Music To Plot Revenge To

When I went through a breakup, I was a little pissed off. After the property damage had been assessed and the restraining order had been filed with the city, I had plenty of time to ruminate in my room, surrounded by boxes of half-eaten Twinkies and decapitated Ken dolls in various stages of torture. I think I listened to Alanis Morissette's "You Oughta Know" about 80 billiion times, but it lost its power when I learned that Uncle Joey from Full House may have been the culprit for that song. C'mon, Alanis, Uncle Joey?!? What, does that mullet have magical powers? So then it was on to the Liz Phair catalog, ratcheting up "Fuck and Run" until the CD melted. No Doubt's "(Kinda Always Knew I'd End Up Your) Ex-Girlfriend" was too much boo-hoo, not enough KILLKILLKILL. So my question to the masses: What ARE our musical options, we of which Hell hath no fury?

Missed Opportunities

There's always that one great "oh, what could have been" moment we have in our lives. Now I'm not talking about the time you decided not to move to Seattle or the job you just couldn't take or the time Grandpa Ellis gave you two tickets to the game and you scalped 'em for a night at the naked bar. I'm talking about the chances for outlandish fucking that were never acted upon for reasons that you can't seem to explain even today.

Mine came in college, junior year. My roommate was a dusty Deadhead type who attracted lots of cute girls (coughsellingweedcough). One of them, we'll call her Nancy K because that's her name, was a frequent "customer" of his, and she was taken to stopping by, sealing the deal, then flopping down on our couch to prattle on about her ex-boyfriend or her crazy roomie or the Psych professor who wanted to nail her. She was a New Yawk Jewish girl with frizzy black hair and a big round ass and everytime she came in the room, I was a mad, Coors-fueled hard-on. Even when my roommate wasn't there, she'd come and hang for hours and we'd talk and flirt shamelessly but I never made any sort of move. Then one night, she showed up at our place around midnight, complaining that her roommate had a gentleman caller over and she needed a place to crash. We let her in, but explained that she couldn't have the couch because Crazy Mike was there and she couldn't have the other couch because Crazy Kate was there and they had just smoked and drank up a storm with my roommate and they were all passed out and I wasn't about to wake 'em. Ever the gentleman, I offered her my bed, the top bunk, and she accepted. She then invited me to join her, saying she didn't want to see me have to sleep on the floor.

So I climb up in with her and we're laying there and I can smell the goddam beer on her breath every time she exhales and it's driving me fucking insane with lust and my roommate is asleep and his pals are zonked and Nancy turns and nuzzles that big round ass up to my throbbing johnson and all I can think about are the ways I've been dreaming of violating her and I can feel the waves of torment and heat and sweat riding over me until... nothing.

I just kinda put my arms around her and pulled her close and... that was it.

We eventually fell asleep and woke up in the morning and smiled and went about our separate paths.

Weird and inexplicable, to be sure. Maybe my li'l Irish pecker didn't intrigue her. Maybe we were both too weirded out, what with snoring bodies all around us. I still don't know what kept me from at least attempting to stick my tongue down her throat, but I do know this: not a day goes by that I don't wonder just how nice of a lay she coulda been.

Killing the Sexy, Volume II

Music Video Producer: Nice work, Brett. We've got Jessica Simpson, Christina Applegate and Eva Longoria in this video, with plenty of ass and boob shots.

Music Video Director: But still... it's missing something.

Music Video Producer: How about, let's see, a shot of Christina "accidentally" losing her shirt. Or let's turn down the on-set temperature and get some nipple action. Even better: During the roller skating scene, how 'bout a smash up where the girls all fall and Christina ends up sitting on Jessica's face. Oh, man. I like that one.

Music Video Director: Actually... I was thinking... shots of the girls licking Andy Dick while he fondles a pair of bowling shoes.

Music Video Producer: I, uh... are you kidding?

