Free Advice Fridays

To Ken & Ariel: My boyfriend and I started having sex a couple of months ago. However, no matter what he does, I can't seem to feel any pleasure from him, so now, he refuses to have sex at all. What can I do to actually be able to receive pleasure from him?

Ariel Says: Trade him in for a newer model, sugar! Nah, just kidding. But I need more specifics. How is he not giving you the ride of your life? Is it the size of the wave or the motion of the ocean? Are you lying there like a dead fish, counting the ceiling tiles as he puts in his three minutes of hard labor? Because sex, my dear, is a two-way street. It’s not all up to him. First, you need to find out what gives you pleasure. You know, shortness of breath, turns the tips of your ears red, makes your pulse do triple-time…Here’s a pop quiz: where are your erogenous zones? Where are his? I strongly suggest that you do some research and start getting some supplies. (Thanks to this amazing invention called “the internet”, you can now order this stuff online and it arrives in completely anonymous packaging! I swear, you’d think it was an order from Office Depot! Uh…BTW you might want to make sure it’s not delivered to your work.) Now, the next thing I want you to do is get together with your man and not have sex. Yup, you heard me right. I want you to do everything BUT—put on some Al Green, get to know each other’s bodies, discover each other’s secrets and desires, but NO SEX. Do this for about one week. You’ll have a PhD in Pleasure Priniciple, I gar-uhn-tee it.

Ken Says: Let’s take a few steps back a minute. For all our gusto and bravado, guys can be sensitive, too. Kick us in the nuts, and by god, we’re gonna fall over, possibly calling for our mothers. Likewise, if we’re enraptured by a particular female and get all caught up in those first magic months of dating, before the drunken fighting and death threats kick in, we’re gonna be at least a little concerned that our “performance” in the sack measures up. If you happened to address the issue with him by saying something like, “Is it in yet?” or “You sure you know how to use that thing?”, there’s a good chance your man may have retreated to the Island of HolyShitNowWhatDoIDo, where he’ll hang out until you toss him a line or show him the door. So why not suggest ways to spice things up. Saying something like, “You know, it would be totally hot if you put on this Batman mask and nailed me from behind, while we blast the Dead Kennedys on the stereo.” You never know what might trigger his inner wildebeest. And if all else fails, hit me up, because I’m totally down for that Batman mask shit.

The Future of Dating

This isn't a crotchety post about the "good old days" when dating meant you'd have to walk through 8 feet of snow uphill both ways just to meet someone, only to have them turn out heinously ugly and you still have to date for 3 years just to be polite. No, this is about how the fact of meeting someone has turned into such an online affair. Internet dating used to be the stuff of gimps and computer geeks, with a few goths and wiccans thrown in for good measure. Now, if you are single and not registered at one of the ubiquitous dating sites, people begin to wonder if you indeed play for the other team or are contemplating a life in the church (It could be the Church of 50 cats, Cases of Frosting and Housecoats, BTW.). Ha! You scoff. Ariel, I met my lova at the Quik-E-Mart. Or, we met in the self-help/spirituality/sexuality section at Border's. Yes, I'm sure you did. And then what did you do? You ran home and checked out his/her page on MySpace. Or FaceBook. Or Friendster (is anyone on that site anymore?). Or you boffed their avatar on Second Life to make sure y'all are truly compatible. Sometimes the web seems to be one giant version of Life's Cliff Notes--and I must admit in the case of the two-time felon with outstanding warrants and babies in several states, I'm grateful. But even though a blog can be a sliding-door to the soul, and "View my Pictures!" can speak a thousand words, aint nothing like real, living, breathing, unplanned, un-premeditated, acting and re-acting thang, baby.

Enough About Me. Have You Seen My Ass?

At what point does a red carpet photo op become a sort of bizarre OB-GYN exam? Because that seems to be where this "op" is heading. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. It's just that I've never seen such a blatant "anybody wanna get a shot of my ass" manuever. After hours at a downtown bar, maybe. But not, y'know, at the Grammy Awards.

