Rules of Engagement, Number 469

So I'm out last night after work and I run into the Kenette v2002. She, recognizing me for the hobo that I am, offered up some of her pizza and beer. And within a half hour we were on the Last Train to Sloshedville and reminiscing about "back in the day."

That's all well and good. It's nice to sit down with your former paramours and have a civil conversation that doesn't involve knifeplay. But at one point, I noticed she had a fine string of cheese hanging from her mouth down her chin. Ever the gentleman, I moved to whisk it away, and as my hand approached, she moved and took my finger into her mouth, instantly applying a four second "finger smoothie." She then giggled and got back to munching her pizza. I sat with a flustered look on my face and my cock slowly snaking its way up my trousers.

Ladies, what I need to tell you is that the "finger smoothie" must only be used on those occasions in which you actually plan to give the owner of said finger an actual blowjob. When done purely for the amusement of it, as was the case with Kenette v2002, it's just a tease. A damn good one, might I add. But still a tease.

The "finger smoothie," at least in my book, is always tantamount to the real McCoy. Am I right?

Testosterone Fix

I love my girls. I really do. Going out, staying in, shooting the shit, swapping war stories. But sometimes my life gets out of whack; too much Pussy Galore, too little Dirk Diggler. So, I have to go to where the boys are. The gym is a good start, esp. the free weights. A hockey game. Yeah, maybe sometimes I alter my daily commute to go past a construction site. Hey, did you know my local community college has a Rugby team, and that they practice on Saturdays at 10:00 AM? I do.

Do guys do the same thing? I don't mean pay-as-you-go pussy like Gentlemen's Clubs, I mean actual, non-premeditated chick gatherings. Somehow, I can't see guys crashing the monthly book club or the latest "Cupcakes and Sweets" cooking class. Ken, help me out here.

Lost. Please Send Women.

So, it's been five weeks since I've had my face sat on.

In Ken terms, that's like a normal human being going a couple days without water. Or Dom DeLuise going an hour without a fresh-baked ham.

So it got me thinking about the longest dry-spell I've endured over the last, say, ten years. I'm talking no nookie whatsoever. And I think it comes out to about five months. Five months! Christ, even guys in prison get more action than that. Granted, it's not the kind of action I'm looking for. But still...

Anyway, can anyone top that? What's your personal dry-spell record? And, er, if you're female, will you be in Boston anytime soon?

Still the Greatest. Football. Highlight. Ever.

See, when I pull this sorta shit, it's usually after last call at the Cask n Flagon, or in some dingy hotel bar where I'm staying on my latest business trip. And the only people I have to answer to the next day are the current Kenette and my conscience. Joe, unfortunately, pulled it on national TV. Quite old, but still a classic.

10 Fuckin Years, Man

Not only is the fast-approaching Turkey Day a frightening glimpse into our gene pool and our inevitable overweight, velour track-suit wearing older selves, it's also a chance to catch up with those losers from high school. Remember Bobby, who used to beat you up after 4th period? Yeah, he's an investment banker. And Michelle, the ditzy head cheerleader who stole your boyfriend? She's happily married and starting her own Web 2.0 business. Yay, good times!
So keep us posted on all your reunions, homecomings, and local dive bar brawls that always give the town cops a hearty chuckle. And Happy Thanksgiving!

Men and Women: Not So Different

One of my favorite pastimes is sitting in bars, airports, donut shops or the local True Value Hardware store and, as couples walk in and out, asking myself, "How in the fuck did he land her?"

For guys, it seems an easy game; at least here in Boston, the ratio of hot chicks to average Joes is so off-the-charts (thanks, local colleges!), that the chances an ordinary dink has for landing something way outside his normally accepted range is quite, quite good. Apparently, as I discovered during this weekend's pub crawl with a non-Kenette galpal, the flip side of this for women is the good-looking guy who saddles himself with the girl who won't stop talking. "Look at her, she doesn't let him get a word in edgewise," was her common refrain as she scoped out couples at the bar. "What a bitch. Why is he with her?"

So, it seems, we are not so different.

Ladies Go Crazy for A Sharp. Dressed. Man.

Ooh yeah. And lemme tell ya, it's hard to find in this here perpetual sunshiny state of flip flops and board shorts. On dates, guys wear jeans. If it's a nice place, nice jeans (i.e., have been washed in the past 48 hours.) So when that rare opportunity comes along - a wedding, a job interview, or, God forgive me, the funeral of great Aunt Bernice, I relish the chance to let mine eyes see the glory and my estrogen levels hit the cruise control.

Mmm....

Always Bring the Sexy

There's a woman in my office who's about seven months pregnant. She doesn't go out for lunchtime walks with her pals anymore. She can't huff it up the stairs to get that package to Accounting like she used to. And she's out of her cube to hit the john about eight times a day.

But damned if she's not still wearin' a thong. Every goddam day. And that's pretty fucking awesome.

To all those women -- pregnant and otherwise -- wearing thongs. Like right now. Like at this very moment. I salute you.

Why didn't You Just Give Me The Number To Joe's Pizza?

