Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them

"I'll call you tomorrow."
"Wow. That was awesome."
"Yes, that dress does make you look like Cameron Diaz."
"The collection of underwear from ex-lovers? Hell, I threw that out years ago."
"You're cooking for me again? I'm spoiled!"
"Although I appreciate each of the Brother's distinct charms, I'd have to say Marlon is my favorite Wayans."
"I'll tell you when it's coming."
"She was an incredible lay, but I'm waaaay over her now."
"Wasn't me."
"The Notebook? That's my favorite fucking movie, too."
"I feel like I can tell you anything."
"Possibly the best blow job I've ever had."
"I usually last a lot longer than that. Must be the Jaegermeister."
"Vida Guerra? No effect on me at all."

Thanks for that last one, Avatar.

Never Was a Boob Man

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

Kennette: 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?

Kennette: 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.

Kennette: Dude, 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?

Kennette [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.

Kennette: 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?

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

I'm not a therapist, but...

"So Billy still hasn't called me back."
"Really? When did you call him?"
"Like three days ago."
"Ohmigod, that totally sucks."
"Tell me about it. I thought we really had a connection."
"Well, maybe he's super busy."
"Yeah, but doing what? It's not like he has a job or anything."
"He could be a little intimidated."
"By me?!? Why?"
"You're this really cool chick, and you got your shit together, and maybe he thinks he's just not good enough. Is he from a broken home?"
"Oh wow. He IS the product of divorced parents, and doesn't get along very well with his mom."
"See? That relationship totally dictates his future relationships with women!"
"You know, he does have trouble expressing himself to me. I've been trying to help him better communicate by being open and receptive."
"Exactly! You have to just let him know that it's OK, you DO want to be with him. He just needs a little reassurance."
"Ohmigod, you are totally right! And here I was thinking he was blowing me off! Quick, hand me the phone."
[Cut to: Billy, on a couch, surrounded by Bud cans, playing "GTA San Andreas"]
Roommate: "Dude, some chick named Ariel's on the phone.'
Billy: "Who?"

Here's to You, Mrs. Robinson

So I'm skiffing through yesterday's Globe, heading to the horoscopes and Monty comic strip, when I come across this headline: "Mom pleads guilty to hosting sex parties."

Ever the investigative sort, I read on:

GOLDEN, Colo. --A woman who told police she wanted to be a "cool mom" pleaded guilty to sexual assault charges Monday for having sex with high school boys at parties where authorities said she supplied drugs and alcohol.

Silvia Johnson, 40, pleaded guilty to two misdemeanor counts of sexual assault and nine felony counts of contributing to the delinquency of a minor. As part of a plea agreement, prosecutors dropped two counts of distribution of methamphetamine.

"She described herself as a `cool mom,'" Detective R.J. Vander Veen wrote in the affidavit. He said Johnson told investigators "she was never popular with classmates in high school and now began `feeling like one of the group.'"

Prosecutors did not recommend a sentence, but each sexual assault count carries up to two years in prison, and each count of contributing to the delinquency of a minor carries up to six years, district attorney's spokeswoman Pam Russell said.

Johnson, who is free on bail, held parties for the boys almost weekly between October 2003 and October 2004, authorities said. She was accused of providing drugs and alcohol to eight boys and having sex with five of them.

Police said the investigation began after one of the boys told his mother about the encounters, and she reported it to authorities.

All I can say is: Where the fuck were these moms when I was growing up? Of course, yeah, "sexual assault" isn't cool. Blah blah blah. Whatever. When I was fifteen, if some 40 year-old sweet thang with a beer in one hand and a cig in the other wanted to yummy down on me, I would have been all about it.

Sadly, the closest I came to any such hijinks was when my buddy Davey's mother got drunk at our high school graduation and gave me and Finster wet, sloppy kisses, gliding her thick lips and wet moustache across our faces as we recoiled like sick horses.

L. Ron, please bless Katie, and Kelly, and John...

VH1-dictated pop culture may insist that "Show Me The Money" was the most memorable line from Jerry McGuire. C'mon now. That's horseshit. We all know it's the image of Kelly P, straddling (self-proclaimed Drug Czar) Tommy Boy, screaming "Never! Stop! Fucking! Me!!!"
Ah. Memories.
So why is the chick who simply states the bloomin' OBVIOUS considered the villian? Show Me the MEMBER, goddammit, and bam, you spend the rest of your lifetime on Lifetime? Linda Fiorentino got fucked (pun COMPLETELY intended) after The Last Seduction. How cum (ooh, another one!) my only "role models" at my local multiplex are nice girls who are so sexually repressed they'll only do it missionary, every other Friday? Katie, you have fucking CHRISTIAN BALE tricked out in fucking black LATEX who likes to do it in the dark, and you have to go WORK on a CASE?!?!?! You and Tommy Boy deserve each other.
Listen, Mr. Hubbard, you seem like a cool cat. If Kelly will take up my cause, I'll go out and buy copies of Dianetics for all my friends. And stop taking Ritalin. Whatta ya say?

