Free Advice Friday presents: The Search for the Toothless Wonder

Ken and Ariel: As simply as I can put this, my girlfriend uses her teeth a little too much when she's "down there.” She really seems into it, but any way I can tell her to lighten up a bit?

Ariel Says: “Less wood-chucking, more sucking.” Too blatant? How about, “You are so fucking amazing. My toes are cramped for weeks and I’ve experienced nirvana about 100 times since we met. However, I did notice some teeth marks on my Johnson the other morning and would like to protect him for further use--like when I pile-drive him into your sweet ass. So would you mind taking it a little easy?”

Ken Says: Dude, any hummer during which you’re fearing for the very existence of your johnson is no hummer at all. Here’s one of the rare occasions when I’m all for honesty; just tell her, “Please, in the name of all that is holy, stop treating my junk like some goddam chew toy.” If that doesn’t work, you could move on to something like a blood-curdling scream whenever she blows you. But heed this warning: He who critiques a woman’s blowjob technique risks total shut-off. So tread lightly, my friend. Tread lightly.

Sure, It Tastes Great Going Down...

To follow up with yesterday's post, for some sad reason I was not born/blessed? with the feminine wiles to make me a gold digger. Instead, I was cursed with the cockamamie good little girl complex that makes it impossible for me to say "no." So what does that mean? It means I go out on dates with guys I have no interest in. And seeing as I'm out with them, dreading every minute, to have them also pay for dinner, drinks, movie, popcorn etc. means that somehow I'm going to be obligated. Sexual favors? Not even that blatent - more that I'll have to agree to go out with them again. Therefore, if I insist on paying, they owe ME - meaning I get a get-out-of-jail-free card, I don't have to answer their calls or go out with them again. Because, see, I paid for YOUR dinner--no harm, no foul, we're even, now leave me alone.

Is that retarded or what?

Be My Suga Momma

That bastion of cutting edge reporting and the latest social trends, The New York Times, recently reported on the phenomena of "women dating down"; i.e., women who are making bank whilst their paramours are still getting their groceries at the 99c store. (Not for nothing, but they really do have a lot of stuff for $1.00!) Anyway, it makes women uncomfortable, feel guilty, fearful that they are so emasculating their dudes that they'll end up rich as shit and alone. Feh. I have a feeling there'll be plenty of guys who would be more than happy to be pussy whipped for a flat screen and a full fridge.

My Brilliant Career as Ladies Man

I don't smoke. Unless I've been drinking. When I'm drunk, man, just hand me those fucking cigarettes because I'm gonna tear right through 'em. Problem is, the combination of stomach full of booze and lungs full of smoke invariably leads to barfing or, worse, barfing on someone. And we can't have that.

Right outta college, I worked for a small medical supply company. Every Friday night, some knucklehead would go out and grab a case of beer, and we'd sit and drink for a few hours at the end of the workdasy until we went off to our respective better lives. One night, me and an older woman --one who intrigued me, might I add -- stuck around, drinking and getting increasingly touchy-feely. She started smoking so, being half in the wrapper, I asked her for one. About an hour later, the only ones left, we started making out. Then things got a little more heated, as she grabbed right for the Captain. We moved into the office area, and I sat her up on the Xerox machine, prepared to give her the oral stimulation of her life.

Turns out I got about two licks in when the smoke and nicotine and cheap beer hit me like a sledgehammer. No denying it: I had to puke. But, man, is there a worse time to throw up then right after you've started going down on some woman? I mean, what kind of message is that sending?

So I summoned my last ounce of jedi strength, kept the puke down for a good four minutes, then excused myself, claiming I had to take a massive whiz. I ran down the hall, ducked into the men's room, puked my brains out, then returned a few minutes later. At that point, she was slipping back into her jeans, the mood effectively trampled. But, hey, better she think I can't hold my liquor than god knows what she might have thought if I just broke loose and threw up after getting between her legs.

Free Advice Fridays Presents: Go Get 'Em, Tiger

Dear Ken & Ariel: So I'm recently divorced. I was married for only 17 months but we were together much longer. I'm 31 years old and find myself in the unfamiliar territory of the dating world. It’s been almost 1/2 a decade since I've been on a date and I was just wondering what's changed and what can I expect? Where do I start? Any help would be welcomed.

