And To Think He Probably Got Paid For This. Too

Like I always say, there's nothing better than hanging out in a bar with a couple of ladies.

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.

Lipps, Inc.

There are certain things I can overlook in a relationship. Psychotic behavior. Rambling stories about the ex-boyfriend. Threatening me with an empty Heineken bottle. Having to be carried out of your best friend's wedding because you drank 15 Jaeger shots and proceeded to vomit on every inch of carpeting in the reception hall. Rambling stories about how the ex-boyfriend liked your blowjobs. Erratic, almost irresponsible driving. Refusing to tip the paperboy because he "seems Mexican." Throwing all my clothes out into the driveway because I was a half-hour late coming home, even though you knew I was tending to my sick aunt.

But one thing I can't overlook is a bad kisser.

And, man, they're out there.

Not Much of a Boob Guy

Actual conversation [as best as I can recollect] between myself and a former Kenette, whom I recently met for a post-work drink:

Kenette: See that girl's boobs? That's the worst boob job I've ever seen. She should sue.

Ken [glancing up from beer]: Huh? Sue who? You're suing someone?

Kenette: My god, why am I even pointing this out to you. You wouldn't know a set of boobs if they hit you in the face.

Ken [keeps pulling from beer]: Huh? I like boobs.

Kenette: Ken, back when we were dating, you had your tongue up my ass before you'd ever even touched my boobs. That's never happened to me before. With any guy.

Ken [takes another sip]: You sure?

Kenette [nods as she takes a swig of her beer]: Rimmed me before you'd even felt me up. That's when I knew you were a sicko.

Ken: I notice you hung around for a year. I must have done something right.

Kenette: Part of it was fascination. How long will it be before this guy actually has his mouth on my boobs.

Ken [trying to think back]: I'm sure I did... at some point, right?

Kenette [shakes her head in mock disgust and finishes her beer.]

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.::

My Christmas Wish...

The folks at Met Another Frog were kind enough to give me the floor today, and my guest post is all about Crizzmazz:

I’ll come right out and admit it: I’m queer for Christmas.

The stores packed with people. The crunch of snow under my size 12 boots. The wobbly mecha-Santas and inflatable Rudolphs. Hell, I even love the music, which starts playing 24/7 on the radio after Halloween (at least in my neck of the woods). Hearing Bing Crosby and David Bowie tackle “The Little Drummer Boy” for the three-thousandth time in a two day span might push lesser men over the edge. But me? I live for that shit.

Something else that makes me win at the holidays is that unlike some folks who can waffle on for hours over whether to ask for a Droid X or an Ikea lamp, I know precisely what I want for Christmas.

Folks, I want ass.

Get over to Met Another Frog to read the rest of my not-so-veiled attempt to get more butt.

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.

Sometimes You Just Have to Come Right Out and Ask Them

In my never-ending quest to convince women to sit on my face, I've employed many tactics: buying dinner and drinks, laying on the compliments, bragging about how I've spent most of my adult life hunting the killer whale that devoured my uncle. And so on.

Never, ever had it occurred to me to walk up to 'em in a public square, lie down on the concrete, and simply ask 'em, point blank, to use my mug like a sofa.

But that's exactly what this guy did:



I can't imagine the guy didn't get his ass whipped at some point during the proceedings. But the fact that he somehow talked two rather attractive and well-arsed lasses into sitting on his face instantly makes him my write-in candidate for mayor.

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.

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.

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.

If I'm on the Rag, Get Off Me

I don't like period sex.

There. I said it.

That might ruin the image I have of myself as a fairly sex-positive person, but I just can't get into it. It's not that I find menstruation gross or unnatural--in fact, most months I exhale a long sigh of relief when I see that rust-colored blood come forth as proof modern medicine has kept me from reproducing for another month. But once I see the stain, I don't want to see a dick inside me until it's over.

The reasons for this? First of all, I really don't like a mess. I've just started remembering to pull the comforter off the bed before fucking because it's easier to toss sex-sullied sheets into the wash than the whole blanket. Most months, a post-coital scene when it's that time would look like the horse head scene from The Godfather. Which, quite frankly, nobody needs to see.

But the major reason why I don't want to fuck at the height of my period is because I don't want to be touched by any one for any reason while I'm on the rag. I'm so bloated I feel I might pop like a tick on the back of a dog. My boobs hurt. I've got gas. All I want to do is indulge my food cravings and be left the hell alone until I feel like a human being again.

