Pictures of the Ex

Nothing seems to rile my ego/vanity/insecurities than when I'm dating a guy and I catch a glimpse of the former flame. Hearing about them doesn't seem to bother me that much. Sure, she may have been a triathlete/seeing-eye dog trainer who spent Saturday mornings feeding the homeless, but I bet she had a big butt and gave shitty head. However, seeing their picture (or worse, seeing them in person) doesn't leave much room for speculation or gleeful assumption, and it completely unerves me. And believe me, I will scrutinize that pic with a magnifying glass. Now, you think that if the ex is, say, not quite as thin/pretty/large-boobed as I think I am, that I should therefore be quite smug and gratified? Nope. Then I start to think, what if this girl is more his type? Perhaps he prefers girls with small boobs and plain Jane looks? How the hell do I compete with that?

Free Advice Friday

Continuing the theme of yesterday's post, a twisted reader writes:

Dear Ken & Ariel: A bunch of us went out drinking a few weekends back, and came back to my place afterward. My boyfriend passed out on the couch, and to be funny, a couple of my girlfriends took pictures and video of themselves straddling him, shaking their asses in his face and pretending to blow him. It was funny at the time, but now the photos are starting to spread around and, worse, my boyfriend seems to be spending an inordinate amount of time looking at them. I just want to forget it ever happened, but it's become a real big joke between him and them, something they all bring up whenever we're together. Am I being jealous and overly sensitive here?

Ariel Says: I think you have a valid point; if you were to do your best Jenna Jameson impression with, say, his amateur league hockey buddies after the semi finals, I doubt he'd be anxious to see those special moments captured on film for posterity. However, with your tacit permission, your man got to an 85% fulfillment of one of the top ten dude fantasies of all time—your hottie friends all over his jock like a melting ice cream cone in summer. And, even better, he's got actual evidence! So yeah, unfortunately this'll be the talk of the town for a while. What are your options? Well, you can try sabotage; tell him that it's too bad your friends won't stop talking about his pinky-sized package that they felt while playing porn stars. Then tell your friends that you caught him jerking off to the pics and he confessed to a fantasy involving them, several dildos, and the donkey show in TJ. Both parties will be so freaked out/grossed out that eye contact and positive social interaction will be kept to a minimum. Or, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em; ask both parties for a repeat performance and make damn sure that your cute ass is front and center in all the pictures.

Ken Says: First things first, why the hell don’t the women I date hang out with girls like your friends? A group of drunk chicks who think it’s a hoot to faux-blow a guy when he’s zonked out on Bud Light? Christ almighty, if I ever passed out in front of any of the Kennette’s friends, their first impulse would be, “Great! He’s out! Let’s put on Lost.” Regardless, I have to agree with Ariel’s positioning, although another option would be working the jealousy angle by getting pictures of you sitting on the chest of some other passed out dude. And as I happen to spent most of my spare time passed out, I’d be happy to offer any assistance you might need.

You Mean... Women Do This Too?

I used to think that the old "waiting until a friend passes out and then sticking your bare ass in his face" was strictly male phenomenon. But recently, I found that a couple women I routinely drink with like to engage in such shenaningans with their female pals.

To them and any other women who have ever photographed themselves in such circumstances, I offer a hearty "thank you" and "fucking awesome!"

Background Check - Fun and Free!

So I go out with this guy, have a very nice dinner, managed to get home without sealing the deal. Then I'm swapping stories with my friend Angie. "You're going to Google him, right?" She asks.
I suppose nowadays Googling someone should be part of the routine, like put on lipstick, nice undies, Google dude. But I never think to do it. Perhaps I just always assume the best in people. Perhaps I'm just disturbingly naive, as Angie chided me. "He could be married. Engaged. A felon. A sex offender. President of his local Plushie chapter." This is when I scoff and roll my eyes. "C'mon Angie, I think I have good instincts." I huff. She just looks at me, then starts calmly naming my exes and their various transgressions. "Fine." I stomp off and go online.

Is "outstanding warrant" really a deal breaker?

How I Hurt My Arm

So the other day I'm at the mall, which is no place for a strung-out pervert like myself. And circumstances place me on the world's slowest escalator, right behind a woman with a majestic arse. A nice twist of fate, to be certain, but here's the thing: The woman, knowing she has a majestic ass, and knowing that as the escalator ascends, said ass is going to be directly in my line of vision, very likely takes me for the sort of bastard who hangs around malls waiting for someone of her ilk to get on the escalator, then jumping on right after them to enjoy the show. Now, she's right, but I don't want her to know that. So I spend the entire escalation trying not to stare at her ass. Which means staring at the ceiling, the passersby below, my cell phone (actually, scratch that -- anything but the cell phone, as then she'd assume I was trying to snap a photo of her hindquarters), or behind me to assure her that, while I certainly appreciate the awesomeness of her ass, I'm not the kind of guy who makes a living out of following women up and down the escalator all day. At least not any more. Anyway, by craning my neck to look as far away from her ass as possible, I missed the top step and tripped into a display of silver plated trash receptacles, which hit the floor with a loud, almost comical crash. Luckily, my arm broke my fall. And I was able to walk away mostly unscathed. I checked my pride at the door, to be certain, but I really gave up on that a long time ago.

