs, labeling is key. You spent years trying to track down that rare Japanese schoolgirl bondage video. Don't go burning over it with fucking One Tree Hill again, Brown Eye.

4. Always be cognizant of Murphy's Law as it applies to porno. On those occasions that you are unable to resist jerking off, rest assured that at the precise moment you feel yourself getting swept up in a spasm of release, the image on the screen will inevitably switch from the hot blonde delivering a deep, slow blow job to Ron Jeremy's "O face."

Misadventures in Sexy Texting

2010-03-25T07:30:00.000-07:00

I'm a lady who likes to demonstrate to her paramour that she's thinking about him. This morning, after a vigorous session of pre-work masturbation, I wanted to text my man to let him know he was the focus of my morning horny.

The first thing that came to mind?

Was your dick burning? Because I was just thinking about it.

Luckily, my instinct to edit kicked in and I didn't send it. Phew.

Equal Opportunity Pervs

2010-03-24T04:40:00.000-07:00

As I've noted in the past, I've long viewed public transportation as a cheap feel paradise. For less than the cost of a large coffee, Boston's subway line offers ordinary jerks like me the chance to get packed against businesswomen in their tight pants and big, round-ass skirts.

Unfortunately, I don't have many opportunities to ride the train. But a couple days ago, I had to make a trek in to the RMV, so I piled into formation with the commuters and settled in for the long haul, hoping some BU chick would plant her ass in front of my face for the ride. Instead, I got this laborer-type guy, hardhat and all, who's standing over me reading the Herald. And he's one of those guys who has mastered the fine art of standing up without holding on to anything, simply pressing himself against the seat railing to stay up.

Then I notice a woman -- cute, probably in her mid 30s, in a business suit -- putting her hand on the same railing that said laborer is using. Ostensibly, she's just looking for a place to anchor herself. But to clever perverts like myself, it really seemed like she was gunning for a cheap feel, seeing as how the guy was basically pressing his package against the railing to stay upright. As I sit there, trying not to notice, she seemed to be edging her hand closer, as if hoping the guy would rub against her knuckles at a sharp turn. And, yeah, I know the trick because I use it myself, trying to get justcloseenough to some hottie in the chance that her ass meets my crotch/arm/face during a close stop.

So, yeah. Women going for the cheap feel as well. Fucking awesome!

Nuts to You.

2010-03-22T07:49:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of questions that haunt my sleep. Things like, "What if my crazy ex-girlfriend ever gets out of prison?" and "Do you think she's actually done this before?" and "Why is Kathy Griffin famous?"

But the biggest question of them all is, "How do guys who have secured fake testicles to the back of their pick-up trucks get laid?"

This past weekend, I made the rounds in Newport, watching the beautiful people frolic and swigging freely from the pint bottle in my coat pocket. At one bar, I had my eye on a blond-haired older women, probably in her mid-to-late 40s, with a diabolically curvaceous ass and bright red lipstick. I was just about drunk enough to ask if those were her real teeth (my best opening line), when some dude swept in and sat down next to her. Apparently, they were together, and I watched them canoodle for a bit before heading out of the bar. Realizing I should be on my way as well, I trailed them for a bit (in a totally non-stalkerish way) toward the parking lot, where she hopped into his Toyota truck... which had a pair of those goofy-ass testicles dangling from the hitch.

Ladies, honestly: why is this not a deal breaker? I once brought a girl back to my place and she refused to sit on my face after spying a dog-eared copy of The Amazing Spider-Man on my coffee table. Yet a woman will happily take a ride from a guy whose car has fake balls?

Bizarre as it sounds, I can totally understand why guys purchase and apply these fake truck balls--because deep down, we--as a gender--are fucking idiots. But ladies willingly sleeping with guys who sport these things on their ride? Inexcusable.

Loving (and Hating) the Swimmers

2010-03-17T06:21:00.000-07:00

By rights, I know I should do everything within my power to keep a guy's sperm out of my uterus. I should take my pills religiously every day, he should bag it, and I should probably squeeze a tube of spermicide in there before we get busy. And even then, it's possible one of those little bastards could get in there and knock me up.

But I really, really like when a guy comes inside me.

I've had friends who get off on the idea they could get pregnant from their encounters. My creditors and I both know a kid would not be a good idea for me. But I do enjoy the feeling that comes when we peel apart from each other. The wet spot on the bed. The squish squish squish when I toddle off to the bathroom to pee. To me, it's evidence of a job well done.

But, hey, maybe that's just me.

Used People

2010-03-17T02:59:00.000-07:00

When I was in college, a pretty girl who dated a buddy of mine was dumped by said buddy. And part of her revenge strategy included me.

Turns out she figured one sure way to piss the guy off was through me, one of his posse, so to speak. So she'd get all up in my shit at parties, tongue stuffed in my ear, hand wangling its way down to my crotch, ass grinding not-so-playfully against me at every corner. It was a pretty good show, and I fell right in. It didn't help out my friendship any, truth be told; on a number of occasions he cornered me, threatening my life or better if I didn't leave her alone. Yes, I should have known better. I should have donned my "bros before hos" T-shirt and played the game the way it's supposed to be played. But, shit, my libido kept telling me, he dumped her. That's fair game. Also, I was but a simple college dude being offered free pussy -- a helpless pawn if ever one existed. What did I care if her interest in dry-humping me to the wall was only visible when he was in earshot?

Anyway, this went on for a few weeks, eventually leading to my bedding her (or, rather, her bedding me)... though likely only so word would get back to him. Soon, he'd had enough, realizing the vixen he'd let slip through his fingers, and asked back in. She, it turns out, was more than willing to re-negotiate. And I was history.

Yes, gentle readers, I was used for sex. And it was fucking awesome.

