Refried Sex Life

Hooking up with an ex usually happens when you're single (at least, for the sake of keeping things simple, let's pretend it's so.) And it's usually because nothing else save Joey Fatone's new reality show is going on at the moment. Because if that cute "friend" request online or that possibly normal dude who bought you a drink three barstools over or your new neighbor at 16A had any promise, you'd sure as hell wouldn't be returning your ex's call/text/yodeling outside your bedroom window. But hey, you've done your nails, picked your toes, and Supernanny's a rerun--what else, or who else, is there to do?
So I think of hooking up with the ex like going to that neighborhood diner. You never think, during the week or making plans for Friday night, "I really want to eat at The Egg n' I tonight!" It's Sushi, it's Italian, it's anything that doesn't have a "super value menu." But late Saturday night, or hungover Sunday morning, that's where you go. And wait for a table (yes, you're willing to wait up to 20 minutes for a $4.99 pancake special.) Just like you'd wait for your stupid ex at the dive bar on the corner, even as you're still checking your watch and drinking warm Bud swill and telling yourself, that's it, I'm so outta here. But when he shows up 28 minutes later, there you sit, a mixture of resentment and horniness which will at least fuel your first few thrusts. So, in essence, you eat at the diner. Since it's comfort food, you think, yeah, these greasy eggs and over-buttered toast and black sulphur coffee tastes pretty good. Hits the spot.
We'll check back a few hours later when you're on the can with a magazine and Tums and we'll see if that diner will still be in your immediate future.

The Backside Party

I shit you not: Just yesterday as I sat in the cafeteria at work, a coworker pointed to a hot chick in line and said he wanted to "party on her backside." I wrote the guy off as a fellow perv and got back to my chicken sandwich. But later on, I read an article that informed me the guy might not be a perv at all! He might just be from Dubai:

“Dinglish” is a blend of broken English, Hindi, and Arabic that most expatriate residents of Dubai end up speaking, as it is both practical and sociable, according to British expatriate Annabel Kantaria, who lives in Dubai. "A grip on the basics of Dinglish is essential when you need to get things done in Dubai," she maintains. "Ask for something to be done with typical British reserve and politeness and you'll be waiting a very long time." One example of Dinglish is a invitation Kantaria received to attend a party in a friend's "backside," which in Dinglish means backyard or rear building entrance.

Still, any city where women are tossing around phrases like, "come party in my backside" is pefectly fine with me.

There's Always Someone Worse Than You (or, The Sneakiest Possible Way to Feel a Woman's Ass)

Okay. I've been known to pull a few patented "ass man" moves from time to time. Laying my hand palm-up on the passenger side seat before a girl sits down in my car. Shifting my shoulder just a bit too far out into the aisle while on an airplane so as to catch a bit of the cute flight attendant's arse. Hanging out in the gallows of the Boston Public Library, scoping out college chicks bent over stacks of Kierkegaard. Y'know, pretty basic stuff.

But here's a guy who's taking it to a level of which I've never even dreamed--Hiding in a woman's couch and waiting for her to sit down on him:

A 27-year-old Hudson Valley man is accused of cutting hole in a woman's couch and hiding in the carved-out space until she came home.

Police in the city of Newburgh, 55 miles north of New York City, say the 22-year-old woman sat on the couch Wednesday evening and felt a bump in the cushions. She jumped up and David Joe Limones emerged from his hiding place.

Bizarre, yes. But it's nice to see that there are fellow ass fanatics who are working on bigger, better and more ingenious ways to get their feel on.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to Jordan's Furniture.

the next B-town generation

You know, I was just thinking that between October 2007 and now, a lot of babies have been made in Boston. Little babies made in the drunken, sloppy, silly, euphoric love of winning something, that is just so unbelievable and amazing and sweet, well, you just gotta fuck.


(Or, conversely, in February 2008 a loss so horrific I cannot speak its name, it is so devastating that you just have to make the pain go away, well, you just gotta fuck.)

There's gonna be a lotta little babies running around this time next year.

Not Safe For Work

As far as my office is concerned, I'm all about the illicit affairs. Because those people know how to keep things "on the sly" as the clever people say. A nod, a wink, perhaps a brief coded e-mail, and they're off to dinner at Joe's and perhaps a nice bang session at a local Marriott.

