Cold Hard Bitch

Dear Johnny,
I know we've been friends a long time; therefore I feel it is my duty and obligation to inform you that your girlfriend is a total fucking cow. I am not alone in my belief; all your friends think so, too. She treats you like dog shit. She yells at you all the time in public, she never lets you go out to McNally's anymore, and Jason told me she is making you trade in your motorcycle for an SUV. When she does grace us with her presence, she's always whining about how she's not having a good time and wants to go home, and we all recall the fun night she threw that fit and got us thrown out of Hal's because she thought you were trying to pick up the bartender, when you were just asking her to break a $20.

So Johnny, could you please explain to us why, in God's name, you are still with such a raging psycho bitch? If it's because she's great in bed, or gives killer head, that's lame. Because no blow job in the world is worth the misery and daily truckload of bullshit that you put up with. I hate to say this Johnny, but we think you're pussy-whipped by a spawn of Satan and if you don't get rid of her we're going to hog tie her to the bed and have a good old fashioned Exorcism. We're only doing this because we love you, Johnny. You're a good guy and you deserve better. Believe it or not, there are girls out there that don't care if you make less than $100k and like to drink beer and watch football. They're perfectly fine with the fact that you have your own life and want to go hang out with your friends. They love themselves and love their bodies and don't need constant validation or attention. I promise you Johnny, your life can be a much happier place if you just dump the stupid cunt NOW.
Yours with loving concern,
Ariel.

So I Married a Porn Star

Sometimes, when I'm at work, my mind wanders from the task at hand to more pressing matters. Such as, "how many brown uniforms does the UPS guy have?" or "Mary from Accounting needs to whiten her teeth," or, "What would it be like to be married to an adult film star?" Since we could really give two shits about the first two, let's focus on the third.

Well, first of all, the sex would be incredible. Wait a minute…would it? I mean, that's their JOB. It would be like if I came home from a hard day's work and my husband greeted me at the door with, "Baby, what I'd really like right now is for you to do some filing. And then, it would make me sooo hot if you created an Excel spreadsheet with pie charts and a yearly analysis graph. And then—oooh wait for it—can you-oh-oh-yeah-p-p-proofread the quarterly earnings report? Oh God yeah, that's it!"

Maybe he'd be so fed up with hard core action that he'd just want to hold hands. And cuddle. And talk about our feelings. Uh…maybe not. I guess Sports Center, pizza, and a cold beer would be more like it (after all, he's not a gay porn star.)

Would I be embarrassed, ashamed, furious that my husband spends his workday bonking other women? Nah. I'd tell the other mothers at the PTA meeting, hell, at least I know exactly what my man's up to. Your man's out spending your children's college savings on some trailer trash he picked up at Arby's, while mine is simply working towards our new kitchen remodeling. And look at another woman? That's like asking the garbage man to look at those new recycling bins. Uh, no thanks babe, I'll pass.

Gee, I don't know…it sounds too good to be true. As we take off our clothes, get into our new Ethan Allen sleigh bed under our brand new track lighting system, and slowly, gently begin to make love, I can't help but wonder…is he taking his work home with him?

Before We Go Any Further...

Not to go off on an MTV tangent here, but does anybody on God's green earth wear a pair of jeans better than Ciara? Good christ almighty, the video for "Oh" has reduced me to a babbling, incoherent mess. Like, moreso than usual.

It is bigger than all of us, this ass is. And I am a slave to its not so gentle persuasions.

Must... stop... staring... at... TV screen...

Screwing in the Office: Some Quick Tips

1. Remember that the building is never empty. Even if it is empty, tell yourself it isn't. Because then you'll always take the precaution of locking your office door. And this is perhaps the most important rule. Unless, of course, you want to spend the next three months explaining to your IT guy why Jenna from Accounting was sitting on your face when he walked in to upgrade your PC. I've been there, buddy. He's not gonna buy it.

2. Clear off your desk before fucking on it. Sweat and pubic hair aren't going to improve the Kresgee Report. Actually, they might improve it a bit, but the folks at Kresgee probably won't appreciate it.

3. Clean off your desk after fucking on it. The life of the average fella on the night cleaning crew is fairly boring, and nothing makes the evening move faster than a spirited game of "find the ass prints." Don't let 'em find any on your desk.