If you're into shagging on the rag, I salute you. But if you need me, I'll be on the sidelines until the day Aunt Flo leaves town.

If Just for One Day

I think the world would be a better place if for one day we got to experience the world as a member of the opposite gender.

I don't mean dressing like a dude or lady--I mean actually waking up one random day in your young life as a member of the opposite sex. I'd love to see a dude deal with stabbing cramps, mood swings, and making less money for the same work.

Personally, I would like to have a dick for two very specific reasons--to experience sex from the male perspective, and to pee while standing up. I would spend my day as a dude consuming massive amounts of liquids just so I could whip it out and piss anywhere. On walls. On bushes. Writing my name in the snow? Yes, please!

I also think it would help me to appreciate the little things I love so much about being a woman even more. Being able to be turned on in inconvenient places without having to hide myself below the waist. Having the option of wearing pants or skirts. And I very much enjoy having boobs.

So if whatever deity that's out there could make this happen, I'd appreciate it.

Taking Head on the Road

I don't think of myself as particularly kinky. I don't have a sex swing hanging in the doorframe of my bedroom. I've never donned a latex suit. Sure, I enjoy some fairly forceful smacks to the ass, and I own a pair of handcuffs. But when I think about it, compared to most people you read about, I actually am kinda freaky.

Take, for example, my propensity for going down on guys in very public places.

I don't mean in front of the Sbarro at the mall food court, but I like taking oral out of the house. It started, as it does with most girls, in high school, giving a guy road head as he lurched his car along the quietest roads he could find. In college, it was doling out head in the stacks in the basement of the library.

A few years ago, I was out with a bunch of friends. After a few beers, this guy I'd been digging for a long time and I stood outside with the smokers. I leaned up against him. We kissed. He conveniently "had to get something from his car." My head swimming in hormones and Pabst, I followed him to the parking lot, which was eerily dark. He took a seat on a wall with a convenient height and in a particularly isolated corner of the lot, and I gave my first very public head. Luckily, he was so turned on it didn't take very long to get him off.

In the post-AIDS world, we've got to take our sexual risks where we can. Keep the rubber on, fella, but let's run the risk of an open and gross lewdness charge.

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.

Let's Not Go to the Tape

In my years of sexual activity, I've done some pretty freaky stuff. I don't care where you put your fingers and have had some interesting experiences with rope. But, as Meatloaf said, I would do anything for love, but I won't do that. And my personal buck stops with taping my sexual rendezvous.

One guy I was with kept asking me to tape it when we fucked, and I just couldn't warm up to the idea. Sure, now that digital cameras are taking over the world, the odds of my sister innocently popping a cassette of me groaning into the VCR while visiting me are lower. But I'd only been seeing the guy for a couple of weeks. I wouldn't have trusted that guy to check his email on my computer--there's no way I'm letting his digital camera stay trained on me, even if I do see him delete the file.

It's not that I don't like the voyeuristic fun of watching sex. I enjoy porn like every other red-blooded American girl. I just don't want it to be me, lest I end up like John Edwards. Or Kim Kardashian. To get my kicks, I think I'll just mirror my ceiling and be done with it, thanks.

Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

Hello, ladies. My name is Ken.

I'm tall, blue-eyed and very Irish. I can quote Shakespeare's Love's Labours Lost and the latest issue of The Amazing Spider-Man with equal aplomb. I hold doors for women, dig on cheap beer and own at least four suits.

And I absolutely, positively want you to sit on my face.

See, that's my thing. Watching you position your body on my chest, facing my feet. Feeling you purr as you slowly move back toward my face. The way your body warms up and your thighs brace as my tongue slowly slinks out and goes to work.

Some guys dig watching the races, I like having my face sat on. Simple as that.

In fact, my love of being trapped under female glutes is so expansive and all-encompassing, my fetish so intensive, it extends to... having my face sat on by a woman while she's still wearing her pants.

The fuck? What the hell does that even mean, you might ask. But, sadly, it's all true. And damned if I can explain it, although I'm sure it can be blamed on the priest dressed up as a hermit crab who touched me indecently on my fourteenth birthday.

