Let's Not Go to the Tape

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

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No, I Did Not. So Stop Asking

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

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

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

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?

Jukebox Hero

I always figured that the main function of a jukebox was hearing the perfect tune to which to shake my ample white-girl booty.

But recently, I've had a couple of other experiences I've relished with the jukebox. One night a couple of months back, a guy friend and I are shooting the shit over a few beers. I grabbed a couple of bucks out of my wallet to pick some songs. As I'm flipping through the selections, I suddenly feel my guy friend's hips against my ass and his mouth next to my ear.

"Don't pick anything that sucks," he whispered into my ear, then took off for the bathroom as I tried to will my knees back into a solid state.

A few weeks later, I'm out with a guy I think might be into me. We were chatting at the bar, knees touching as we talked. After listening to the crap selections of the other patrons, he handed me a few bucks and sent me over to the jukebox. Suddenly, I feel his hand on the small of my back, sliding his arm around my waist, and asked how it was going. It was the first time I know that he really wanted me.

So thank you, jukebox, for giving boys a convenient way to grope me.

The Ultimate Sexual Buzzkill

Every guy has their holy shit girl. The one so twisted, so deviant, so possessing of a mind that conjures sexual scenarios rivaling the ones that live in our own fevered heads, we drop to our knees and exclaim, "Dear God, by all that is holy, please let me get a piece of this and I swear I'll go to church every day and twice on weekends."

For me it was... well, let's call her Michele Baccini, because that's her name. She was about five foot four, all hips, lips and tits, with a rear end that launched from the small of her back with such otherwordly curvature that rumor held she couldn't slide her jeans on without applying for a city building permit.

Michele was a co-worker of mine at my first job out of grad school, a gift of eye-candy from the heavens who reduced the menfolk to Spoon-Size Shredded Wheat and had the HR people scrambling to rewrite the company dress code. She also talked about sex the way guys talk about sex and by "the way guys talk about sex" I mean all the time. Over my morning coffee, I'd listen to her describe a titanic blow job she'd given her boyfriend the night before while the circuits that direct blood flow within my body essentially lifted the tollgates to my lower half and said, "Brain, you can take the day off." After work, crammed into pub booths and dizzy with beer and cigarette smoke, my eyes would glaze as she grabbed her spectacular breasts to punctuate a story or tried to stick her tongue in the ears of Marcie from Accounting.

Needless to say, little or no work got done on my watch. Days I should have been focused on the MacKenzie file were spent tracing the outline of Michele's mouth, imagining her fingernails tearing up my back, and dreaming of her ample derriere slowly being lowered onto my face. I was obsessed; not in a creepy "I saw you in my pancakes this morning" way, but an awe-inspired, "surely that girl could tear my shit up" way.

Then, one evening, during an after-work drinkfest, the stars aligned and the moon embraced Capricorn and every other guy she knew apparently left the east coast, because I became the target of Michele's affections. Or her drunken groping. Or whatever you want to call it. And I wasn't complaining. It began with a few grabs of my thigh under the table, then a talking-so-close-to-my-ear-I-swear-she's-trying-to-lick-it thing, then a full-on pinned-to-the-walls-by-her-breasts assault when I returned from the men's room. She kissed my mouth in a way that you could have worked my nuts over with a rolling pin and I wouldn't have felt a thing, then invited me to her apartment to "watch Conan," which I assumed to be code for "screw ourselves retarded."

Back at her place, things started working just as I'd always fantasized they might, although without the singing moose and sideline cheerleaders. Her shirt came off, her jeans went flying, and she jumped at me with a fervor not seen since the summer Olympics. After about fifteen minutes of floor rolling, as I finally retained control of my senses and began priming myself for the task ahead, she started licking my ear and talking up a filthy blue streak that essentially dipped my brain in the fry-o-later.

At least until she rolled on top of me and whispered, "What if I had a cock?"

I could almost hear my hard-on collapsing.