On the other hand, you've got the office workers who are co-mingling and seem to want the world to know about it. Yeah, they're usually younger and don't have a significant other at home whom other may know about. But still, I just don't need to see that shit in my life.

For example, the other day, I head down to the soda machine. When I get there, I see, out of the corner of my eye, a couple making out in the corner of the hall, between the cafeteria and the corporate gym. And not just making out--she's practically humping his leg and he's squeezing her over sized ass cheeks like they're a couple wet bags of sand. I look at them--purely out of the fascination of the abomination--and they stop and look at me, and the girl--a real ornery sort--shoots me a look and chortles, "What are you lookin' at?" They then proceed to move about four feet down the hall, just out of my line of sight, and continue.

I just bit my tongue, went to my happy place, and selected my soda. Looking back, I wish I'd told them, look, no one needs to see such PDAs in an office. As I see it, if you're banging the resident "big girl," that's your problem--not something you should feel obligated to share with the masses. Unless, of course, two hot chicks wanna make out with each other. Hell, they can use my office.

Next week, I'll probably slash her tires. I'm keeping my options open.

Thar's gold in them thar hills

Hey kids,
why I can't be a Celtics dancer? I say this, of course, because the supabadass Celtics are in the Finals and I would love to be at the games. I'd be fired after the first quarter though because I would be not doing the dance routine and instead going up to the players and saying goofy things like "You guys are AWESOME! YEAH!" and then I'd yell at the other team like "You guys SUCK! YEAH!" and then I'd ask how I can get a popcorn or a beer and I'd shove one of those rich white fat bastards out of the their premier $2,000 seats so I could watch the game.

When are the Pats cheerleader auditions?

Nothing to See Here

...just your basic gum commercial in which a cartoon cat goads some young Spanish boys into spying on a pre-teen girl getting dressed. Or something like that.

Pretty run of the mill stuff, I'd say.

You Don't Know What It's Like... to Be Me

Savvy readers of this blog -- or basically anyone's who's dropped by to read one or two of my posts -- already know that I've got something of a fetish for having my face sat on. People who read a bit closer between the lines will see that I would apparently also have a thing for... having my face sat on by a woman while she's still wearing her pants.

The fuck? What the hell does that even mean, you might ask. But, sadly, it's all true. And damned if I can explain it, although I'm sure it can be blamed on the priest dressed up as a hermit crab who touched me indecently on my fourteenth birthday.

Anyway, yeah. I'm kinda into that. But the thing is, it's not the sort of concept you can just throw out there in a one-on-one situation. You choose 'em wisely. If it's a girl I've been dating/seeing/screwing for some time, then I have no problem -- especially after I've had a few -- asking if she'd be willing to do it. One night stands, on the other hand, are a lot tougher; although "anything goes" is typically the rule, asking a girl you just met at the local over tequila shots to sit on your face with her jeans on typically elicits either laughter (as in, "He's obviously joking") or laughter (as in, "He's clearly homicidal and I just have to play along until I can call the cops or render him unconscious with a frying pan") or laughter (as in, "What the fuck. Okay."--admittedly rare.)

But there are only a handful of women you can request something like this of, as I'm often concerned about them going off and telling other people. Which calls to mind a great episode of HBO's Curb Your Enthusiasm in which Jeff, Larry's BFF, separates from his wife and worries that in divorce proceedings, she might start blabbing about his various kinks and fetishes. Larry counters by proudly stating that he's never shared anything even remotely deviant with his wife, so she'd have no dirt on him if they ever split.

Then, as is the case on Curb, everything unspools but quickly. Larry drives past his wife's buddy Wanda and innocently yells a comment about her backside, setting off a chain of events that has Larry, by episode's end, looking like the King of Ass Fetish Mountain (and there is such a position; I've even applied for it a few times).

Here's one of the episode's best sequences, when Larry's wife and Wanda confront him on the comment:



As a professional ass fetishist, let me reiterate: It's not an easy job. But somebody's got to do it.

