Don't Let Them Fool You. They Get Around.

If the dudes on the CD cover above were, say, the landscapers who came to take care of your Mom's lawn each week, they probably wouldn't garner a second look. In fact, they'd be the creepy guys you laughed with your friends about. More simply put, blowing them probably wouldn't cross your mind.

Put guitars in their hands, however, and they're instantly fuckable. It's the rock star mystique, and it transcends looks, bank account, communicable diseases... just about anything.

Of course, even as a heterosexual male, I can understand girls wanting to bone the dude from The Killers or any of The Strokes or even Ryan Cabrera [maybe]. But with guitar in hand, looks are immediately inconsequential. Dude, Lyle Lovett banged Julia Roberts. And their marriage broke up because he was caught cheating?! End of story.

But said musicians don't even need to be famous. Never mind the chicks lined up to nail the guy in the local KISS cover band; I've been at fucking corporate trade shows where fifty year old executives -- yes, that's right, your Dad's fishing buddies -- take guitars in hand and cavort onstage while fortysomething female executives swoon and gyrate their hips like a pack of demented wolverines. And as I sit here and stare at this photo, two things keep popping into my head:

1) Each of these guys has had more sex than I will ever have in my life, even if I died and was reborn 57 times.

2) Why in the name of fuck didn't I learn to play the guitar?

The Curious World of Men and Women, Episode 45

In conjunction with your local 7-11, today we celebrate "69 day" at kenandariel.com. And -- surprise, surprise -- I've got a story to relate.

The first night things got heavy with Potential Kennette Model 231-B, it didn't take long for me to request a little 69 action. I figured she'd be pretty down, as some of the talents in her repertoire suggested as much, but in one of those music-stops-immediately-in-the-jukebox moments, she kinda arched an eyebrow and looked at me curiously.

"I'm not really into that," she confessed.

I was bummed, but still appreciative of the honesty. So I was about to set plan B in motion when she added:

"But... I'd be willing to try it... if you let me keep my pants on."

Which is kind of like going to a restaurant where food simply runs past you on a conveyer belt secured behind a glass shield. But I was a bit buzzed. And all hot and bothered. And you know how that goes. So, what, I was gonna say no?

So I lie down, and she perches atop my face. And it's then that I realize, yeah, I'm basically tonguing a pair of jeans. So she starts gyrating a bit. And making some obligatory "oooh oooh" sounds while subjecting my fair Irish skin to third-degree denim burns. And my thoughts turn to the turkey sandwich I've got sitting in the fridge.

Anyway, this goes on for another fifteen minutes or so, until she makes some mad bucking movements and dismounts. And I sit there looking up at the ceiling a bit, checking to see if my nose is bleeding and running my hand across the indents in my flesh made by the back pockets of her Levis. And then I go get some ice for my face.

And the subject of 69 was never really broached with Potential Kennette Model 231-B again, to be honest.

The Walk of Shame

If there's one thing I miss most about college life [besides, of course, Free Hooker Wednesdays and Put Your Balls in the Dean's Mouth for Charity Night], it's the Walk of Shame. You know, that long, agonizing, seemingly endless crawl from the room/apartment/wigwam of the troglodyte you screwed the night before -- after Goldschlager had its way with your sense of judgement -- back to your place. Noting my proclivity for bagging every wookiee on campus, my friends went to astronomical lengths to capture me on said Walk, eventually establishing an elaborate network of telescopes and videocameras just to catch me in the act of the Walk.

One particular evening, when I awoke underneath an upperclassman who actually referred to herself as "Sasquatch," my first thought -- after, "Am I alive?" -- was "I know those bastards are out there, waiting." And I had to elude them.

So I figured I'd wait them out. I played the "attachable guy," the one who wants to stay for coffee, tea, backrubs, minor housework, etc. Because I knew they were out there. And I wasn't gonna let them get me this time.

Finally, by 6:00 that evening, with Sasquatch reaching even her limits of patience with my weenie ass, I broke for the door and dashed home, only to be greeted by the lot of them, on a sofa, outside the dorm. A "Welcome Home Ken" banner -- complete with crude sketch of a Sasquatch putting me in a cage -- hanging over the door. Busted.

