Edna, get my glasses--I can't see the naughty bits.

When I was in sixth grade, Patty Micklehurst, a mousey, pale girl who always brought tuna fish for lunch, asked Sister Agatha if we could add "Princess Daisy" to the summer reading list. Sister Agatha, who was counting the days until retirement and preferred watching "Wheel of Fortune!" and "Love Connection!" to reviewing books for the sixth grade summer reading list, heartily agreed. We all thought Patty was a brown noser and were busily making preparations to make her life a living hell until Michele got a hold of her sister's dog-eared copy of Princess Daisy that had been wedged underneath her mattress. "Check it out!" Michele said, handing me the mangled paperback, the pages folded back with several bookmarks. "Page 42!"

I read a flowery, very detailed account of two women having sex. It's pretty tame compared to today's standards (I think you'd see worse on "Elimidate"), but to my virgin eyes it was a complete mind fuck. I felt dirty, thrilled, rather warm and had the sudden mysterious urge to climb the flag pole in the school playground. We passed the book around, each of us getting our little rocks off until Michele's sister found out and kicked the shit out of us.

Over the years I've read various forms of female erotica, from Nancy Friday's classic "The Secret Garden" ("She did what?!?! With a HORSE?!?") to the Anne Rice vampire-sex-romps. ("Hmmm, I like the part when he's eating her out, but does he have to keep drinking her blood? Ugh!") But I have yet to experience the electric jolt I encountered back in the days of kickball and scratchy school uniforms.

I may be mistaken, but I think "Princess Daisy" still holds the number-one spot on sixth grade summer reading lists throughout the country.

Born Too Late

So let me get this straight. When I went to school, female teachers were rotund, bearded, and about as savory as Charles Nelson Reilly.

Today, they look like this? And they fuck their students?

God, you suck.

"Tampering with Evidence" Redefined

Note to self: During a heated argument, if a girlfriend suddenly asks if we can have sex and she can tie me to the windowsill, just. say. no.

Friends don't let friends...

**your caption here.**

(God knows y'all can come up with something a helluva lot better than I ever could!)

Detatchable Penis

I was reading this juicy news bit about Tom Sizemore (a man who truly lives up to his name), and I wondered--does this happen more often than I may realize? Have I been the unwitting victim of a man-made member? Many times I have groaned, between gasps of coital pleasure, "this is too good to be true!" And perhaps, sadly, it was. I could have very well been wined, dined, and taken to see "Inside Deep Throat" with nothing more than a special sale item found on page 74 of the Adam & Eve catalog.

Indeed, who knows what lurks in the pants of men?

To My Former Sweetheart the Drunk

Today's post is dedicated to Donna K., one of my more illustrious ex-girlfriends, who was crazier than all fuck [to the point of once threatening me with a broken bottle because I'd suggested one of her cats was "gross"] but had, hands down, one of the single greatest pairs of panties I'd ever seen: A little pink number with "It Ain't Gonna Lick Itself" across the front.

Boys n' their Trrrrucks

Kids, I have a confession to make: I have YET to outgrow the boys who clearly have NOT outgrown their first love. They're a guilty pleasure, kinda like eating Mickey D's or watching daytime TV. I can't quite rationalize the behavior, but fuck it, I'm doing it/him anyway.

Here's what takes place: when you pull up in your F150 or 250 or Silverado, the first thing I think is, ohferchrissakes, this is ridiculous. You live in a city apartment, the largest piece of heavy-duty equipment you own is a power drill, and the only stuff you'll ever have to haul is your buddy's couch when he moves out of his parents' house for the fifth time.

Then I open the door, and you're waaay up there, and I'm down here. And the cab is going into convulsions from the booming speakers. And I have to climb up in my stilettos and miniskirt, and suddenly I feel very, very small, and girly, and giggly.

When I happen upon a male owner of a Mini Cooper or a Volkswagen Bug, none of the above takes place. Instead, I only get the heebie-geebies. I gotta admit it, size matters: I can't date anything less than a V8.

All About the Digits

Hello. My name is Ken. And I'm a slave to the "finger smoothie."

On paper, it's got to be one of the most cloying "moves" ever devised. Guy traces girl's lip with his finger. Girl takes said finger into her mouth. Girl fellates said finger. But in practice -- especially when Girl stares into Guy's eyes while performing this task, ensuring the sort of knee-buckling usually reserved for fellas who work on whaling vessels -- it's a good, good thing. And let's just say a coupla times I've come thisclose to being fitted for a finger cast. In a good way.

