The Business of Perversion

Last week, a day of seemingly endless meetings finally ended, and I found myself heading out for after-work dinner with some coworkers. Some I knew quite well; others I'd never met. But one of the ladies with us possessed a remarkable ass, which a male coworker friend of mine and I had spent the better part of the day's meetings drooling over. And getting to ogle it for a few more hours was good enough for me.

But not enough, apparently, for my friend. As we're walking into the restaurant, I see him walking close behind her, fumbling with his phone. A couple minutes later, inside the restaurant, he sends me a photo. Of her backside. Now the pic doesn't really do that bum justice, but the point is he sent me the photo, I laughed, saved it (of course), then went about my business.

Until last weekend, when I attended a family cookout and got all silly with the Bud Light. My six year old niece, who loves playing with phones, asked if she could see mine and I quickly obliged. So she goes off, pretending to talk to someone on the phone and I get back to my drinking. Then, a few minutes later, my niece is waving the phone at her mother, my sister.

"Ew, Uncle Ken has a picture of someone's bum on his phone."

My sister took the phone from her daughter, gave it a look, raised an eyebrow in disgust, then scanned the crowd for me. I was already sprinting her way, wishing myself invisible, and blabbering whatever excuses came into my head: "Oh, yeah, a friend sent me that as a joke and I meant to delete it but I kept it andohboyisthisweirdbutitreallyisn'tmyphoneandanywayIjustneedtoblahblahblah..." I took the phone from her, and faded sheepishly into the background, where I remained for the balance of the night.

See, I can handle everyone at work thinking I'm a world class pervert (hell, no way to change their minds now, anyway). I can handle the Kenettes who wander in and out of my life thinking the same thing. But my family? Something about one of my sisters knowing I had that photo on my cell phone... it just makes me wanna join the French Foreign Legion.

I hear they've also got some hot chicks as well.

Greatest Award Acceptance Speech Ever

If you can get past the Paris Hilton bullshit, you will witness the single greatest acceptance speech in the history of televised award shows.

Better yet, just forward it to 2:15 for the magic.

Another Reason Friday Rocks

Today is Friday, which is casual day at my place of employ. This means that, even as I type these words, pretty much every woman from 18 to 52 who works in our financial division is wedging herself into low-slung, too-tight jeans. This is not a day for me to be making decisions that could affect the fate of our organization or my position within it. That's what Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday are for. Today, I just slip it into neutral, and soak it all in.

The trick to getting the full show: Slide a manila folder under your arm. That's your "hall pass," so to speak. As you wander aimlessly through any place of business, so long as you're carrying a manila folder, peeps figure you've obviously transporting something of grave importance. This is particularly critical to getting into the IT wing, where many a cute young lass waits. And very likely bent over a server. Bonus!

Er, hold my calls.

By Any Other Name...

So I happen to overhear a conversation between two female coworkers this morning, and one of them starts talking matter-of-factly about her boyfriend's "dink."

"Dink"?

Honey, I wanted to say, you do your man no favors by calling it a "dink."

A newborn baby has a dink. Possibly some midgets. But not any male over the age of 16. That's about as sexy as some chick getting me all hot n' bothered, then asking if she can hold my "pee pee." Just like that ::finger snapping sound::, the tower collapses and the game's over. Thank you, and good night.

For the record, I use "cock." Not "dick" or "wang" or "Love Missile F-11." Okay, maybe there's the odd occasion where I'll use "Little Jimmy O'Sullivan," but that's typically relegated to St. Patty's Day. Or, y'know, when I'm on "bizness."

Similarly, I like it when a woman refers to her holiest of holies as her "pussy." And I'm man enough to admit that "cooter" is pretty hot too. Yeah, that's right. I said "cooter." Represent!

The Ass That Stopped Traffic. Literally.

So I'm driving back to Boston from a weekend up north. And all of a sudden, traffic hits a standstill. And it wasn't in one of the typical places either (i.e., the New Hampshire tolls, the Zakim Bridge, Ma Kessler's Handjob Ranch). So I figure it's gotta be an accident. And I sit and I stare and I crawl along and after thirty minutes pass I'm starting to wonder where the fuck this parade actually ends.

And then, up ahead, I see what's keeping us down. A car by the side of the road with a girl in impossibly tight pants bent over it, checking something in the trunk (no pun intended). People were literally slowing down to look at her ass, and I even saw a couple dudes in a Jeep in front of me taking pics with their phones.

Not too many people can say they have an ass that actually caused traffic to stop. This girl can.

Oh, and I totally stroked it the rest of the way home. Hey, anything to keep myself awake.