Least Popular Celebrity Sex Tapes

"Dennis Rodman Fucks Tree"
"Nothin' But Facials starring that old lady from Everybody Loves Raymond"
"Bob Newhart Sodomizes Drunken Waitress"
"Charlie Sheen Makes Sandwich, has Sex with 57-year old Brazilian Maid, Eats Sandwich"
"Cast of WKRP Circle Jerk"
"Piss Party with Jim Belushi"
"Andy Dick Tweaks Gay Guy's Nipples for Three Hours; Eventually Sends Out for Chinese"
"Parker Stevenson Dips Balls in Coffee Machine"
"Willie Nelson Strokes Himself to Filthy Orgasm"
"Al Roker Shaves Pubes -- His Own and Several Friends'"
"Ray Liotta Gets Roughed Up by Transvestite Russian Hooker"
"Fantastic Voyage... into Bea Arthur's Pussy"

I prefer Hollywood's version of reality.

Nola, a prostitute from "Hustle & Flow."


Carla, a prostitute from "Hudson & Fourteenth"

Self-Employed, Thanks

Hello. My name is Ken. And I can't stop whacking off.

Seriously. If I don't work myself over at least once a day, I get all kinds of zany.

Even during those periods in my life where I've found myself knee-deep in pussy, I still managed to keep up a healthy "partnership" with Little Ken. Is it a hobby? An obsession? A self-administered tool for stress-release? Dunno. And I haven't got the patience or the wherewithall to try to figger it out. Let's just say I really dig jerking off.

The reason I've got this on the brain today is that last night, during a conversation with a thirtysomething female compadre, I somehow let slip my penchant for self-love [thanks, Budweiser!]. She shot me a visual "ewww" and said, quite seriously, "Dude, grow up."

Okay. Fine. But I don't think it's gonna happen. I can't see myself waking up at 40 or 50 or 60 and saying, "Okay, well, that was fun, but I think I'll just leave the ol' boy alone from here on out." I gotta figure that until it's either rendered inoperable due to age [or overuse], I'll be the guy who takes an extra five minutes or so in the shower.

Accidental Tourist

So I'm at the hotel gym, just minding my own business, attempting to do 15 consecutive minutes on the sadomasochistic, "Back To The 90s" StairMaster. Lance Armstrong is on a bike, to my left. Anderson Cooper is in Cairo, to my center. People fucking in the pool, to my right. Wait a minute, what the--!?!

I dab my eyes with a dangerously-bleached hotel towel, thinking I'm having some sort of hallucinatory attack before the onset of cardiac arrest. I look again. Sure enough, through the attractive picture window I see palm trees, the glistening water of the hotel pool, and two people going at it like monkees near the "No Diving" sign.

I stare in fascination, suddenly unbothered by the beeping command of Herr Stair Meister to keep my heart rate above 80. Jeez, it's still daylight! People are still walking around! And yet, there they are, Mr. Bald dude and Ms. Big Boobed, rubbing uglies near the shallow end without a care in the world. Baldy pushes Booby back against the metal step ladder, presumably for better leverage, and continues the show. Booby's sucking Baldy's mouth as if he's an oxygen tank and she's in the last stages of emphysema. Uh-oh, I see a couple approach--support hose and bermuda shorts--must be an old couple on their way to the 5:00 PM senior dinner discount. Baldy and Booby stop gyrating for a minute and let them pass. Booby even waves! I nearly fall off the machine trying to catch a glimpse of their faces but the window's too low. I silently curse Westin's architectural design team. Baldy and Booby wait a minute, chatting and laughing as if they've just finished a round of golf. Then they start up again.

Was I turned on? Am I on my way to becoming my friendly neighborhood Peeping Tomara? Not sure. But according to my Workout Summary on the Pain Monster, I did 67 minutes and my heart rate never dropped below 76.

Maybe I'll ask my gym if they can show the Spice Channel.

You and Me Both, Buddy

From Craigslist:

ISO:
a person to dress up and play cat (use scratching post, litter box, take cat naps, etc.) in our home while we are at work. We provide the ears and tail, you provide the rest. Serious inquiries only. Please send a brief statement about why you think you are qualified for this position. Headshots are a plus, but not required.

mcgregordiazarielsandwich

When I grow up, I want be every single goddamn atom in this picture. I want to be within millimeters of Ewan-pure-dead-bloody-brilliant-McGregor's lips. I want to be hottie-tree-hugger-Cameron Diaz, with that ridiculous hyena laugh and five-mile-high legs. I want to be the microphones that catch every droplet of spittle that falls from Ewan's salivary glands. Hell, I wanna pull Cammie's hair and suck her face. I wanna morph into her arms and legs and wrap them around Mr. McGregor's sideburns. Oh yeah, and I wanna go onstage and win an award.

What Happens In Vegas...

Morning, Carl. I'm good, how are you. Can I just squeeze in...yeah, just grabbing some coffee.

Vegas? Yeah, it was fun.