And, man, do I miss that feeling. So to anyone making the Walk of Shame this morning, here's to you.

How's about you try n' sink my battleship?

The purpose of a one night stand, besides getting laid (duh), is to be able to do so with impunity. Like a couple of randy vampires, we want to enjoy the night and each other's body fluids until dawn. Then begins the walk of shame, the trudge in stilettos and silver hot pants back to our apartments and respectable lives.

You become a flashback during a conference call, a juicy bit of scandalous behavior we share with our friends and coworkers--but that's IT. We don't want to run into you at the supermarket, see you at happy hour, or find out you're dating my sister. A fond, but distant memory is perfect, never to be ruined by the inevitably annoying, in-the-light-of-day reality, thanks very much.

How to do this? How to find the perfect One-Night-Stan? Perhaps it's time to include the airport bars in your pub crawls, my lovelies. Anyone who has an appointment with the high road, high skies or high seas will do just fine. Sailors, soldiers, salesmen, and the occasional youth hostel visitor (provided you wash him first) are excellent candidates.
Two week holiday visas, 3-day conventions, and 24-hour leaves should be determined during the first ten minutes of chit chat. Indeed, perhaps the bartender would be so good as to make an announcement, or at least direct you to the nearest INS holding tank.

At Last, a Reason to Love the French

If this commercial is an example of how they advertise gum in France, dare I ask what their ads for, I dunno, fast food entail?

Nerds Make Better Lovers

One of the most spine-threatening lays of my life was levied at the hands [and hips] of Marcella B., an aspiring legal librarian who, in her words, "slummed" as a chemist [yes, you read that correctly]. Nerds can fuck, yo. And we've all got one in our past. Tell me he or she wasn't one of the best you've ever had.

Oh, and if you've ever screwed me... yes, that qualifies.

Catch of the Day

Cindy was single and bored. Her cousin Christine said her boyfriend knew this guy at work who seemed pretty cool. Christine believed single people were cursed with misfortune, kind of like those starving kids in Africa, so she kept nagging Cindy until Cindy finally relented and agreed to meet this dude for coffee at a random Starbucks.

To her surprise, the guy wasn't half bad. Kinda quiet but decent looking, and if you saw him from a distance (like 500 yards) you might guess he looks like Ethan Hawke. They talked, drank their lattes, ogled the latest Starbucks leg warmers on sale, etc.

"So we should do something fun," he said as they made their goodbyes. "Do you like shows? Broadway shows, plays?" Cindy enthusiastically agreed. The thought crossed her mind that he might be gay, but she quickly dismissed it as she observed him checking out the barista's ass earlier. She gave him her number and left.

A few days later he called for a Friday night date, with the offer of a show and a late dinner. She agreed. Just before he got off the phone, he asked her to wear black.
"Why, is it your favorite color or something?" She asked warily. He laughed. "Yeah, something like that. I bet you look good in black."

Cindy agreed that black was a most flattering way to camouflage the flabby bits, and if he's into Goth, no biggie. After all, she had a Nine-Inch Nails CD. He told her to meet him at 6PM outside the theatre.

Cindy got dolled up in her dark duds and met him, as promised, at 6PM in front of the marquee. "Ready?" he asked, and led her inside.

A large older woman waddled up to them. "Oh good, Ryan, you're here." Cindy noticed that the woman was wearing black, too. "I'm going to handle the front," she was saying, "And why don't you two handle the left and right entrances? Here." She handed Ryan a large stack of programs. "Give half to her and please be in your places in 15 minutes." She waddled off.

Cindy was dumbfounded. "What are we doing?" Ryan gave her a big smile. "This is the best way to see a show--and it's for free!" He handed her a stack of programs and hurried off to his station.

As poor Cindy handed out programs to theater goers, she fantasized pulling out Christine's molars with vice grips and to hang this cheap motherfucker by his $3 boxers from the stage lights during intermission.

This is how I look when I wake up

I had this dream that I fucked the entire Baggage Handlers Union of Newark, New Jersey.