How To Win Any Argument With a Guy: A Useful Reference for Women

Ken [looking at a photograph]: Honey. Did you fuck Bob?

Kenette: Now why would I screw your best friend?

Ken: Not sure. But someone just mailed me these photos of you fucking Bob.

Kenette [glances about nervously, then...]: Hey! I totally want to blow you right now!

Ken: Really? Hot damn! [Tosses aside photo, pants.]

As If They Needed Another Reason Not to Send Me to the Conference...

I find that whenever I'm at any kind of Conference, whenever there's a female speaker at the podium, all I can think about is how it would feel to go down on her.

Seriously. From the minute she steps on the stage to the minute she leaves, I just sit there, tracing the outline of her legs with my eyes, trying to pinpoint exactly where on her body I'd begin my descent, and mentally conjuring what her reactions might be.

Have I reached the point of irreversible perversion? Do other guys do this? Do women do this when watching men speaking at a conference?

There Goes My Morning Productivity

Today was supposed to be a big day for me. A couple reports to finalize. A last-minute conference call. Meeting with a vendor.

Then my buddy Raster sent me a link to a website called "Girls in Yoga Pants." And everything kinda unraveled from there.

So now if you'll excuse me, I have to go masturbate myself into a state of unconsciousness.

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

Guest Post: What WON'T You Do in Bed?

Well, shortly after I wrote my last post I contracted a double cock-punch of the flu and a strep infection -- none of which, I'm sure, has any connection to the woman I was rimming just two nights prior. Anyway, I apologize for the lack of posting and figgered I'd kick off the return with another scintillating guest post. This one's from the lovely Simone of Skinny Dip. And it's damn good:

* * * * * * * *

What won't you do in bed?

I'm pretty open-minded when it comes to Sex. My whole philosophy is "everything is worth trying at least once" (well, almost everything). When Ken asked me to write this post about Sexual Deal-breakers, I actually had to sit down with a drink and ponder, "What exactly WON'T I do in bed?". After some deep soul-searching and a couple of glasses of Bailey's Irish Cream, I've come up with my master list of Sexual Deal-Breakers. In other words, "a list of stuff that the mere mention of is guaranteed to turn my girl parts inwards" or alternatively titled "stuff to do if you want me to kick you out of bed". Drum-roll please!

1. Water-Sports: The thing that you have to understand about me is that I am your text book Virgo. I love cleanliness, I love order, I love crisp white sheets. I'm kind of obsessed with all things bedroom and bedding related. I make my bed every morning as soon as I get out of bed because if I don't I feel like it sets a bad tone for the day (I even do this when I stay in hotels, even though I know I don't have to). I lust after designer duvet covers & keep my bed in tip top shape because I want it to always be this fresh, fluffy, cozy oasis for sleep & sex. With that said, any kind of sexual activity that involves urination will never take place chez moi. Its not so much the idea of peeing on someone or having someone pee on me (no, wait I TOTALLY DON'T WANT ANYONE PEEING ON ME) its more the clean-up factor. If you think you're going to get me to pee on you while you're lying on my 300-thread count Hungarian down duvet you're out of luck. The only way it might work is if there was extensive plastic sheeting laid out before hand. But, who really wants to stop mid-sex so they can create a condom-like bedroom environment? Which brings me to my first rule of thumb when it comes to sexual experimentation: If a sex act requires me to make my bedroom look like one of Dexter's "kill sites" or involves extensive "clean-up" afterward, its not happening.

2. The "Hot Lunch" or the "Blumpie". Rule of thumb #2: if a sexual act requires me to do a search on Urban Dictionary to find out what it is, its also probably not happening. This is definitely the case with the "Hot Lunch" and the "Blumpie". Did you read the definitions?! Are you throwing up in your mouth yet? ARE YOU?! Because I am. Also, I think the inclusion of both of these on the Sexual Deal-breakers list is pretty self-explanatory. Sex and making a shadoobie are two things that in my opinion just shouldn't go together. I know there is a bumper sticker that says "Is Sex Dirty? Only when its done right!" however, the "Hot Lunch" takes that to a whole new level. I'm guessing post "Hot-Lunch" probably involves some pretty interesting clean up. The only good that has come from learning the definition of a "Hot Lunch" is that now whenever I pass that diner in my hometown that has a sign that says "We specialize in Hot Lunches", I burst into hysterics.