"Huh?"

"What if I had a cock?" she repeated. "What would you do?"

"Er... besides recoil in terror and run screaming from your apartment?"

Apparently that wasn't the answer she wanted. She rolled off me, and looked forlorn for a few minutes before getting up and taking a cigarette from her purse. A few seconds later, the TV was on, and we were watching Conan. And that, as they say, was that.

For the record, she didn't have a cock. And I sometimes wonder what that whole business was all about. But in the vast pantheon of strange-ass shit said to me in the heat of passion, this stands tallest. And it's still the single greatest buzzkill of my life.

Who Not to Marry

When I'm hungover, there's nothing better than a reality TV marathon. Sometimes, I land on TLC's What Not to Wear, aka The Show That's Not Jon and Kate That People Still Watch on TLC. If you're too busy watching Shake Weight commercials to have seen this program, a shrill woman and gay man take a complete slob and teach him or her (typically a her) how to dress appropriately, give her a haircut, and teach her how to correctly apply makeup. Then the former hot mess goes home to reveal her new look. Most often to a doting husband.

Back the fuck up. This woman has a wardrobe that consists of dime-store men's jeans and promotional t-shirts and she managed to land a man? Some of the men are even kind of hot. And some of these men had sex with these women in the recent past because there's a baby running around.

I actually invest some time, thought, and money into my wardrobe. I can do urban professional. I can rock a timeless Mad Men look. My ass looks fantastic in a snug pair of jeans. I spend more on my haircut than my monthly grocery budget. And I am still single.

Sure, there's more to a woman than how she looks. But as the hosts of the show repeat several times an episode, dressing well shows one possesses confidence and the desire to present oneself to the world in a positive way. And these people just waltz around the world, wearing sweatpants and polyester shirts to the office, and happened to stumble into the life (and onto the dick) of an attractive nice man.

Life ain't fair, y'all. I just wish it would be unfair in a way that benefits me more often.

In Praise of Dorks

I come here today to sing the praises of the men pop culture forgot. The nerds, the geeks, the dorks--the men that television and John Hughes movies would lead us to believe are lucky for any scrap of ass they can pick up from the reject pile hot bankers and dangerous bad boys leave in their wake.

It hasn't always been easy for the bookworms and gamers to get laid. But when they do, you'd best believe they're paying attention. What they typically see in porn and in their imagination is finally in front of them and they're fascinated. Naturally inquisitive, they love to see what happens when their tongue goes here. When a finger goes there. And once they see a result they like, they'll remember what caused it.

The impossibly handsome men who impeccably fill out their suits or jeans are great to look at when frequenting the bar or the gym. But while we may eat first with our eyes, it's the flavor by which we really judge a dish. And I want to be left with the memory of being rendered a lifeless pile of mute nerve endings, not being fucked jackrabbit-style by some lazy musclehead who only cares about his own satisfaction.

I salute you, men who are slightly scrawny and very bookish. Put down your comic books, close your laptop, and do me.

George Lucas, All Is Forgiven

Holy friggin' cocktails. Out of sheer boredom/curiosity/beer-induced paralysis, I was just watching Howard the Duck -- yes, the same Howard the Duck that single-handedly sent George Lucas' career into a tailspin from which he never recovered. Anyway, yes, the film is as bad as you've heard. Perhaps even shittier. But about halfway through, if you're zombified enough to make it, there's an absolute killer scene of '80s star Lea Thompson serving up enough ass to make any white girl proud.

George, if you're reading this, I could care less that you flushed 50 million dollars down the crapper to make this turgid spectacle. That fifteen second scene made it all worthwhile.

Ginger Snaps

Listen. I've read enough self-help books and watched enough sitcoms to know that I, as a woman, should always be a right little ray of sunshine. (With the possible exception of when I'm PMSing.) I should don my heels and take pride in arranging my hair and giggle my way through the world. Especially around the men I'd like to date.