That said, if this is just another step toward the "assing of America," then I'm all for it.

Package Inspection

Despite my advancing age and ever-more ravenous libido, I still don't check out the package. I mean, I CHECK OUT the package as in pulling a Helen Keller when we're making out at the end of our first date, but I never think to look at a dude's crotch in general, like on the T or when he's crossing the street or ordering bagels for his grandmother or whatever. Does anyone?

You Go With What You Know

You know, sometimes you just wake up on a Monday morning and the sun is shining and there are birds in the trees and the slightest trace of last night's Michelob still swimming through your blood and all you can think about is your favorite sexual position.

Mine? No question: the reverse cowgirl. I even like just saying it. Reverse cowgirl. Reverse cowgirl. Is there a band called Reverse Cowgirl? And if not, why the fuck not? Because there should be.

Anyway, that's what I'm all about today.

You?

Free Advice Fridays

Why does every guy have a "catch"? After almost giving up on meeting a normal dude in Boston, I finally scored a decent guy who is gainfully employed [not an "artist" or "musician" or "in between jobs" or "a wanna-be pro skateboarder"], owns a suit, opens doors for me and bought me roses on the first date! Two months in, though, and we're messing around when he tells me he wants to put his tongue up my ass. In fact, it turns out the only thing that gets him really hot is putting his tongue up my ass. A lot. I am NOT INTO THAT AT ALL and honestly don't need a guy's nose up my butt, thank you very much. Any way to wean him off it and not lose him?

Ken Says: The answer, in a nutshell, is no. You see, contrary to popular belief, guys can change. Unfortunately, most of this change is fueled by the desire for sex. For example, if we have an aversion to Thai food, but meet an incredibly hot chick who has the stuff six times a week, we can learn to tolerate it. Likewise, if we’re trying to hook up with a girl who has money and upper-crusty parents to impress, w e can ditch our Red Sox caps and do some of those “special” things, like shave, floss or put on underwear. On the other hand, if a guy’s into sticking his tongue up your ass, or dressing up as Darth Vader before mounting you, or playing “Kung Fu Fighting” in the background while you’re screwing, or anything else for that matter, it’s pretty much not going to change. We’ll take a bath, shave the goatee, or miss kickoff because you want to take your parents to Sunday brunch, but the one area where we can’t pull a 180 is sex. If we like it, we like it, and if you don’t wanna do it, then it’s back to the Cask n’ Flagon for us so we can find a girl who will.

Ariel Says: I love the fact that your "decent, normal" dude is an ass-licker. Sure, the artist or musician will start storing shit in your apartment and never buy you a meal or coffee, but at least those narcissistic fuckers are far too busy licking their own asses to bother with yours. Anyway. By the sound of it, you've attempted and failed to enjoy the sheer wonderment of a personal bidet. That's totally OK. But chances are you may not "wean him off of it." That sounds suspiciously mothering, as if you have a child who constantly plays with himself in public and you keep smacking his hand and saying "No!". A phrase comes to mind: "Don't deprive, replace." Take more risks with your sex life and start experimenting-flavored lotions, whipped cream, toys, fantasy, starting your very own adult film company-hey, whatever works for you. He may find another alternative that, while not as mind-blowing as that taste of heaven between your sweet cheeks, may still be something you both can enjoy.

Friends with Benefits

There's an old joke about the hooker who plies her wares upon an unsuspecting dude: "I will rock your world. We can screw, I can give you a blow job, we can do it from behind, anything you want."
"Anything I want, huh?" he asks.
"Yep, anything you could possibly wish for." she coos.
He thinks for a minute, then leans in and whispers in her ear: "Paint. My. House."

