Free Advice Friday: Losing the Urge to Merge

Dear Ken and Ariel: My guy and I are approaching our two-year anniversary. Very much in love and all of that, plus marriage on the horizon. I know he finds me unbelievably sexy but I'd love to up that a notch, to mind-blowing levels. What do guys find sexy? What should I do? Pierce a nipple? Tattoo his name on my thigh? I just want something that only he knows about, that will make his "special friend" stand at attention whenever he thinks about it.

Ariel Says: I really don’t see the need to involve needles, ink, or other forms of scarification to up the sexual ante. I have two suggestions: The first is, create a fantasy. I’m not talking the silly French maid costume you ordered online for that Halloween party. I’m talking script, props, location, you name it. You have him meet you at that hotel on the Waterfront, in the lobby wearing nothing but a trenchcoat and a smile. Or Ken’s favorite, the lactating pharmacologist in town for a convention. But I digress. Just come up with a very detailed idea of a fun fantasy that he would freakin’ love (could be as simple as doing it on the 50-yard line of his high school football field) and you’ll be the shit for years. The other idea is something I posted about recently on our blog – doing the classic Playboy spread. Again, this takes time and preparation, with a professional photographer you trust (not a camera phone, for Christ’s sake!) and a beautiful, intimate setting. The nice thing about this one is that you can also show the grandkids someday how grandma used to be a total super-hottie, before she wore support hose and Depends.

Ken Says: What do guys find sexy? I’ll keep this as simple as possible: If a woman gives me a little deep throat action while I’m watching the Sox kick the Yankees’ ass on my widescreen TV with a beer in my left hand and a D’Angelos one pound steak and cheese in my right, then I’m pretty much hers until the fucking world explodes or gets eaten by Galactus. End of story.

SoCal Dress Code

Not too long ago, one of our colleagues from Huntington Beach came to our offices for a meeting. As she walked off the elevator I nearly choked on my Krispy Kreme. A super-short skirt, F**k-Me red stilettos, and fishnets. For a 10AM meeting. I looked around in disbelief. No one else batted an eyelash. Joyce from Accounting came out and cheerfully greeted her, asked about her kids. Even Joe, the Marketing Manager, managed to have polite banter and I only caught him glancing at her legs once (hard to miss when they're about 8 feet long.) Now, I do not work in the Playboy Offices (although they are just a few streets up) and we do have a dress code. But it's more along the lines of, "no flip-flops"/"no beachwear". Because I assume we're so close to the beach that people must've shown up in bikinis and towels and got sand in the copiers or something. But dressing like a tart is perfectly acceptable. And I guess I'm OK with that, too.

Invasion of The Perfect Tens

It's officially the start of summer in Southern California - not that anyone's really noticed, weather-wise. But then again, the sudden influx of perfect bodies, male and female, on the streets and beaches is always rather jarring. Where the hell do these people come from? Is there some sort of laboratory where these freaks of nature are kept, fed only on South Beach and Slim Fast, routinely exfoliated and sprayed with Mystic Tan, to emerge triumphantly at the Summer Solstice? I mean, at least in other parts of the state you can at least have that brief moment of smugness when you see a bit of pale flabby skin here, a little cottage cheese thigh there. But here, there is no repreive. It is a relentless parade of magazine pages, sans airbrush and glossy finish.
Hey, I for one am certainly not complaining...when it comes to the men. I may need a new car and a good chiropractor by the end of the summer though if they keep walking past me, carelessly taking off their shirts as I try to drive to work or run my errands. Have a heart, guys!

People Are Funny. And Horrifying.

I never get tired of these "voyeur" clips on YouTube, but this one, the link to which someone was kind enough to send me, is perhaps the strangest. For one thing, how in the fuck does someone actually get that close to another person without that person becoming suspicious? Christ, someone comes within seven inches of my personal space in the goddam line for movie tickets and I'm ready to throw down. This woman's practically getting a gynecological exam in the local Walmart. For another, is this woman a member of the Legion of Superheroes? I mean, who the fuck dresses like this to go shopping?

It's Tough Out There for a Gentleman

So I'm walking out of the mens' room yesterday at the office, and just ahead of me, walking out of the womens' room, is one of the premier office hotties. Let's call her L.

Naturally, my eyes descend to her hindquarters -- which are quite remarkable, I might add -- and I see, to my horror, that she's trailing about a foot and a half of toilet paper fro the back of her skirt.

And suddenly I'm faced with a dilemma. If I call her on it, suddenly I'm the perv who's checking out a fellow worker below the waist (which, any good HR person will tell you, simply isn't allowed. It's best to think of your coworkers as disembodied heads that you only need make eye contact with to ask about the McClasky file or Sheila in Purchasing's birthday). If I don't... well, I guess I'm a sort of tool for letting her walk onto the floor, amongst all her catty female colleagues with a paper tail.