Anyway, yeah. I'm kinda into that. But the thing is, it's not the sort of thing you can just propose in any semi-romantic situation. You choose 'em wisely. If it's a girl I've been dating/seeing/screwing for some time, then I have no problem asking if she'd be willing to do it -- especially after I've had a few or have spent so much time fantasizing about her doing this, I'm operating with a painful, six-day hard-on.

One night stands, on the other hand, are a lot tougher; although "anything goes" is typically the rule, asking a girl you just met at the local over tequila shots to sit on your face with her jeans on typically elicits either laughter (as in, "He's obviously joking") or laughter (as in, "He's clearly homicidal and I just have to play along until I can call the cops or render him unconscious with a frying pan") or laughter (as in, "What the fuck. Okay."--admittedly rare.)

But there are only a handful of women you can request something like this of, as I'm often concerned about them going off and telling other people. Which calls to mind a great episode of HBO's Curb Your Enthusiasm in which Jeff, Larry's BFF, separates from his wife and worries that in divorce proceedings, she might start blabbing about his various kinks and fetishes. Larry counters by proudly stating that he's never shared anything even remotely deviant with his wife, so she'd have no dirt on him if they ever split.

Then, as is the case on Curb, everything unspools but quickly. Larry drives past his wife's buddy Wanda and innocently yells a comment about her backside, setting off a chain of events that has Larry, by episode's end, looking like the King of Ass Fetish Mountain (and there is such a position; I've even applied for it a few times).

Here's one of the episode's best sequences, when Larry's wife and Wanda confront him on the comment:



As a professional ass fetishist, let me reiterate: It's not an easy job. But somebody's got to do it.

I'm Your Facebook Fantasy

I have no problem with guys with a bit of a pervy streak. In fact, I rather enjoy them. Most of the time I’m pretty aware of how their predilection will manifest itself—ass grabs, comments about how my tits look in that dress, the occasional restraining order. But I've recently experienced a new trend.

About six months ago, I was dating a fellow. We were sitting around, shooting the shit, when we started talking about Facebook. Somehow, I got this confession from him:

“I masturbated to pictures of you that you posted on Facebook before we started dating,” he said.

“Which ones?” I asked. He opened his laptop (heh) and showed me the one that factored heavily into his self-pleasuring. It featured a shot of my cleavage, which is a rare photographic feat considering my tiny breasts.

Fast forward to the next guy I coerced into bed. We're talking dirty when he whispers in my ear that he had recently started masturbating to pictures of me on Facebook.

"Which ones?" I asked. He unhooked my bra and muttered into my cleavage that he liked the one of me in a low-cut black number I'd forgot I'd even posted. Fast forward again to a few weeks ago, when another guy confessed getting off to fully clothed pictures of me on my profile as I removed my shirt.

Is this the new decade's "your ass looks hot in those jeans?" I suppose a nice girl would be concerned what dudes firing up Facebook to ogle her while horny does to her reputation. But it wasn't some random guy from accounting telling me this in the copy room--it's a guy I'm digging enough to allow out of the virtual world and into the very real world inside my pants. And, quite frankly, those confessions kind of turned me on. More.

What say you, fellow pervs? Is it an invasion of privacy when somebody gets off to your PG-rated pictures on Facebook, or just a fun way you can be that special someone's personal Farrah Fawcett?

In Praise of Dorks

I come here today to sing the praises of the men pop culture forgot. The nerds, the geeks, the dorks--the men that television and John Hughes movies would lead us to believe are lucky for any scrap of ass they can pick up from the reject pile hot bankers and dangerous bad boys leave in their wake.

It hasn't always been easy for the bookworms and gamers to get laid. But when they do, you'd best believe they're paying attention. What they typically see in porn and in their imagination is finally in front of them and they're fascinated. Naturally inquisitive, they love to see what happens when their tongue goes here. When a finger goes there. And once they see a result they like, they'll remember what caused it.

The impossibly handsome men who impeccably fill out their suits or jeans are great to look at when frequenting the bar or the gym. But while we may eat first with our eyes, it's the flavor by which we really judge a dish. And I want to be left with the memory of being rendered a lifeless pile of mute nerve endings, not being fucked jackrabbit-style by some lazy musclehead who only cares about his own satisfaction.

I salute you, men who are slightly scrawny and very bookish. Put down your comic books, close your laptop, and do me.