4. Again, lock the office door. Even if it's not your office. Lock that fucker.

5. Discretion is key. The two of you can't just casually walk out of your office at 10:07pm with hair askew, smelling of ass and sweat. Because, as you'll recall, the building is never empty. One of you must casually leave the office and head outside while the other remains quietly in place, waiting at least ten minutes before follwing suit. If you hear a noise or suspect a coworker may be lurking, one of you should leave while the other heads out the window and repels down the outside of the building.

6. If you know you're "working late," wear a skirt, Ladies. While you look pretty fucking smoking in those tight white pants, getting them back on quickly -- as in "Did I just hear someone working the copy machine?" -- can be tough. But the skirt rolls back into place rather seamlessly, in case of emergency.

7. Never let on. Most office flings are eventually undone by inability to keep one's emotions in check until the next snog session. It's important to remain an enigma, and keep the hounds off the trail. For example, let's say you've been screwing Debra, and one day, as Debra walks by, Phil from Accounts Payable says something like, "Man, I'd give my mother's last kidney for a taste of that." Repress the traditional male urge to extend your thumb and pinky and wave your hand at the wrist while chuckling, "Dude, I've been there, and it's freakin' amazing." Instead, throw out something like, "I prefer a snazzy dresser, like Johnny Kwan in IT." Works every time.

8. Lastly, always, always lock the door. Nothing ruins a blow job more than your boss watching you get one. Trust me.

Dude, Where's My Slingshot?

Understand: I love women. I love women who wear thongs even more. I love women who display said thongs -- in the bar or on the beach -- with a passion that often makes me drop to my knees, stretch out my arms and yell, "Holy fuck, do I love America."

That said... this looks like it's gotta hurt. I mean... it has too. Doesn't it?

Please Pardon Our Appearance

We are in the process of changing to a sexy new look. Some links may work, others may not. But in the end, it will all be good, people.

You guessed it

"Why is your best friend a GIRL?"

I posed this question to a recent boyfriend and waited for the Bullshit Express to pull into the station.

"We've known each other since high school...I used to date her sister and she was like my little sister (WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!)...she's like one of the guys, she loves to just hang out with us and get stoned, watch sports, go camping..." That's when he happened to notice that one of my talons was uncomfortably close to his ballsack. Stepping backwards into the dog's food bowl, he hurriedly continued: "And I'm totally not attracted to her, she's so not my type."

Yeah. Uh-huh. We'll see about that. I don't care if you've been best friends since you were fetuses and have gotten shitfaced 80 million times together without so much action as a handshake. Sex is always lurking in the background, giggling crazy like that guy in the Jetta ad.
Someone's attracted to someone, and I'm about to find out if it's her or him.

So I meet the best friend, and--it's her, not him.

I size up my competition. She's short, which I like. And she's juuust a bit heavier than me, which I REALLY like. She does her best to make a good impression, as do I. We make nice, cheerfully chatting whilst sending each other evil telepathic messages:

Get a month-long cottage-cheese-type yeast infection, troll.

May you develop cold sores, genital warts, and herpes within the same week, cuntface.

Boyfriend beams with approval. "We should all go to Joe's cookout next Saturday!" Gee, can't wait. Troll already has the upper hand because she's one of the guys, and I'm just the new bimbo he's screwing lately.

Fast forward to the big b-b-q. I'm white knuckling it and avoiding the keg; that pin doesn't need to be pulled from the grenade--yet. I watch Troll in action and quickly figure out her game: she loves being one of the guys because that way she can pretend she's the center of attention. When Boyfriend strolls by, I see her grab his arm. I see the look in her eye as she pulls his neck down for a "friendly" hug. Troll bitch is going DOWN tonight, people.

Fast forward to the driveway at 1:36 AM. Apparently Troll did not like the way I was talking to one of Boyfriend's buddies (I was asking him how to get back on the freeway) and felt it was her duty as Boyfriend's best friend to inform him of my whorish behavior. Boyfriend laughs at her, which makes Troll mad. She weaves towards me (midgets cannot really hold their liquor) and starts going off about what a slut I am, how she knew the minute she met me I was no good for him, blah blah blah. I'm about to tell her to shut the fuck up but boyfriend's buddy beats me to the punch. Quickly realizing she's lost any and all support for her cause, she decides to shove me against the parked car. I shove her back. Boyfriend is nowhere to be found. Boyfriend's buddy doesn't know whether to break it up or enjoy the show. I'm getting nervous, not about getting my ass kicked by a dwarf but about earning the life-long rep of "the Girlfriend who got into a Catfight at Joe's party."

