Drunk Log #462

Yeaagh. My mouth feels like I cleaned a kitty litter box with my tongue. And why is my bra on inside-out? What the hell day is this...Thursday? Who the hell goes out on a Wednesday night? This dumb-ass, that's who. I've got to be at work in, oh, 12 minutes. No problem, even though I need to shower, brush the scum off my tongue and google "how to remove Sharpie smiley faces on my boobs". Man, what even happened last night? It was...someone's birthday at the local bar. No, wait, I just went for an after-work drink with a friend. Who then promptly disappeared on me after my Celine Dion rendition of "Glycerine"...and I don't recall the bar ever having a Karaoke machine. Coffee...I need coffee...some sort of liquid that can save me from this 18,000 jackhammering headache that just hit my skull. Oh dear God my hair looks frightful, better try and brush it down...is that GUM in my hair? Fuck. Where's the scissors? Oh fuck it, I'll just put it back in a bun, no one will notice. Now, just grab clothes and get the hell out of here, where's my shoes, where's my black heels, they're not in the closet...hmm...maybe they're under the bed?

AIAAAGH! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!?!?

Breaking Them In

Back in college, I dated a girl I called "the school teacher." I called her this because, whenever we got busy, she'd map out every stage of the process is a firm but gentle, almost instructive voice.

"Now I'm going to stroke your cock," she'd say, and start feeling up the Captain. "Now I'm going to caress your balls," she'd note, and begin fondling the jublees. "Now you're going to kiss my stomach." "Now I'm going to blow you." "Now you're going to lick my nipples." And so on and so forth.

After a while sex started feeling like some bizarre educational video, so I tried to work on her inner vixen. "You can say other things," I'd tell her. "You can get a little dirty with it if you want to talk."

But nothing doing. So a summer of, "Now I'm going to straddle you." "Now you're going to grab my wrists." "Now I'm going to lick your earlobe." Not complaining, mind you. The sex was pretty good. But I kept trying to break the seal, unleash the inner porn star I suspected was trying to break out.

I made some progress over the summer, but the Master Plan never really fully blossomed. And we parted ways a few months later, still good friends. I bring her up because I saw her again this past weekend at a friend's Memorial Day bash. She had her fiance with her, and toward the end of the night, when the tequila had settled in and the womenfolk were off doing their own thing inside the house leaving just a buncha guys sitting around the fire, Mr. Fiance started talking up his sexploits with my former.

I wasn't sure if she'd told him anything about our past, so I kept it on the down-low, preferring just to sit back and soak it all in. Especially the part where he noted that he's sometimes shocked by what comes out of her mouth.

Most recently, he explained, in the heat of passion she blurted, "Better get that tongue ready, bitch, because you are going to suck me until I fucking say you're done."

A curious thing to bring up, for sure. But I just kinda smiled, convincing myself that somehow, I helped bring that along.

Further Proof That Pretty Women Can Get Away With Just About Anything...

... or is it just another step closer for us, as a society, to complete and utter doom. You decide.

Free Advice Friday: Dating "The Boob Guy"

Hey there. My boyfriend is an exceptionally good guy, but he won't stop fixating on my boobs. He's always pawing at them and trying to grab them and staring at them. I appreciate the attention, but there's obviously more to me. How do I get him to notice the booty or, god forbid, the brains that come with the whole package?

Ariel Says: Sigh...the grass is always greener, isn't it. For some of us who have been equipped with extra-sensitive erogenous zones in the mammary glands, your boyfriend sounds like a little slice of Heaven. But I digress. Your boyfriend is likely well aware of your other assets, but short of a couple of flares, detour signs and a police escort, he's simply going to keep going back to what he likes. You got yourself a boob man, and nothing's going to change that. So! Take that frustrated energy and refocus it on your own predilections: are you an ass girl? Do biceps make you weak in the knees? Objectifying him is probably the best revenge, and is infinitely more entertaining than whining as he does his "transistor radio" impression for the umpteenth time.