Now, honestly, ladies, when you get on an escalator, are you aware of who's getting on behind you?

Hard at Work

Lately, there seems to be a sort of competition going on between the women in my office to see who can dress the sluttiest without actually violating the dress code. Honestly, it's been a couple weeks of far-too-tight blouses and ridiculously short skirts and tousled hair and sharp heels and sparkly lipstick -- enough to make me expect to see a DJ booth set up in the corner of the cafeteria.

The other day, rumor had it that HR was gonna bring down the hammer. Reissue dress codde guidelines. Start actually sending people home if they don "office inappropriate clothing" [their terminology].

My feeling is this: Watching all this ass parade around me at the office has made me a mental fucking wreck, but in the best possible sense. I can't wait to get into the place. I wander around, wide-eyed, soaking it all in. I'm meeting new people. Making new connections. Staying awake in meetings because Elsa from Accounts Payable keep standing up and pacing in those goddam pants that fit so snugly to her ass I'd swear she just sat in a paintbucket before driving to work. My heart is pounding, my blood racing, I've never been more alert. Sure, my cock is painfully engorged from the minute I get to the office until I leave for the day, but if that's the worse thing that happens at work, I can deal.

My point, I guess, is that all this ass and cleavage is good for the company. It's boosting "employee engagement" (hell, I know I can't wait to get to work today). It's got my mind and blood buzzing. I'm working off frustrations from 9 to 5, and I've never gotten more shit done.

You wanna go back to long dresses and suitjackets for ladies, go right ahead. But you'll soon realize the truth: T&A is the fuel that runs this world.

Call Me Back? Please?

Forget a possible withdrawl plan from Iraq. Forget the upcoming Middle East Peace Summit. When the Christ God Alamighty are you actually supposed to call? The old-school three day rule will only get you so far. Thanks to the proliferation of possible modes of communication, it doesn't make our lives easier, it just adds a nice clusterfuck to the mindfuck. For example, I called him and he texted me back. So I emailed him and he left me a message on my MySpace page. Am I now supposed to IM him? Write something on his wall in Facebook? Try to hook up with his avatar in Second Life?!? Will I ever actually speak to this guy in the same time/space continuum?

When Can We Go Drinking?

There's just something inherently awesome about drinking with a group of women. Drink with guys, and you'll get some arguments over quarterbacks, PlayStation challenges and maybe a fistfight or two.

Drink with women and after a few rounds you realize, "Holy shit... they're even bigger horndogs than us."

Also, much prettier and funnier.

Mayoral Indiscretion, Simpsons-Style

Despite the fact that Vermont won the distinction of being the Simpsons' official home of Springfield, it's nice to know that Mayor Quimby is alive and well in Los Angeles. I am referring, of course, to our esteemed Honorable Hot-Pants Villaraigosa and the Telemundo anchor-babe. I'm sure Ken and many of our male readers are already familiar with our sexy latina who delivers the news to the spanish-speaking population; indeed, she could probably sit and read the phone book for the entire duration of the broadcast and there would be nary a drop in viewership. So what's the point? Nothing, really. I just love it when art imitates life, and then life graciously returns the favor.

The Threat Level is Officially Elevated. In My Pants.

So Al Jazeera is widely panned as a propaganda machine for Islamic extremists. Whatever. Have you seen their incredibly fucking hot anchor?



Sign me up. Like now and shit.

Ultimate Buzzkill

You know how sometimes, in the heat of passion, your partner can say and/or do something that completely kills the mood?

A number of years ago, a former Kenette and I were rolling around on the floor, about to violate the Geneva Conventions on so many levels, when she casually slips in this line:

"What if I had a cock?"

My first thought was... "fuckgodalmighty, does she???" But then, I just kinda looked at her curiously and asked, "huh?"

"What if I had a cock? What would you do to it?"

Having never imagined a world in which I'd ever have anything to do with a cock that wasn't my own, I just sorta let her words hang in the air, then turned around and rolled over, hard-on collapsed, mood effectively squashed.

So, yeah, that's the ultimate buzzkill to this point in my life.

I Only Visit The Site for The Articles

While we usually leave it to our sex-addled readers to do the late night web browsing for porn (except for Ken, who has feverishly Googled every possible combination of "face-sitting" inlcuding typos), I came across this wonderful little gem which caters to all tastes, from the vanilla straight and narrow to neon-colored gender-bending plushies. And it has quite the sharp and insightful commentary, which I thought was only reserved for us and left-leaning Daily Show/Onion nerdies. Obviously NSFW, so either wait until you get home or sleep with the office IT guy.

ps--and the chocolate kama sutra is for y'alls comments in the previous post. LOVE IT!

And Just What Are You Willing To Try?