Thankfully, Troll decides that I'm too big or she's too drunk, and she stumbles away and falls into the bushes. Boyfriend reappears, asking everyone what the hell happened. People, did he take my side, promise to never speak to Troll again? Nope. He "couldn't believe that she would ever do something like that" and wanted us to get together and work it out. That's when I made my hasty exit.

See ya, Boyfriend. Hope you and Troll have beautiful little people together.

In Praise of Older Women

There was a time when the only music to this fool's ears was the sound of chirping twentysomething girls in crowded bars, sloppily kissing their female pals for the camera and engaging in that time-honored practice of "showing off as much thong as possible without pushing the limits of personal hygiene."

Then there was that summer I became the Hulk. And shit changed real fast.

I should explain. I needed some cash for a trip I was planning, and a buddy of mine was running one of those "spoil the fuck out of your kids with an otherwordly party" places that rents moonwalks, ponies, anti-aircraft artillery and other stuff that transforms an ordinary birthday soiree into a holyjesusgod my pants are on fire sorta thing. And who doesn't love that? Well, besides this guy.

Anyway, the place also had a full complement of superhero costumes, so that Captain America, Batman, or Gene Rayburn could show up if a child so requested. And whenever anyone wanted the Hulk, well, I got to do that.

It was miserable work but it gave me precious cash without a lot of physical labor. And, more importantly, it connected me to a world I'd previously never encountered: the suburban fortysomething mother.

On paper, my job was to mill around and let the kids shake my hand, kick me in the nuts, whatever they wanted. And I had to growl. In reality, I would just kinda stand there, soaking in the sights and sounds of this pulsating sea of sexual angst. And it was a good thing.

First, these women were tight. According to their conversations, they worked out. A lot. Yoga, pilates, jogging, tennis... seven days a week at the gym so they could squeeze themselves into the same $200 Blue Cult jeans that their daughters were wearing. On at least one occasion I fell into a swimming pool while watching Little Joey's Mom bending over at the waist to pick up spilled ice cream.

Second, they talked. About everything. Especially sex. Though I wasn't the person they'd invite over to sit down and have a smoke with them, they didn't have a problem with talking all kinds of sauciness within earshot of my broad, green shoulders. In fact, to them, I was just a bit of scenery... not even there, really, which allowed me to hone in on some very intriguing stuff. Like that hellacious bash in Wellesley, when I came into the kitchen for a glass of soda just in time to hear one mother explaining how her oldest son caught her blowing his college roommate. Actually, all I heard was, "...and Steven walked in just as I was swallowing him," but a little detective work [and the scuttlebutt throughout the backyard] helped me fill in the blanks. Another time, at the same estate coincidentally, four mothers were lounging on the patio, smoking and drinking and casually discussing the pros and cons of 69ing [again, I could only strain to hear so much, but I distinctly recall one mother making a crude fart joke, and the group erupting in evil laughter.]

All I kept thinking as I wandered, half-dazed through this world weekend after weekend was how much I wanted to screw all of these women. Every last one. I wanted them to group attack me, tear the green foam off my body, and suck every ounce of marrow from my bones. I wanted them to throw me in the back of the Lexus SUVs, straddle my face with their hips and let me show them the glory that can be a grossly underpaid Irish dude. I waited patiently as the balloon animal-making clown packed his shit and the moonwalk got deflated, hoping that one, just one martini-soaked MILF would stumble into my arms, ask me for a light and gently run her hand across my chest.

Sadly, they wouldn't have a bloody thing to do with me. I came, I saw, I listened, and I left. But in my mind, I like to think that at least one of those women, while screwing her husband into the wall, is fantasizing about an otherworldly deflowering at the hands of the Guy in the Hulk Suit.

Fuck Buddy Rules

As we all know, in order to keep our universe neat and tidy, there are rules. This also applies to a fun and irreverent pasttime, the fuck buddy. The following are some general rules of etiquette to keep things running smoothly:

-Attraction can be mutual, but cannot exceed 67%.
-Call time and visiting hours are only between 11:00 PM and 2:00 AM. No daylight hours, peak hours, roaming, etc.
-You can fornicate like sweaty chimpanzees (that's what you do best, right?) and yeah, if you're too tanked/tired, stay over. But, going out for breakfast or staying beyond 11:03 AM is treading in seriously dangerous waters.
-A true fuck buddy shows up suitably late at the party, and upholds the unspoken agreement that if there's no other fuckable opportunities for either participant, then it's go time. But if someone does get lucky with fresh meat, the other fuck buddy must gracefully acquiesce.
-ABSOLUTELY NO family functions, bar mitzvahs, barbeques, "your friend's wedding and you really need a date" situations are allowed. The less you know about each other's lives, the better.
-No cuddling.
-No exchange of gifts on any occasion, and absolutely no contact on Valentine's Day (unless, by chance, it falls on a weekend night between the hours of 11:00 PM and 2:00 AM.)
-No gossiping or in-depth conversations about each other to friends. In fact, avoid bringing each other into any social circles, if possible. The last thing you need is a high school drama.