Ken Says: I have to agree with Ariel on this one. There are ass men, boob men, leg men, lip men, ankle men (watch out for those twisted fuckers) and abs men. It’s something we’re hard-wired with from birth, and there’s little you can do to change it… or us. As for brains? Hell, I got plenty of time for playing Scrabble or discussing Samuel Beckett when I’m fifty-six and incapable of maintaining wood for more than 36 seconds at a time. For now, hon, I really just wanna take you to dinner, buy you some flowers, and violate your ass in manners that would defy every component of the Geneva Convention.

Keepin' It In The Family

My sister and I made out with the same guy once. No Ken, it wasn't at the same time, and I didn't find out until years later. It TOTALLY grossed me out. It just seemed like one degree off of incest or something. And yeah, there's the cute phrase "kissing cousins" and some people end up marrying their second cousins once removed and go on to become president of the United States, like FDR, but it still just seems way yukky.

Can Your Ass Do This?

Note to self: If you ever come into contact with a woman such as this... sex from behind should most definitely be removed from the evening's playlist.

Free Advice Fridays presents - Cheetahs: Not Just A Gentleman's Club

DEAR KEN & ARIEL: I think my girlfriend may be cheating on me. We've been dating for a couple of months, and the sex was great, but then it came to a screeching halt for about three weeks. She had excuses: stress, sour stomach, etc. She tells me that she's tired of hearing about it and when we do have sex, she turns her head when I try to kiss her. The last couple weekends there were stretches of eight to ten hours when I didn't hear from her and her cell phone was shut off. She had excuses for all of this though. On top of that, she has two male friends in her life who buy her things, loan her a vehicle when hers is broke down, give her gifts, flowers and stuff like that. What do you think?

KEN SAYS: You think she may be cheating on you? Dude, that's like Jackie Kennedy turning to the driver of JFK's motorcade car and saying, "I think something might be wrong with the President." Or looking at Shaquille O'Neal and surmising that, yeah, this guy could probably handle the large fries.
But I digress. Let me use an example from my own sordid past to illustrate. Because, like most strapping young men, I think about sex pretty much every waking moment of the day, I sometimes find myself projecting my obsessions on to the women I date. Whenever they're out of my sight, I assume that they're in some other dude's apartment, modeling their fishnets, pouting suggestively as they loosen a few blouse buttons, and explaining how much better life has been since they switched to crotchless undergarments, etc. Likewise, whenever they'd give me a "not in the mood" story, my mind would start buzzing with outlandish scenarios involving Johnny Depp, a football team, twenty gallons of tequila and a fully-loaded caulking gun.
Yet, as real as these things seemed to me [particularly the whole caulking gun thing], they were, quite simply, figments of my own ribald imagination. I never once thought to ask these women what was really bringing them down, be it my attitude, my taste in clothing, or just an overwhelming desire to be fucking someone who wasn't me. That said, don't let the ladies fool ya... they love screwing as much as we do. Possibly more, as they're equipped to go for hours whereas guys are... well, orgasms are like turkey on Thanksgiving. They release that chemical that pats us on the back and says, "Good one, Tiger. Now, let's have a nap!" If she's not fucking you, there's a good chance it's because she's getting her skirts martinized somewhere else. Just pray god it's not someone named "Doug." Nobody wants to lose a girl to a guy named Doug. Jesus.
As a paranoid fellow by trade, I think you have ample reason to be concerned. A real red flag is the "turning her head when you try to kiss her" thing, a move that traditionally stands as shorthand for a knee to the balls. But before you start paying guys named Clive and Rocco to trail your girl around town, ask her straight up what the deal is. You may not like what she has to say, but it will spare you the de humanizing, pluck-each-hair-out-of-your-nutsack torment that traditionally accompanies suspicion.
ARIEL SAYS: I ain't no fortune teller and I ain't no mind reader (although I do have the uncanny ability of detecting free samples at the supermarket within 6 seconds) but somethin' fishy is goin' on. I presume you're both young, horny, consenting adults with no history of sexual dysfunction. That means you should be bonking like rabbits, five times a day, for the first three months. Then, after the "honeymoon period" is over, you're still attracted to each other but would rather watch reruns of Major Dad than screw, at least on week nights. You've only been dating "a couple of months," so the energizer bunny thang should still be going strong. Now I'm not saying you need to freak out on her, but y'all need to sit down and find out what the hell is going on. Be gentle, be sensitive, ask her what's on her mind and tell her you just want to make her happy, in EVERY way. Explain in a soothing voice how orgasms can actually stimulate the release of serotonin, a friggin' awesome chemical that can help reduce stress and possibly stop global warming. Turn on Al Green. Turn off Grand Theft Auto. If that fails, she won't tell you what's going on, she keeps turning off her cell phone, then it's time to do your own disappearing act.