Men and Women Are Different, Vol. 3782-B

2010-03-15T10:23:00.000-07:00

What is that bizarre bit of circuitry that women seem to have that allows them to switch a guy from "someone we want to screw" to "someone we want to hang out with an drink tea"?

Last week, once again, I found myself traveling on biz, touching down in the magic city of Chicago. The third night there, I met up with a former Kenette for pizza and a couple beers. We hadn't seen each other in a while -- at least five years. Back in the day, we were both in kinda/sorta relationships, but still couldn't keep our hands off each other. Whenever we got together, we'd have a few beers, then talk would instantly turn to my mouth on her, then that talk would become reality. And I mean heated, Mick-Jagger-on-groupie style reality.

Over the days leading up to our dinner, I figgered there may be a chance for a repeat performance. But within the first few minutes of her arrival, I knew it wasn't happening. Lots of talk about sports and her new job. And the new guy she kinda/sorta likes. And how her mom just got settled into a new place in Florida. My mind's trolling the gutter; hers is in Sunshine City.

And after a while, I felt a bit embarrassed about having to hold down my hard-on with both hands. She had grown up and moved on, and I was still the booze-addled pervert, desperate for another taste.

I sent her an e-mail the next day, saying how awesome she looked and how great it was to see her and, again, how fucking awesome she looked. And she just responded with a, "great to see you, too! Man, was that pizza good" sorta response.

So I've gone from "fuck" to "friend." And I move on. I keep movin' on.

Not Goo Goo for Gaga (This Time)

2010-03-12T07:03:00.000-08:00

It took me a long time to be comfortable admitting this, but I really love Lady Gaga. Her music is hella catchy, and anyone who rages against the tyranny of pants so wholeheartedly is OK in my book.

But this new video for her song "Telephone" with Beyonce? I am not digging it.

On her Twitter account a few weeks ago, the Lady remarked that she felt bad for the "Bad Romance" video because "Telephone" would be so much more epic. But it shouldn't have been. "Bad Romance" is a German-industrial-meets-pop creation that references Hitchcock films and is about seeing all the ugliness in a person you love. You can't half-ass a music video for that.

"Telephone" is a great club song. It has just as much artistic merit as "Bad Romance," but it's not as epic. It's about a woman who's sick of her boyfriend calling and texting her when she's out dancing. Maybe I'm being too conventional, but in my mind what this song called for was some sick choreography, performed by the adriot Gaga and callpygian Beyonce. Perhaps in a club setting. It should have been more "Just Dance" than "Paparazzi."

I totally support Gaga's over-the-top-ness. But sometimes the truly shocking move is to do something more average.

Well, maybe the Kill Bill-inspired killing spree is necessary. That dude must have called them a lot.

There Goes My Morning

2010-03-12T05:02:00.001-08:00

Well, if you'll excuse me, I have to go masturbate myself into unconsciousness.

::Places "closed" sign in window.::

Eating Ice Cream Off a Woman's Ass: A Primer

2010-03-10T04:45:00.001-08:00

Okay, listen. I like ice cream. I like ass. So really, it was only a matter of time until I concocted some Costanza-esque way to enjoy them both simultaneously. But as I learned just a couple nights ago, when eating ice cream off a woman's ass, you should keep a few things in mind.

1) Roll with vanilla. Trust me on this. Chocolate is just too weird and if you're into Mocha Latte Crunch with Teaberry Leaves then you're probably not into chicks anyway. So, vanilla.

2) Go high-grade. Listen, it's hard to find a woman who will let you eat her ass. It's even harder to find one who'll consent to having ice cream dolloped on her backside while you make like Jughead from the Archie comics. So spend a few extra bucks and roll with the Ben & Jerry's or the Haagen-Daz to mark this occasion. This ain't the time for that yellow "Stop and Shop" house brand vanilla.

3) Scoop some out gently with your fingers and let it fall onto the thick of her buttocks. In the name of all that is holy, don't try to stuff it into her rectum like you're filling a goddam cannoli. Part of the fun is watching it gently cascade down her curves, and stopping it with your tongue before it dips too far south. Just like our ancestors did before God invented television and Entertainment Weekly.

4) If you decide to ask her to flip over so you can try this on her holiest of holies, remember that ice cream is "motherfucking colder than a fucking iceberg packed with ice, you fucking prick" when applied to her more sensitive regions. Or so I've been told.

5) As attentive as your tongue may be, there will always be stray ice cream on her skin. After a while, this becomes sticky. Make sure that there's a shower or at the very least a few moist towelettes nearby, lest she be shuttled off to Mass General to have her pants spot-welded off her body the next day.

If you take one thing away from this, let it be the vanilla. Always roll with vanilla.

My name's Ken. And I approve this message.

So Wrong, So What.

2010-03-06T09:16:00.000-08:00

Yet again, I read about some 15 year old kid getting the full-press from his female teacher. And, once again, the teacher turns out to be kinda hot. I mean, check the picture. If I was fifteen and the teach looked like that and sent me nude photos of herself and proclamations that she wanted to "perform a sex act" on me, I'd say strike up the motherfucking band! Beats the nuts off the seventy-year old nuns who used to sass me out for not understanding how to invert fractions.

Look, I'm no cretin. I understand it's wrong to pull crap like this on the under-18 crowd. But if I was that kid, I'd be a made man in my neighborhood. Just once, I'd love for one of these female teacher-male student stories to show us an unattractive, frumpy, middle-aged, overweight mother of six as the predator. Maybe then, I'd be able to muster some sympathy. In the meantime, I'm not ashamed to say I'm pretty fucking jealous.