3. Furry Sex: Once again I had to consult Urban Dictionary for this one. "Furry" sex is a term usually used to describe the act of two people having sex with each other while dressed in furry animal costumes. I think its pretty obvious why most people wouldn't be into this. Lots of people fantasize about having sex on a bear skin rug, very few people fantasize about having sex with a bear skin rug. I mean, I'm not even into chest hair - the last thing I want is for you to try and bone me while you're dressed as Tony the Tiger and I'm wearing a fuzzy unicorn one-sie. Furry sex mystifies me more than anything. How does one actually have sex while also wearing a fuzzy animal costume? Do the costumes include some kind of "trap door" like those old school pajamas with the bum-flap? Or, do they work more like a giant pair of fuzzy crotchless underwear? Where does one buy a crotchless animal costume? I guess I could Google this but honestly I'm afraid to find out.

4. Rape Fantasies: Besides the obvious power dynamics at play here, I've never understood why guys have the fantasy of sleeping with a woman who's pretending to not want to sleep with them. I love to please my partner & I'll gladly act out most fantasies (as long as they don't involve an animal costume) but, this is one I just can't do. The only time I've tried this, I felt like my skin was crawling & I was going to throw up. I don't mind a little bit of hand-cuff play & light spanking but, generally I don't like to be dominated. I'm more of a "tie you to the bed with a pair of my thigh highs & do naughty things to you while you beg for mercy" kind of girl. That's just how I roll.

5. Biting: Years and years ago, I dated this guy who would try and bite me every time we were in bed. After we broke up I found out he belonged to a group that put on "Vampire Role Play parties" and that he was a two-timing creep who liked to have his cake and bite it too. Now, whenever I feel teeth brush against my neck or any other body part I get this sicky feeling and I am reminded of that guy, his basement apartment that smelled like marijuana, his creepy friends & the fact that he kept a life sized stuffed plush tiger on his bed. Wow, that's a lot of deal breakers in one paragraph! Simply put, I just don't like biters (or adult males who own large stuffed animals). This also applies to the guys who think its OK to use their teeth while going down on a girl. I've had enough experience to know that treating my lady parts like you are eating a cob of corn at the State Fair does not constitute "doing it right".

I realize that this list is completely subjective. What makes me cringe, might have the complete opposite effect on someone else. Some of you may think this list makes me incredibly close-minded. There are no right or wrong answers here. Everyone has their own tastes & preferences. That's what makes sex so fascinating.

What are some of your sexual deal-breakers?

Speechless

Someone sent me a link to this video:



That person is the greatest human who ever lived.

Even if you're a heterosexual woman, how could you NOT want to be under that ass? Straight girls, help me out here.

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.

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.

Biding My Time...

So, er. Is Miley Cyrus legal yet?

Not asking for me, of course. For my nephew. Who's 63.

"Hey, You With the Boobs. And the Eyes. And the Hair..."

There's a girl at my office with the biggest rack ever.

I mean, there's simply no other way to put it. Hindenburg-huge. Preposterously gargantuan. Incapable of being restrained by the strongest of sports bras or tightly-knit sweaters.

They are, for lack of better terminology, ginormous.

And everyone knows this. Her boss knows it. Her coworkers. Every guy in the mailroom knows "Sarah with the boobs." Christ, the vending machine that spits out our coffee and candy bars knows it.

Folks, her boobs are fucking huge.

So the other day, myself and Sarah and her boobs and a few other coworkers find ourselves at the local "TGIFridays" -- where the good times are incessant! -- for that most gut-wrenching of office niceties, the birthday lunch. And one of the girls is showing off her new tinted contacts, and she's apparently quite happy because she'd rather men focus on her eyes than what she deemed her "beak-like nose."

And Sarah chimes in that she's quite proud of her own deep blue eyes, because, and I quote, "they're the first things guys notice about me."

Not on this planet, hon. Not in this lifetime.

But it did get me thinking. Are we fooling ourselves with what we truly think are our best features? I recall a former Kennette who had a model-quality ass, the kind that snarls traffic and turns men to stone at first glance [how I let that one slip away is still a sore subject]. But she was convinced her impossibly curly blonde hair was what drew myself and countless other guys in.

Hell, I even fool myself. Hours of sweating my balls off in the gym have convinced me that my arms and chest are what keep the ladies coming. But if you ask the ladies, they'll probably tell you what they really dig is how I always pick up the bar tab.

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.

My Pioneering Ways

In another example of my dreams becoming reality, Gawker reports that the newest dance craze in Brazil involves women slamming their asses into guy's faces.

You can thank me in the comments.

My Own Worst Enemy

Ken [adjusting tie as he scrambles to the toaster]: Alright. Five minutes for breakfast, then I hit the 7:30 D Train.

Inner Ken: Hold it.

Ken [munching toast furiously]: What?

Inner Ken: Did you want to watch the news? Check the weather?

Ken: No, no, no. No TV. I'm all set. Nice day today. Mid-70s.

