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.