An Open Letter to My Facebook Friends, Who Are Dating, and On Vacation Together

2010-03-03T18:37:00.000-08:00

Dear Facebook Friends, Who Are Dating, and On Vacation Together,

Congratulations on your newfound togetherness! We are all so very happy for you. We are all also pleased that even in this down economy, you've managed to scrape together the funds for a nice Mexican getaway.

But please, we're begging you--shut the fuck up about it.

You've been nonstop since you boarded the plane. Posting the Blackberry pictures of each other smiling. Pictures of the palm trees. Becoming fans of the restaurants you've mentioned in your status updates. Tagging each other as you fawn over how excited you are to be there. With the coolest girl in the world.

But here's the thing: If you were really having a truly amazing time, we wouldn't be hearing from you. The last thing you should be doing on a romantic getaway is being anywhere near your phone. Vacation is the one time we truly live--drinking all day, lounging on a hammock, incorporating foodstuffs into our sexual activities because it's not our job to get the stains out of the hotel sheets.

So, please. Turn the Blackberry off. Put it in the depths of your suitcase. Fuck each other's brains out. And, please, keep the graphic details to yourself when you come back Stateside.

Sincerely,

Everyone

The Girl, The Office and The All-Day Hard-On

2010-03-02T15:36:00.000-08:00

This morning, I found myself pulling into the office lot at the exact same time as the smokeshow of a redhead who works for the company upstairs. So, naturally, I fiddled with the radio, checked on my lunch, rearranged my briefcase and basically did everything in my power to delay my exit from the car to ensure that I'd be walking into the building behind her. Which, of course, is the prime viewing location.

Her ass, as usual, did not disappoint, maintaining its ridiculously perfect heart-shape as she moved into the building, while her pants -- made of the luckiest fibers on earth -- fought valiantly to contain all that awesome, flexing tight against her curves with each and every step.

It was just what I needed to start the day. But it left me with a painful, day-long hard-on.

You see, once her ass got all up in my head, I couldn't shake it out. Through every meeting, every PowerPoint presentation, every conference call, every excruciating webinar, it haunted me, shifting easily back and forth, hypnotizing me. Reminding me that something far, far better than all of this was just right up the stairs and six cubes to the left. And it kept me stiff for basically the entire day.

Moving about the office in such a condition can be a challenge. Bad enough they all ~~know~~ think I'm the office perv. I don't want to be the guy with the perpetual boner, skulking through the halls and leaning a bit too comfortably against the candy machine.

My best friend today was a FedEx box. Yup, just your basic cardboard shipping package. I kept it by the door of my office, and whenever I needed to go somewhere, I simply grabbed it, positioned it confidently over my crotch, and headed out. Sure, by the end of the day the mail guy wanted to shiv me for moving in on his turf. But it was better than being the guy it's not safe to take the elevator with.

As for Red, well, I had plans. Plans that involved busting upstairs, running to her cube, displaying the majesty of my hard-on as it bulged uncomfortably against my flat-front chinos. Telling her I wanted her so bad I could taste her, and begging her to pull off the shackles of Corporate America and run wild with me in the streets, or at least down rte. 128.

Alas, I settled for sneaking off to the men's room after the office emptied out and jerking myself within an inch of my life. But the thought was there.

If I'm on the Rag, Get Off Me

2010-02-28T16:22:00.000-08:00

I don't like period sex.

There. I said it.

That might ruin the image I have of myself as a fairly sex-positive person, but I just can't get into it. It's not that I find menstruation gross or unnatural--in fact, most months I exhale a long sigh of relief when I see that rust-colored blood come forth as proof modern medicine has kept me from reproducing for another month. But once I see the stain, I don't want to see a dick inside me until it's over.

The reasons for this? First of all, I really don't like a mess. I've just started remembering to pull the comforter off the bed before fucking because it's easier to toss sex-sullied sheets into the wash than the whole blanket. Most months, a post-coital scene when it's that time would look like the horse head scene from The Godfather. Which, quite frankly, nobody needs to see.

But the major reason why I don't want to fuck at the height of my period is because I don't want to be touched by any one for any reason while I'm on the rag. I'm so bloated I feel I might pop like a tick on the back of a dog. My boobs hurt. I've got gas. All I want to do is indulge my food cravings and be left the hell alone until I feel like a human being again.

If you're into shagging on the rag, I salute you. But if you need me, I'll be on the sidelines until the day Aunt Flo leaves town.

Ladies, Your Dream Men Are Here

2010-02-27T04:47:00.001-08:00

It's pretty much an established fact that women can get laid whenever they damn well please. As Jerry Seinfeld so eloquently put it, "Women are in charge of sex. If men were in charge of sex, women would never see the insides of restaurants."

Lately, though, I'm seeing a bit of a power-shift. Guys who look like they'd be uncomfortable fingering anything but a Texas Instruments calculator are walking around with fine-ass ladies. Women flood dating sites looking for "Seth Rogen and Zack Galifianakis types." Bill in accounting is banging a former stripper.

Apparently, this is an international phenomenon. Because a recent poll of 2,500 women in the UK revealed that their two biggest turn-ons were unkempt guys with facial hair and geeks. Also among the most desired were guys who cry at sappy films (holla!) and guys who are "soft and cuddly instead of toned and muscly."

I don't see "pale, tattooed, sardonic Irishmen" on that list, but I won't let it bring me down. I'm just gonna up my Hostess Fruit Pie intake, throw away the Gillette Sensor and wait for the pussy to find me.

I'll be right here. Just so you know.

If Just for One Day

2010-02-25T17:28:00.000-08:00

I think the world would be a better place if for one day we got to experience the world as a member of the opposite gender.

I don't mean dressing like a dude or lady--I mean actually waking up one random day in your young life as a member of the opposite sex. I'd love to see a dude deal with stabbing cramps, mood swings, and making less money for the same work.

