Let Me Get That Chair for You...

Note to self, #2884-B:

The next time you're in a meeting in the shared conference room in the furthest corner of the building, and the unbelievably hot new admin girl is in attendance, be sure to practice restraint.

Specifically, at the end of said meeting, don't linger around, flipping through the papers in your hand, until the hot new admin girl and everyone else shuffles out the door. And then don't casually walk to the entrance just to make sure they've all really headed off. And, in the name of all that is holy, don't -- just don't -- drop to your knees in front of the chair she was using and bury your face in the seat.

Not only because it's kinda freaky, but also because somebody might walk into the room. And, not for nothing, they won't buy your "Oh! There's my pen."

Not that this actually happened to me, of course. I'm just sayin'.

Dating outside your comfort zone

My standards of dating have deteriorated rapidly, from "must love the absurdity and avant-guarde nature of Jacques Tati films" to "must have the two P's: Penis and Pulse." And while I never thought I had a type (again, please refer to 2Ps) I also realized that there were certain styles I was more attracted to than others. So perhaps because I've exhausted the entire dating pool of white, baseball-cap wearin', Ford truck drivin', suspended-license holdin' guys in Southern California (and there were a LOT), I find myself starting to peer behind the bleachers at the other guys; you know, the ones who borrow your black eyeliner and don't give it back, nails that would make Xan Li, my manicurist, proud; and who always needs extra time getting through Airport Security. I think I wanna try them out.
That is, if he/she/it will have me...

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, y'know, 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 manilla 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 manilla 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!

Man, I fucking lurve casual day.

Truth in Advertising

This always happens. I come up with a brilliant idea, imagine all the ways I can spend my first million, only to find out someone's thought of it first. So whilst I enjoy another cup of Ramen Noodles, enjoy the sublime experience of ripping "only4u" to shreds for having the audacity to claim "athletic" and "animal lover" in his profile instead of "man boobs" and "disurbing phobia of cats".

Pretty on the Outside

Yeah, I work out. Thanks for noticing. And I realized something else last weekend, as I sloshed my way through another set of Romanian Deadlifts. I don't do this shit for my heart. The damn thing's been beating just fine on its own without my help, and despite the occasional Triple Whopper and Vodka belt, so who am I to interfere? Nor do I give a flying handshake about my circulation, pulse rate, or "core." I bust my ass in the gym so I get that extra look from Shirley in Accouting. So that the Kenette will give me her patented "nice," when she runs her hand along my chest. So that the college chicks in the apartment next door will stick their heads out the window to watch me watering my lawn sans shirt [as will the mailman, who will simply sulk away, knowing he's but half the man].

Simply put: I workout so that I look better for the ladies. And if the girl across the gym from me, who's been pounding away at the "Butt Blaster" for over fifteen minutes, is here out of concern for the aging process and not thinking about how her aerobicized ass is going to turn every third guy at the Rattlesnake into drooling fiends, then I'll eat my towel.

Women who Pick Up Guys, And the Guys who are Scared Shitless of Them

I always wanted to be a predator, I just never had the balls. It's not even 'cuz I want the guy, Id' just wanna make 'em squirm for a change.

"Hey, what's your name? Chris? Hey Chris, I'm Ariel. Looking good, Chris. Hey, if you're not busy why don't we go and get a drink tonight? Maybe a bite to eat? Yeah? Well, if not tonight, what's a good time for you?"

Any time I have tried to pick up a guy it has never worked. I have always been rejected. Granted, I was usually so shitfaced at the time I usually puked in their drink glass (Hey! I was polite, I wiped my mouth afterwards and said "excuse me"!) but at any rate, whenever I'm the aggressor men tend to run. Fast. So how come you guys ALWAYS have to take the lead? How come I have to wait around until YOU finally grow some cojones to come over and ask me out?

"It's the middle of the afternoon, I'm downtown, holding a doggie, and thinking about your ass."

The Kennette calls me at work the other day and, in the middle of some staggeringly steamy conversation about whether I wanted to get steak or chicken for dinner [not a euphemism, by the way], she just blurts out, "So... what are you wearing?"

For the record, it wasn't that saucy, unless flat-front Banana Republic chinos and some lame-ass corporate drone shirt-and-tie combo spins your wheels. But I appreciated the curiosity. And of course, it gets me curious as well. So to save me from calling each of you individually, I'll simply pose this question to the world:

"So... what are you wearing?"

An Ode to All Lovers on Valentine's Day

May your dive bar be rife with supermodels looking for that special someone who drives a Jetta and designs web sites.

May your bar tab be $0 whilst your celly is full of new numbers.

May all the hot guys at the gym suddenly realize, en masse, that there's more to life than fantastic tits and a tight ass as you bend over to get your water bottle.

May your beer goggles work only when you look at yourself in the mirror (you good looking minx, you) and may your coyote dates leave quietly before dawn's early light.

May all your condoms taste like cotton candy, never break and fit like a silk glove.

May the porn you order be of top cinematic quality with a talented cast and a surprisingly intricate plot.

May your KY Jelly heat to the touch,

May your $120 lingerie get more than five seconds airtime,

May your erection last for 4 hours without medication,

And may your multiple orgasms quadruple in 4 minutes or less.

May it really, really, really feel like nothing you've ever felt before

And finally, may the wet spot always be on the other side of the bed.

Happy Valentines Day from Ken & Ariel!

Living with Winter, Sleeping with Summer

The first sales meeting I ever organized was held on 9/11. Needless to say, we didn't get a lot of work done that day. But later that evening, as salespeople and marketing types from across the globe stumbled out of our offices and into the local pub, I noticed a fellow manager and a female underling getting awfully close. I chalked it up to the mood of the day, and never thought about it again.