He's Mine, Betch

Every time I see "The Bachelor" I shudder - not just because the dude's Mystic Tan and recently-capped molars have given me and several small children nightmares for weeks, but because I fear that this atrocious shitbox of a show is really one of the Seven Horsemen of the Apocalypse, gleefully tapping on our shoulders to let us know that this "reality show" is really the reality to come. What do I mean? I mean that we chicks have the stupid habit of all competing for the same guy. We're at a party, a wedding, a bar mitzvah, jury duty, and what do we do? We zone in on one target. As the girlfriends and wives hiss and snarl and clutch their taken prizes ever tighter, we single Dianas (The Huntress, a Greek mythological reference, aren't I clever) circle the floor, warily sizing up each other and the meager pickings at hand. He's too old, he's too bald, he can't seem to dress himself, he's too fat, he's too...gay? And then we see him: Tall. Handsome. Charming. Full head of hair. Sporting a...Rolex? Let me at him! And so it begins. Never mind that all these single women are fine catches themselves, with hot bodies, great racks, beauty and brains to match, most with college degrees and successful careers. In the heat of battle, that shit don't MATTER - it's who is gonna snag that ass, and who's gonna be able to HANG ON TO IT for the remainder of the evening. Intellect and self-dignity be damned, I'm giving him a blowjob in the bathroom! Oh yeah, well I've already stitched my room key to the inside of his jacket! Oh yeah, well I've already met his parents and offered them a free cruise! And so on, and so on.
With the troubling statistic of a significantly higher percentage of women than men attending college, this is only going to get worse. Is there any way out of this Pussy Galore?

Something to Look Forward To

When I think of the future, I don't imagine Captain Kirk or Chewbacca or robots that do your homework and cook you a chicken.

I think of women like this.

In my mind's vision of the future, all women will be required to wear outfits such as the ones pictured above. They will all have asses like that as well.

Man, the future is gonna rock.

Free Advice Friday: The "Swallowing" Question

Dear K&A: I refuse to "swallow," no matter how much a guy begs me to. Why does this upset guys so much? As I see it, what does it matter so long as he, er, "gets finished"?

Ariel Says: Well, that depends. Do you make a face like you've just eaten a dog’s balls garnished with tsetse flies? Because that can be kind of a downer, and hard not to take personally. There are a few ways you can be discreet in your disposal of the love spunk. The Minneapolis Madam (what, you haven't heard of her?) suggests keeping a towel close by, then when his eyes are suitably rolled to the back of the head with ecastatic abandon, a quick spit and swipe is all it takes. Or a glass of water from which you pretend to drink, but in which you instead perform reverse suction, then say you're going to get a refill and dispose of it promptly. But let's instead focus on the fact that you don't have to swallow or do anything you don't want to, and too bad if they have a problem with that. I would probably be walking with a severe limp and a rare strain of ecoli if I agreed to all the cockamamie ideas my previous paramours came up with. If your guy keeps whining, tell him very sweetly that he has a choice: a blow job with no swallowing, or no blow job at all. Gee, I wonder what he'll choose?

Ken Says: The allure of having a chick “swallow” can be almost certainly traced back to porno flicks. As a young, impressionable guy, you see the likes of Nina Hartley and Jenna Jameson doing it all the time, so, goddam it, you figure, I need a little of that action, too! But, honestly, I put in so many hours just trying to get some chick interested in, to put it technically, the extraction, I can’t conjure enough energy to concern myself with the disposal of it. Whether she wants to swallow it, spit it out, rinse it down the sink with a cup of Listerine or store it in a vat for some twisted science experiment is up to her. All I ask is that she figure something out before moving in to kiss me.

So, How Are You In Bed?