Personally, I would like to have a dick for two very specific reasons--to experience sex from the male perspective, and to pee while standing up. I would spend my day as a dude consuming massive amounts of liquids just so I could whip it out and piss anywhere. On walls. On bushes. Writing my name in the snow? Yes, please!

I also think it would help me to appreciate the little things I love so much about being a woman even more. Being able to be turned on in inconvenient places without having to hide myself below the waist. Having the option of wearing pants or skirts. And I very much enjoy having boobs.

So if whatever deity that's out there could make this happen, I'd appreciate it.

How To Sell Women's Socks. To Guys.

2010-02-23T05:05:00.001-08:00

See? Someone at American Apparel gets it. Because when I'm shopping for socks for that special lady in my life, I'm guided by the following criteria: How comfortable will these socks make her feet? What sort of material are they made from? And, most importantly, how will they look when she's down on all fours, ass arched just perfectly, waiting on me and my throbbing cock to nail her sixteen ways to Sunday?

Taking Head on the Road

2010-02-21T16:16:00.000-08:00

I don't think of myself as particularly kinky. I don't have a sex swing hanging in the doorframe of my bedroom. I've never donned a latex suit. Sure, I enjoy some fairly forceful smacks to the ass, and I own a pair of handcuffs. But when I think about it, compared to most people you read about, I actually am kinda freaky.

Take, for example, my propensity for going down on guys in very public places.

I don't mean in front of the Sbarro at the mall food court, but I like taking oral out of the house. It started, as it does with most girls, in high school, giving a guy road head as he lurched his car along the quietest roads he could find. In college, it was doling out head in the stacks in the basement of the library.

A few years ago, I was out with a bunch of friends. After a few beers, this guy I'd been digging for a long time and I stood outside with the smokers. I leaned up against him. We kissed. He conveniently "had to get something from his car." My head swimming in hormones and Pabst, I followed him to the parking lot, which was eerily dark. He took a seat on a wall with a convenient height and in a particularly isolated corner of the lot, and I gave my first very public head. Luckily, he was so turned on it didn't take very long to get him off.

In the post-AIDS world, we've got to take our sexual risks where we can. Keep the rubber on, fella, but let's run the risk of an open and gross lewdness charge.

Should've Learned to Play Guitar

2010-02-20T04:31:00.000-08:00

If I have any regrets in life, outside of not giving Nancy S. the high hard one when she begged me to back in college (seriously, what the fuck was I thinking?), it's that I never learned to play the guitar.

Because if you can play the guitar, you're getting laid. Period.

It's the one thing that can help you overcome almost any shortcoming. Not particularly attractive? That didn't stop Motley Crue's Mick Mars -- who looks like a waxwork dummy from the Smithsonian's Neanderthal exhibit -- from landing a twenty-four year old German masseuse. Something of an asshole? Axl Rose has his pick of underwear models. Christ, Keith Richards has been officially dead for about fifteen years, but he can still have all the teenage pussy he wants. Because he's Keith Richards, goddam it. And he plays the guitar.

You don't even have to be a particularly famous rock star, either. A fifty year old guy in a corner bar trying to pick up twentysomething girls is downright pathetic. But strap a guitar on that geezer, and chances are, by night's end, there'll be at least half a dozen chicks fighting for a lift home in his Lincoln Town Car.

For further evidence of the magic of guitars, check out this clip from Elvis Costello's Spectacle talkshow. A grandfatherly singer named Jesse Winchester, whom I'd never heard of before this show, reduces every woman in the place to loose change with a very simple, guitar-strummed tune. If he was the janitor in the local high school, he wouldn't get a second glance. But look how in this segment he has my girlfriend, Neko Case, in tears!

Typically, I'm the wise-ass making sport of old people. But I have to tip my hat here. If there was any pussy to be had that evening, rest assured, Jesse Winchester was having it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have that guitar lesson at noon...

Know Your Bits

2010-02-16T17:26:00.000-08:00

I am constantly amazed at how little men know about the intricacies of the female reproductive system and all the things associated with it. I recall sex education (back when kids got that kind of education) -- the girl bits and boy bits were discussed to a co-ed classroom. But while I was furiously labeling the vas deferens and fallopian tubes on my quizzes, they boys were clearly not paying attention after the condom and banana demonstration.

The guys I know don't understand scented versus unscented tampons. Most men don't understand why we have cramps, or the crazy variations in hormone levels women endure every month. They don't know the difference between a UTI and a yeast infection. And while that doesn't necessarily keep them from being good in bed, shouldn't men be a little curious about what goes on in our bodies, both when they're in there and when they're not?

My ex-boyfriend and I were on a road trip a few years back, and somehow I ended up jokingly reading him the packet of information that comes with every package of birth control pills. He turned down the radio as I informed him of the increased risk of blood clots I faced in my quest not to bear his children. I continued through the section about when to start the pills (if you take it on the first day of your period it's effective right off the bat; if you start on a random day, you need backup contraception for a month). When my voice started to give out, I put the book down and expected to listen to the radio again for a while.

"Why are you stopping?" He asked me. "This is fascinating. Keep reading."

Maybe we're just trying to educate the lads at the wrong age.

My Name's Ken. And I'm a Sex Addict.

2010-02-16T17:04:00.000-08:00

There was an interesting article in the Globe today about how "sex addiction" is a bigger problem than most of us realize. That the people who are "addicted to sex" are truly suffering. That they need counseling, interventions, possible tax breaks and their own telethon.

And why not? In a world in which people can sue McDonald's for serving hot coffee that's actually hot, it should come as no surprise that someone's managed to turn their incessant love of fucking into a card that can be played for sympathy and possible medical benefits. As a dedicated perv, in fact, I should probably rejoice that someone's already done the heavy lifting for me, establishing the idea of "sex addiction" as a medical condition so that I've got a ready-made excuse to cling to when I get caught with my tongue inside some other woman's pants.

