Creative Writing 101: How Not to Fix a Pipe

So I get that call from her again. The one I know she's going to make once a week. And I show up, like she knows I will. And I walk in, in my too-tight T-shirt and pants and ask her what the problem is. And she tries to act all cool and innocent and puts down her cigarette and tells me that her sink's backed up. And asks if I can fix it.

I tell her sure as hell I can. That's my fucking job, motherfucker. So I step inside, cool and collected, and ask her for one of those cigarettes. Because this might take a while.

As she kinda stands off to the sides, watching me intently, I reach into the tool box and take out my wrench. This is just right for the job, I tell her, long and hard and with a nice fat tip to ensure that I get a good hold and keep it locked in for as long as I need it. Gently, because I'm still working the cigarette, I ask her to prep it for me. And with a few turns of her thumb, she adjusts it accordingly... just enough to get it ready. And it feels like it's almost getting heavier in my hand, and when I see that it's extended just enough, I tell her it's time.

And I move in slowly, because that's how you need to approach a job like this. And I watch her eyes widen as I gently guide my wrench in and around the problem. First, I press it against her sink. Softly. And run it up and down the side. Because the condensation has already begun to form, and I can see it glistening. And I want to get the wrench all messed up in that stuff to help it glide that much easier.

Then I advance. A quick lunge. And it's in and around. Deep. And I let my hand guide the shaft until it's as deep as it needs to be. And I can hear her getting all hot and bothered because it's been a long time since someone came out to take care of this job and she's gonna enjoy every goddam minute. And I like to take my time, so I make a few short, slow moves, just enough to loosen things. And I work my hands quick and fast and let the tool guide me.

And it's up and down, in and out. A slow twist here, a quick push there. I hear her breathing quicken and I let it be my guide.

That's it, she tells me. That's the spot. Right there. And I work it like a man possessed. My hand slicking up and down the side, hips moving in perfect cadence, because you've got to get your entire body into it, not just the part that's working the tool -- man, that's how people hurt themselves! I softly run a finger down her length to see just how warm it's getting. And it's very, very warm. Getting hotter, you might say. And suddenly I know it's working. So I keep at it. Harder and deeper, every muscle of my body working in perfect time, keeping the tool rigid and moving, moving, moving. It's engorged, hot and throbbing, and I know it's only a matter of time. And she can't believe I've kept it going this long but I keep pushing deeper and deeper and flexing my arm because it's the only part of me that isn't burning with the desire to bring this job to its conclusion. We're sweating and moaning and her eyes are widening and glazing and it makes me even hotter to see the hypnotic effect it's having on her.

And that's when I feel it. It's happening. It's working. I give the wrench a solid twist, working my whole body into it. And just like that, it explodes. Freedom. Sweet, sweet freedom. And she hears it all happening and throws her head back and screams in approval. Because I brought her there. And I hear the warm water gush forth and see the satisfied look on her face and I retract the tool ever so gently so as not to disturb anything. And I calmly wipe it down as I watch her eyes roll back and another cigarette get drawn from her pack.

And I wipe the sweat off my chest and arms and smile and ask if there's anything else I can do for her.

And she says, yeah, the toilet's broke. Can I fix that, too?

Exhibitionists Unite!

What exactly did women do before YouTube? Did they used to gyrate like this in front of the mirror, only imagining that half a billion people were watching them, dilligently tossing it to every twist of their hips?

Either way, this girl should consider my marraige proposal signed, sealed and delivered. I'm totally yours.

Clothes Make The Man

Case in point: JT. I mean, look at that little twerp. Put him in baggy jeans and gold chains in front of your local 7-Eleven and you wouldn't even buy booze for him. But with the suit, he gets Jessica Biel. OK, yeah, maybe it's the singing thing, too. But still - until he started wearing suits, he was known as Britney Spears's ex.
So don't wait for a wedding or a funeral, fellas - get out that three-piece and call me!

This Just In: Jessica Alba Has a Pretty Nice Ass

Wake the neighbors, folks: A group of mathematicians at the prestigious Cambridge University have deduced -- likely using tools and intellect that the rest of us can only dream of -- that Jessica Alba has a pretty awesome rear end.

No, seriously. They used science and shit to prove this. It was in the goddam Telegraph, an actual newspaper, blokes. Check it:

Jessica Alba, the film actress, has the ultimate sexy strut, according to a team of Cambridge mathematicians.