Ken Says: Actually, dude, I have a question for you: Have you recently been on a safari to Africa? I ask this because if you were, you need to get yourself to a doctor, first thing. Because you were probably bitten by a mosquito carrying malaria, as you’re definitely showing the symptoms, the most prominent of which are unclear thinking and irrational behavior. Dude, you just got out of a relationship that lasted, according to your letter, at least five years and ended in divorce. The last thing you need to be doing is sizing up potential replacements. My suggestion: lock yourself in a Chinatown hotel room with three hookers and six bottles of whiskey. Or try to pick up some chick in the lodge at Killington and ask if she’ll blow you on the chairlift. Or hop a quick flight to Vegas with two thousand dollars and no luggage whatsoever. In other words, the best way to clear your mind after the dissolution of a long-term relationship is to get out there and experience the shit you weren’t able to do for the past five years. Once you wake up on the Mexican border with no pants, a tattoo you don’t remember and a sizable hickey across your abdomen, I’d say you’re ready to start dating again.

Ariel Says:Honey, as much as you may feel out of touch, not much has changed. The sluts are still slutty (huzzah!), the gold diggers are still shoppin’ (booo), and the ones saving themselves already got married at 19 (and are probably at your lawyer’s right now filing annulment paperwork.) Only thing that’s different is that now you can select your next hottie boombalattie from the privacy of your own home. No silly, put down the Yellow Pages, I wasn’t talking about an escort service! I meant the bevy of online dating sites with the really stupid commercials. Since you’ve been in a cave for the past decade, here’s a quick reference guide: For your “I’ve never been one of those people who goes out and hooks up with random people…[but] I’d like to be for a little while” (you sly dog, you), check out Lavalife.com. If you want old farts, go to E-harmony.com. If you want the Southeast Expressway of dating, try Match.com. Jdate=no shiksas. Craigslist is generally good for glory holes, anger fucks, obscene phone callers and some great second-hand couches. Nerve.com happily caters to your inner freak. And, the Onion personals are for girls (and guys) who secretly want to boff Jon Stewart. So, instead of letting your fingers do the walking, let your browser do the stalking and get that cute butt OUT THERE!

Amazing Advances in Words Written Across Someone's Ass

The other day, I see a couple college girls walking down Beacon Street. As I get closer, I realize one of 'em's wearing sweatpants with something written across the ass. Only, I can't quite make out the words; I only know it's not "Juicy" or "Pink" or "Free Trade Now" or any of the things I'm used to seeing scrawled across a woman's rear end. So I speed up and, as I get within a comfortable, non-stalking distance, I see the word "indefatigable." Huh? Across your ass on a pair of pants? This has got to be some private joke, I take it. Or a bid by English Lit Major chicks to remind us that they're pretty fucking hot, too? Either way, I had to look it up.

Dirty Old Hag

See, if I just photoshop out the popsicle stick in the middle and replace it with a normal, healthy buxom woman such as myself, it'd be a much better Monday morning.
And yet, I still feel cheated, because it would still seem like two beautiful gay men with a fag hag. Sigh.

Free Advice Fridays: Nice-Nekked or Butt-Ugly?

Dear Ken & Ariel: I’m a chick and I live with two other chicks, both of whom have no problem with walking around the place naked. Honestly, I don't need to see anyone's boobs or vayjay but my own, and I don't know how to tell these two to knock it off. They really helped me out of a jam by letting me move in, so I feel awkward saying anything... but I really, really need to say something. Any ideas?

Ariel Says: I'm not sure what your options are, my dear Prudence. They let you move into their nudist colony, as you said to "help you out of a jam" so you kind of have to play by the house rules. Of course, you have a right to express your discomfort/distaste at looking at a pair of hooters as you try to enjoy your Special K and OJ at the breakfast table, something along the lines of "It makes me uncomfortable when you guys walk around naked." But there's no guarantee they'll change their ways. You may just have to suck it up and get used to it - who knows, you may start to find clothing to be an inconvenience, too.

Ken Says: I find your friends’ lack of respect for your feelings utterly disturbing. My suggestion is to make the boldest statement of all by moving out. Of course, you’ll need someone to help you out with any messy “lease-breaking” complications. That’s where I come in. Tell your roomies I’ll have my stuff over by 5:00pm.

My Weakness, Revealed.

Okay, I'll admit it. If a woman puts her tongue on my ear -- not in my ear, mind you, but just runs it gently along the top and bottom -- I turn to loose change. Simple as that.