So... I called her on it. And she swiped it away, embarassed but thankful. As I saw it, fuck, I'm already the office perv. I sure as hell don't want to be a tool as well.

Problem Officially Handled

Okay, the original title of this post was "problem officially licked," but the Kenette wouldn't clear the photo I'd wanted to use for public consumption.

Anyway, yeah, some technical difficulties but now we're back, to further disgust the masses. Thanks for your e-mails and offers of buttshots.

...and I Refuse to Stop Pleasuring Myself to Jason Lewis.

I Refuse to Stop Pleasuring Myself to Christina Aguilera

Ever since that "Candyman" video started showing everywhere in the free world, my body has been working overtime to replenish the copious amounts of DNA I've spilled watching this goddam thing. Not to mention the irreparable damage to the ligaments up and down my arm. Oy.

Thing is, it's not even that sexy a video. In fact, with all those goofy-ass guys marching around in uniform, it practically defies the cardinal rule of jerk-off videos (which dictates that you don't want to risk some dude's greasy mug being onscreen when you reach "the magic point").

I think it's just the ultra-bimbo-ish-ness of Christina that's got me hooked. I mean, Britney tries hard, with all that boob-flailing and ass-grinding, but you just know that Christina's the one she turns to for blowjob pointers or to borrow something exceptionally slutty for the next red carpet event.

Honestly, I don't care that her music's the aural equivalent of a root canal. That's what the mute button is for. My god, have we learnt nothing from the Spanish Channel?

Breaking News

An informal poll, conducted by about 6 female coworkers right outside my office door about ten seconds ago, indicates that all of them are wearing red underwear today.

Honestly, who talks about stuff like this at the office? I have numerous conversations with male coworkers throughout the course of a business day, and surprisingly few of them have anything to do with what I'm wearing under my shirt and flat-front pants. Has my company been co-opted by Hugh Hefner?

I also wonder if they're doing this on purpose, knowing that I'm seated just within earshot and will now be doomed to spending the rest of my goddam day imagining each of them in their panties, rendering me even more useless than I typically am?

More importantly, is "red day" just a phenomenon at our office today... or is this some sort of unified global movement?

UFC is for Lovers

I was recently introduced to UFC whilst looking for reruns of "Everyone Loves Raymond" (because, you know, that show is just so funny. Whoo! And you can never have enough bullshit drivel in your life). The square jaws, mean squints and impressive body ink caught my eye and I decided to stay and watch, drawn in by the dulcet tones of Joe Rogan - "They are SWINGING out there!". OK, so it's two sweaty, testosterone-fueled, insanely cut men punching each other. No, wait, they're hugging. Ooh, now they're wrestling on the ground. Wait a minute, what are they--hold on, that's MY signature move, the Bavarian pretzel! And isn't that--Two Monkeys in a Hammock? My God, they've stolen all my lovemaking techniques! And I'm getting really turned on. Joe's getting really excited too - "They are ALL OVER each other!" Indeed they are, Joe. And I for one am a better, happier person for it.

Are You a Bare Nekked Lady?

In these positively heady times of video cell phones and Skype, doing your very own Playboy photo shoot seems positively quaint. And yet, there's something delightfully old school about it, recalling a more innocent time when boobs generally remained under clothing and a tossed salad was what you got with your steak and mashed potatoes.
To do the aforementioned 2-page spread, it does require some preparation: props, set design, hair and makeup, and most importantly, good lighting. The typical bedroom with its bland rental-agreement painted walls, the random assortment of stuffed animals and a bedspread that your mom purchased five years ago at Marshalls is not going to cut it unless you're posting to You Tube. Also, for God's sake, fabulous sexy centerfolds were not created with self portraits by camera phone or the timer on your digital camera. (Let's just pretend My Space was never invented, OK?) Find a photographer, preferably a professional. Not the guy at Target that just took your sisters' kids photos. Not the pervert who advertises on craigslist. It's best to have a friend you can trust, an amateur photographer or someone who at least took some classes. Yeah, you could have your boyfriend do it, but unless he does it for a living, your classy Playboy-soft focus may take on more resemblance to the latest issue of "Jugs". We're talking tasteful, people!
If you already have fabulous nudy pics that would make your momma proud, send 'em our way. We may even post a few (obscuring the face, of course, to protect the innocent) and I know for a fact that Ken would very much appreciate it!

Even Photoshop Gets Lonely Sometimes

War. Pestilence. The films of Rob Schneider. All of it bad, yes. But when this command popped up the other day while I was toiling with Photoshop, I immediately forgot all of the world's problems.

Luckiest. Stool. Ever.

Dear God, if there is such a thing as reincarnation, consider my choice made.