But there's just something about the whole thing that disgusts me. You see, I'm out there, every day, earning my stripes. I think about sex roughly 27 hours a day. I meet women on the job and in bars and on the golf course, and my first thought is burying my tongue between their legs. I can't go more than ten minutes without thinking of cunnilingus, and probably masturbate, on average, about four times a day. When I'm not fucking, I'm studying up on the subject, so I can be even better at fucking which will then -- provided the word-of-mouth is kind -- bring bold new opportunities for even more fucking.

And when someone calls me on it? I don't hide behind fancy-schmancy "addictions." I don't go limp and fall down and cry and blame all my problems on a wacky aunt who showed me her naked ass back when I was six, thus rendering me unable to "handle" the enormity of sex. I don't beg for forgiveness or assistance or socialized medicine. Save that shit for the people who need it. The people with real problems.

I simply nod in agreement, shrug my shoulders, and get back to thinking about fucking.

That said, I was intrigued to read in the aforementioned article that the Boston chapter of Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous attracts over 50 people to its monthly meetings. Assuming that some of them have to be female, I may just have to take in one in person.

For research purposes, natch.

Songs in the Key of F&%^ing

2010-02-13T16:20:00.000-08:00

Sex is an act that creates its own soundtrack. The gentle pat pat pat of bellies touching. The squeak of mattress springs as they yield to the bodies they support. The occasional queef, and the giggles that inevitably follow.

But sometimes, sex needs music. One time, a buddy of mine found the tie on the doorknob of his dorm room, with the sound of Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" blaring from his stereo. Hours later, his roommate emerged, nearly catatonic from hours of intense fucking.

Years ago, I was sleeping with an admitted music snob. Generally, we avoided plugging in the iPod when he plugged into me because he'd get distracted. But we once spent an entire afternoon shagging to the dulcet music of The Roots. It had a perfect rhythm, but was also great at blending into the background when we got distracted with each other. Granted, this memory is tainted now because this band is now Jimmy Fallon's house band, but a musician's got to eat.

The music you listen to while fucking should never be heard at a wedding. It shouldn't be a song that was ever popular--while booty-shaking at the club is great, you don't want to snap the guy's dick off while fuck-dancing to "Single Ladies." The songs should not involve break-ups, weddings, or Tori Amos. And for the love of God, don't turn it up too loud. You want to hear your partner turning into mush beneath you.

The Dangers of Young Love

2010-02-10T17:11:00.000-08:00

Valentine's Day is a dangerous enough holiday for those who are in committed relationships. If you don't get flowers for your lady, you're in trouble. If the flowers aren't unique or expensive enough, you might be in trouble. Do chocolates insinuate she's fat? If you don't try out the moves you learned from Carmen Electra's OnDemand Stripper Class, is he going to think you're not into him?

But perhaps the worst-case scenario is to be in a fledgling relationship in mid-February. When you're about four dates in, have had the first fuck, and are just starting to introduce the fellow to your friends. "What are you guys doing for Valentine's Day?" They coo. You play coy. But the panic sets in.

What are we doing for Valentine's Day?!

You don't want to ask him. But you kind of have to, don't you? If you don't ask, will he think you're out with someone else? Is he out with someone else? Do you buy him a present? Do you just buy some sexy underwear for him to throw on the floor in the heat of newfound lust? Do you agree to have another date and steadfastly ignore the people popping the question all around you?

WHAT IS THE PROTOCOL?

The hell with this. I'm staying home with the two reliable men in my life--Ben and Jerry.

Out Here in No Man's Land

2010-02-10T00:04:00.000-08:00

Attention please, I have an announcement.

Guys are horndogs.

Hardly a revelation, I know, but one of the most interesting things about the male species is how we can take a sentence as innocuous as "Would you like some apple juice?" and contort it into something racy, possibly involving rimjobs.

I used to think we were bad. Until I began working in an office full of women.

I'm the only guy in my department. There are seven others here, all women, ranging in age from 22 to 54. And, somehow, the sex talk and innuendo flies at a rate rivaled only by, I'm guessing, a construction site.

Last week, in a meeting, I attempted to adjust the video projector to enlarge the output on the screen. Unable to get it to work, I uttered the most unfortunate line: "Why can't I make this bigger?"

Without missing a beat, the 54 year old quips, "Oh, honey, bring it over here. I can make it bigger."

Not to be outdone, the pregnant 32 year old adds, "I find breathing on it can help."

Suddenly, they're off.

"Want me to sit on it?"

"Tell it how hot it's making you."

"Give it a little nibble right there [pointing to the underside of the projector]."

You get the point [these are all verbatim, by the way]. There were more interjections, but my mind couldn't process it all, what with their hysterical laughter punctuating every line. Needless to say, I sat there, red faced and nervous, fumbling with the projector until it finally worked.

Then there was the seemingly harmless birthday party for a coworker, which quickly shifted gears when my boss, of all people, informed us that her 14-year old son recently asked her what "sixty nine" meant.

This launched a half-hour discourse on -- you guessed it -- sixty-nining, so I got to stand around and listen to seven women discuss the merits of sitting on guys' faces.

Hey, I didn't just get off the boat. I've lived with women. I see them in action. I watch re-runs of Sex in the City, goddamn it.

But each and every day at the office, I find myself thinking the phrase I never thought would ever pass my lips:

"Ladies, can you please stop talking about sex."

Love and Herpes

2010-02-08T17:11:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, I wish love was more like herpes.

No. I really do. Because unlike love, one knows herpes when one has it. There's an easily-accessible checklist of symptoms. You go to your doctor, and she confirms your worst suspicions. Then you take your medicine and cope with the diagnosis.