I laughed really loud when I heard this joke, which didn't go over well with the other church-goers at my great aunt's funeral. It just seemed like my perfect translation of "friends with benefits", although the rest of the western hemisphere has a different take. Which brings me to my next point. Some believe (and have written books on the topic) that hooking up and casual sex, the staple of many a college and off-campus housing, is harmful to young women. Because, instead of getting their houses painted, they're getting wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am and missing out on the pleasures of courtship and meaningful relationships. My opinion? I'd love to have my house painted. I also believe it's a choice, just like everything else in this here land of freedom. I think of what mamma said: "Just 'cuz everyone else is jumping off a bridge...don't mean you can't stand on the ledge and enjoy the view." If you want a relationship, then go find one, and don't settle for less. If you want to hook up, no strings attached, I'm sure many would happily oblige. Readers?

Moment of Clarity

There is a point upon orgasm, where the universe has essentially turned inward upon itself and time seems to float with the angels on a head of a pin, that I am seized with the following revelations:
-near N = 10,000, about one in nine numbers is prime, whereas near N = 1,000,000,000, only one in every 21 numbers is prime.
-"Desperate Housewives" will continue to lose ratings and will be relegated to a Friday night slot after a rerun of "1 vs. 100."
-I don't think I really want to date, sleep with, or be associated with this person anymore, as he is unhealthy, immature and has serious mother issues.

Alas, the moment will pass, and I return to my former state of blissful blond ignorance and cheerful denial...until the next big O.

Walking the Talk

So I spend my Saint Patty's Day in Providence with a few college pals and at one point in the evening, I find myself the only guy at a table with six women discussing their blowjob prowess. Not a bad place to be, if I do say so -- beats the hell out of hearing my Aunts Netty and Helen debating good deals on panty liners. But in my experience --meager as it may be -- the girls who talk a good game aren't typically all that spectacular when it comes down to action.

Free Advice Fridays

OK Kids, let 'er rip: what's your take?

Ken/Ariel:
What is the distinction between "Kinky" and "Perverted"? Is there a line? Have either of you crossed that line? What was the kinkiest thing you've done, and what's the most perverted thing you've done? Can you ever go back to "Kinky" once the "Perv" line is crossed? Just curious.

Ariel Says: I believe there was a time when “kinky” and “perverted” meant the same thing. You know, when Leave it to Beaver actually referred to a TV show and “making love” meant whispering sweet nothings a chaste four inches from your lover’s ear. Now, in our cynical, desensitized society, kinky means the brightly lit, Disney-esque Hustler store on Sunset, and perverted means you’ll be busted shortly on Dateline NBC’s “To Catch a Predator” segment. So, no, I haven't crossed that line, and I ain’t touching “perverted” (or a pervert, for that matter) with a ten-foot pole. But I’ll be happy to expound on “kinky.” Let’s see, there was the time I had sex on the roof of the Hyatt and the hot wax spilled on the tar shingles and I had sticky black gunk stuck to my ass for weeks. Or the time I insisted that my boyfriend call me “Alice” and I called him “Mel” and he chased me with his spatula. Or the time me and an entire cadre of former professional cheerleaders decided to re-enact Apocalypse Now wearing nothing but lace bobby socks and strategically-placed “Support our Troops” ribbons… all quite normal, really. By the way, to answer your last question: Hell-to-the-N-O.

Ken Says: I don’t know if anyone will ever agree to what “kinky” and “perverted” entail, but here’s my take. The term “kinky” tends to evoke experimentalism; for example, the use of handcuffs or roleplaying (“the cop and the cocaine-fueled hooker” is a good one) or fifty metric tons of Scotts Anti-Weed Fertilizer to liven things up in the bedroom. “Perverted,” on the other hand, seems a bit more deep-rooted. Like only desiring women who look like your Aunt Bessie or insisting that the only way sex works for you is if it takes place in a twelve-foot fiberglass tank filled with grape soda and electric eels. But, as with so much in life, these things can be so personalized and unique that your chances of finding anyone who, say, shares your affinity for dressing up as a Minnesota Vikings cheerleader and pressing your balls in a waffle iron are pretty unlikely. I once dated a girl who got off on straddling my face with her pants on, then asking me to “chew” my way to Glory Road. Needless to say, the idea of eating a pair of pants wasn’t quite what I had in mind at the start of the evening, so things unraveled pretty quickly. All I can really give you in this department is the following handy tip: If a girl takes you back to her place and insists that her two roommates join in, that’s kinky. If one of those roommates is a wild boar or Jim Belushi, that’s perverted.