Nah, just kidding.

But, I did have this dream last night that involved Bob W., one of our VP's of Sales & Marketing, a feather, some handcuffs and lots of butterscotch.

Which is fun, I guess. But Bob is married with 2 kids, his wife is his high school sweetheart and I had, until last night, not one iota of lust, attraction, or carnal thoughts whatsoever. He's just Bob, who sometimes brings Krispy Kreme on Fridays (you rock, Bob), badmouths our company softball team (because they suck ass) and loves the NE Pats (again, you rock, Bob.)

Now Bob's going to stroll by as I'm making copies and suddenly I'll think of the 7 different positions and the feather going slowly, slowly down my back and Bob's hot breath right below my left earlobe and I'll be as red as a fire truck. And Bob's gonna wonder what the fuck is wrong with me.

Thanks a lot, Mr. Sandman.

The Perfect Pussy?

There are certain times when I find myself cursing our ape-like ancestors, and bikini season is one of them. We pluck, shave, kill with smelly chemicals, rip out with hot wax for 48 hours of pure hairless bliss (or in my friend Antonia's case, 3.5 hours) before the fuckers begin planning their reunion tour.

I try to explain this to Xen Li, the stranger who usually performs this bizarre form of torture, and for which I tip her 20%. But Xen Li hasn't really mastered our native tongue and isn't one for much broken-English chit-chat. I do admire Xen Li for her courageous choice of profession, since I'm fairly certain what we do may be considered illegal or highly suspect in her communist country. We go into a room, I get completely naked from the waist down (Xen Li does not have time for such frivolous things as underwear) and she proceeds to wax me within an inch of my life. I sweat, I moan, sometimes I even cry. Xen Li flashes me a condescending look and says, "hey, not so bad!" I want to slap her, but she's got a vat of hot molten lava close by. And besides, I signed up for this S& M treatment, and will obediently make my next appointment after she pats me down with baby powder and cheerfully hands me my thong. All in the name of a smoove punani.

Perpetual Immaturity

So why is it that everytime a woman I'm "involved" with says she's going off for a night with the ladies, I naturally assume the evening will be peppered with exchanges of this ilk:

Girl #1: Cool skirt.

Girl #2: And I love those shoes.

Girl #3: The movie starts in a half hour.

Girl #4: To kill time, should we all make out?

Girl #1, #2 and #3: Most definitely!

Too much porno? I'm guessing too much porno.

We Interrupt this Program...

I just wanted to take a moment to reflect on the otherworldy hotness that is Gwen Stefani. The eyes. The lips. The hips. My eternal response to the question, "If you could nail any woman in the world, who would it be?"






Thank you.

Deal Breaker

Not that any of us are shallow people, but we all have our "deal breakers" -- those things, nitpicky and otherwise, that would instantly torpedo any potential hook-up.

I have two, and they're quite simple:

First: A bad kisser.

Kissing someone for the first time should be one of those "dearholygod" moments, in which our heads go numb, feet come loose from their moorings, and we can actually feel the blood shifting through our veins. It's the excitement and raw hormonal urge that can only be set off by the smell and taste of someone's breath, the feel of their mouth, and the warmth of two bodies coming together that can sometimes be even better than the sex itself. But if the kiss is bad, well, that's usually the harbinger of incredibly "icky" fucking. Not always, but usually. Simply put, when the kiss is bad, my libido turns to thoughts of what's on TV.

Second, a lousy ass.

This is probably the most bootycentric period in our history, yet some women continue to wear pants and undergarments that flatten their ass to boxlike proportions. And in my book, there's nothing unhotter than a lousy ass. Don't nobody want to fuck Spongebob Squarepants. And if you do, well... that's between you and your therapist.

When Less is Infinitely More

I read somewhere recently (coulda been New England Medical Journal, coulda been the back of Stuff magazine) that there's a correlation between male baldness and higher levels of testosterone. Well, put me in a cage and call me Lil' Ms. Guinea, but I've had the immense pleasure of investigating that hypothesis. I had a boyfriend who was losing his hair by 25, but his aggressive and voracious sexual appetite nearly made me pull out the remainder of his locks in sheer ecstacy. I mean, Jesus. I could barely walk for days, and I had the silliest grin permanently plastered to my face (not exactly fitting for Great Aunt Bernice's funeral, may she rest in peace.)

