Happy Monday

I caught "Fear" on cable over the weekend - a ridiculous movie in every possible way, and thankfully its stars have moved on to bigger and better things. But still, I have to admit, I loved Mr. Wahlberg at his townie, beefcake, funky bunch best - reminds me of all the "good kids" in Southie I used to date who would kiss their grandmothers on the way to robbing the packie store. And hey, if nothing else, the scene of Marky-Mark smacking and squeezing Alyssa Milano's bare ass is probably worth sitting through the whole movie.

Men and Women Are Different, Volume 9921-K

What is that bizarre bit of circuitry that women seem to have that allows them to switch a guy from "someone we want to screw" to "someone we want to hang out with an drink tea"?

A couple nights back, I met up with a former Kenette for pizza and a couple beers. We hadn't seen each other in a while -- least a year. Back in the day, we were both in kinda/sorta relationships, but still couldn't keep our hands off each other. Whenever we got together, we'd have a few beers, then talk would instantly turn to my mouth on her, then talk would become reality. And I mean heated, Mick-Jagger-on-groupie style reality.

Over the days leading up to our dinner, I figgered there may be a chance for a repeat performance. But within the first few minutes after her arrival, I knew it wasn't happenin'. Lots of talk about sports and her new job. And the new guy she kinda/sorta likes. And how her mom just got settled into a new place in Florida. My mind's trolling the gutter; hers is in Sunshine City.

And after a while, I felt a bit embarassed about having to hold down my hard-on with both hands. She had grown up and moved on, and I was still the booze-adled pervert, desperate for another taste.

I sent her an e-mail the next day, saying how awesome she looked and how great it was to see her and, again, how fucking awesome she looked. And she just responded with a, "great to see you! Man, was that pizza good" sorta response.

So I've gone from "fuck" to "friend." And I move on. I keep movin' on.

If Two People Have Sex and No One Remembers, Did it Really Happen?

I have a confession to make, dear readers. Your Ariel may not actually be a spectacularly memorable lay. I'll explain. I'm at the gym, sweating my (figurative) balls off on one of those masochistic stair/treadmill/eliptical thingys, and suddenly my spidey sense tingles. Oh shit. 12 O'clock - a guy I hooked up with a couple months ago and haven't seen or spoken to since - walks into the gym. He then walks over in my direction--I quickly pretend to become enraptured with CNN--and HE GETS ON THE MACHINE RIGHT NEXT TO ME. I look over in disbelief. He casually glances over then programs his workout. So there we are, barely a foot apart, two bodies that had once been spastically entwined, swirling around in sweat and swapping DNA, now calmly climbing imaginary stairs as "Toxic" by Britaney Spears belts out of the gym speakers. What do I do? Do I stare meaningfully at him (and risk flying off the machine) until the synapse fires with recognition? Do I re-introduce myself? Wait - we were both pretty drunk. Maybe he was in a black out? A couple of quick looks in his direction. He looks back, blankly, then watches ESPN. I suddenly realize--HE HAS NO IDEA WHO I AM. A sense of relief fills my soul. This is kinda fun. It's like it never happened. I'm like a born-again virgin! Hey, too bad this doesn't work with boyfriends.

Yikes!

For my final YouTube post for the month, I present this masterpiece.

I have two questions: How does the guy filming this actually get away with it? I mean, sure, if you have an arse like that girl and wear pants emblazoned with "Bootylicious," you're probably pretty clear on your position as a perv magnet. But still...

Second question: When you pleasure yourself to a YouTube clip so much that your wrist starts to spray blood... that's bad, right?

Best Blow Job in Town

Hey guys, tired of good 'ol Sam the barber with his 1950's hairstyles and 1978 well-thumbed Playboys? Here's the place for you. I think they do haircuts, among other things. And yes, of course it's only in LA. I presume it would be burnt down anywhere else.

Free Advice Friday: Lesbian in Training?

Dear K&A: Whenever my girlfriend gets drunk, she's all over her roommate. Her roommate's a girl also, which seems pretty cool, but she's sometimes so busy making out with and feeling up her roomie she almost forgets I'm in the room. I used to think it was for show, but she does it even when it's just the three of us hanging out. Should I be nervous that my girlfriend's gonna switch teams on me?

