Why the hell weren't these guys at the wedding?

Well kids, Ariel waxed, shaved, exfoliated, tweezed, fake tanned and got herself gussied up for a wedding over the weekend--RSVP for 1, no guest, at least until the cocktail hour. During the ceremony I enjoyed the procession of potential, and yes, all those vows and I love yous and kisses get me all hot n' bothered, just like Vince said. It's not like I want to get married today, or even tomorrow. But these damn things tap right into my biological imperative. Anyway, by the look of the grooms' party, things were looking pretty good. Afterwards, I furtively scanned the table cards to see who's at my table--please, oh please, don't stick me with couples. Yay! Single names, male and female, were thoughtfully assigned to my table, which meant I didn't have to make nice with possessive girls and politely ignore their doofus boyfriends. Things were looking very good.
Yeah....no. Turns out the "singles" were either over 60, or in wonderful relationships with loved ones that couldn't make it to the happy occasion. They sat and swapped stories of long distance romance or just-recent thwoppings with Cupid's arrow. Ugh. Well, perhaps the other tables? Nope, all couples! The groomsmen, surely they would--no, he's hitting on the slutty looking bridesmaid. No, he's hitting on the--best man! I turned in a panic towards the bar. Bartender, waiter, hell, the barback? Nope, ugly, geriatric.
Oh, jeez. I stared glumly at the stage, featuring the dorkiest DJ I have ever seen. As he yelled "Let's Get This Party Started!" and put on the Electric Slide, I decided to fake food poisoning and get the heck outta dodge. Hopefully the dive bar won't mind my lace and taffeta.

World's Luckiest Markers

To think that before the internet -- and, specifically, YouTube.com -- if you wanted to fellate magic markers and share it with the world, you'd have to take photographs of said event. Or, even lamer, describe it to your buddies the next day.

Either way, what is to be gained by something like this? I mean, other than sending me to six cold showers.

Sexual Harassment in the Workplace: Wrong, But Incredibly Amusing

Last week, as part of our company's new "let's cut down on the blowjob jokes when clients are in the building" campaign, management -- of which, amazingly, I am a part -- was required to view an online sexual harassment tutorial. Sadly, it wasn't an educational piece, designed to help me coax Laurie from finance out of her ridiculously tight Blue Cult jeans, but rather a painfully explanatory piece on what constitutes "unwanted harassment in the workplace" [Surprise! You shouldn't look at porno or feel up your co-workers].

The video was amazingly hilarious, and my only regret is that I couldn't somehow capture the fucker and post it all here. But I think the screenshots presented above pretty much get the point across.

Personally, my feeling is that the key word is "unwanted." I think there are plenty of folks in my building who show up purely for the chance to gawk at or to be gawked at by fellow workers. And, let's face it, nothing makes the day move faster than hearing a couple girls in sales making cunnilingus jokes. I say bring this shit up at hiring time. All new employees should be warned: "Work here, and we will speak openly about your ass, examine your package daily, and, if liquored up enough, possibly try to bang you in the copy room. If you have a problem, perhaps WalMart would be a better match for you."

Please, This Woman Needs Your Help.

Sally Struthers is too busy saving one-eyed puppies from land mines, so I felt it was my civic duty to deliver the following PSA:

My Fellow Americans,
For too long, women have languished under the increasing burden of a silicone-free chest. Devoid of back pain, drooling attention from men, and free drinks, these poor wretched creatures must endure a "normal" existence, having to actually earn that job promotion, having no one to "accidentally" grope their chest on the subway, or attracting men that want to know them for their minds, not just...*gasp* their BODIES. No more! These wretched souls needn't suffer such indignities any more. With your help, every woman in America can live the life she deserves to have...as a 34C. Or, dare we dream, a 36D?
Please, go here and see how you can help.

