Why Kurt Russell's Life Is Infinitely Cooler Than Mine

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.

My Christmas Wish...

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.

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

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.

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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

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.

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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

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

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

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:

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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

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

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

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.

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

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:

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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

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

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.

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?

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.

I Still Don't Understand Women

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.

Open Letter to Myself from the Future

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

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?

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.

Biding My Time...

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..."

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

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

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

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

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Hola, Chicas

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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

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.

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

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

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.