Sure, I'm also a sucker for the quick hand to the jublees, the ass-in-face maneuver and some red-hot, beer-soaked mouth-on-chest action. But once they start with that tongue, I'm basically putty in their hands. Kinda.

Reading the Label

Somewhere between "the dude I hooked up with" and "baby daddy" is a wasteland of awkward references. If the "are you my...boyfriend?" conversation is put off, put on hold, or the intended target simply feels that your progressive (read: open) relationship doesn't need to be tainted by such base, conventional labels, how in the hell do you refer to each other?
Partner (lesbian?)
Lover (Lady Chatterly?)
Buddy (beer-swilling closet homosexual?)
Guy Friend (totally lamo, obviously using semantics to assuage fear of commitment?)
Master (now we're talking!)

The Secret to Trade Show Success

My company lurves the trade shows, man, and because I'm a lucky sumbitch, I get sent out on the road for the chance to represent my company at trade shows all across this great nation. Which means I get to stand in front of a booth with my company's logo for long, torturous hours and beg people to come talk to me about my company and perhaps take one of these informative pamphlets.

The trick to trade show success, like anything else in life, is to offer something to entice folks to come to your booth. Like a bar of candy. Or a chance to win an iPod. Or a stuffed fuckin' giraffe with your company's logo across its ass. Or... you could do what these people did, and just watch the people line up.

National Send Me a Photo of Your Ass Day

Alright, I admit it. There's no such holiday. It was just a cheap excuse to get you to e-mail me a photo of your ass.

Still. If you wanted to, I wouldn't argue. Just sayin'.

I Brake For Doppelgangers

As much as I'd like to pass myself off as this deep, sensitive human being who seeks out the inner light in others, I've more often been guilty of dating purely on the basis of looks. Arm candy lovers, unite! And at possibly an even higher rate of superficiality than Paris or LiLo, I've dated someone just because they happened to look like someone else. In my mind, I've dated Russell Crowe, David Duchovny, and someone vaguely passing for Eddie Van Halen. Despite the fact that these guys were Joe Schmoes that couldn't act or air-guitar their way out of a paper bag, it didn't stop me from making them dress up in Roman sandals or give me their best disgruntled-FBI-looking-for-aliens stare.

Shouldn't Sex Toys Be Introduced After the Third Date?

It was quite normal, actually; I met a guy at a party, he was a friend of a friend, seemed nice/cute, asked for my number. We made a date and went out: dinner and a movie. We had a good time, laughed, he held my hand. Then he invited me to his place for "a cup of herbal tea." I felt comfortable enough, perhaps vaguely horny, so I went. We talked some more, drank some tea, we kissed. Nothing too aggressive, he hadn't even slid towards second base. There was the inevitable lull in the conversation. And then:
"So, have you ever used nipple clips?"
"Excuse me?"
"You know, nipple clips. Your breasts are quite large and they seem like they would be quite sensitive. I can go get them."
"Uh, no, that's OK..I'm fine."
"How about a vibrator? You've used one of those, right?"
"Um...yeah, but why--"
"I've got several, all different shapes and sizes. Here, let me get the box."
This is when my tea suddenly met the shag carpet as I got up quickly to leave.
"I'm really sorry, I'm just really tired, and I have a big day tomorrow."
"But it's Saturday."
"I know, doesn't that suck? Well, nice meeting you, bye!"

Things Only Women Can Get Away With

So I'm out with the lads at our favorite local watering hole, and the owner asks us if we wouldn't mind moving to another table because the bar's setting up a stage for an event later that night. We say sure and work our way to another table, where we're joined by a couple ladies who were also displaced. So now we've got beer and women, which is a lethal combination.

About a half hour later, one of my buddies, who ended up sitting next to one of the girls, starts acting strangely. Looking blank-faced, nervously flitting his eyes about, scratching his head. He then inexplicably gets up to leave and is followed by the girl sitting next to him.

Turns out that as soon as we all ended up at the table together and she found herself next to him, she casually dropped her hand in his lap and started working over his johnson right then and there, getting him into such a state, he was basically hypnotized into doing her bidding.

Now, see, that's a woman who clearly understands things. Not content to fritter away time with lackluster conversation or trite "get to know yas," she simply goes right for the command center. And she is successful.

Ladies, again, I applaud your various maneuvers. Also, feel free to try that one on me anytime.