The Callback

We're all very well aware of the three day rule regarding receipt of the phone number and actual use to initiate contact. This post focuses on callback behavior after initial contact and, presumably, repeated intercourse. I refrained from using the word "etiquette" because come on now, that's like insisting that your household pet uses the toilet, or at least puts the seat down after use.
A lot of chicks I know, including myself, are very considerate. I don't know if this was ingrained at birth from stressed-out mothers watching too many episodes of "Leave It To Beaver", but I have been programmed to call you back no matter what. I could have the mumps, measles, shingles, broken both arms and I'll use my tongue to dial just to let you know I'm OK. I may be at the funeral of both my parents who died in a horrific accident involving three rage-aholic baboons, but I'll duck into the crematorium just to give you a jingle and see what's up for the weekend.
A lot of dudes I know, have...a different perspective on the callback. Sure, they'll call back, it's just gonna be a while. Homer J. Simpson comes to mind as a suitable poster child: "Oh, Marge called. I gotta call Marge. Marge is nice. Marge taste good. Good like what? Like doughnuts.....gugggggagggggaaahhhhh, doooooughnuuuuts....ooh, look! A red balloon!" Etc. Etc. Hours, days, possibly a week can go by before memory of my existence is recalled. But at least I've learned a thing or two. Instead of wasting my time calling every hospital and morgue in town to see if they have a John Doe I need to identify, I might as well check the gaming sites to see if Ghost Recon 3 has been released for XBox 360 Players. Or if Pizza Hut just had a surge of orders from the 1100 block of Westwood. So instead of getting frustrated, annoyed, or purchasing a handgun, I simply ADD three days to the time he says he's going to call. "I'll call you tonight" means I'll talk to him on Thursday. In the meantime I'll talk to Bob on Tuesday (from Saturday), and Joe on Wednesday (from Sunday). See? Everyone's happy.

There's No Business...

Folks, I've reached my breaking point. For far too long I've sat on the sidelines, watching in bewilderment, and wondering about the life of the actors in those facesitting films. Now, I've decided that it's time to throw my hat into the ring.

Last night, I sent a heartfelt e-mail and resume to the good folks at Staria Entertainment, offering myself as unpaid, non-union talent for their next feature, which I assume will be a sequel to Facesitting Camera Girls. Because the first one left so many unanswered questions. If and when I hear back, I'll let you know. Likewise, if I'm lucky enough to get the gig, I'll document it all on these very pages. So there.

In the meantime, any female thespians who would be interested in helping me practice my lines... can e-mail me at kenandariel@comcast.net.

This Pussy Aint Playin'

Liberace_Piano_12_wks_Gs, originally uploaded by arielbaby.

Hey kids, thought I'd share some fantasy requests that I won't be making come true anytime soon (heh-heh...she said "cum")...

1. I casually mentioned that I can play Chopsticks thanks to one year of involuntary piano lessons. His eyes lit up. "I would love it if you would sit and play the piano naked for me. Ooh, your sweet bare ass perched on that piano stool, playing 'Heart n Soul...'"
No. Does no work for you?

2. One guy loved to do it in the dark. So much so he wanted me to BREAK IN to his apartment in the middle of the night, enter his bedroom and violate him. No lights, no speaking, just Enter Sandman.
No. "Breaking and Entering for Your Stupid Pleasure" is not something I'd like to see on my permanent record.

3. Last but not least is the Big Bad Wolf. Not in a hirsute kind of way, but in a scary, toothy kind of way. He loved cunnilingus, but he wanted to EAT ME. Like the fairy tale. As in biting and chewing. Drawing blood.
No. Get some help. Or take out an ad on Craigslist.

What Goes On The Road...

Whenever guys "step out" on their girlfriends or wives, the reaction -- whether we like it or not -- is typically, "Hey, it's guys being guys." After all, we're the ones being led around by out trouser snakes. We can't help what the little guy gets us into; he's clearly steering the ship.

When women cheat, however, it's a different story. Here, we get the guys in labcoats and slide rules, with their Venn Diagrams and four-color pie charts, who toss off such conclusions as, "There must be something missing in their lives." Or, "Clearly, she's rebelling against the traditional role." Or, "Her father probably never bought her a pony, so she's acting on long-suppressed childhood rage."

Hey, here's an idea: Could it be that some of them just really like fucking?

Consider a female friend of mine. She's young (34), strikingly pretty (blonde, exquisite lips, and a distractingly curvy figure), with a hubby and three kids and a nice house in a tony suburb on Boston's south shore. She goes away on business trips at least once every couple months. And each time out, she ends up sleeping with someone.