Love is more like an episode of Mystery Diagnosis than herpes. The symptoms vary greatly, and typically don't fit a set pattern. You may misdiagnose as lust. Perhaps you've got a case of unrequited love that would fizzle out if you got whom you wanted. You could suffer symptoms (meeting his parents, moving in together, planning a wedding) before you realize you have a really good friend, not someone you want to wake up next to in the nursing home.

I've heard so many stories from people who I believe are genuinely in love. For some, it took them years to recognize the importance of the other person in their life. Other times it was an almost immediate knowledge. Several of my happily married friends say that when they met their now-spouse, everyone else they'd ever had the opportunity of boning seemed less desirable. That's never happened for me, but I think I've been in love at least twice in my life.

I suppose love is more like the old trope about pornography--I'll know it when I see it. Or feel it. Just like I would the herp.

Crunch Time

2010-02-04T03:19:00.000-08:00

I was visiting one of my female drinkin' buddies this past weekend and, after a couple shots, I launched into a little "horseplay" as I'm known to do once alcohol meets bloodstream: throwing her over my shoulder, biting her ass, mussing up her hair and all that.

And in the midst of this playful tussle, her knee accidentally met my sack.

Now, I know that this was an accident, because she mentioned it about 1,000 times as I laid on the floor, writhing, groaning, stripped of the energy or wherewithal to get back up on my feet. So she eventually departed to the kitchen, leaving me splayed out on all fours for about twenty minutes.

When I rejoined her later, after apologizing yet again, she asked me exactly what it feels like to get knocked in the balls. And after thinking about it for a few minutes, all I could say was... you know how a hard-on can control the male body? Pull it in all sorts of devious and potentially shameful directions? Well, the balls are the only thing in the male body that have the hard-on's override switch.

When they get hurt -- tender buggers that they are -- cancel your fucking plans, mate. With one word from the balls, the mightiest of erections crumbles to nothing in a matter of seconds. All that pumping, white-hot testosterone is replaced with shots of searing pain. Everything shuts down so that the balls can announce to the rest of the body, "We're injured, chaps. And you're all taking a break until we feel right again." And, yes, when my balls speak, it's in a silly-ass Irish accent.

You ladies have to put up with a lot of pain. There's that once-a-month thing you got going on. And childbirth, which my mother constantly reminds me was no picnic. And of course dealing with us guys is probably a special sort of hell.

But you can be thankful that you will never know what it feels like to take one to the nuts.

This Dirty Girl Is All Clean

2010-02-02T18:23:00.000-08:00

In the ranking of Things I Enjoy Doing In Life, going to the lady-doctor comes in just above listening to nails on the world's longest chalkboard. It's not that I mind spreading my legs for the doctor--it's the whole atmosphere. It's cold in the office, so I have to keep my socks on. I'm wearing one of those heinous hospital gowns, which does me no favors. Sure, the doctor grabs my boobs (to check for cancer) before diving between my legs, but she's got all the finesse of a 15-year-old boy on prom night. Shouldn't she at least buy me a drink first?

Especially when she's running the battery of tests on me. There were a couple of nights when I forgot or neglected to forage for a condom, so I figured it was high time for me to get tested for all the various bugs one can get when getting busy. My gynecologist ran down an entire medical guide of tests she'd order for me. I rolled up my sleeve, gave the ornery technician several vials of my blood, and went on my way.

I wasn't really worried I actually had anything, but it was a great relief when I came home last week and saw a letter from my doctor in the mailbox. No STDs found in my blood or on my cervix. And my cholesterol levels are excellent.

The best part of all this, aside from not having a venereal disease? I can now wave these papers in front of the next guy I'm with. "Here's proof I'm clean, pal. If anything comes up the next time I get one of these, I'll know I have you to thank for it."

The Crying Scene

2010-02-01T10:36:00.000-08:00

Okay, so here's the thing. Before we go any further, you need to know something about me.

I cry at sad movies.

Yeah, you heard right. I cry. This six-foot-two galloot turns to loose change the minute a sad scene unfolds on-screen.

Field of Dreams? Ruined me. Titanic? I was a mess. Mall Cop? Honestly, could YOU make it through that shit without crying?

I'm not particularly proud of this, and I'm not quite sure where it comes from. But as long as I can remember, I've always been the kind of sap who makes like a six year old girl at anything even remotely sad unfolding on the movie screen before me.

The one advantage is that some women have found this trait endearing, opening the door for the sort of nerve-shattering sex that is frequently bestowed upon "sensitive guys."

Unless it's a first date. In that case, you're simply a pussy. End of story.

I realized this back in my college days, when I took a rather striking young lass to the movies. Much to my chagrin, she wanted to take in a rare, big-screen showing of It's a Wonderful Life at a local arthouse -- a flick that's been known to reduce me to pulp, especially during the final moments.

But I told myself this was nothing. I could make it. And the ample rewards waiting inside her trousers were clearly going to be worth the effort.

Then, somewhere around the scene in which George Bailey begs to go back to his wife and kids, I felt my throat starting to swell. I fumbled around in my seat, then made like I was going to get up.

"I've got to run to the bathroom," I whispered.

"But this is the end. You'll miss the best part," she implored. I relented and sat back down as she draped her hand over my leg, her fingers dangerously close to my crotch. I watched the screen, feeling my eyes start to well up, even as she slowly began to trace the outline of my cock with her finger. And as much as I tried to keep focus on the impending handjob, the power of Frank Capra proved too much. When the lights came back on, I was shielding my eyes from her, rubbing them as if I'd just woken up.

"Oh my god. Were you crying?" she asked, her voice soaked with disappointment.

"Uh. Yeah," I chuckled. "This movie always gets to me."

