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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Songs in the Key of F&%^ing

Sex is an act that creates its own soundtrack. The gentle pat pat pat of bellies touching. The squeak of mattress springs as they yield to the bodies they support. The occasional queef, and the giggles that inevitably follow.

But sometimes, sex needs music. One time, a buddy of mine found the tie on the doorknob of his dorm room, with the sound of Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" blaring from his stereo. Hours later, his roommate emerged, nearly catatonic from hours of intense fucking.

Years ago, I was sleeping with an admitted music snob. Generally, we avoided plugging in the iPod when he plugged into me because he'd get distracted. But we once spent an entire afternoon shagging to the dulcet music of The Roots. It had a perfect rhythm, but was also great at blending into the background when we got distracted with each other. Granted, this memory is tainted now because this band is now Jimmy Fallon's house band, but a musician's got to eat.

The music you listen to while fucking should never be heard at a wedding. It shouldn't be a song that was ever popular--while booty-shaking at the club is great, you don't want to snap the guy's dick off while fuck-dancing to "Single Ladies." The songs should not involve break-ups, weddings, or Tori Amos. And for the love of God, don't turn it up too loud. You want to hear your partner turning into mush beneath you.

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.

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.

The Good Times Are Killing Me

Sorry for the lack of content in the past few days—the holiday season has been seriously testing my commitment to being a lush. Every night for the past few nights has found me surrounded by empties, chatting with friends I have not seen for months. I think today will find me detoxing in advance of New Year's Eve.

Unless, of course, you're buying a round. BUT I'M ONLY HAVING ONE.

But I Wish He'd Get Into Me

Recently, I've been trying to get a paramour of mine to visit on the regular/become an actual, honest-to-God boyfriend. We've been grabbing clandestine kisses while waiting for the bus home for months, but he only recently got out of his halfhearted relationship. I figured this meant all systems were go. I made plans. We had drinks, he told me he was still not adjusted to being single. Then he nibbled on my earlobe as the bus pulled up.

Fast forward a month, and I haven't seen him despite practically begging him to hang out, drink, and stick his tongue in my mouth. He keeps saying he's busy at work. And before you Sex and the City fans start dropping that He's Just Not That Into You knowledge on me, you should know that he actually is very busy at work. (Thanks for the help, Facebook Stalking!)

That said. I have seen guys go without sleep for a week to have a date with a woman they really want to see. They will drive hundreds of miles in the hopes of even getting an eyeful of cleavage across the table. If he really dug me as much as I want him to, and as much as I deserve to be dug, he'd crawl to the bus stop to meet up with me.

It's time to go back to the drawing board, I guess.

Bad For You

It is, apparently, some cruel law of the universe that the most psychotic women who wander into my life must also be the most god-almighty fantastic in bed.

The first night I met Danni, she made the hair on the back of my neck stand up; that whine of a voice, the violent temper, the spitting, and the insistence on speaking like a female rap star. But she also came equipped with that body, god damn her. And ten beers later, when she was talking with her mouth dangerously close to my face and noting matter-of-factly that she wasn't wearing underwear, I was instantly reduced to a box of Feldman's Modeling Clay.

Later that night, when she delivered unto me a fucking that almost stopped my heart cold, I knew I was in trouble. Because the male mind cares not if a woman starts fights with bartenders or throws chairs in restaurants or tells you that your mother is a "twatburger" [all things she did within the first week I knew her, mind you]. Because we know that the screwing which will be levied after all of this anger has subsided will be an otherwordly experience. And that's its own reward.

I remember the nights I'd sit up, pacing around around her small apartment while she slept off the fuckathon, thinking I could change her. "Niceness begets niceness," I thought. So I tried. And it failed. Miserably. The night she spit beer in my best friend's face [after an argument over, of all things, calling plans], I realized that if I wanted to keep my sanity -- not to mention my friends and family -- I'd have to leave this sex behind.

So I did. And after the death threats subsided, I started seeing some fairly "normal" women again. Women who didn't scream at my relatives, or carry knives in their purses, or try to burn the back of my neck with a lit cigarette.

Also: Women who didn't fuck near as good as Danni.

Unfortunately.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Here on the East Coast, it's threatening to snow today. A lot. Which sucks, but it's the price you pay for living on the side of the country that's less prone to earthquakes and large fires.

However. I would be much obliged if someone would come over here and snuggle with me on the couch while it's happening.

It's not an unusual phenomenon to get busy while you're snowed in. Many hospitals see an increase in the number of babies born about nine months after a major storm. And who can blame people for getting it on when you can't leave the house? You can play Rock Band for only so long. There are only so many reality TV marathons you can watch. Sometimes the heat goes out, and you've got to stay warm somehow. What better way than by sexing the one you love (or love to sex)?

Sadly, I'm living single right now, so I'm looking at a night in front of the Christmas tree wrapped up in my Snuggie, not wrapped up in a man. Like many people flock to the Home Depot to load up on supplies, I envision I'll be making booty calls when the first flakes fall to make sure I have someone to get me through the storm.

There But For the Grace of God Goes Our Sexting

As the Tiger Woods Fucks Everything That Serves Pancakes or Blowjobs controversy continues, I grow more weary of the story. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I don't care who the dude is shagging on the side. That's a problem for his wife (and the myriad women he was sexxin' without a condom) to deal with.

But the thing that does scare me is the idea that one's private text messages can be published in a gossip rag. This week's Us ran an entire two-page spread of select exchanges between the golfer and one of his paramours.

I am the first to admit that when I'm a few beers in, I like to take out the phone and start sending suggestive messages around. Hey, I'm thinking about you. Hey, what are you doing later? Hey, I'm not wearing pants. Some mornings, I blink the martini haze off my eyes, grab the phone, and blush when I read what I sent out at the apex of my buzz. Then I realize how the guy in my bed got there.

Who among us hasn't sent a dirty thought that would sound maudlin and gross to anybody else who read it? A large part of the magic in having a significant other or fuckbuddy or whatever you're up to is that secret language that no one else understands but you. It's comical to read that Tiger wanted his ladyfriend to "send [him] something very naughty" because it's not our words.

And sure, you and I are just some faceless cubicle monkeys who hope to get a nice vacation before we go to the old folks home, but in these days of Facebook and Twitter and Sexting and whatever else the kids are inventing, whose to say some crazy ex or scorned lover won't start a Facebook group dedicated to posting the hundreds of pet-name-laden messages you once sent their way?

The hell with this. I'm going to start fucking the Amish.

Friday Night Follies

As usual, Friday night found me at the bar, mainlining Guinness to erase the perils of the workweek from my memory. After a couple of pints, I noticed a fairly attractive guy checking me out. Button-down shirt, kinda geeky, chatting amicably with his friends. I made eyes at him. He made eyes at me. I turned my back to him and bopped along to to the music. I rotated again and reestablished eye contact.

This went on for hours. Finally, when I approached the bar for my fifth pint, he sidled up to me. He put his empty Bud Lite on the bar. He made eye contact.

"Hi," he said.

"Hey," I purred back.

He smiled, walked away, put on his coat, and strolled out the door.

Yet another Christmas without anyone to bring home to the parents. Goddammit.