Ariel Says: You know, The New York Times was talking about your girlfriend just the other day. Well, about her female sexuality, at least. See, what lipstick lesbian flick fans and practically any nightclub-goer these days knows, female sexuality tends to be more fluid. Many things can turn us on, even if we’re only betrothed to the throbbing member. It doesn’t mean we all go and make out with our roommates when we’re bored or when Grey’s Anatomy is a repeat, but it does mean there’s a greater percentage that it’ll happen on our end before it happens on your end. Anyway, this really has nothing to do with the price of rice in China or your question. I think your girlfriend is bisexual. She has double the chances of getting a date on Saturday night than you or I, according to Woody Allen. Pretty cool. But that also means you have twice the competition. Keep your eyes open and if she starts to prefer “staying home and hanging out with the roomie” to your company, I think the writing may be on the wall.

Ken Says: Dude, the only thing you should be concerned about is that she might start feeling up her roomie and you’re not around to see it. Honestly, who the fuck complains that his girlfriend makes out with other nubile young women? I know many guys who would kill to be in your position, and most would be trying to find a way to take it all to the next level, orchestrating some bizarre scenario involving a kiddie pool full of whipped cream, dog leashes, fireworks, leather straps and masks, Crisco oil, cheerleader outfits and a full-on game of “hide the fist.” You should be, too. And if you’re not taking it upon yourself to film it all to share with your buddies later, then you’re not much of a friend at all.

Switch it Up

At times this blog becomes a ridiculously overt study between the difference of the sexes - I post something about important relationship issues, or discuss feelings and emotions using as many high-scoring Scrabble words as possible. Ken will post an ass pic. And perhaps complain about his masturbatory injuries. So today I'm mixing it up, courtesy of You Tube. Expect a doctoral thesis on the primate behavior of human sexuality from Ken tomorrow.

New Fabulous Obsession

That girl from two posts ago? Forget it. I'm over her.

The new object of my affection -- and the reason I'm going to die of carpal tunnel syndrome -- is here.

Also, how exactly did women show off their asses to the entire free world before YouTube? Clearly, this is why Al Gore and Mike Nesmith invented the Internet.

We Met At...

After one of my friends met her new guy on a street corner (she was walking her schnauzer, he was driving westbound on Oak) and another friend found love at the post office (she was filing her tax returns, he was buying Star Wars stamps), I'll think I'll start to embrace those seemingly tedius, mundane activities that encompass my daily life. So today, look for me in the "feminine products" aisle, at Staples buying toner, or at Costco buying 5,000 rolls of toilet paper. I'll be waaaaiiiting!

Putting Out on the First Date? Why Not?

In my opinion, it just cuts to the chase.

Consider this: Relationships aren’t all about sex, but that’s a big part of it. I mean, you wouldn’t date and/or marry someone who wasn’t a spectacularly good lay, correct?

Now, there are certain things about people – let’s call them “personal quirks” – that might take a while to reveal themselves. Maybe she likes to pick fights with cab drivers when she’s drunk. Maybe he likes to paint “Red Sox 4 Eva” on his ass and sprint naked through the yard after each Sox victory. Maybe she keeps voodoo dolls of all her ex-boyfriends in the attic. All potential deal breakers – but also the sort of things that don’t become apparent ‘til a few weeks or months into the relationship. But a bad fuck? You’ll be able to spot that sucka the minute you get rolling.

So while some might consider you “slutty” for screwing on the first date, I would prefer to think of you as a cautious consumer, who’s simply performing responsible due diligence. Party on.

Revenge of the Hotties?

In our exhaustive search of all things relevant and informative to our readership, we came across this interesting article in The New York Times regarding a possible female version of Viagra, accidentally discovered in, of all things, a skin tanning agent. Prepare yourselves, guys.

In other news (and perhaps the oracle of a post-female arousal drug future), here's a site for Jim Belushi, Kevin James, Flavio Briatore, George Costanza, and possibly you. Submissions welcome!

The Woman I'm Going To Marry...