The academics found that it is the ratio between hips and waist that puts the sway into a woman's walk - and the nearer that ratio is to 0.7, the better.

This ratio provides the body with the right torso strength to produce a more angular swing and bounce to the hips during the walking motion.

Therefore, a woman with a 25in waist and 36in hips would have just the right proportions to carry off a sexy swagger as she walks.

The Jessica Alba sashay beat off competition from Kate Moss, Angelina Jolie and even Marilyn Monroe, whose walk along a railway platform in Some Like It Hot is one of the most famous in film history.

While Monroe was a fraction off the target ratio with 0.69, the Cambridge team said that Alba had the perfect proportions.

Okay, so it's more about how she moves her ass than her ass itself. But give me a break, will ya. I'm still dazed at the fact that my two favorite things -- Jessica Alba's ass and British mathematicians -- have joined forces to create a whole new level of awesomeness.

Free Advice Fridays: Girls (and Boys) on Film

Dear Ken & Ariel. I need your help: My boyfriend wants us to make a sex video. He says it'd be fun and he'd only watch it by himself when I'm not around to remind him of me. I'm not so sure this is something I want to do. Any thoughts for how to approach it with him?

Ken Says: I’ll put this as simply and delicately as I can: If the idea of your aunt Polly trolling around YouTube and inadvertently coming upon a video of your boyfriend working your ass over with a leather strap and two gallons of Mazola doesn’t appeal to you, then I’d pass. In these “content driven” times, you literally never know where your video is liable to show up. One minute, you’re fooling around with a camera, the next, you’re the most downloaded clip at HotTeenFacials.com. Unless you want to experience the embarrassment that comes with discovering your Dad’s poker buddies have been jacking off to your boobs, leave the filmmaking to Scorsese. Seriously.

Ariel Says: Dear Vacillating Video Vixen: Pamela and Tommy Lee, Pamela and Brett Michaels, Art Kelly, Rob Lowe, that annoying dude from Creed and Kid Rock, Colin Farrell, Paris Hilton and Screech have all followed your boyfriend's suggestion. If you wish to have their unintended audience of millions (well, unintended except for Paris and Screech) then by all means, exfoliate, wax, and proceed. However, if you feel too camera-shy and would prefer to have your fifteen minutes of fame fully clothed, tell him very sweetly that you simply will be too nervous, unable to relax, and far too inhibited to do all the fantastically hot, crazy-assed, illegal-in-several-states shit you normally do to him behind closed doors.

I Don't Understand Women, Volume 6621

So the other night I meet a female pal of mine for dinner. As we sift through the appetizers, she tells me how her lovelife's been pretty lame of late, and with each successive glass of booze, she gets a bit more descriptive as to what it is that's got her down. Apparently, the last few guys she's dated haven't gone down on her, and she's absolutely "dying" -- her words -- for a bit of tongue-lashing.

This being a long-time pal of mine, and quite a hot little number to boot, I assure her that those guys must be crazy or perhaps even a bit queer to not want to work her over, and that everything will likely change with the next boyfriend.

And she starts to explain how she just needs to be sucked on so badly that she's just looking for someone -- anyone -- who'll go down on her with no strings attached. Just so she can remind herself of what it feels like.

And I remind her, again, that the next man who comes into her life will probably be the guy for the job. I also add that if all she really wants is a little downtown action, I'm sure any guy in any bar in any part of the country -- providd, y'know, he swung that way -- would be more than up to the task.

And she says, no, she doesn't have the time to filter out the psychos and sissy-boys and Korn fans. She needs someone she can trust. Someone who'll just do the job like it needs to be done. As she puts it, she literally just wants to lay down, get eaten like there's no goddam tomorrow, and put this cursed drought behind her.

So I, fueled purely by alcohol and a prolonged look at her derriere when she got up to use the ladies room, lamely offer my services, seeing as how she almost seems to be steering the conversation in that direction. Hell, I'm always down to go down, as the Cub Scout Mantra dictates.

And that's when she quickly changes direction. "Oh god, no," she says. "We couldn't do that."

But at least I offered. And perhaps that all she wanted to hear.

The Kind Of Match.com Email You've Been Dying To Get

Hi there,

I am a very successful guy that spends way too much time on the road...I thought this would be a great way to make some friends in the places where i spend the most time....

Friends first and see what happens from there...it would be really cool to find a travel partner so I could share all of the beatiful places that I go ...