So I'd like a sandwich, please, with the gentleman above and the gentleman below. Hold the mayo, I'll take care of that myself.

Take a picture, it lasts longer

You'll be at the supermarket, the subway going home, making that late-night run to 7-Eleven for Mike & Ike's, and you'll feel it...someone is staring at you. It would be real nice if the eyes boring into the back of your skull belonged to, say, Ewan McGregor or that chick that won the SI swimsuit issue competition. But see, those people don't generally stare at people, or grace 7-Eleven at 12:16 a.m. to buy candy (they have their assistants do it for them.) No, the one who's most likely watching your every move during checkout is usually homely, sometimes homeless, and most likely deranged. If you're lucky, they may gurgle "Yer hot," as you exit. Or ask you for spare change. Creepy, right?

And yet...I'm at the gym, and this gift from God saunters by. What do I do? I stare. I don't say a word, don't breathe, just will him with my eyes to look at me. Look at me, damn it, why won't you turn around!!! But, really folks, what is he going to see? A sweaty woman on the Eliptical who could be autistic or mildly retarded, because--she won't stop staring. We get annoyed, feel violated (probably why the word "leering" was invented) and still, I do it too. On the subway, at the supermarket, at the Shell Gas Station on 23rd and Oak....if you're male and possibly good looking, don't be freaked out if you catch a crazy chick in pajama bottoms, clutching a pint of Chubby Hubby, staring at your ass. It's probably me.

No Such Thing...

Like Bigfoot, Martians and Billy Bob Thornton, the lousy blow job, some would argue, does not exist. Just having a woman place The Captain anywhere within the vicinity of her mouth, these folks argue, is reward enough.

But I stand here today to tell you that the bad blow job does exist. And when it's bad. Aw, man. There's nothing worse.

Interestingly, my past has been a zigzag from one extreme to the other. Kerry W., who would hungrily undo my belt buckle with her teeth, was followed by Susan C., who embraced the act with the enthusiasm of someone bobbing for potatoes in a deep fat fryer. Then came Michelle B., who used to run an ice cube up one side of me while her tongue slid down the other [not as painful as it sounds, either], and Alison K., who refused to take her gum out of her mouth and would pause every ten seconds to ask, "Did that hurt?" She was followed by Donna L., whose tempo was impeccably timed to my every reaction, and Joyce B., who actually began the process by grasping my hard-on and asking, "What should I do now?" And that's never a good sign.

Receiving "the tap" -- that little pat on the back of the head that a woman uses to tell you, "Dude, come back up. It ain't workin' for me" [thank you, Seinfeld] -- is a tough thing for a guy. Actually administering the tap seems almost unthinkable. Dude, a girl has your cock in her mouth. How could you even think about asking her to stop?

But sometimes, it's so bad, it makes sense.

I can imagine it's even worse for women enduring men's misguided tongues and teeth in their nether regions. Which is why today's post is dedicated to those folks -- fellas and ladies -- who give awesome head. We, the fortunate recipients of your remarkably refined talents -- salute you.

Here's to My Sexual Prowess

Everybody has a "move." That one thing they do that they know, at least most of the time, will knock the socks off of the object of their desire. It's the stealth manuever, the emergency ICBM that we keep stockpiled, hidden away until we're ready to obliterate our target with a mushroom cloud of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. It's what we use instead of standing up and shouting, "Prepare to be left a spineless, quivering mass in the wake of my unparalleled erotic manuever. Also: You will fucking enjoy the shit out of what I'm about to do to you."

So my question to you today is: What is that thing you do when you absolutely, positively want to reduce someone to a puddle of helplessness? And I mean that in the good way; not, like, kicking someone in the jimmy.

Mine? Funny you should ask. Well, let's just say it involves my tongue, gentle pressure, an alternating sucking/licking motion, and forking over a stack of dollar bills.