Guys have it pretty tough. Whilst women tend to merely have this(see photo above) as the chief complaint of being bad in bed, the boys have a myriad of issues that can derail their masterful performance, the least of which being failure to launch. Too soon, you're weak-minded, inexperienced. Take too long, and you're masochistic, possibly perverted ("What DOES it take to make you come?!?")Then it's your technique - tweaking jackrabbit, or drowning victim? And let's face it, many sexual positions require a fair amount of physical strength and endurance (and it sure as hell aint me doing push ups.)And I'm not even going to get into oral. So, that's a lot to live up to, guys. I hear ya. I get it.
But that doesn't mean I'm not going to make you PRACTICE.

Mind-Numbing Pain for Breakfast

Note to self: Must inform the new Kenette that even though her previous boyfriend absolutely loved it when she'd take his nuts in a vice-like grip and give 'em a "good morning" squeeze, it just really isn't my cup of tea.

Seriously.

Free Advice Friday: The MILF Question

Ken and Ariel: I have a question: I've been dating this girl for about 6 months, and when she took me home to meet her mother, I was instantly smitten. She's 53 and incredibly hot. Also, she's been giving me these flirtatious signs, and now I've got this incredible urge to bang her. Am I sick, or should I pursue this?

Ken Says: Dude, take it from me. Beware the elder pussy. Not that there aren’t a lot of scintillating older women in this world. God knows that nothing conjures more evil thoughts in my loins than the sight of a forty-something mom with a tramp stamp on her lower back, trying to snake her ass into the same skinny jeans as her teenage daughter. But it’s typically better in theory than practice, no matter how much of smokeshow she may be. For one thing, you’re gonna risk losing your young and undeniably tight-assed girlfriend for a woman whose ass – no matter how nice it may look in jeans – has got 53 years of mileage on it. Second, you run the risk of having two women want to slice your balls off with a cleaver. And lastly – and this is most important – think of your girl’s dad. Bad enough he’s already pissed that you’re trying to make time with his little girl. If he finds out you’re after his wife as well, you may find yourself at the bottom of the Charles River. And not in a good way. Roll with the young, my friend.

Ariel Says: Ken? Ken, is that you?!? OK, "not Ken", what do you think I'm going to tell you? I'm going to tell you that Mrs. Robinson is so last century, the "Rumor Has It" movie tanked, and MLFS are for teenage boys. In my humble opinion, this is about your fear of commitment. You've only been dating six months, and she's already taking you home to meet the parents, which is the next logical step towards eventual monogamy (and she's not that young if her mom is 53, so you think her clock may be TICK! TOCK!-ing) so you're freaking out. You wouldn't be having these thoughts if you came across mom in her Saturday morning mall walkers group, would you? It's the forbidden fruit, the ultimate taboo that would conveniently get you kicked out of domestic bliss and the youth soccer coaching gig they're lining up for you right quick. So suck it up, shake it off and deal with the real issue at hand -- whether or not this girl is really the one for you.

Awakening The Demon

Most days, I'm a fairly normal, upstanding citizen of society, going about my business, eating properly, getting enough sleep, etc. But there are those times (and I'm thinking it may have something to do with ovulation?) when I just want to act the fuck OUT. I wanna get drunk and screw my best friend's guy. I wanna eat the most greasiest, disgusting thing on earth with my hand down my pants. I wanna pick the dorkiest doofus in the office, get him liquored up and fuck him six ways from Sunday. I wanna find the felon fresh outta Lancaster and ask him to move in with me.
Now, do I indeed act on these impulses, these demonic desires? Aah. That's for another post.

My Reputation Speaks Volumes

So last week, I went out with some folks from the office. Never a good idea. But in this case, there were some hot girls from the finance department so I figgered it'd be good to tag along.

So we're out and about and drinking and laughing and all is good. And I found myself having a nice conversation with a pretty girl I'd seen passing about in the halls but never spoke to. And about three hours into the night, she kinda laughs out loud, moves in a bit, and, apparently emboldened by alcohol, says to me, "You know, me and the girls have a name for you."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. We call you 'hard-on guy.' 'Cause you're almost always walking around the office with a hard-on."

Anyone out there know of a place that's hiring? Because apparently it's time for me to move on.