And that was that. We'd planned to go for drinks, but she said she was tried. I drove her back to her place, watched her walk back inside without even a snog, then went about my miserable, handjob-free existence.

So, ladies, on our first date, if you suggest going to the movies and I suggest Saw 7 or The Headless Postman or The Anal-Probing Aliens of District 10, just trust me. It's for the best.

Let's Not Go to the Tape

2010-01-28T19:21:00.000-08:00

In my years of sexual activity, I've done some pretty freaky stuff. I don't care where you put your fingers and have had some interesting experiences with rope. But, as Meatloaf said, I would do anything for love, but I won't do that. And my personal buck stops with taping my sexual rendezvous.

One guy I was with kept asking me to tape it when we fucked, and I just couldn't warm up to the idea. Sure, now that digital cameras are taking over the world, the odds of my sister innocently popping a cassette of me groaning into the VCR while visiting me are lower. But I'd only been seeing the guy for a couple of weeks. I wouldn't have trusted that guy to check his email on my computer--there's no way I'm letting his digital camera stay trained on me, even if I do see him delete the file.

It's not that I don't like the voyeuristic fun of watching sex. I enjoy porn like every other red-blooded American girl. I just don't want it to be me, lest I end up like John Edwards. Or Kim Kardashian. To get my kicks, I think I'll just mirror my ceiling and be done with it, thanks.

Nice Work... If You Can Get It

2010-01-28T15:39:00.000-08:00

So today, at the office, I'm leaning back in my chair reading some e-mailed memo that was so utterly inane I had to print it up and re-read it just to make my eyes believe what I was reading. And as I'm leaning back with said memo in my lap, my boss -- a very hot fiftysomething woman -- walks into my office to discuss the same memo. So I tell her I've got it printed out, and she walks over and starts reading it over my shoulder. She then points to the offending portion of the memo, running a long, sleek, perfectly manicured finger underneath it -- very, very slowly -- as if to underline it as she reads it aloud.

And all I can think about as she's pointing and reading is that her hand was inches -- and I'm talking inches -- away from my weenis.

And that's all it takes to get the mind rolling. To start imagining her whispering, "Actually, I came here to talk about this" and grabbing herself a handful. I mean, all the makings of spectacular handjob were there. We had the hot chick's hand. We had the jimmy. We were in an office which is fairly cut off from the society that is my place of business. Again, I must stress, we are talking an inch at best. An inch of air separating my crotch from my bosses' hand.

I like to think that at some point in the proceedings, she herself thought, "Wow, I could just extend my index finger and trace it along his package."

But she probably didn't.

I'm Your Pusher

2010-01-26T19:52:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, I helped a friend move. Normally, I don't do that kind of shit for family, let alone friends, but this friend really needed the help and, as a bonus, she's pretty fucking hot. So I figured I could squeeze in the occasional "accidental" cheap feel to make up for my time.

Anyway, the move went far, far longer than we expected, to the point I was convinced the boxes in her tiny apartment were reproducing every time we walked out to the U-Haul. After almost ten hours of up-and-down-the-stairs bullshit, we downed a couple stale beers. Then I crashed on her floor for the night, froze my balls off, and woke up the next morning feeling absolute rubbish.

On the way home, I stopped off at a highway convenience store to grab some aspirin and cough drops. As I gazed down the aisles, my nose started running something fierce. So I started sniffling--quite loudly, in fact--as I rummaged around in my pockets for Kleenex.

That's when the woman standing next to me spoke up.

"Man, that sounds waaaay too good to be a cold."

I looked at her curiously. She was probably about 35. Straddling the fine line between hot and skanky. And as I gave her the once over, she put a finger to her nose and sniffled sharply, imitating me.

"That's waaaay too good to be a cold," she repeated. "That's something bettah!"

It took a while to sink through my hangover-strained cranium, but it eventually hit me. "Holy shit," I thought. "She thinks I'm on coke."

And I gotta admit. I kinda dug it. Here I was, the dorkiest of dorks, shuffling around in my Old Navy cargos, hands stuffed with aspirin and Kleenex and Hostess fruit pies. But she has me pegged for a user. No, make that a dealer, the way she's eying me like a kid finding Santa in her foyer Christmas morning.

Part of me wanted to roll with it. A big part, I'm ashamed to admit. I felt the sudden urge to move in closer. Tell her, yeah, it is better than a cold. And I've got plenty for her, too. And a few of her friends. I saw us blazing down the Mass Pike, the FBI a close but manageable distance behind us, Pitbull's "Hotel Room Service" rattling the windows, the telltale white powder traces just above her lipsticked mouth, her knees on the seat, her hands all over me, her tightly-jeaned ass swinging back and forth, and a brain full of scenes from my favorite porno flicks about to be re-enacted.

Alas, the fantasy was no match for my inner nerd.

"Naw, I really am sick," I muttered, sniffling again. "Got the shits, too."

And she bit her lip. And she grinned. And she slinked down the aisle and away from me. Quickly.

So I paid for my stuff, got back in the car, blew my nose, popped a few Tylenol, and cranked the Maroon 5. Because that's how I roll, apparently.

No, I Did Not. So Stop Asking

2010-01-25T19:13:00.000-08:00

I love sex. But a lot of times, I really hate men.

I think many straight women feel this way about the gender. The broad, muscular shoulders and arms? Yes, please. A strong jawline? I will now lick it. And, of course, the gift that keeps us dealing with the male brand of bullshit, the dick.

Men and women experience sex in vastly different ways because of that organ. In my experience, most men need only an eyeful of cleavage, mouth full of tongue, and vigorous stroking from a hand/mouth/vagina to achieve a pretty great orgasm. On the other hand, there's what it takes both myself and some of my female friends to make our toes curl. Our frame of mind has to be just right. The hand/tongue/penis also has to be rubbing just the right spot. And then there's the ultimate buzzkill, whispered in the heat of the moment.