The Argument for Not Going Out

In my new, Kennette-free state, I suddenly get a lot of friends and lowlifes calling me to hang out. Being an ornery, people-hating sort, I typically prefer to stay in with my beer and my porn and my elaborate counterfeiting equipment. But when my man Rousseaux called me Friday night, I gave in, and before I'd barely taken off my tie from the day's work, we were on our way to Providence.

So we got to the bar and ordered some food and some drinks. And the waitresses were plenty hot and some of the girls standing around us even hotter. And Rousseaux started talking like some character in a Judd Apatow film, offering up his strategy for getting both of us laid. And as I haven't so much as kissed a girl in a couple months, I was eager to hear it.

Then, suddenly I see a manicured hand reach for one of my fries. I look up and see a girl, probably in her early 30s, smiling and munching food what I'm paying for.

"You're cute as a button," she says, and tweaks my motherfucking nose like I'm in the second grade, then walks off.

"Pretty girls are the only people in the world who can get away with that shit," I said to Rousseaux as I watched her disappear to the other side of the bar.

About an hour and four beers later, I'm starting to get the "trouble glow." Rousseaux wants to start minglin' and I swallow the last of my beer and alls of a sudden, I see the Fry Thief sitting down at our table.

"So where are you guys from?" she asks.

"You owe me, I'm guessing, like seventeen cents for that fry," I explain, only half-joking, as times are tight.

Rousseaux busts in with some crazy line about working for the space program and I'm sizing up this girl and trying to get a read on her. She's pretty and seemingly buzzed--like every other girl in the place mind you--although something doesn't seem quite right. But I'm about six beers deep and, as is my way, have to make the first of about eight trips to the men's room. So I excuse myself and leave her for Rousseaux to decode.

And as I get to the men's room door, I feel someone's arms around my waist. It's the Fry Thief.

"Dude, I'm going into the men's room."

"I wanna go in."

"That's yours over there," I said, pointing to the ladies room while nervously scanning this chick's hands for weapons.

So she shrugs her shoulders and moves away and I step in and shut the door and head for the urinal and I see the door moving open a teensy bit and her eyes looking in.

"Hellooooooo," she starts saying.

Now the booze glow is giving way to panic. Who is this nutty chick and what does she want from me? Then her head disappears and the door closes and I zip my fly and wash my hands and slowly open the door. No sign of her. I looked around then walked out, rejoining Rousseaux.

"That girl just tried to follow me into the men's room," I said.

"Huh? Like, to blow you?"

"I don't know, but she's fucking spooky," I said, my eyes detecting her on the other side of the bar now, waving to me and Rousseaux.

"She looks like she's by herself," Rousseaux offered. Still, I'd pretty much had my fill of crazy girl drama so we stationed ourselves closer to the door, deciding to finish our drinks and get outta dodge. As we shuffled out to Rousseaux's car, we hear high heels clunking on the pavement, getting closer.

"Hey, guys."

It's the Fry Thief.

"Does she have a gun?" I ask Rousseaux.

"Where are you guys heading?" she asks.

"Boston."

"Can I get a ride? I just need to get to Taunton."

Now this is where things get complicated. The male brain, saturated with more than a few beers, sees a pretty girl in tight jeans and a mouth that's glistening in the moist, foggy Providence evening air, and instantly wants to say, "Yes, you most certainly can. Anything to get that ass a bit closer to me." The rational, self-preserving side, however, knows that a cute girl who wants to jump into a car with two goofy looking dudes she doesn't know is either a mass murderer or an FBI agent. Still, it was hard to argue with that ass in those Seven jeans.

"Sure," Rousseaux says.

Alls of a sudden, we hear a voice from the door of the bar.

"Wendy!"

We look up and see some skeevy looking, clearly inebriated guy, probably in his mid-to-late fifties, stumbling toward us.

"Fuck," she says. "Can we get in the car? Can we get outta here?"

So the three of us jump in -- with me somehow ending up in the backseat with the girl -- and start up the car as the old dude draggles up to us.

"Are you going with them?" he bellows as Rousseaux starts the car. "Are you going with these guys?"

And before he can get to the car, Rousseaux peels off, and suddenly we're barrelling down I-95, Wendy in tow.