Inner Ken: Come on, let's just flip it on for a sec. You never know when a monsoon might hit. Here we go. Okay.

Ken [trying to look away as TV flips on]: I really don't have--

Inner Ken: Uh-oh. This ain't the Weather Channel. Looks like a new episode of In Shape With Sharon Mann on FitTV. Or is that Denise Austin?

Ken [looks at watch]: Fuck. Shut it off.

Inner Ken [staring at TV]: Oh my god. Those shorts. That body. Christ, her ass looks like it's carved outta marble.

Ken: I don't wanna see. I've got a train to catch. I can't be late again.

Inner Ken: Dude, just check it out for a second. It's glutes day! She's doing squats!

Ken: Squats? Fuck. Maybe I could just check it out for a sec.

Inner Ken: Totally. Jesus, look at that form. Imagine backing right up to that and... [does the patented, goofy-ass "white boy gettin' some" jig].

Ken: Haw fuck. And look at those legs. [Checks watch] But that's enough. I gotta go.

Inner Ken: Just a few more minutes. It's almost stretching time.

Ken: I know what you're up to, and it's not gonna happen. I'm not gonna make my self late for work again by jerking off to another women's exercise program.

Inner Ken: Whatever. Hey, check it. Leg scissors.

Ken [drops toast]: Holy jumping Jesus.

Woman on Exercise Show: Alright ladies. Now it's time to work that tush.

Inner Ken: Oh, yes!

Ken: Alright. The 7:45 train. Can't miss that one.

Inner Ken: Right, right. We won't. I promise.

Ken: 'Course I could always tell the boss the train got derailed... or there was an electrical problem... [starts jerking off to another women's exercise program.]

No Way She's In It For The Money

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Hola, Chicas

Everyone knows the Spanish Channel. If you're a guy, you likely spend an inordinate amount of time staring blankly at it.

And, like me, you probably don't speak a word of Spanish.

This is like TV from another planet, where hot chicks aren't relegated to soap operas and sitcoms, but roam freely through news shows, weather reports, sports shows. Skintight pants. Oversized hair. Breasts that don't simply defy gravity, but taunt its wife and children as well. The Spanish Channel is a good place, and I like spending time there.

Even the kids shows are frighteningly well-populated by golden twenty-one year olds who, in between elaborate, booty-centric dance moves, relate such important lessons as "drugs are bad" and "stay in school" and "Would you please ask your dad to leave the room because I can feel his fifty-year old eyes burning a hole directly through the television screen and it is freaking me out."

The Spanish Channel is my oasis. My escape. Where I don't have to hear about the sunken economy or who's being voted off the island or how many North Korean missiles are aimed at my house. Everybody's dancing. Everybody's happy. The chicks are smoking hot. And I can't understand a bloody word they're saying.

Somebody's Got to Do It

Not to go off on some porno tangent [twist my arm, why don't ye?], but I must say I've always been intrigued by the employment opportunities offered by this robust industry. Not acting, mind you. Christ, I can barely keep my mojo working long enough to keep one lady interested, let alone a room full of gaffers and cameramen.

No, what truly intrigues me are the guys [and ladies, I suppose] who get to write the little blurbs on the back of the DVD cases.

Seriously, talk about overkill. I mean, imagine for a moment that I was interested in a certain genre of porno flick. I dunno... let's say, oh, facesitting. Wouldn't seeing a photo like the one above on a DVD case pretty much tell you everything you needed to know? It's like putting a picture of a bowl of Frosted Flakes on the front of a box of Frosted Flakes. "Hey dudes, guess what's in here?"

But as much as it may seem overkill, these video blurbs provide some intriguing and ultimately hilarious reading. So much so that you may forego another Saturday afternoon at the Chelsea Library to hang at the adult video store and just work through the stacks. My personal favorite these days is this one, from a cinematic classic called Saddle Face:

Paige Richards is an arrogant, imperiously cruel Femme-Domme who dressed in black lingerie. Her subby boy alix tries to impress her with a gift -- a stuffed owl. Mistress Paie is NOT pleased by this gesture. "Are you out of your mind? Is this a joke?" she asks as she slaps his face cruelly. "Look at how fabulous I am. Is that how you show me you adore me?" Using her gloved hands, she wrestles him to the ground and uses her hands to block completely his access to air. "You see these? Aren't they beautiful?" she asks as she unveils her glorious rack. But she does so only to taunt alix (and us!). "You'll never touch these again!" she promises.

Trust me, it only gets better from there.

Today, I'll be writing a tech manual. Somewhere else, some dude will be writing blurbs such as these, pondering at the keyboard, asking himself "How can I most effectively convey the vast amounts of fucking contained on this video?"

To him, I raise a glass.