Anyway I am going to be in LA tommorow evening for the [xxx xxxxx} concert and I thought you might like to join me ...

if you email me a non match email address I will send you a picture...i dont post one because i have a high profile job...

my email is [xxxxxxx]@hotmail.com

e

Adventures @ The Comic Book Sci-Fi Convention

So I'm wandering around this delightful geekfest when I spot one of the many "enticements" for these types of things: a Playboy model, surrounded by copies of her naked photos and magazine spreads. Surprisingly, she's alone. I walk up casually and notice that she's got a pissed-off expression on her face. Of course, I think smugly. No one's paying attention to her and she's furious. Ha ha. I give her a fake smile and ask her how she's doing. "Oh, OK." She replies. "Sorry, I'm a bit distracted at the moment. How are you?" Taken aback at her niceness, I ask if she's having an OK time at the convention. "Yeah, it's been fine, but I made up a stack of magnets to give out as business cards, and someone grabbed the entire pile of them when I wasn't looking! That's $500 bucks down the hole."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," I said.
She leaned forward and whispered: "I hope the little fuckers put them too close to their computer and it fries their hard drive."

For Oscar Consideration

When the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences doles out its Oscar noms for 2007, chances are this gem won't be shortlisted. But check the raw emotion on display here. The convincing shouts of "no!" as a gorgeous woman lowers her ass onto his face. The absolute terror that grips him as he realizes, "I am totally at the mercy of an impossibly hot girl."

Yes, I'm utterly convinced that this guy wants absolutely nothing to do with being trapped under this chick. And that, my friends, is the magic of acting.

My Own Best Friend

So the Kennette and I are talking yesterday about my incessant masturbatory habits, and she asks what my all-time record is for "helping myself out of a jam" in a twenty-four hour span.

Currently, I think it's 12, although that was in my younger, leaner years.

You?

The Ass That Literally Stopped Traffic

So I'm driving back from a weekend down the Cape, and all of a sudden, traffic hits a standstill. And not in the typical places either (i.e., the Sagamore Bridge, the Bourne Rotary, Ma Kessler's Handjob Ranch). So I figger it's gotta be an accident. And I sit and I stare and I crawl along and after thirty minutes pass I'm starting to wonder where the fuck this parade actually ends.

And then, up ahead, I see what's keeping us down. A car by the side of the road with a girl in impossibly tight pants bent over it, checking something in the trunk (no pun intended). People were literally slowing down to look at her ass, and I even saw a couple dudes in a Jeep in front of me taking pics with their camera phones.

Not too many people can say they have an ass that actually caused traffic to stop. This girl can.

Oh, and I totally stroked it the rest of the way home. Hey, anything to keep myself awake.

Too Much of a Good Thing?

Here's the thing: is it possible to have too much sex? When you're not getting any, when the only thing taking a stroll through your bedroom are tumbleweeds, then sex takes on the same importance to survival such as air, water, and food. You can't stop thinking about it, you become obsessed with bad soft porn on late-night cable (me, I walk by the Abercrombie & Fitch store model one too many times) and generally give off a "I NEED to get laid" desperation vibe wherever you go. When help finally arrives, it's fantastic, it's incredible, it's out of this world, and you can literally have it anytime, anywhere, even with pancakes. But now, it's starting to lose its allure. The magical moments are suddenly becoming more akin to sock sorting or getting the mail. I mean, isn't that the case with basically anything - candy, donuts, fried food, Chia Pets? So. In order to keep it exciting, thrilling, mind-blowing, etc., do we put ourselves on a sex "diet"?

Free Advice Fridays Presents: The Too-Long Schlong?!?

Dear K&A: I'm male in my late 20s and I've been cursed. I've always known that my little guy wasn't exactly little. In fact, statistically speaking, it is far above average (over 10"). Every other time in my life I've taken a certain amount of pleasure in knowing that when it comes to the bedroom, I can bring the right tool to the job. That is, until I started dating my recent girlfriend. It seems that every time we do the horizontal mambo, she is out of commission for a few days. I can't even get her to fool around because the after effects of our lovemaking completely turn her off and make her feel "gross". Although it seems like something that is uncontrollable, it is putting a strain on our relationship. We are still in the honeymoon phase and I feel as if we should be taking every moment away from the world to rip each others clothes off and get crazy. I'm at a loss here.