She says still loves her husband, adores her kids more than anything else in the world, and would never even consider walking away from it all. What she finds inebrieating, to put it in Seinfeld-ese, is "the timeless art of seduction." She likes to have a few drinks when she's away from home -- something she doesn't get to do a lot of with a 22-month old tugging at her apron. She likes the feeling of being hit on by attractive men. She enjoys the sensation of kissing someone for the first time. The rush of screwing someone new... it's all good to her.

When she first confided in me that she swings this way, it was roughly seven years ago. She was only two years married at that time, and I laughed it off as a sort of panic move. Since then, she's had three kids and seven anniversaries... and she's still at it. I've given her every speech in the book, from the laws of karma to the joys of crabs, but she's ignored me so much, now I just sit back and wait for her stories, like the dude she tied up to the hotel bed, the older guy who screwed her on the dunes behind the hotel, or the gentlemen she almost blinded when she moved back to sit on his face while wearing her stilettos.

Confining this activity to business trips, behind locked hotel room doors, the chances of her husband ever finding out are slim. Okay, God's watching, but she doesn't seem to care. She's got no "hidden demons" as I can see; no pulling from a vodka bottle at home as she diapers her kids, longing for the muscular dude she boffed out in San Diego. She turns it on and off almost like a switch. When she's at home, that's where she wants to be. When she's on the road, she's looking to meet.

So I ask you, where's the rub? If her conscience has enabled her to continue this for seven years, with no end in sight, it's safe to say she's sleeping pretty easy. Her family is oblivious. And she's enjoying some pretty hot "bonus sex" at least six times a year. Has she truly found the best of both worlds, or do we write her off as doomed, sad and spiraling toward hell to make ourselves feel better for not having the guts to try it?

The Booty Call's Lost n' Found

The biggest mistake is staying over. The next morning, the alarm goes off, you've gotten approximately 87 minutes of sleep, you look like a serious case of ass. And you have to get to work.
Then, he starts poking you. Poke. Poke. Poke.
Twenty two minutes later I'm hurriedly shoving my panties into my purse, buttoning up my meager leather coat to cover up last night's boob shirt, and stumbling around trying to find my stilettos. If I get home, take a 20-second shower, brush my teeth and apply my makeup in the car, I may make it to work 10 minutes late. If I'm lucky.
As I trip-skip-jog, trip-skip-jog to my car, I suddenly hear. "Ari-EL! ARIEL!" I stop suddenly. An old Asian lady and her old dog stop too. A businessman sipping his Starbucks latte looks at me and smirks. I turn around. He's yelling at me. From his friggin balcony, like some retarded version of Romeo and Juliet.
"WHAAAT?" I screech/whisper.
"You forgot some stuff." He replies. I look frantically through my purse. Keys, yup. Wallet, yup. Cell phone, yup. "No, I'm fine, I got everything, thanks." I screech whisper back and begin-again the morning after shuffle.
"Wait, Ari-EL!" Oh my God. I peer upwards. The Asian lady peers upwards. The dog takes a piss alarmingly close to my legs. On the balcony, he holds up my BRA. And dangles something small and shiny. "You forgot this," He shakes the bra for good measure, making sure they caught a glimpse of my DKNY White Satin Princess 34-D in San Jose. "And you forgot your earrings."
OH. MY. GOD. "Uh, thanks. I'll get them later." I turn and start moving as fast as I can.
"Well, I'm gonna be busy for the next few days, so I don't know when I'm gonna be around for you to pick them up..." As he continues to recite his schedule for the week to the entire neighborhood, I run as fast as I can to my car. Never again. Never again. I don't care that that bra cost me $60.00 and those earrings were a gift from my Aunt Susie. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices for the booty call.

Better Than a Name Tag

Okay, so let's say that in a moment of weakness in which your sense of pride physically takes leave of your body and hits Maui with two hot young chicks, you find yourself purchasing one of those scrolling LED belt buckles. Now, what do you use as your message?

Myself, I think I'd rock "stop staring, start sucking."

You?

Never judge a book...