Red-Faced and Red-Handed

As a guy who will never learn to stop committing this blunder in the workplace, would you ladies please tell me how you always seem to know precisely when the guy you pass in the hall is going to turn around to check out your ass? Because 9 times out of 10, that guy is me, and despite my best efforts to camouflage my intentions -- including such manuevers as the "turning around to look at something before you even enter my field of vision so that I don't actually have to turn around and you, in fact, just walk right in front of me" and the "counting an extra ten seconds so as to not be cuaght turning around imemdiately after I pass you" -- I always get caught. Are the perverts just a bit easier to pick out of a crowd? Or are all us guys just dogs? Head-swiveling, ass-ogling dogs?

Laughter is the Best Aphrodisiac. Or Something Like That.

In my book, a sense of humor goes a heckuva long way. It can turn the most ugly of frogs to the most charming of princes, a short bald dude into the cutest thing I've seen since Furbie. And I'm obviously not alone--most comics have totally hot girlfriends. However, being in LA, the mecca of self-medicating, I've learned that comics can also be the most self-destructive, insecure, fucked-up maniacs on the planet. And despite my best efforts to maintain the funny guy fantasy, it can come to a crashing halt right quick. Case in point, I met this dude, Eric. He was a struggling comedian, just starting to make the rounds of open mike nights, etc. But man, he was a crack up. I'd nearly wet my pants every time we hung out (I said WET MY PANTS, sickies) with his hysterical stories. Then he asked me to one of his shows. I was flattered and put on my best groupie/slutty comic arm candy outfit I could find and went.
Well. Eric did a good job, but he closed with this routine about his ex-girlfriend that was so sick and twisted I briefly considered running for the exit. Something about two blow-up dolls, a plunger, a midget and the Special Olympics. All I could think of was, He...thought THIS up? How long before I start fielding these kinds of requests? Needless to say, I thanked him for his performance and politely asked him to never call me again. All you Dane Cook lovers, keep that in mind.

But What If I Get Into An Accident?

Those wise words still echo in my head from gramma about clean underwear. I presume she thought my fifteen minutes of fame would coincide with some sort of horrible catastrophe in which I would be too incapacitated to tell the EMTs not remove my pants on national television. And believe me, I think about that when I haven't done laundry in two weeks and the dull white granny pants shoved into the corner of my lingerie drawer seem to be the only choice.
Now, it appears, there are other options. I personally have not been able to go commando for obvious reasons (see paragraph 1) unless it is an extremely extenuating circumstance (i.e., leaving boy's house and absolutely cannot find my goddamn thong.) This fabulous new invention seems to be the training wheels version of the full monty, the natural progression from the dental floss I usually sport; however, seeing as I haven't worn a maxi (or mini) pad since 1989, I'm not sure if I'll be their next customer/convert.

Must See TV

As if I needed another reason to move to Japan, check this action from one of their TV gameshows:



Fuck The Price is Right and Alex Trebek and that goddam Wheel. This is the stuff we need to save commercial television.

Performance

Today, we're all about bachelor/bachelorette party hi-jinks. And I got a pretty good one.

A couple years ago I'm at a bachelor party, doing typical bachelor party stuff: beating up priests, knocking over mailboxes, slipping roofies to giraffes at the Roger Williams Park Zoo. Then the inevitable trip to "Boy's Town" in Providence, where the strip joints are plentiful.