Happy Friday.

The Boys of Summer

In SoCal, Summer begins about a minute after you change the clocks for daylight savings. Boys from all corners of the universe seem to converge upon my sidewalks: skateboarding down the boardwalk, carrying a surfboard towards the beach, grabbing coffee, walkin' the dog, you name it. It's the Real-World version of Baywatch or a Mentos commercial.

So, fantastic news for my dehydrated hormones. Tragic, untimely news for those shuddering thighs and grandma arms I discovered in my bed this morning. But I will do what my esteemed governor says: Put dowwn Twinkie, fattie gurl. Pick up Man.

Ken & Ariel's Love Child?

I was in my cubicle, dutifully adding my boss's email address to porn mailing lists ("Girls pleasuring FARM ANIMALS, tsmith! tsmith, wanna see TWINS and there [sic] DAD get it on?!?") when I heard a commotion down the hall. Women were squealing, some clapping their hands in delight. Thinking the bottled water guy had dropped his clipboard again, I hurried over to catch a quick glimse of that tight ass in motion. The women were gathered around Rosario's cube, cooing and sighing over--a baby.

Marsha was on maternity leave but couldn't wait to come back to the office to show off "Woodruff Tobias McNulty". I looked at the infant, drooling and bearing an uncanny resemblance to Jabba the Hut. "Don't you just want one?" Karen said, nudging me in the ribs. Like it was a friggin' Kate Spade bag or something. "Uh, yeah. Can't wait." I replied with a fake smile. "Don't worry, you'll find a guy someday who'll want to have kids," Marsha said with a condescending pat on my shoulder. Before I could respond, Woodruff took the opportunity to fart and barf on her hair at the same time. Thanks, kid. "Um, well, you know Marsha--hey...is that the fire alarm?" I quickly made my escape.

Smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk while my office mates rushed back and forth in confusion ("Did you grab the baby bag? That's a Dooney & Bourke baby bag!!" screamed Marsha) I contemplated my current views on offspring. Marsha was right in a way; some guy was sure to catch me and knock me up sooner or later, in a moment of weakness (or drunkeness, take your pick.) Maybe my clock is slow or needs a new battery, but I'm in no rush to trade my stilettos and one-night-stands for fat-ass jeans and all-nighters with the screaming miniature Tazmanian Devil. I'll wait a little longer before experiencing the joys of supermarket tantrums and the cutthroat "Mommy & Me" playgroups. Like I said, I'll have one sooner or later...but you'll have to catch me first.

Bad For You

Is it some cruel law of the universe that the most psychotic women who wander into my life just happen to be the most god-almighty fantastic in bed? The first night I met Dawniele she made the hair on the back of my neck stand up; that whine of a voice, the violent temper, the spitting, and the insistance on speaking like a female rap star. But she also came equipped with that body, god damn her. And ten beers later, when she was talking with her mouth dangerously close to my face and showing off her green thong, I was instantly reduced to a box of Feldman's Modeling Clay. Later that night, when she delivered unto me a fucking that almost stopped my heart cold, I knew I was in trouble. Because the male mind cares not if a woman starts fights with bartenders or throws chairs in restaurants of tells you that your mother is a "twatburger" [all things she did within the first week I knew her, mind you]. Because we know that the screwing which will be levied after all of this anger has subsided will be an otherwordly experience. And that's its own reward.

I remember the nights I'd sit up, pacing around around her small apratment while she slept off the fuckathon, thinking I could change her. "Niceness begets niceness," I thought. So I tried. And it failed. Miserably. The night she spit beer in my best friend's face [after an argument over, of all things, horse racing], I realized that if I wanted to keep my sanity -- not to mention my friends and family -- I'd have to leave this sex behind.

So I did. And after the death threats subsided, I started seeing some fairly "normal" women again. Women who didn't scream at my relatives, or carry knives in their purses, or try to burn the back of my neck with a lit cigarette. Also: Women who didn't fuck near as good as Dawniele.

Unfortunately.