...or at least jerk off to like a fiend for the next three hours is right here:

And Now For Something Completely Different

This has absolutely nothing to do with sex, relationships, or advice (well, perhaps advice for ESL students) but I just found myself completely mesmerized (and Ken may find himself oddly aroused?).

Free Advice Fridays: The Killer Head Question

Dear Ken and Ariel: This guy I messed around with told me I give "killer head". What is really meant by that? And how many different types of head are there anyway, cuz I hear there's good head, great head, "Oh my God" head, etc etc.

Ariel Says: "Killer head" means: "more, please." As in, you are the BJ queen, you are the finest pair of luscious lips since Angelina to grace his lowly member, you are God's gift to fellatio. In other words, he'll say anything, ANYTHING to keep you servicing the Lil' General. Quite clever, really. Because most of us go, "yeah, damn straight! I am the most fantastic deep throat this side of Linda Lovelace! Now pass me that pipe!" You, on the other hand, eschewed the lockjaw and decided to question his overzealous praise. Anyway, I'll let Ken expound on the virtues of magnificent blow jobs, but I think it basically boils down to this. Good head: you actually gave him a blow job. Great head: you didn't use your teeth, and you (pretended) to swallow. "Oh my God" head: you're a denture wearer with more suction than a Dirt Devil.

Ken Says: A friend of mine used to claim that there's no such thing as a bad blowjob. I beg to differ. Contrary to popular opinion, there is such thing as the male version of "the tap," in which we kinda gently tap our female cohort on the head and ask her to come back up for air because whatever she's doing down there is rapidly taking on the appearance of an amateur open mike night. As I see it, a girl's gotta have the skills, certainly -- I don't want to be the one walking some thirty year old liberal arts major through her first knobjob. But if a girl's into it, as in seems very, very eager to yummy down on what I'm offering and makes like she won’t stop until I've got bedsheets sucked up my ass, then chances are I'm gonna walk away from it feeling as if I've just experienced killer head. But let's be honest, the best way for me to answer this question is to experience your capabilities first hand and then offer my professional dissertation as to which camp you fall into. I'll meet you after work at the Rattlesnake.

Does Absence make the Heart, or just the Libido, Grow Fonder?

Long-distance relationships are the stuff of 15 seconds of fame: you scramble to get waxed, shaved, exfoliated, tanned, perfect hair/makeup/lingerie, your Kama Sutra and KY at the ready, and then bam! Suddenly it's all over and you're back to your boring existence, glumly counting the days/weeks/months(!) until next time. It is indeed like a live network broadcast - everything must go as planned. No fights, perfect sex, perfect activities planned for the next 24-48 hours, perfect food, perfect conversation, perfect weather, you name it. Expectations lie somewhere between Saturn and Jupiter, so God forbid anything goes slightly awry.
But what happens when you finally live in the same time zone, same zip code, same area code, same spot and he/she becomes part of your boring existence?

The Power of Impossibly Hot Women

So over the weekend I was at a party in magical Providence, Rhode Island. And there was this impossibly hot blonde there. And through the course of the evening, myself and everyone else in attendance witnessed her:

-- drink two entire bottles of Night Train.
-- blow her nose into her hand and casually wipe her hand on her jeans.
-- tip herself to one side while playing cards to let loose a prodigious fart.
-- explain to everyone that she had a "major wedgie" and continuously pull at the ass of her jeans.
-- eat an entire bag of Jax, leaving orange residue on her fingers, face and shirt.
-- fall down in the hall, claw her way to the bathroom, and vomit.
-- attempt to rub vomit out of her hair with a square of toilet paper.
-- crank "Fergalicious" on the stereo, start dancing and trip over an ottoman.

And, yet, every guy there still wanted to fuck her. Myself included.

What Dreams May Come

I had a dream last night that involved, among other things, an underground lake, escaping from the law, several Munchkins, getting into a fight with Melissa from third grade, and having sex with Bob Sherman. All of which is fine, except that Bob is 57 years old with three kids, one of whom just graduated from college. I've had more attraction to a can of tomato soup than this guy (no offense, Bob) but man, this dream was intense.
So, I'm looking forward to a case of the Mondays with a weird tingly feeling every time I run into Bob at the copier.