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.