"Who the fuck was that?" Rousseaux asks.

"That was a friend of my uncle's," she says. "My uncle said it was okay to go with him."

Whatever the fuck that means. So the girl kinda siddles a bit closer to me and puts her arm around me and I've got a strange feeling of desire and terror that I actually found a bit soothing. Rousseaux's looking at us in the rear view and he and I exchange that infamous "what the fuck is going on here" glance.

Then her phone rings. And she starts shouting at whoever's on the line in a language that isn't English. It wasn't Spanish, either. German, maybe? Either way, I immediately figured that she was delivering her coded message to whomever was supposed to meet us at the pre-determined stop in Taunton and rob and shiv me and Rousseaux, so I said, "R, just head to Taunton center. Let her out there."

"I actually wanna go closer to Raynham," she tells us.

"Sorry, we can only go to the center. We have somewhere else to be."

"Where you goin'," she asks. "You guys got any coke? You wanna party?"

The answers, of course, were no and no. And as the things pouring out of her mouth were increasingly freaky and as we still weren't 100% certain she wasn't going to pull a gun and shoot us, Rousseaux stepped on the gas, and I gently retracted the hand I was oh-so-carefully moving closer to the curve of her derriere. We got to Taunton center and she got out of the car, but not before hitting us up for bus money.

And Rousseaux and I made a pact: No more giving rides to drunk chicks being chased by old skeevs. I think we can live with that.

So. Anyway. Next weekend, I'll be at my place, just watching some DVDs and shit. Do drop by.

How Office Politics and the Sixtysomething Cameltoe Almost Ruined My Career

Despite my proclivity for landing in HR's cross-hairs (curse you, corporate gym!), I'm actually the sorta guy who likes to avoid uncomfortable situations wherever possible, and will sometimes go to ridiculous lengths to diffuse them. Once, for example, I sat watching Blazing Saddles with a few buddies of mine, and because one of them was black, I felt compelled to cough and wheeze loudly whenever the N-word was uttered. This, despite the fact that Saddles was one of my black friend's favorite movies. Just the way I am, folks.

Anyway, a couple years back we needed a proposal writer at work, and I was charged with hiring one. I interviewed about a half-dozen folks, and passed up a few college hotties to hire Dan, a guy who seemed to have his shit straight and actually had some proposal experience.

Turns out, however, that Dan was something of a psycho. Hitting relentlessly on anything with two tits and a pulse, threatening the guy in the cafeteria for burning his fries, and routinely parking his car in the vice president's spot because it was closer to the door.

Thing is, since I hired Dan, I was loathe to admit his shortcomings. Until one day, when I found myself presiding over a meeting with Dan and a few bigwigs. Before I could get things started, Dan says to everyone, "Hey, what do you tell a woman with two black eyes?" Around the table, he's greeted with blank stares and shrugged shoulders as I wait in horror for whatever he's going to say next. "Nothing," he replies. "You've already told her twice."

Panicked, outraged, and seeing the ire on the faces of everyone in attendance, I tried to break the tension by blurting out, "Hey, did you guys see the cameltoe on Irene this morning?"

Irene was the 65 year old woman who worked the supply room. But it was the only thing I could think of at that moment.

So Dan, as you could imagine, was let go. And I was on my way to becoming the guy that all the women in the office talk about. And not in a good way.

"Well, Sure, There's the Criminal Thing, But Other Than That, He's a Pretty Good Guy"

A couple months ago, this dude who was in jail for, amongst other things, child rape and general assholishness, escaped the New Bedford courthouse by asking to use the bathroom, then high-tailing it out the bathroom's second door--a door that, apparently, the officer who let him go take a whiz didn't know about.

But I didn't find this escape as alarming as the news reports that said officers had originally taken this guy's handcuffs off so he could call his girlfriend.

Listen, I know it's tough out there. But is it so tough that a convicted child rapist constitutes a good catch?

I mean... seriously. Surely there's an unemployed dockworker or disgraced ex-lawyer or rehabilitated bank robber out there with a rape-free history who you'd feel a little better about spending your Saturday nights with?

Because when the rest of us guys are losing dates to the child rapists, well... I just don't know what to think.