Only likes missionary.


Tie me up, tie me down.


Doesn't particularly care for doggie style.


I think of myself as fairly open minded and experienced enough to know that what you see is rarely, if ever, what you get. And yet, I get constantly surprised with the results. Biker boys who just wanna cuddle. Prepster guys who would love to beat the shit out of me whilst bonking. And nerdy, socially retarded blokes who have more notches on the bedpost than Paris Hilton.

Does anyone dress the part anymore?

Handle With Care

So last night the Kenette and I are watching Ghostbusters II when, as you might expect after prolonged exposure to Dan Aykroyd's mug, she gets a little hot and bothered. She starts with the snuggle, then that thing she does to my neck and ears, and before long, she's working over the shaleleigh like she ain't never seen it.

And I don't protest, because I'm a big fan of the handjob. But... she couldn't close the deal.

Maybe it was the mood (working like a dog on a thankless project at work), the illness (I've been battling the mother of all sinus headaches for two days now), or the fact that I've never really gotten over how Ghostbusters II failed to live up to the first film's potential, but she was unable to, ahem, close the deal.

Hey, it happens. God knows there have been many a night I've put in the hours on one Kenette or another, only to get the loving pat on the head and the "oh, it's just me" explanation. I just blamed it on the amoxycillin and told her we should call it a night.

But she wasn't having it. Absolutely determined for a money shot, she worked me furiously for over an hour. To the point that I more or less begged her to stop for fear of crippling friction burns. And after a while, she did, albeit reluctantly.

So this morning, I wake up and she's on it again. The alarm clock still buzzing and she's massaging him, cajoling him, trying to beat him into submission. But it's morning. And, again, I'm medicated. And the packed-up sinuses make me feel like I'm wearing cinder-block earrings. So the attemped handjob, while certainly beating the fuck out of a peck on the cheek, remains just that -- attempted.

Now she's a woman on a mission. And as she heads off to work, she tells me that this shit ain't over. That she'll be back tonight to finish the job. And, I gotta say, such determination is rare in my experience -- typically I'm the one making excuses and doing the song and dance. But I'm glad to see that there are ladies out there taking pride in their handjob skills.

Proof of a Higher Power

According to The New York Times, men's jeans are about to get a whole lot tighter. As in, wow, you actually do have an ass. As in, shit, I can actually see dimples! As in, HOLY SHIT, I CAN SEE YOUR ENTIRE PACKAGE OUTLINED IN DENIM.

Thank you, God.

Even White Boys Got To Shout

What is it about the power of the thong that to this day -- now that pretty much every female walking the earth is wearing one -- holds men enraptured? Dude, I recall that, in the dark, pre-thong era, seeing a glimmer of some chick's underwear when she bent over or pole-vaulted a row of barstools to avoid me was cool, but it never instilled the lascivious, sinister thoughts that somehow the sight of a thong incurs.

Case in point: I just returned from yet another corporate trade show, and one of the girls working the booth next to mine was a big girl; not immense, but she had to go at least a good 200 pounds. Every time she bent over, she flashed some big thong action, and every guy within a 50 yard radius would stop and watch, spellbound. I mean, every guy. And not in a "holy shit, lookit that" kinda way, but more in a "mmmmmm.... thongs" kinda way.

It's magic, people. Anyway, to every chick out there wearing a thong today, I salute you.

Yo Mamma

Morning DJ's and stand-up comedians say so. Bud Light says so. Tommy Lee in "The Dirt: Motley Crue, Confessions of the World's Most Notorious Rock Band" says so.

Is it really true? Are chicks just like their moms? I don't meet a guy and think, "man, I wonder what his pops is like".

So, in honor of Mother's Day, let's turn this mutha OUT. Callers are standing by (and when's the last time you called your mother, anyway?)

Making Detention Fun Again

Based on my experiences and calculations, you're lucky enough if, as a thirteen year old student, you actually end up with a hot teacher. And now that teacher wants to sleep with you and send you racy videos of herself bending over for the camera? Holy Christ, I'm all for protecting the innocence of our youth, but I gotta tell ya... I'd strap myself into a time machine and trade places with that kid in an instant.