Oh, you know, did some shopping, laid out by the pool, had a great dinner. It was fun.

What's that? Nah, not really. I played a couple of nickel slots, that's about it.

Can I just grab a couple sugar packets--What, that bruise? Oh it's nothing. Just must've bumped into something. Can you pass me the milk when you're done?

Tattoo? Where? Oh, that. Heh heh. no, that's just a nightclub stamp.

Yeah, I guess your chest is an odd place to get stamped. Well, post-9/11 security and all...

Hi Sheila. You're collecting for...the Jimmy Fund? Sure, I'll contribute. Is fifty OK? Let's see...all I got is ones...one...two....three...Oops, I dropped...I'll get it, I'll get it!

Condoms!?! Carl, these are not condoms, my goodness! They're, uh...breath mints. Uh, guys, I think I hear my phone.

My Summer Vacation

The Fantasy

Kiera and Stephy showed up around midnight with a couple bottles of Jaeger. They talked me into six rounds of body shots before Steph, as she typically does when hopped up on booze, pushed me to the floor and started gyrating above me, inviting me to gently lick the insides of her thighs. Meanwhile, Kiera's nimble fingers found their way to my crotch, deftly flicking my belt lose with just one hand [that old college trick of hers still winning over crowds across the nation] and began massaging me, coaxing me into a staggeringly impressive [for an Irish guy, anyway] erection. I opened my mouth to say something, only to have it filled up with Steph, who was slowly grinding herself to orgasm across my thick tongue. It was the first day of a week in the mountains. Things were good.

The Reality:

Ken: I think this is the last hot dog.

Kenette: Well, it's mine. You should have remembered to pack more.

Ken: I know. I know.

Kenette: [Looks at her watch.] Almost six o'clock. My mother should be here any minute.

Ken: I wonder if that tree would support a noose and two hundred and twenty pounds.

Kenette: What's that?

Ken: Nothing.

Kenette [scratching arms]: These black fly bites are killing me.

Ken: Hot dog's done.

Ready-Made Beds

Oh look, a toga party. Those boys look silly, no? So immature. So childish. Certainly not suitable material for a loving, caring, long-term relationship.

Private Ariel with her Super Big Gulp cup and Frette 1000 TC sateen sheets, reporting for duty, SIR!

I'll Be Back Here

At a recent music awards telecast, while the rest of the paprazzi were jockeying for position in front of the "talent," begging them to look everywhichway but up, some clever photog stationed himself behind the crowd. Which, depending on the subject matter [in this case, Alicia Keys, Sheryl Crow and Gwen bestillmyfuckingheart Stefani] qualifies him for some sort of Pulitzer. In my world, anyway.

So, what team are you on?

Being only attracted to tripods, I actually do envy my more sexually "fluid" brothers and sisters. Namely because their chances for a date Saturday night increase exponentially while I have to wait for the remaining 49% of the population to finish watching the game.

An article in the NY Times suggests that bisexuality may be more of an urban legend, at least in guys. I don't know about that; but I do know that whom I'm attracted to, like the guy with kids from 2 different girlfriends who's tatted out and hasn't worked a full time job for most of his adult life, is usually waaay beyond my control.

She's The Boss

My name is Ken. I work in Boston. And I totally want to have sex with my boss. Good morning.

My boss is about 51 years old. Blonde, roughly 5'5". Prolly 100 pounds soaking wet and holding a sack of potatoes. She is a mother of four from one of the city's affluent suburbs. And, holy mother of god, I want to bury my face between her legs with an intensity that I imagine only guys who've been in prison for twenty years can comprehend.

Why do I wanna bone a woman who is roughly ten years younger than my mother? Because it's my boss, dudes. Sure, she's also an incredibly hot 51 year old professional who has her hair done on Newbury Street and depends on a team of twenty five Vietnamese women in Newton to keep her nails appropriately-chiseled. But, dude, fucking the boss? That's gotta be bonus points the likes of which my feeble mind could never comprehend.

It's also never going to happen. Because she's the boss. And she didn't get to be the boss by throwing herself at young, goofy, pale Irish dudes.

Not that there isn't something there. We've been on countless business trips together, during which jokes about sex and making out and getting fingered fly fast and furious [that last one being a story she told me about her high school prom that had me up all night in my hotel room jerking off to the dulcet tones of CNN]. Once, while we were setting up our company's booth at a trade show, she bent over and inadvertently backed up squarely against my crotch, then stood there for a beat, noting, "Hey, I hope you at least buy me dinner after this." And, voila, I had enough masturbatory fuel for, oh, ten months.

But, again, fucking the boss is simply not going to happen. For one thing, she's too smart. And I'm too goofy. Although I would like to assure her that letting me bone her in the Executive Conference Room wouldn't shift the balance of power. In fact, it would probably make me an even better employee, as I see it.

Perhaps, in the dark recesses of her mind, she's thought of this as well. And is even considering throwing me a bang before her retirement. In any event, I'll be here waiting for the Boss. Biding my time by shagging the 22-year old Haitian cleaning woman.