RU4REAL?

I'm sure I'm not alone in this, but dating someone whose primary form of communication involves only his thumbs is quite a bummer. We meet, swap numbers, and then it's a colorful exchange of 3-letter abbreviations and the stupid overuse of emoticons. If I try to call, I get his voice mail, then he'll immediately text me back: "Sry! cant PU 2 LOUD hre, LOL! WatRUdoin?" He seems to have a real voice, if I recall correctly, and a fairly good sense of people skills, so why the hell can't he use the phone for its God-intended purpose?
Oh well, I guess it could be worse.

The Business of Perversion

One night last week, a day of seemingly endless meetings finally ended, and I found myself heading out for after-work dinner with some coworkers. Some I knew quite well; others I'd never met. But one of the ladies with us possessed a remarkable ass, which a friend of mine and I had spent the better part of the day's meetings drooling over. And getting to ogle it for a few more hours was good enough for me.

But not, it would seem, for my friend. As we're walking into the restaurant, I see him walking close behind her, fumbling with his phone. A couple minutes later, inside the restaurant, he sends me the photo posted above. Of her backside. Now the pic doesn't really do that bum justice, but the point is he sent me the photo, I laughed, saved it (of course), then went about my business.

Until last weekend, when I attended a family cookout and got all silly with the Bud Light. My niece, who loves playing with cell phones, asked if she could see mine and I quickly obliged. So she goes off, pretending to talk to someone on the phone and I get back to my drinking. Then, a few minutes later, my niece is waving the phone at her mother, my sister.

"Ew, Uncle Ken has a picture of someone's bum on his phone."

My sister took the phone from her daughter, gave it a look, raised an eyebrow in disgust, then scanned the crowd for me. I was already sprinting her way, wishing myself invisible, and blabbering whatever excuses came into my head: "Oh, yeah, a friend sent me that as a joke and I meant to delete it but I kept it andohboyisthisweirdbutitreallyisn'tmyphoneandanywayIjustneedtoblahblahblah..." I took the phone from her, and faded sheepishly into the background, where I remained for the balance of the night.

See, I can handle everyone at work thinking I'm a world class pervert (hell, no way to change their minds now, anyway). I can handle the Kenettes who wander in and out of my life thinking the same thing. But my family? Something about one of my sisters knowing I had that photo on my cell phone... it just makes me wanna join the French Foreign Legion.

I hear they've also got some hot chicks as well.

A Moment of Silence

This year, by my calculations, the first wave of chicks with tramp stamps will hit their thirties. As these lasses make their slow and steady way from twentysomething hotties to soccer-field MILFs, I salute them.

The Best Sleep Aid Money (Can't) Buy

So I read somewhere that the NUMBER ONE reason people pleasure themselves...is in order to go to sleep. It's not about reaching the gates of orgasmic nirvana, it's not about checking out the latest Vivid offering, or finally enjoying that secret fantasy of you, Christian Bale and 5,000 peacock feathers, it's about passing out. The primal urge to procreate...has been commandeered to catch a few zzz's.

Tan-O-Rama

My friend once gave me some very sage advice: "When you go in the tanning booth, make sure you lift your ass cheeks when you lie down. Otherwise, you get white lines under your butt."
I wondered who the hell would be inspecting possible pale skin under my ass, then remembered that I was entering the bikini zone for the next 3 months, in which every errant strap mark, ingrown pubic hair and (of course) evidence of cellulite would be available for public viewing. Which is why I was at the tanning salon in the first place, giving the Oompa Loompa behind the counter my $70 for 10 visits.
I look good in a tan. Doesn't everyone? But I do worry about leatherface and skin cancer. And I always remember my friend Tina, who was a tanning supastah and every year was literally bronzed by May 1st--no matter what, she was always the darkest. Until one day when we were hanging out by the pool, and she went to scratch her face and her ENTIRE FOREHEAD fell off, giving "peeling" a whole new horrific dimension. Be warned, my brown-skinned honeys!

Different Strokes, Folks

One of the things that I find endlessly fascinating about the various Kenettes who've come in and out of my life is how different they all seem to be when it comes to matters of the loins. Some have been impossibly freaky--typically the ones who stay around the longest--while others have been surprisingly staid and upstanding (their association with me, of course, not withstanding). But the movement from one Kenette to another can often be jarring.