But there are some days (let's say, oh, today) where I just can't keep up the charade and every. little. thing. pisses me right the fuck off. Some dude's rubbing his sweat-panted ass on my leg on the way into work? Pissed off. The guy I'm crushing on ignores my text for hours? Really pissed off. I find out the guy who won't get into me is going to the same party I am this weekend? It's all I can do to not text him and say, "Hey, asswipe, you've got time to drink someone else's shitty keg beer, but you can't find the time to take me out for some apps and cocktails? Prepare to have a beer thrown on you like we're on Jersey Shore."

I know I'll wake up tomorrow or the next day and understand that I'm overreacting, and I'll be my genuinely sunny self again. But right now, you'd best steer clear before I shiv you.

Ugly Sopranos Need Not Apply

In the world of TV sitcoms, schlumpy, beer-gutted dudes marry up with curvaceous, pretty women like they're selling 'em by the dozen at Wal-Mart. It's just a given that if you're built like Kevin James, you're bedding down with this.

But if there's one place where the goofy guy to hot chick ratio is completely off the charts, it's The Lawrence Welk Show.

I got sucked into this musical-variety relic from decades past mostly by accident; my local PBS station runs Welk fests every Sunday afternoon, when I'm typically down and out and too hungover to change the channel. But now I tune in religiously, if for no other reason than to gawk at the premium '70s trim.

Clearly, Lawrence was a man with a plan. If you were a guy and you could sing, it didn't matter if you looked like you were part orangutan or the result of genetic testing gone awry. You were in. If you were female and you could sing, you'd best be bringing some spectacular tits and an enchanting smile to the party. Being eighteen wouldn't hurt, either.

Check any episode and you'll see it in action. Doddering old men, who look like they may have just stepped out of the Neanderthal exhibit at the Smithsonian, dueting with glossy-lipped, raven-haired hotties who barely seem old enough to be driving. It's the template for pretty much every rap video ever made, minus the accordions.

Even worse is the effect the show's been having on me. Being a red-blooded guy and seeing all this hotness on parade -- especially in my alcohol-weakened state -- I typically can't help but have to work one out, most often during a Lennon Sisters number. And I will tell you that carrying the shame of being "the guy who pleasures himself to the Lawrence Welk Show" ain't easy, people.

The point of this post? None, really. But, man, did Lawrence Welk know his shit.

Breaching the Bar Chat Etiquette

A couple of weeks ago, I was at the bar. (Most of my stories start this way.) It was getting late in the evening, my buzz was mellowing me out nicely, and I was shooting the shit with a few of my friends. I was out of beer, so I walked up to the crowded bar and squeezed my arms together to maximize my cleavage and the chance of getting a drink faster. A guy standing next to me said hello, and we started talking. Nothing salacious; just some light banter while we waited to get served.

After a few moments, this girl comes up to the bar so fast she should have been accompanied by the sound of rubber squealing on pavement, and starts talking to the guy next to me. She's throwing me dirty looks as she rubs her hand on his arm. Even in my hazy state of consciousness, I notice she's kind of being a bitch.

When I rejoin my friends, they fill me in on the details. Apparently, she'd been scoping this guy out for the majority of the evening, and thought I was going to end up with him. This girl's friends pointed out that I was talking to the guy, and urged her to go over and run interference.

Listen, lady: You need to chill the fuck out. I respect that if a dude has been chatting with a girl all night, I shouldn't try to interrupt the love connection. But you hadn't even mustered up the cajones to go over and say hello to him until I was talking to him. If looking at a guy in a bar lays some kind of claim on him, I've fucked half the city.

It's women like you who give the whole gender the reputation for fighting over the affections of men. I'm perfectly happy to go home on my own most nights—if you want to creepily stalk dudes in order to validate yourself, knock yourself out. But don't paint me as some harlot because I'm talking about the weather with the guy you can't work up the nerve to talk to until you're "threatened."

Thank you.