A, muttering: OK, here we go, deep breath. Aint no thang, guys do this all the time. You are The Bad Ass who asked for his number, and that man is just waiting by the phone for you to call. You hear me? Might as well make his day. That's right bitch, you're my good deed.
*starts to dial*
A: Ooh, wait, is that my call waiting?
*call is disconnected*
A: Guess not. OK, take two.
*starts to dial*
A: wait, maybe it's too late to call...
*call is disconnected*
A: 7:36 PM...well, maybe I'd be interrupting dinner. Wait a fucking minute, I'm not calling Matlock, now get some cojones and dial that goddamn number and get this over with!!!
*starts to dial*
A, muttering: You are a Hot Rock Goddess. You are a Bitch in Babe's Clothing. You Are..uh....Pat Benetar?
*one ring* *two rings* *three rings*
A: I guess he's not home. OK, Plan B, leave a message. Wait, where are my goddamn notes?!?
Female Voice: Hello?
A, in head: SHIT!
Female Voice: Uh, He-llooo?
A, in head: OK, maybe it's a female roommate?
A: Yes, hi...um...is...John there?
FV, very hostile: Who's this?
A, in head: Fuck, she wants my name! OK, hang up. No wait, don't hang up, there's caller ID, she'll call back and if I don't pick up she'll get my name on my voice mail...fuck goddamn cell phones, fuck modern technology, why can't we go back to rotary dialing and public payphones? I bet all those obscene phone callers would back me up...
FV: I SAID, Who's this?
A, in head: OK, maybe it's the wrong number. There's a lot of Johns in the world. Where's that stupid cocktail napkin?
*tries to read the sodden, red-stained white cocktail napkin with blurred ballpoint pen scribbled on it*
A: is this...310-569-225....8?
FV: Yeah, and you asked for John, and I wanna know who the FUCK this is.
A: *mind is gone* Eaaggrg...
*synapse fires in frontal lobe*
A, in fake southern drawl: Yeah, hello, this is Tammy Lynn and I'm calling from Pfizer to see if John received the free Viagra starter pack he requested?

Wrists Don't Lie

So this chick from New Jersey is suing a Manhattan bar because she slipped and tore up her knee during a "Shake It Like Shakira" contest. Alls I can say is, if this woman sees any coin, you can bet your sweet ass I'll be contacting my lawyers as well. The carpal tunnel syndrome I've endured from masturbating furiously to her "Hips Don't Lie" video should be worth a couple thou. Easily.

[PS: If you're starting to see a total strokage theme throughout the last few posts... really, it's just a coincidence. I mean, I do actually come up for air and leave the house once in a while. Seriously.]

Why Ariel Won't Date Models

1. Their place of business is generally filled with that .0002% of the female population with no body fat, aboobsolutely spectacular tits and ass, and the masturbation tools for men everywhere (including Ken.)
2.I still find something effeminate about a guy (think Zoolander) who struts and poses. Now, score a TD or get in a bar fight--ooh yeah.
3. No matter how much makeup, exfoliation, waxing, seaweed wraps--he'll always be prettier than me.
4.Every time we'd go out, people would stop and stare. And think, what the HELL is he doing with her? How'd she land him? And then, I'd have to constantly take off my shoes and throw down on some bitch that thinks she's a more suitable match.
5. He wouldn't date me anyway.

There Goes My Morning

Well, if you'll excuse me, I have to go masturbate myself into unconsciousness.

::Places "closed" sign in window.::

Get Yer Patriotic Duty On

Hi kids,
Quick post as I have to go to the polling station...what exactly is a "glory hole" anyways?

Perhaps Ariel will get lucky with an occasional-bathing, seething Che-t-shirt cylist with a propensity for sit-ins...or will get to anger-fuck an uptight evangelical who wants me to marry, carry his child and find him a boyfriend...

Used People

Back in the "college days," a pretty girl who dated a buddy of mine was dumped by said buddy. And part of her revenge strategy included me.

Turns out she figured one sure way to piss the guy off was through me, one of his posse, so to speak. So she'd get all up in my shit at parties, tongue stuffed in my ear, hand wangling its way down to my crotch, her ass grinding not-so-playfully against me at every corner. It was a pretty good show, and I fell right in. It didn't help out my friendship any, truth be told; on a number of occasions he cornered me, threatening my life or better if I didn't leave her alone. But, shit, I figured... he dumped her. That's fair game. Also, I was but a college dude being offered free pussy -- a helpless pawn if ever one existed. What did I care if her interest in dry-humping me to the wall was only visible when he was in earshot?

Anyway, this went on for a few weeks, eventually leading to my bedding her (or, rather, her bedding me)... though likely only so word would get back to him. Soon, he'd had enough, realizing the vixen he'd let slip through his fingers, and asked back in. She, it turns out, was more than willing to re-negotiate. And I was history.

Yes, gentle readers, I was used for sex. And it was fucking awesome.

Oh Dear.

Meggo Productions
You promised yourself, didn't you. This year was gonna be different. After all, Halloween was on a weekday this year. On a Tuesday, no less, not even close to a weekend. You were going to go to the party, make an appearance, stay for an hour, have ONE drink.

Okay, maybe two.

Now it's 7:56AM, your asshole boss scheduled the monthly staff meeting for 9:00AM today, and you're miles from home, lying next to what looks like a green blob, but was formerly the Jolly Green Giant (even THAT was a disappointment, eh?). Your head is throbbing like 75 jackhammers are fucking your eyeballs and your formerly cute "blue fairy" outfit is now also covered in green, which you will have to somehow put on, and walk out the door to get home.

Oh, and he lives on a city street which has the population equivalent of Times Square.

Have a great day.