Case in point: A couple years out of college, I met Kenette D. Around our third or fourth date, we arrived back at her apartment after a movie to have a few drinks. After the third drink, she calmly, matter-of-factly removed her underwear and then pressed it against my face.

My first thought was, did she dip those things in choloroform and is now trying to kill me?

She said something along the lines of, "Just inhale that. Doesn't it make you want me even more?"

Hokey and psuedo-porno dialogue, yes. But I found it oddly intriguing. And arousing.

And this maneuver became her modus operandi. We'd go out, eat or drink, and I knew at some point she'd be trying to smother me with her panties. And as predictable as it was, there was something just so goddam freaky about it that everytime I saw her reach under her skirt, I found myself panting like a motherfucking dog waiting for his master to toss him a bacon snap.

As these things go, we broke up about half a year later. And I distinctly remember the next girl I dated. The first time we went out, we ended up at my place for some extended tonsil hockey. Then my mind got all silly with booze and lust and memories.

"Do you want to... make me smell your underwear?"

::abrupt silence::

"What?"

"Er... do you--"

"Did you just ask if you could smell my underwear? Are you fucking serious?"

"Well, I--"

"I'm outta here."

And with that, she was gone. And an important lesson was learned. Namely, one woman's good time is another woman's restraining order.

Remember that, folks.

Cream With That?

Travelling with my boss on business is always an adventure. She's older, in her fifties, but stunningly attractive with a damn straight hot body to match. I've often fantasized about the two of us hunkering down in a hotel bar after an important meeting, the boss tipped out on too many appletinis, and an errant hand--preferably hers--making its way for my johnson.

Alas, it hasn't happened and I'm not so sure I really want such a thing to happen as it would no doubt change everything and seriously compromise my ability to collect a regular paycheck. Also, there's the fact that the boss considers me a creepy but highly productive perv.

Yet we seem to have our share of impossibly awkward moments. Like yesterday, which found us having a drink before heading back home after a quick business trip. We were discussing a meeting from earlier in the day and, attempting to convey a manager's enthusiasm for statistical data, she noted that, "He creams himself for that kinda stuff."

So, all of a sudden, the thought of one of our greasy, sixty-year-old managers "creaming himself" is in my mind. Urgh.

But she doesn't drop it. "Do you think he creams for that?" She asks me. And it's bad enough the boss is tossing the word "cream" around with no coffee in sight, but she's continuing to push issue on a subject that I honestly want no part of.

"I'm certain he creams himself for that," she says out loud again, and I find myself fumbling with my Blackberry, hoping--for perhaps the first time in my life--that my boss will please stop talking about ejaculation.

I Pledge My Love To You-At Least Until Next Tuesday

Blessed hindsight is 20/20, but it would also be nice if I could have less of an insane biological imperative when it comes to dating dudes. I will fall huuurd--the more unavailable, detached, checked out, fucked up, the better. And suddenly within hours, days, (sometimes seconds) I've planned out the names of offspring, a desirable neighborhood, and possible daycare in the area. The inner dialog will go something like this: "hmmm, he's got crazy curly hair even though he keeps it cut short but if we have a daughter I may have to look into getting her a relaxer, and his mom lives in Detroit and there's no freakin way I'm moving to Detroit but what if we need her to look after the kids, maybe we could fly her out here like 3 months out of the year and after the wedding--oh yeah, the wedding, maybe we could meet halfway and have it somewhere romantic like Napa or Cabo or--wait, he said he loves Austin maybe we could have it in Texas but it would have to be in the winter or spring, although I really want a June wedding but it's already humid and I'm not too sure about the musician thing, maybe I could turn him towards web design or turn him into some kind of hip computer geek that at least would make decent money so I wouldn't have to work all the time---I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

Music to Screw By

We covered this topic eons ago and it's in dire need of updating, as many of our choices won't even get played on Classic Rock these days. Also, with the meteoric rise of advertising buys in music, that song that you and Stu first made love to on the beach back in '97 now makes you think of that annoying Jetta commercial. So, herewith, a few ripe choices, relatively untainted:
Satisfy - Me'Shell Ndegeocello
Like A Star- Corrine Bailey Rae
Business Time - Flight of the Conchords (heh heh)
Summer Breeze - Isley Brothers
Destiny-Zero 7
You Don't Know Me - Willie Nelson
Orange Sky-Alexi Murdoch