The plan was to have the man of honor get into one of those "rasslin" matches in which strippers beat the piss out of men both young and old while the rest of us point and laugh our asses of and secretly film portions for use as blackmail or ruining political aspirations. So me and a few other guys cover the advance scouting, heading to the ring and scoping out the talent. One girl, a six-foot blonde beauty in American flag short-shorts sees me drooling and flips over, wrapping her legs around my head in a perfect scissorhold. This is the girl, I figured.

But our buddy never arrives. Turns out he was onto the plan, and embarassed at the prospects. To the point that while me and the advance crew are scouting potential sparring partners, he's arguing with the other half of the crew, storming out of the club and back to the van. So now we've got a group of ten guys who want to see a guy get knocked around by strippers, with no guy to throw in the ring. So I take another look at Blondie's shorts and say, for reasons I still can't understand, "I'll do it."

So before I know it I'm "backstage," slipping out of my clothes and into these wrestling trunks and some guy's asking me how I want to be introduced to the crowd. Seconds later, I'm being ushered out to the ring as my drunken buddies and a bunch of inebrieated strangers howl their approval. And why shouldn't they? I'm the motherfucker who's about to cash away the last vestiges of his pride, no matter how meager.

Next thing I know, Blondie's on a top rope, jumping at me, knocking me to the mat, which is covered in shaving cream. So as we glide across the mat, my back subjected to second-degree friction burns, any and all sexy thoughts are banished. Now I'm just trying to survive.

It ain't easy. Blondie just keeps barking orders at me. "Get on your knees!" "Bend over!" "Lay down." I just do what she says and get kicked, smacked and flattened six ways to Sunday. And did I mention the shaving cream? Because by now I've ingested so much of it, I can feel my lungs expanding. In the crowning maneuver she flips over, knocks me on my ass, and, facing my feet, slams her ass down onto my face. Typically a cause for celebration in my world, yes, but her ass cheeks only pushed more shaving cream up my nostrils, effectively cutting off my air supply. So I'm gasping and writhing as the crowd eats it up, and all I can think of is how my mother's gonna react when she hears that her son died from shaving cream asphyxiation with a stripper sitting on his face.

Just as I'm hearing my Uncle Len tell me to follow the light, there's a bell. And she's off me. And I gasp and wheeze and cough up soft clouds of Barbasol. And I slide my ass back to the showers and get dressed. My friends approve. The night is saved.

So that's mine. Feel free to add your own.

Freaky Friday

Happy Friday, everyone. Thought I'd start off today's post with a jovial anecdote of the freaky dude I dated not too long ago. Seemed nice, decent package, could talk in complete sentences...but he had this thing about feet. Not a foot fetish, but the exact opposite. He HATED feet. Any type, big or small, pedicured or au natural. If your feet came within a foot of him (haw haw) he totally wigged out. Like would run screaming from the room. I learned this the hard way when we were snuggling on the couch and I made the fatal mistake of running my bare foot (quite cute and normal, may I add) along his lower leg. You would have thought I had casually taken out an ice pick and started carving out his freckles. Needless to say, that relationship did not have a long shelf life.
Then there was the time that Enrique, a hot-blooded latino man, proudly furnished a pair of nipple clips on our first date. Or the guy who asked me, in all sincerity, to come over at 2AM, break into his house, leave all the lights off, not say a single word, and assault him in the bedroom. Oh jeez, here I go blabbing on and on about me--tell me, how are you?

Not Tonight, Honey...

At my Holy Communion, my Aunt Marie gave me a card, $20, and this advice: "Men are only interested in one thing," she said ominously, giving me the mal occhio with a powder-blue shadowed eye. "Candy bars?" I offered. That's sure as heck what I was interested in. She looked at me as if I had suddenly turned into a weevil. "SEX!" She hissed. I shrugged and went in search of cake. But I never forgot her words. In fact, in later years they would bring me great joy. However, sometimes I wish Aunt Marie was still around so I could ask her, what do I make of the man...who is NOT REALLY INTERESTED IN SEX?!?!?!?