Is it just that the allure of a woman sucking on anything [my finger, a popsicle, Harmon Karden stereo receivers] is as irresistable to me as the siren's clarion call? Is it the knowledge that what I'm experiencing is a prelude to an actual, bona fide hummer? Is it just that I'm a full-fledged, card-carrying pervert?

Probably that last point. But to those women who employ the finger smoothie as part of a strategic promtional campaign for their blowjob skills, I stand and salute you.

Now... Just Relax

In honor of VD, let's eschew the chocolates-roses-teddy-bears-bullshit and cut to the part where we take our clothes off. Hold up -- before you start struggling with that jimmy wrapper, why don't you make y'self useful and heat up this oil. I promise you we'll end up in the same position(s), but my route is a helluva lot more scenic.

As the pic above suggests, there is indeed a joy most apparent in erotic massage. And I also find that even a good old-fashioned professional massage (happy ending may not be included) with a strong, damn good-looking member of the opposite sex can be a downright religious experience. I went in for a "Sports Massage" and came out a new woman. This guy was hot, muscular, and very dedicated to his craft. He insisted that my glutes needed work. I enthusiastically agreed with his diagnosis. He also thought my quads and thighs were too tight. I graciously permitted him to ravage me, I mean work out the knots, as best he could. I briefly considered having him give me my monthly breast exam but then recalled it might be illegal in this state, and he had mentioned something about a girlfriend. Lucky bitch.

One caveat: whatever your sexual orientation, it's a total buzzkill to get someone who's not on your same wavelength. My friend, inspired by my born-again experience, went and requested a male masseur. Much to her chagrin, her partner on the road to physical bliss preferred boys to girls, and it showed in his work. "He barely touched me!" She told me afterwards. "It was like being at the doctor's office." Something to keep in mind when booking your next trip to Erotic City.

Manual Labor

Ladies and gentlemen, the handjob is back. At least in my twisted universe.

See, for years, I shunned the handjob, thinking, "Hey, I can do this. What I can't do is that other thing, so... can we move on to that straight away?"

But then I hooked up with Tracy G., who administered a handjob that nearly left me deaf, blind and dumb. A truly spectacular display of manual dexterity [the likes of which sweatshops the world over would kill to get on their assembly lines] that incorporated careful attention to the "goodfuckinggodalmighty" area just below the head and also to the balls.

Of course, once a hand slips anywhere near my balls, I get concerned. For that, I can thank Michelle B., who employed a devious tease and denial tactic through which she'd prolong the torment by physically grabbing my boys and pulling on them whenever I neared release. It should be noted that she did this with a motion eerily similar to that guy at the beginning of The Flinstones, who grabs the bird's tail to signal the end of Fred's workday. Only the bird's tail was my sack. And there was nothing cool about that.

Anyway, today, I've got handjobs on the brain, so I invite you to leave your own handjob stories, tips, critiques, etc. in our comments section. Hey, it's all between friends.

Every Fetish Fulfilled

I'm a sucker for those old '70s porno flicks where there's an actual attempt at plot and cornball dialogue, light years removed from much of the MTV-inspired stuff we see today. That said, there will always be a place in my heart for films in which chicks dress up as Wonder Woman, Supergirl and Catwoman and proceed to hump each other silly.

So I was understandably beside myself with glee when someone hipped me to this cinematic treasure trove, where titles like Batgirl Captured and Screwed and The Seductress Hypnotizes Wonder Woman can be found. My personal fave is Superman: The Weakness, in which Supergirl realizes that by slowly stroking Superman's cock, she can render him powerless. Go figure! And just like the real-life Superman flicks, this one's spawned a few sequels.

This is Nirvana for any guy who's ever begged his girl to dress up as Poison Ivy [and, likewise, any girl who's ever secretly desired slipping on a Wonder Woman outfit and straddling her boyfriend's face].

Oh, and if you need me, I'll be in the study. Watching Batman on Designer Island.

Dynasty: different drama, same shoulder pads

Dude, we won the Super Bowl. AGAIN.

