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.

About Last Night...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pornography: A User's Guide

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

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

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

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

Misadventures in Sexy Texting

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

The first thing that came to mind?

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

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

Equal Opportunity Pervs

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

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

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

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

Loving (and Hating) the Swimmers

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

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

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

But, hey, maybe that's just me.

Used People

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

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

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

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

Men and Women Are Different, Vol. 3782-B

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not Goo Goo for Gaga (This Time)

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

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

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

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

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

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

There Goes My Morning

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

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

So Wrong, So What.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sincerely,

Everyone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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