Fuck buddies generally have a life span of 6 to 8 months, tops. After that you usually find someone else, fall for each other, or, worst case scenario (and usually the most typical,) one of you falls in love, the other doesn't feel the same way, never did, never will, and you become angry, depressed, deranged, suicidal, and have several restraining orders and assault charges pending.
So let's be careful out there, little fuckers.

Double Vision

Everyone knows that couple. The ones who look more like siblings than lovers. The ones who make everyone a wee bit uncomfortable when they start making out at the bar or the club or the bingo parlor. You know that you know these people, and they horrify as much as they fascinate.

In our circle, that couple was Gabe and Steph.

Same height. Same facial structure. Same slight build. With similarly shaggy manes, they almost looked exactly the same from behind. And one more than one occasion, I'd tapped one of them on the shoulder, only to find it was the other who turned around to greet me.

The kicker was the hair, an exotic strawberry-blonde that would have been impossible to recreate from a bottle. They both had this exact, precise hair color -- the sort of coincidence you'd have to chalk up to genetics. And when they sat next to each other, it was this simple: If you had eyes, you figured they were brother and sister.

Only, they weren't. And there was no act of affection that they were above sharing with the world. Kissing, hugging, groping, hands across the world, this sort of thing. And it just looked so... weird. Like it shouldn't be happening. Like it had to be stopped. Like they couldn't possibly be allowed to spawn for fear that it would bring about the apocalypse.

Comments from the group were kept to a minimum, save for one evening when Donna, in day two of a four day tequila bender, explained to Gabe that Steph was essentially him "with boobs and a somewhat cuter mouth." He just shrugged and laughed and noted that while everyone said they looked alike, they "just didn't see it."

Myself, I'd be in the biggest quandary of my life. Once I found me, would I ever be able to dump me? And what would dumping me say about me? Even worse, what if me wouldn't want to have anything to do with me. I mean, if I couldn't score a date with a girl who looked just like me, doesn't that, in some bizarre cosmic sense, cancel me out completely? I mean, if me doesn't like me, where the fuck do I turn?

Anyway, no real point to the story. Gabe and Steph eventually parted ways, with Gabe taking up with a black girl. Steph moved to New York City and I hooked up with her for drinks one night when I was out there visiting relatives. Our heads dizzy with booze, we flitted back to her place where she threw me against the wall and kissed me hard. Gotta say I liked it. But as she slowly slinked out of her jeans, somehow all I could see was Gabe's ass in a tiny red thong. And the mood was crushed.

In thru the Out Door

I am a card-carrying member of the Institute of Female Plumbing n' Stuff (Midvale is our brother school). Recently, hours and hours of wildly unscientific research have been undertaken on our current project to determine the validity of this highly, HIGHLY controversial topic, and I would like to pose it to you, our erudite audience. All ye of modest temperance, please refrain from reading further. Thank you.
Does there exist a correlation between male homo sapiens with a less-than-average penis size, and an unrelenting, persistent urge upon their female partners to perform anal sex? Indeed, our evidence seems to signify that the smaller the member, the louder and more plaintive the whining becomes. Is this just a fluke? A kink in the evolutionary chain? Or just a real pain in the ass?

I just asked for paper clips, Moneypenny

In case you didn't know, we American chicks have garnered a helluva reputation around the global neighborhood. Boys from Glasgow to Cape Town are taught that all they need is a foreign brogue and girls from Oakland to Albany will drop and give 'em plenty.

Hey, I admit it: I'm a guilty party. Those bloody accents got me into trouble when I was backpacking through Europe after high school. Guys that I would barely give a second glance would innocently ask me for the time and suddenly, inexplicably, I would be begging them to take me home and shag me silly. The only cure for my addiction was to work 6 months in an English Pub; those buggers drove me insane and made me want to throttle, not coddle, anyone who sounded like Oasis or the Osbournes.