I'm just not used to it. Having a world championship Red Sox team AND a friggin 3-fer Patriots Team in the same year, much less the same millennium, is like getting asked to the prom by the Captain of the Wrestling team AND Mr. Enriquez, the hottie Spanish teacher. You want to go with ME? Really?!?
But I don't have huge tits, I'm not a size 0, I got a crazy Aunt Bernice who's always in the papers for mall streaking, and my brother's in jail for his eighth liquor store robbery. But no, it's true--you both got the limos waiting outside, and look at those pretty corsages!

Watching the Pats win, over and over, has made me, obviously, a get-on-the-bandwagon-like-the-rest-of-us-schmucks-fan. But I am OBSESSED. I watch Sports Center at 6AM, 7AM, and 8AM--even though they keep showing the same program. I think Chris Berman should run for office. I am having an "Inside the NFL" party on Thursday to watch the highlights and get rid of the leftover beer. (Jesus Christ must have been one of our Super Bowl party guests and bestowed a blessing on the fridge, because the more we drank, the more seemed to appear.)

While you guys enjoy the parade and ensuing snowball fights with Boston Police, I'll be sitting at work, hitting "Refresh" on Boston.com, over and over, just to catch a little glimpse of my favorite boys. Tommy, Dion, Corey, Teddy, and Willie--if you by chance go to Disney Land out here instead of Disney World--please stop by. I got plenty of beer in the fridge and the highlights queued up and ready to go.

Up Your Irish

During my junior year of college, I had an internship with a Boston-based publishing company. Not the most exciting of gigs, but one of the magazines I worked on was for nurses. So I got to enjoy brief moments of exhileration when we'd visit local nursing colleges to hold little "informational sessions" with the students -- a chance for us to chat them up while not-so-stealthily promoting our publication.

During one such visit, my boss, a pretty friggin' hot 47 year old if I may add, gave her introductory spiel to the crowd, then turned it over to me. As a witty aside, and knowing the room was packed with 18 year old goodness, she added, "And Ken blushes so easily. It's awfully cute."

Caught off guard, and my head already spinning from watching the blonde in the front row working over a lollipop, I stepped up to address the crowd with a hearty, "Yes, that blushing is a curse of the Irish."

Then, thinking an alcoholic reference might be just what this situation calls for, I added: "There's another Irish curse. But I won't get into that right now."

A few titters from the crowd. Chicks eyeballing each other and giggling. A few glances down past my belt. It was then I remembered that other other Irish curse. And I could almost hear the sound of my pride crashing down around my ankles.

Too late to reel it back in, I forged ahead, realizing any dreams I harbored of seven nursing students asking me to join them for a post-meeting fuck-a-thon would likely have to be shelved.

But, lesson learnt. Clearly, the wrong way to win over a crowd of hot nursing students is, "Hi, I've got a small pecker. And now, let's talk about our editorial submission policy."

Things I've Overlooked Because the Sex Was Spectacular

A penchant for Xeroxing her various bodyparts and handing them out around her office.

Inability to go more than 34 minutes without saying "redonkulous."

A criminal record.

Six cats, all of whom enjoyed taking a swipe at my cock and balls whenever I was in their ladykeeper's bed.

The daily threatening of: "If you ever leave me for someone else, I'll shoot her, then shoot you."

Meat Loaf's "Bat Out of Hell II" in heavy rotation.

Little Nemo on Ice.

A bizarre obsession with flipping off bouncers once she'd "had a few."

The roommate with the crossbow.

"Would you mind wearing this Batman mask while we're fucking?"

Her four-foot plush Clifford the Big Red Dog that sat next to the bed and I swear was staring at me every time we screwed.

That anniversary party for my Aunt Agnes when she got drunk and flashed the room.

The eyepatch fetish.

Every "Ernest" movie on DVD.

"Screwing white guys is fine, but I eventually want to settle down with a rich Asian."

Her ex-boyfriend, the homicidal maniac.

Her brother, the homicidal maniac.

Her sister, the homicidal [but ridiculously stacked] maniac.

"What time do you want to get up for church?"

Some of life's tough choices

Bachelor #1:
In a hardcore band.
Doesn't technically own a bed.
Drives a brown 1984 GMC van.
Works at Uncle's Minimarket on occasion.


Bachelor #2:
Goes to a lot of rock shows.
Got latest sheet set at Urban Outfitters.
Drives a 2005 silver Jetta.
Works at DevilDesign, a lucrative graphic/web design firm.

Who do you think I wanna go out with?