After the honeymoon period, after the exhaustive boffing over every surface, nook and cranny imaginable, in the neighbor's pool, in front of grandma's cat, in the hotel supply closet, on top of the copier at work, underneath the freeway bridge, is when boredom usually sets in. Or, now it's time to get really creative. So, the question is, what will you try, what will you waver on, what will you absolutely never, ever, ever do...or maybe just this once, but you better not be recording this, or what will make you scream get away from me before I call the police?

Free Advice Friday: Start Me Up

Dear K&A: How can I help my boyfriend more amorous? Not just sex (although that would be great), just a wee bit more romance would suffice. I have engaged in aggressive sexual behavior such as rubbing my breasts in his face and giving vigorous blow jobs; no arguments but no reciprocation. I am at a loss! I ask him to spoon me when we crawl into bed, freshly showered and shaved, and he sighs like I just asked him to run get watermelon from the store. What is up with this man? Do you have any advice or insight?

Ken Says: Er, not to sound like a total douche, but as a guy, I can say that so long as your doling out the blow jobs and that tits-across-the-face maneuver (which sound pretty freakin’ persuasive to me), you’re not really giving this guy a lot of incentive to start reciprocating. However, if you were to , I don’t know, stop blowing him, well then you may find that he’s suddenly extremely fucking interested in taking care of you as well. If not, then, I hate to say it, but he’s probably just your typical guy, lying next to you while his mind is wrapped around some chick he dated in the seventh grade or that waitress from Caesar’s Palace.

Ariel Says: My response shall be brief: let your fingers be your date, and masturbate. You need to stop looking at your ding-dong door-stop of a boyfriend for gratification and rediscover “The Joy of Sex” -- for one. Surprised? Well, let’s switch sides. If you were a guy who wasn’t getting his sexual needs met, chances are he’d sure as hell be jacking off to make up for lost pussy. Or, he’d be out looking elsewhere, at the very least a gentleman’s club. So that’s another thing--why not grab the girlfriends and hit the Man-tastic strip shows for some innocent fun? See, I’m not saying cheat on him, but there’s no reason why you can’t feel sexy, be turned on and get that amazing blast of serotonin while he sulks about getting watermelon or whatever. It sounds like you’ve done everything possible to let this guy know how you feel, short of becoming his blow-up doll that he shoves under the bed. And honey, I aint a mind reader, so I really can’t give you much insight except that he’s getting SPOILED. Now it’s your time to get yours, girl. Get back that self-confidence and get back on your game, regardless of his attention or inattention. You may find that he’ll start seeing you in a different light – and that you may start seeing him differently, too.

A Rare Instance of Two Guys Not Checking Out a Woman's Ass

I'm not much of a tennis and/or Wimbledon fan. But, clearly, the coolest thing about this photo of Serena Williams stretching out a leg cramp is how both of those dudes on either side of her, being dudes, are absolutely dying to look down and get a glimpse of her backside. But decorum -- and the presence of a bazillion media types with cameras -- prevents them from doing so.

Me? Hell, I'd risk the job and the pride for a glimpse. How cool would it be to see the two of them checking her out, giving each other "rock and roll" hands?

An Evil Twin?

So I was dating this guy, who was just a gem. Flowers, dinners, Devil Dogs and a gallon of milk, you name it. Then he invites me to the bar to meet his friends. Aw, I'm touched--get gussied up, walk in feeling quite chuffed. Well. The guy I was dating was nowhere to be found; Rasputin, or possibly our current Vice Prez, had taken his place. Sullen, aloof, sarcastic, and downright rude, barely acknowledging my existence except to ask if I was going to the bar to buy more drinks. After about an hour of this, I was ready to leave. He suddenly became more like his former self, chasing me outside, apologizing up and down for being "distracted" and begging me to stay. Finally, I relented and headed back inside. Hey, we've all had bad nights, right? Maybe it's his own version of PMS. So back inside...nothing changed. In fact, it got worse; openly hitting on other women, using my ass as the punchline to a particularly bad joke...yeah, I'm outta here.

Now five unanswered phone calls later, he honestly doesn't understand what the problem is. I do. You are one psycho schizophrenic, unable to bear the thought that your friends might find out you can actually be a nice guy. And hey, that's fine, but you and your doppleganger are on your own.

Age Matters

When I was 22, I dated a woman who was 53. Okay, perhaps dated is too strong a word. Let's just say she took me on as her poolboy, despite the fact that she didn't own a pool.

This woman worked in the office at my first job out of college. She was divorced with two kids, pretty as all hell and with a smokin' body -- she clearly spent more time on her workouts than doing anything of consequence at the office. And I can't lie: the sex, especially to my weaned-on-Mrs.-Robinson-fantasy-pornos, 22-year-old mind, was posifuckinglutely amazing.

Thing is my friends, though agreeing the woman was hotter than hell, couldn't believe I'd work such an older woman. There's 20 year-old ass out there, they told me, which can grind your face just as easily as 53 year-old ass. But I was so blown away at the time, it all just rolled off my back. It lasted about seven months, until she moved on to some commodities broker who lived in her condo unit.

So I was basically used for sex by an older woman. Which is fucking awesome.

That 31 year gap between stands as the biggest age variance between myself and a Kenette. Anyone have any limits to how large they'll let such a gap be?