Oh So Dirty

So when you were growing up, you had to take baths. Or not. And you had to brush your teeth, floss, etc. And wear clean underwear. Or not. See, when we got out to the real world, we realized that not everyone's mom was a neat freak and made you take nightly showers. Or that changing their sheets once a month, rather than once a week, was their version of reality. And hey, that's OK. Kinda like, "oh, you had bologna sandwiches for lunch? I had fluffernutter." But when exactly does the cleanliness factor become a deal-breaker? What is the precise moment that you run, screaming, from his/her apartment?

Killing the Sexy, Volume I

Ad Exec One: Okay, I think we're all set. We've got plenty of shots of the girls in their lingerie. And some damn nice ass and boob close-ups if I do say so myself.

Ad Exec Two: I dunno. I still think we're missing something to push it over the edge.

Ad Exec One: Hmmm. More thong shots? I can get those. Or how about having one of the girls draw her arms together to squeeze her boobs a bit? That's always nice manuever.

Ad Exec Two: Actually, I was thinking we should add Bob Dylan.

Ad Exec One: Er... what?

Free Headlight Alignment, And...

This is my biggest fear. Not toilet paper wafting gently in the breeze from my backside after exiting the bathroom. Not my bikini top being swiftly removed by an incoming tidal wave as I take a dip. No, it's when the nipples are not synchronized. One's pointing towards California and the other just east of the Mississippi. One's heading for the south pole while the other one's checking out Santa's Workshop. Yeah, yeah, a padded bra. But these things can be like nails, man, given the right temperature. I presume that fake tits don't have this problem. That the good doctor has used his ruler and variations of the Pythagorean Theorem to determine perfect symmetry between areoli, and they aint movin'. Well, good for you. Anyway, I'll be in the bathroom, frantically pushing, shoving, cajoling and jiggling the girls into their proper places before I exit....with my tail of Charmin wafting gently in the breeze.

While You Were Sleeping

Back in college, me and a couple other dudes, apparently thinking ourselves quite the casanovas, had a bet to see who could collect the most women's underwear by the end of a particular semester. The presumption was, first of all, that there'd be that many women willing to shag us, and, second, that they'd be willing to leave behind a keepsake souvenir. When the dust settled, I had five. Three from the same girl, who I now believe might have known about the contest and gave me the sympathy panties. The "winner" had 15, though I suspect he made a few trips to Wal-Mart to pad his lead.

Looking back, though, I realize I'm still the same goofy fucker I was back then. Because the first thing I do upon waking up after a Kennette sleepover is search madly across the floor for her underwear. Why? Dunno. I guess it's just a Ken thing.

The Winds of New Hampshire

People, I had a dream. And it was one of those dreams in which I thought it was perfectly normal that my neighbor's dog would be trying to sky dive off the Golden Gate Bridge and Aunt Maude had suddenly turned lesbian and joined a Dyke-Byker gang and my parents and my third grade teacher kept walking in on me when I was trying to have sex with Fred Savage. Then suddenly, there was a loud boom, and it woke me up. No, it wasn't an earthquake. No, the shuttle was not re-entering Earth's atmosphere and landing at Edwards AFB. It was my fart, which rattled the windows and shook the whole bed like Epileptics Gone Wild. Just another typical night in ArielWorld. Except this time I wasn't alone. So after I realized the source of the explosion, I fearfully glanced at my sleeping mate. Asleep. Seems to be breathing normal, not overcome by toxic fumes. Thank you Jesus, and Mary, and all those saints, and G-d, and Bhudda. I fall back asleep with a little smile on my face. All is well with the world.