Ken Says: As an Irish guy, I have almost no fucking idea what you’re going through. In fact, a great deal of my experience with women revolves around trying to divert attention away from my schlong. And trust me, I’ve used everything from elaborately-staged lighting techniques to chloroform to keep my secret shame from becoming a massive deal breaker whenever I’m lucky enough to talk a woman back to my place. But if I was lucky enough to be hung like a porn star, you can bet your ass I wouldn’t be hanging around these parts, slumming with the locals. Get your ass to Hollywood where there’s money to be made with that sort of shit. Christ, have we learned nothing from Boogie Nights?

Ariel Says: Oh dear. So what you’re saying is that all those emails in my junk in-box fail to mention the darker side of “XXXLPENIS ENLARGEMNT-MAKEhERCUmALLNiTE!@#$!”? I must admit I do recall having a similar frightening experience to your girlfriend’s, in which the nice fellow’s Johnson would come out to greet me five blocks before he did. What did I do? Well, it was like having an exclusive designer purse that went with absolutely none of my outfits. I knew I had something very special and unique, that other women would kill to have, and yet…I had no idea what to do with it. Needless to say, the relationship went by the wayside. Let me hasten to tell you it was not just because of the Long Island Lizard (his pet name), it was the fact that he could not string more than five words together without a beer and cigarette break. Your honey needn’t change her relationship status on MySpace just yet. I would strongly suggest she seek professional medical advice from her gynecologist (i.e., NOT this silly column.) There could be ways to work with it, work up to it, or hell, work around it. Stay strong—God didn’t give you that designer purse for nothing!

Worst Possible Line to Begin a Business Meeting With

"Okay, before we get started, I'd like to get to that mandatory breast exam."

My Uncle Carl? Used it. Now he's stuffing "Whoopee Pies" at a factory in Chelsea. A former commodities broker, he's finding his new career "interesting."

Of course, a close runner up is, "Good point, sir. But, honestly, I'd like to run this past my cock and balls and see what they have to say about it." The day I totally stop giving a fuck -- which, I gotta tell ya, gets closer every day -- I'm using that one. Yes.

Fake It 'Til You Make It

A woman faking an orgasm seems as ancient as that old chestnut of a movie, "When Harry Met Sally." Chicks snickered and winked knowingly, exchanged a few "I'll have what she's having" and that was that, heh heh, the proverbial cat (i.e., pussy) was out of the bag. Then women decided, fuck this faking bullshit, and voila, the Big O was born. Women cheered, men panicked, and erectile dysfunction medication was introduced to the general population. But then came the rise of porn - once relegated to the adult book stores and unmarked VHS tapes, it suddenly enjoyed a renaissance with the Web; with You Tube and a few key words typed into Google, it's become downright mainstream middle America. So now there's women with gigantic fake tits and surgically enhanced genitalia having mind-blowing orgasms, right and left. Sometimes five in a row, even though the guy looks like he's doing his taxes. So with women running out and getting boob jobs and labiaplasty, who's to say we're not back to banging on the table in the crowded deli, grabbing our hair and screaming a few "YES! OH YES! DON'T STOP!!!"

The Energy Crisis: Solved

Why is it that we can put folks on the moon, explore Mars and run golf-carts on ears of corn, yet no one can find a way to harnass the sheer magnitude of this woman's ass for the betterment of society? Godalmighty, the kinteic energy I've put forth from intense masturbation alone after watching this clip can surely power at least a couple houses in Somerville.

Honestly, though, you often hear the expression, "you could show a movie on that ass." Folks, you could show a movie on this ass.

Star F*cking, Reality Show Style

Just like Dante's Inferno, there are several circles of Hell in Los Angeles, in which various famous types from A-D orbit the city... and then you have the reality show stars. They're fairly ubiquitous, epitomizing the "stars--they're just like us!" because, actually, they really are--they have to do their own shopping, wash their own cars, even get their own nails done at the cheapy-cheap Thai nail salon ("yu wan fak nails?"). So it's quite easy to interact with them, seeing as their 15 seconds is just about up. Have I dated any of them yet? Nope - I'm so lame the closest I've gotten is hooking up with a guy who partied with Syrus at the Real World Boston house until Montana freaked out and kicked them out. But out here, if I put in a little more effort (say, shave my legs more than once a month) I think I could swing it. Thing is, do I really want to date someone who is the topic of numerous chat rooms and cooky girls' My Space pages, and would constantly be referred to as "that has-been from Big Brother"?