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.

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.

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.

Why Kurt Russell's Life Is Infinitely Cooler Than Mine

Besides the fame and money, here's three reasons:

1) He was Snake Plissken, goddam it.

2) He spent the better part of his life tagging Goldie Hawn, whose ass stands as one of Hollywood's finest.

3) He got paid for this:



Thanks to Dana for the vid.

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.

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 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.]

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.

Pornography: A User's Guide

1. Keep the porn DVDs away from the "non-porn" DVDs. Nobody wants to sit down to watch season two of The Big Bang Theory and be greeted by the dimly-lit image of Jenna Jameson getting fisted. Well, some people do. But your Aunt Netty isn't one of them.

2. A cataloguing system is perhaps the easiest way to ensure streamlined access to your favorite films. Don't make it too complicated; labels such as "Spanish girls with riding crops," "urine-crazed midgets" and "69-ing with mules" should suffice.

3. If using re-writable DVDs, labeling is key. You spent years trying to track down that rare Japanese schoolgirl bondage video. Don't go burning over it with fucking One Tree Hill again, Brown Eye.

4. Always be cognizant of Murphy's Law as it applies to porno. On those occasions that you are unable to resist jerking off, rest assured that at the precise moment you feel yourself getting swept up in a spasm of release, the image on the screen will inevitably switch from the hot blonde delivering a deep, slow blow job to Ron Jeremy's "O face."

Not Goo Goo for Gaga (This Time)

It took me a long time to be comfortable admitting this, but I really love Lady Gaga. Her music is hella catchy, and anyone who rages against the tyranny of pants so wholeheartedly is OK in my book.

But this new video for her song "Telephone" with Beyonce? I am not digging it.

On her Twitter account a few weeks ago, the Lady remarked that she felt bad for the "Bad Romance" video because "Telephone" would be so much more epic. But it shouldn't have been. "Bad Romance" is a German-industrial-meets-pop creation that references Hitchcock films and is about seeing all the ugliness in a person you love. You can't half-ass a music video for that.

"Telephone" is a great club song. It has just as much artistic merit as "Bad Romance," but it's not as epic. It's about a woman who's sick of her boyfriend calling and texting her when she's out dancing. Maybe I'm being too conventional, but in my mind what this song called for was some sick choreography, performed by the adriot Gaga and callpygian Beyonce. Perhaps in a club setting. It should have been more "Just Dance" than "Paparazzi."

I totally support Gaga's over-the-top-ness. But sometimes the truly shocking move is to do something more average.

Well, maybe the Kill Bill-inspired killing spree is necessary. That dude must have called them a lot.

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.

Should've Learned to Play Guitar

If I have any regrets in life, outside of not giving Nancy S. the high hard one when she begged me to back in college (seriously, what the fuck was I thinking?), it's that I never learned to play the guitar.

Because if you can play the guitar, you're getting laid. Period.

It's the one thing that can help you overcome almost any shortcoming. Not particularly attractive? That didn't stop Motley Crue's Mick Mars -- who looks like a waxwork dummy from the Smithsonian's Neanderthal exhibit -- from landing a twenty-four year old German masseuse. Something of an asshole? Axl Rose has his pick of underwear models. Christ, Keith Richards has been officially dead for about fifteen years, but he can still have all the teenage pussy he wants. Because he's Keith Richards, goddam it. And he plays the guitar.

You don't even have to be a particularly famous rock star, either. A fifty year old guy in a corner bar trying to pick up twentysomething girls is downright pathetic. But strap a guitar on that geezer, and chances are, by night's end, there'll be at least half a dozen chicks fighting for a lift home in his Lincoln Town Car.

For further evidence of the magic of guitars, check out this clip from Elvis Costello's Spectacle talkshow. A grandfatherly singer named Jesse Winchester, whom I'd never heard of before this show, reduces every woman in the place to loose change with a very simple, guitar-strummed tune. If he was the janitor in the local high school, he wouldn't get a second glance. But look how in this segment he has my girlfriend, Neko Case, in tears!



Typically, I'm the wise-ass making sport of old people. But I have to tip my hat here. If there was any pussy to be had that evening, rest assured, Jesse Winchester was having it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have that guitar lesson at noon...

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.

No, I Did Not. So Stop Asking

I love sex. But a lot of times, I really hate men.

I think many straight women feel this way about the gender. The broad, muscular shoulders and arms? Yes, please. A strong jawline? I will now lick it. And, of course, the gift that keeps us dealing with the male brand of bullshit, the dick.

Men and women experience sex in vastly different ways because of that organ. In my experience, most men need only an eyeful of cleavage, mouth full of tongue, and vigorous stroking from a hand/mouth/vagina to achieve a pretty great orgasm. On the other hand, there's what it takes both myself and some of my female friends to make our toes curl. Our frame of mind has to be just right. The hand/tongue/penis also has to be rubbing just the right spot. And then there's the ultimate buzzkill, whispered in the heat of the moment.

"Did you come yet?"

How I hate that question. You know all the hard work you were doing just now? Thrusting quickly? Spending some time crouched between my legs? Grabbing my tits? I was enjoying that. You heard the nonsense syllables and grunts coming from my throat. I was just beginning to stop thinking about work, my bills, the call from my grandmother I need to return and get more into the moment, which would have led to me coming.

But no. Now you've got me worried that I'm some sort of frigid bitch incapable of feeling love. That I have no bruised your delicate ego because I didn't pull a When Harry Meets Sally in the allotted timeframe. I try to ease back into the pillows and enjoy, but I've already lost my hard-on. So to speak.

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?

Who Not to Marry

When I'm hungover, there's nothing better than a reality TV marathon. Sometimes, I land on TLC's What Not to Wear, aka The Show That's Not Jon and Kate That People Still Watch on TLC. If you're too busy watching Shake Weight commercials to have seen this program, a shrill woman and gay man take a complete slob and teach him or her (typically a her) how to dress appropriately, give her a haircut, and teach her how to correctly apply makeup. Then the former hot mess goes home to reveal her new look. Most often to a doting husband.

Back the fuck up. This woman has a wardrobe that consists of dime-store men's jeans and promotional t-shirts and she managed to land a man? Some of the men are even kind of hot. And some of these men had sex with these women in the recent past because there's a baby running around.

I actually invest some time, thought, and money into my wardrobe. I can do urban professional. I can rock a timeless Mad Men look. My ass looks fantastic in a snug pair of jeans. I spend more on my haircut than my monthly grocery budget. And I am still single.

Sure, there's more to a woman than how she looks. But as the hosts of the show repeat several times an episode, dressing well shows one possesses confidence and the desire to present oneself to the world in a positive way. And these people just waltz around the world, wearing sweatpants and polyester shirts to the office, and happened to stumble into the life (and onto the dick) of an attractive nice man.

Life ain't fair, y'all. I just wish it would be unfair in a way that benefits me more often.

George Lucas, All Is Forgiven

Holy friggin' cocktails. Out of sheer boredom/curiosity/beer-induced paralysis, I was just watching Howard the Duck -- yes, the same Howard the Duck that single-handedly sent George Lucas' career into a tailspin from which he never recovered. Anyway, yes, the film is as bad as you've heard. Perhaps even shittier. But about halfway through, if you're zombified enough to make it, there's an absolute killer scene of '80s star Lea Thompson serving up enough ass to make any white girl proud.

George, if you're reading this, I could care less that you flushed 50 million dollars down the crapper to make this turgid spectacle. That fifteen second scene made it all worthwhile.