The next morning, I carefully smooth out my eyebrows, wipe the mollusks out of my eyes/nose/corners of mouth, place a Listerine tab on my tongue and then roll over. "Hi--" I start to say in my sexy, raspy, oh-I-just-woke-up-but-don't-I-look-good murmur. He's wide awake. Waiting.
"You. Made. The. Biggest. Fart. Last. Night. I. Have. Ever. Heard. In. My. Entire. Life."
Oh God.
I aim for utter ignorance and confusion. "Wha?--I--don't have a clue what you--mean, I just wok-"
"I think you blew the aluminum siding off the house."
"I didn't--it wasn't me!"
"Hey, at least you won't have to call pest control for the next five years."
And on and on it went. I hid my head under the pillow, then the mattress, then moved into the closet for the remainder of the day.

I so want to be one of those girls, the ones that can fart in public and burp The Star Spangled Banner and announce to a party full of beautiful people, "I'm out--gotta drop the kids off at the pool." But I can't. Blame it on modesty, on pre-post-feminist brainwashing or whatever, but I just can't. I turn the faucet on when I pee. I never do number two except in my own humble can (which wreaks havoc on the pipes during travel.) I say "Excuse me," and cover my mouth.

So what exactly is my id up to?

Get Right!

The other day, over dozens of beers, a couple buddies and I -- four guys and one female -- were trying to come up with the definitive list of "celebrities we would literally give a good chunk of our lives to bang." After hours of names and countless notes scratched on hundreds of napkins, it came down to J-Lo.

Fuck all your rocket science and Chinese robot technology; Jennifer Lopez is the single most perfect fucking element ever put forth on this Earth. God's honest truth, if The Powers That Be informed me that I could experience fifty seconds in which Ms. Lopez would use my face as her personal Slip N' Slide, but when that fifty seconds was up I would instantly have my testicles ripped to shreds by a couple of crazed snow leopards, I have to say I'd consider it.

Fuck all, I'd do it.

Kinky 2.0

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On the well-beaten path of Wham/Bam/Thank You Ma'am, we've all either asked or volunteered to take a few detours. Meaning that, while you'll ultimately end up in Orgasmopolis, you may take a few surface streets and back roads instead of the usual straight shot down Missionary Turnpike.
1. Rough-Housing/Spanking
None of this soft-lighting, kinda-out-of-focus, soothing Kenny G soundtrack bullshit for us, right? We wanna be fucked to Korn, slammed up against the wall, maybe knock over a few bookshelves. I consider the night a total wash if the neighbors don't call the police. With regards to spanking, it's hard to mess up. Just find two ass cheeks and slap the shit outta them. Not rocket science. However, I personally prefer my corporal punishment a little south of the tailbone, with the emphasis on quality as opposed to quantity. Otherwise I may have a flashback of the time I was disciplined for whacking my brother upside the head with my barbie doll, and that, frankly, is a turn off.
2. In Thru The Out Door
I'm skipping oral because come on, that's as standard now as AC in new cars. So let's continue our fixation of the gluteous maximus, shall we? This usually takes some prodding (yes, pun intended) and the mandatory use of lube. People, we're not in the dark ages, let's use common sense here. No need to walk like an ironing board on stilts the next day. Now, whilst a guy's eyes may not light up like a kid's on Christmas morn when you whip out your handy-dandy giant dildo (or maybe they do?), a strategically-placed finger can be quite effective. Thanks to those brave movie pioneers like Seann William Scott, "milking the prostrate" has become as mainstream as Emo music and Mojitos. Right? Right?
3. Role-Playing
This usually evolves from the giggly, drunken return to the apartment after that crazy Halloween party--remember, the one where you dressed up as that Catholic School Girl? Wasn't that a HOOT?!? So, where's that costume, anyway? It's packed away upstairs? Well, why don't we go get it? I know it's Sunday morning, but come on, it's just so...cute. Come on, please? WHY is it such a big deal to put it on? No, I'm not weird! You know what, forget it. Just forget it. I'm out. No, fuck YOU! **Slam.**
4. Third Party Endorsements
From what I've heard, when introducing the threesome into your daily bag of tricks, it's better to bring along someone who has no connection to either party instead of, say, Gina from Accounts Payable, as cute as she is. It's the kind of experience that should be recalled from memory only; fondly, of course, but with no regrets or complications. How do you find this fantastic, fun-loving, ready-for-anything individual? In the Yellow Pages, of course! Here's a hint: look under "E". And don't forget to tip, or her bouncer could get ugly.