Until last week. During another sales meeting, the same manager told me, after a number of belts, that he and said underling have been "screwing around" ever since that fateful evening in 2001. Both of them are married to other people; he's got a couple kids, she just became a mom last year. He said that back in the day, before she had a kid, they'd fuck around in his office or find a remote, dimly-lit parking lot and screw in the car. Nowadays, their rendezvous are limited to out-of-state meetings that find them staying at the same hotel, but, as he noted, still quite intense.

Now, why people tell me shit like this never ceases to amaze me. Dude, if you've been running this program successfully for the last five years, why would you start blabbering about it now? Jeezus, be thankful you haven't been caught to this point and just let it go. For the record, she's quite hot... him only marginally attractive, so perhaps he's just desperate for someone else to know that he's bagged this premium [and much younger] trim.

In the bigger picture, though, how does an affair like that drag on for so long? Christ, I've seen relationships come and go like dust in the breeze in the time these two have been going at it on the sly. I mean, I can see an affair being something wild and crazy and dangerously exciting at first. And maybe before she had kids, she still had some ya-yas that needed to get out. But five years later? I've never been involved in a torrid affair [sadly], but I figger you'd have to reach a point where you either say, "This has been a nice diversion, but I'm all set with seeing your naked balls," or start re-thinking your position in life.

His summation: "We just really like fucking each other. Far too much to stop."

Hey, I guess it happens.

Upon seeing the playful dolphins etched on her belly, Tyra fell into a dead faint.

Hi. My name is Ariel. And I am scared to death of...bees.
There, I've wasted enough of your time today. Now let's get back to more pressing matters, like....uh....

Smells Like Team Spirit

It's not who you root for, it's how you dress, a theory that this guy clearly understands.

Myself, I turn to spare change when I see a chick in a Red Sox cap. But I might have to start attending more college football games.

And the best pussy of 2006 goes to...

It's Saturday. I'm bored. Superbowl's not for another 24 hours. I'm flipping channels and I come across a frosted effeminate latino dude kissing his anorexic, silicone-enhanced wife. It's E!'s "Dr. 90210." I settle in on the couch, Cheetos safely resting on my silicone-deprived chest. Then another doctor dude comes on and starts talking about vaginal plastic surgery, for women who want their punanis to look like the Playboy centerfolds. Mother of God. It's bad enough I have to get the outside looking like I haven't spent the last four months indoors with several cases of Betty Crocker Chocolate Supreme Frosting. Now I have to worry about how my pussy looks?!? Hell, I have no idea how it looks. Yeah, I went to one of those clinics once where the gynos were of the hairy, Lillith Fair ticket-holding variety, and they insisted on bringing out a mirror to show me how to do a self-examination. I preferred to stare at the pre-requisite Georgia O'Keefe reprint on the wall. And now there's some perfect pussy model out there and my punani may or may not pass muster. I mean Christ, I don't think I have a muff burger (what's a muff burger, anyway?), no one who's ever dropped by there for a visit has shrank back in horror and handed me the Beverly Hills Yellow Pages. The adult film industry, while intriguing, does not seem to be in my immediate career future. So is it OK to save my $5000 for, say, something more important, like toe enhancement surgery?

Defense Mechanism

The company I work for encourages volunteerism among its staff. A noble thing, to be sure, and being a noble gent of sorts, I anteed up and put in for some hours last night, at a local food pantry. The work is fairly easy; you just sort packages of food into boxes, then seal up the boxes. Then we all go home or get liquored up and chase tail.

So last night, at the volunteer site, I get paired up with another girl from my office who I'd never met. We'll call her Sandy. Sandy's job is to tie three boxes of food together, then she hands them off to me and I pack them six-deep in a large crate. Sandy is chubby, with a flat ass, large round boobs and a pretty face. Not my type at all, but she seems friendly and I anticipate at least some decent conversation to make the time pass as we're sorting and packing.

Turns out, Sandy's a Talker. Talks about everything. Did I see Lost the other night? Don't I just hate the MBTA? Isn't Game On the coolest place to hang out?

So I nod and politely smile and put in my two cents where I'm allowed. The clock is, thankfully, moving along nicely and we're stacking up crates at a respectable pace. She keeps yammering and I keep smiling, and then at one point, out of the blue, she blurts out, "Oh, I should tell you, I have a boyfriend."

Well, thank christ she cleared that up with me. I mean, she obviously noticed, as my eyes glazed over with each passing box of Triscuits or deviled ham, that I was clearly sizing up her ass for a right good fucking. I glanced over and acknowledged it with a quick smile and a, "Well, he's one lucky guy." Then we got back to the work at hand.

So where, exactly, does this sort of thing come from? Is it just the need to let the entire free world know you're getting laid? Or has my "warning: pervert at large" vibe becoming increasingly obvious with each passing year?

Heaven's Pillows

To follow up Ken's brilliant treatise on the personification of the phallus, I thought I'd discuss the topic of naming boobs. When a guy starts coming up with pet names for my mammary glands it doesn't really bother me. I find it mildly amusing to see a grown man dissolve into his three-year old self before my eyes as he unbuttons my blouse and starts giggling and clapping excitedly, shouting "boobies! boobies!". Besides, I understand it's not really about me, it's about them finally getting back in touch with their first love before life and cruel rubber pacifiers got in the way. So g'ahead, call them boobies, titties, the girls, the twins, those lovely ladies who graciously offer you a place to rest your head. But if you show any disrespect to the magnificent, supple creations that gave you your first meal, you'll be quickly cut off and sent packing back to adulthood.