I have friends from Australia who have decided that Amsterdam is "so last year" and that inseminating the entire female population of Southern California is much more enticing (and easy.) Every six months or so they come over to visit, get laid, buy some souvenirs and return home to their ordinary lives--where they are just the boys who live next door and no one thinks their accents are particularly "awesome."

All you gentlemen with US Passports, I would suggest you give these blokes a run for their money and do some overseas insemination yourselves. I hear that foreign girls love American dudes looong time!

This Space for Rent

As a guy, I'm often victim to that involuntary muscle twitch that forces me to turn around and crane my neck to check out any cute females who happen past me. It's a phenomenon that is never really perceptible to guys until they observe other guys doing it. Then, and only then, do you realize just how obvious this is to the opposite sex and, basically, anyone with eyes.

So, ladies: Seeing as you already have this captive audience peforming all sorts of contortionist moves just to get a glimpse of your backside, why not put that ass to work? No, we haven't gone all Huggy Bear... we're talking about advertising. Because today's savvy companies, having finally realized what really gets guys attention, have begun renting space on breasts, derrieres, pregnant bellies... basically any square inch of flesh that a person will let 'em have.

This may be the liquor talking, but something deep down tells me that nothing good can come of this.

Exile in Guyville

Right around the time the Red Sox were pushing us all to the brink of sanity during the 2004 playoffs, my buddy Kyle decided the time was right to introduce us all to the girl he'd been dating for a couple months. So we get the call that he wants to bring her over to my friend Terry's apartment [affectionately known as "Boys' Town"] to watch Game 6 of the ALCS with us.

"Dude, why would you want this girl to meet us when we're at our worst?" I remember asking him. "You know how we get when we watch a game."

"It's okay," he assured us. "She's cool. She loves sports."

Whatever. We've seen what happens when guys bring their women around to Boys' Town. Too much booze is consumed. "Language" starts flying. Rude and obscene gestures are made in abundance. Occasionally, balls are removed from pants and flaunted, just because there's nothing better to do. And did I mention the language? More than a few of us have found ourselves dateless after bringing girls 'round to Boys' Town. To the point that the apartment was considered an almost certain deal breaker.

Yet he brings Rachel by. And she's gorgeous. But we're cautious, because we've seen this before. They come in, all pretty and smelling nice, and twenty minutes later, they're calling the cops on us.

But she brought two cases of beer for us. So we love her instantly. And then there's that ass. And that waist. And those lips. Nice work, Kyle, we say in that silent "guy language" way. And she comments Terry on the decor. Especially the Victoria's Secret posters. "Christ, I'd fuck her," she says, nodding toward Tyra Banks. And suddenly, we're picturing Kyle and her walking down the aisle.

So the game is on, and where we once felt cautious and reserved, we're suddenly acting very much the buffoons we are. And Rachel is right there with us, screaming bloody hell at Jeter and matching us beer for beer.

Then, during a particularly gut wrenching moment of the game, she stands up, flexes her ass to one side, and lets loose a prodigious thunderclap of a fart. Almost room-shaking.

"Sorry guys," she said, matter-of-factly as she waved her hand through the air. "I've been drinking beer non-stop since the postseason started.

We look at each other out of the corner of our eyes as she sits back down. And the sounds of the game wash over us. And Kyle looks like a guy whose dog just got run over by a train.

This... is the girl you marry, we're all thinking. But Kyle seems more than a bit embarassed. So he remains silent for the balance of the evening. And Rachel gets louder with each beer. And at one point she tells us that if the Sox win the World Series, she'll blow us all.

Sadly, we haven't had the chance to collect, as Kyle hasn't brought her around since that evening. But in the back of my mind I prefer to think that he's just sad, because he knows that if any of us knew Rachel was back on the market, we'd all be lined up outside her door.

And we would.

Division of Labor

Ahhh, sex. It sells everything from dish towels to paper clips. We want it. We need it. We practice, diligently, for its happenstance, sometimes 4-5 times a day. We're damn good at it.

But, like all red-blooded Americans, I take good things for granted. I get lazy, complacent, unappreciative. Simply put, I don't want to be on top.

I just want to lie there and let you do all the work. I'm tired, and I just ate an entire box of Cheez-Its. I won't even bother to take off my t-shirt. Let's dispense with the usual foreplay and just slip it in. Gimme my O and then it's time for night-night.

Does this make me a bad person?