Here's to You and Your Skills

I'm not a smashing lay. There, I've said it.

Of course, over the years, some Kennettes have claimed otherwise. One even went so far as to declare me a "great fuck." But I know the truth. With my ridiculously undersized Irish pecker that kinda curves to the left, I can only do so much damage. And then there's my "hang time" which seems to max out at around 15.2 minutes.

But, man, can I eat pussy.

See, knowing full well that my screw skills weren't up to snuff, I focused on the tongue work. Years of practice and hundreds (or at least tens) of satisfied customers later, I feel fairly confident in my ability to bring a woman to parade-level intensity and joy with my mouth. The schlong, not so much. But the tongue; that's where it's at.

So, since today we're talkin' skills, feel free to rave on about your own skills in the comments section. Or just keep 'em to yourself, knowing full well that you rock the house.

Ariel gettin her flirt on

I heard somewhere (obviously a reliable source) that if you want to attract a guy's attention, you're supposed to lock eyes with him and stare for a good five seconds. I've attempted it a couple of times, and yeah, I don't think it works. I come off looking like a possible candidate for glaucoma, the autistic child, or just plain psycho. Guys at first will return the look (curiousity), then nervously glance away (fear), then look back (fascination of the abomination and confirmation of their fear) then quickly move to the other side of the room. Or, his wife and three children come running up to meet him. At any rate, I think I need to find a new groove.

Underwear Check

Okay, today's looking to be another steaming, muggy day in Boston. And I realize as I'm getting dressed for work... that I have no underwear. And I'm not one of those dudes who can pull a pair from the hamper and turn 'em inside out (at least not any more). So today is my first official "commando day" at the office. At least until I can get over to Kohls at lunch.

So, er... what kinda underwear are y'all wearin' today? Again, just call me Mr. Curious.

"Excuse me, do you work here?"

Vegas is one-stop shopping for whatever your little sicko psyche desires. Pancakes at 4:00 AM, or a mid-afternoon snack of a hog-tied spanking? While getting ready in your hotel room for a night on the town, do you want to watch "Waterboy" on Comedy Central, or "Boot Strap", an all-male cast portrayal of the army's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy? All these options and more are quite readily available. Yes, Astroglide is certainly on the room service menu, under "sides."

Still, I forget where I am when I go out in Vegas, and what's really out there. Dorothy on the Yellow Brick Road looks like a jaded truck-stop waitress compared to me. "Ooh, looky at the lights! Looky at all the people! Looky at that OUTFIT!"

So perhaps it was inevitable that I was mistaken for a hooker. Believe me, it's easy to do. Prostitution is illegal in LV, so don't look for skanky ho outfits like you wore last Halloween. They dress like you. Or me. Cute jeans, cute skirt, tank top. So anyway, we were at a bar and I was completely fascinated watching these girls work. They're in teams, and they tend to focus on older men. They'll sit at the bar, simply catch someone's eye, smile and say hello. Shit, that's me on an off night. Then the line: "Do you want to party?"

So there I am, staring at these girls, and staring at the yukky old men, when an old geezer approaches. Then another. "What, no?!?" One man retorts at my horrified face. He ambles off, then leaves not two mintues later with a hottie blonde. "You're beautiful?" the other guy says hopefully. "Uh, you're classy?" His efforts aren't wasted, however, as one of the working ladies hurries over to take my place.

I realize now I probably looked like a contestant on the Heidi Fleiss version of "The Apprentice." And yeah, I was definitely intrigued. But I think I'll leave it to the professionals. After all, I'm the sucker who does it for free.