The Backdoor Strikes Back

A few years ago, I got nervous. What with Pamela Anderson and the Miracle Bra and that bizarre Janet Jackson Super Bowl thingee, I was afraid that boobs were back.

Now don't get me wrong. I like boobs. I've befriended them, caressed them, given them the attention they deserve to push my "lady friends" ever closer to the edge of enlightenment. As a red-blooded, heterosexual male, I, too, get tongue-tied and stammer when faced with a dazzling pair wrapped up in the glory of a tight T-shirt.

That said, I am, and always will be, an ass man. And no one was happier than I when J-Lo hit the scene and, overnight, the derriere replaced boobs as the female body part obsession of our popular culture. Suddenly, ass was everywhere. In the magazines, at the supermarket, in the casinos. And it was good.

Then that Janet Jackson thing happened. And suddenly everyone was talking boobs again.

But now, thanks to MTV and its perpetual loop of rap music vids, ass is back. And stronger than ever.

In fact, the "booty shot" -- that magical moment at a bar, party, book burning, or PTA meeting when chicks get all gangsta and stick out their derrieres for the camera -- has officially become a requirement of any gathering of two or more females. And I'm not complaining... 'specially if, y'know, any of them feel compelled to e-mail some to me.

Ass is bigger than all of us, my friends. It is the currency that drives our economy, the root of lust that fills our minds, the omnipresent shadow looming large over our towns and communities and strip malls.

Let's face it. Ass, in and of itself, fucking rocks.

The Other Side of the Mattress

When I was in college, everyone knew Judy. Sweet, cute as button, unassuming, and roughly about 250 pounds. Also: she got more ass than a toilet seat.

Judy had game. She'd hang with us at the bars, talking football and shit, matching us beer for beer, and watching as, one by one, we struck out with every hot chick in the place. That's when we'd stumble back to the booth or table, drown our sorrows in a stale, last call beer, and feel Judy's hand on our thighs. At first, it seemed like friendly consolation. Then her hand moved a bit higher. And before our alcohol-impaired minds even knew what was going on, Judy's deftly manuevering her warm, thick fingers over the crotch our pants, manipulating us to a throbbing hard-on, then whispering something in our ears about getting back to campus. Like now and shit. Drunk and almost shaking with the need for release, we obeyed.

One night, when she wasn't around, we took a quick, drunken poll of everyone she'd ensnared in such a fashion. An immediate show of hands revealed Bill, Dave, Stephen, Phil, Dave L., Andy, Ron, Ted and Artemis. Later in the evening, Gabe and Eric acknowledged that they'd been there as well. Danny and I were the lone hold outs. I neglected to mention that she'd never actually come on to me, but, y'know, still...

Then there was that night. Drinking since noon and we can barely stand up. Having disgusted every girl in the place [note to self: asking chicks "How many cigarettes do you think I can eat?" doesn't usually entice them to blow you], I separate myself from the crew and somehow get my silly Irish ass over to Judy's place. Her roommate lets me in, and I stumble down the hall to find her in her room, lying on her bed, watching TV with the lights off. I drag myself over to the bed, lay down next to her, and start talking rag time. "We missed you tonight... we had a good time... blah blah blah." She listens to me for a few minutes, then her hand suddenly finds itself on my thigh. I'm already hard, head buzzing with booze and the sweet smell of her breath. A few minutes later, she's ondone my fly, released the monster, and starts giving him a right good pumping. I lay back, close my eyes, and just as I'm about to give in, I hear something...

"Feh...feh..."

What the? Sounds like a sick dog, but I pay it no mind... I'm too busy trying to think of baseball scores and hockey games to keep myself from falling to a helpless spasm of release. But then I hear it again. And it sounds like a voice. A guy?

I dart up, shake my head, and look across Judy's mammoth figure to find my man Danny lying on the other side of her, also getting a handjob.

Recoiling, I throw myself off the bed, roll to the door and stagger back down the hall and out the door. And that was that.

The point of all this? Judy was a player, and a damn good one at that. And to Danny, who, to the best of my knowledge hasn't breathed a word of this to anyone, I still owe you that beer.