"Did you come yet?"

How I hate that question. You know all the hard work you were doing just now? Thrusting quickly? Spending some time crouched between my legs? Grabbing my tits? I was enjoying that. You heard the nonsense syllables and grunts coming from my throat. I was just beginning to stop thinking about work, my bills, the call from my grandmother I need to return and get more into the moment, which would have led to me coming.

But no. Now you've got me worried that I'm some sort of frigid bitch incapable of feeling love. That I have no bruised your delicate ego because I didn't pull a When Harry Meets Sally in the allotted timeframe. I try to ease back into the pillows and enjoy, but I've already lost my hard-on. So to speak.

Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

2010-01-22T04:45:00.001-08:00

Hello, ladies. My name is Ken.

I'm tall, blue-eyed and very Irish. I can quote Shakespeare's Love's Labours Lost and the latest issue of The Amazing Spider-Man with equal aplomb. I hold doors for women, dig on cheap beer and own at least four suits.

And I absolutely, positively want you to sit on my face.

See, that's my thing. Watching you position your body on my chest, facing my feet. Feeling you purr as you slowly move back toward my face. The way your body warms up and your thighs brace as my tongue slowly slinks out and goes to work.

Some guys dig watching the races, I like having my face sat on. Simple as that.

In fact, my love of being trapped under female glutes is so expansive and all-encompassing, my fetish so intensive, it extends to... having my face sat on by a woman while she's still wearing her pants.

The fuck? What the hell does that even mean, you might ask. But, sadly, it's all true. And damned if I can explain it, although I'm sure it can be blamed on the priest dressed up as a hermit crab who touched me indecently on my fourteenth birthday.

Anyway, yeah. I'm kinda into that. But the thing is, it's not the sort of thing you can just propose in any semi-romantic situation. You choose 'em wisely. If it's a girl I've been dating/seeing/screwing for some time, then I have no problem asking if she'd be willing to do it -- especially after I've had a few or have spent so much time fantasizing about her doing this, I'm operating with a painful, six-day hard-on.

One night stands, on the other hand, are a lot tougher; although "anything goes" is typically the rule, asking a girl you just met at the local over tequila shots to sit on your face with her jeans on typically elicits either laughter (as in, "He's obviously joking") or laughter (as in, "He's clearly homicidal and I just have to play along until I can call the cops or render him unconscious with a frying pan") or laughter (as in, "What the fuck. Okay."--admittedly rare.)

But there are only a handful of women you can request something like this of, as I'm often concerned about them going off and telling other people. Which calls to mind a great episode of HBO's Curb Your Enthusiasm in which Jeff, Larry's BFF, separates from his wife and worries that in divorce proceedings, she might start blabbing about his various kinks and fetishes. Larry counters by proudly stating that he's never shared anything even remotely deviant with his wife, so she'd have no dirt on him if they ever split.

Then, as is the case on Curb, everything unspools but quickly. Larry drives past his wife's buddy Wanda and innocently yells a comment about her backside, setting off a chain of events that has Larry, by episode's end, looking like the King of Ass Fetish Mountain (and there is such a position; I've even applied for it a few times).

Here's one of the episode's best sequences, when Larry's wife and Wanda confront him on the comment:

As a professional ass fetishist, let me reiterate: It's not an easy job. But somebody's got to do it.

I'm Your Facebook Fantasy

2010-01-20T19:36:00.000-08:00

I have no problem with guys with a bit of a pervy streak. In fact, I rather enjoy them. Most of the time I’m pretty aware of how their predilection will manifest itself—ass grabs, comments about how my tits look in that dress, the occasional restraining order. But I've recently experienced a new trend.

About six months ago, I was dating a fellow. We were sitting around, shooting the shit, when we started talking about Facebook. Somehow, I got this confession from him:

“I masturbated to pictures of you that you posted on Facebook before we started dating,” he said.

“Which ones?” I asked. He opened his laptop (heh) and showed me the one that factored heavily into his self-pleasuring. It featured a shot of my cleavage, which is a rare photographic feat considering my tiny breasts.

Fast forward to the next guy I coerced into bed. We're talking dirty when he whispers in my ear that he had recently started masturbating to pictures of me on Facebook.

"Which ones?" I asked. He unhooked my bra and muttered into my cleavage that he liked the one of me in a low-cut black number I'd forgot I'd even posted. Fast forward again to a few weeks ago, when another guy confessed getting off to fully clothed pictures of me on my profile as I removed my shirt.

Is this the new decade's "your ass looks hot in those jeans?" I suppose a nice girl would be concerned what dudes firing up Facebook to ogle her while horny does to her reputation. But it wasn't some random guy from accounting telling me this in the copy room--it's a guy I'm digging enough to allow out of the virtual world and into the very real world inside my pants. And, quite frankly, those confessions kind of turned me on. More.

What say you, fellow pervs? Is it an invasion of privacy when somebody gets off to your PG-rated pictures on Facebook, or just a fun way you can be that special someone's personal Farrah Fawcett?

Why You Can't Invite Me To Dinner With Your Parents

2010-01-19T18:43:00.000-08:00

Kennette's Father: So, what did you kids do today?

Ken: I had to get a new pair of sunglasses.

Kennette: He did, and it's all my fault. He had these gorgeous two-hundred dollar sunglasses and I accidentally sat on them.

Kennette's Mother: My god, you didn't!

Kennette: I did. I couldn't believe it.

Ken: The funny thing is, I was wearing them at the time.

::Kennette's father puts down fork and quietly contemplates hitting me with his chair::

Ken: Hey, anyone gonna eat that last roll?