If Ya Gotta Watch Something...

I shit you not: The other day, I spent three hours on a flight sitting next to a woman--probably in her mid-30s--who was watching porn on her laptop.

Actual porn. Like with fucking and stuff. Men and women.

She wasn't being obvious about it, but she wasn't really going out of her way to hide it, either. One of the stewardesses clearly saw as well, because I saw her chuckling something to a fellow stew after stopping at our row for a bit.

I wanted desperately to say something, but what do you say? "Cool porn" or "Hey, if you wanna actually do some of that stuff once the plane lands..." seems a bit tough to pull off.

When we landed, she simply closed up the laptop, slid it smoothly into her bag, and off she went. Just another hot chick to everyone else in the airport, but a fellow porn enthusiast to me.

It's Time For Male Objectification: Flat-versus-Squeezalicious

Just like those boob men who don't like flat chests, we don't really like the flat butts. We lika-da bubble-booty. Really, it can cause some of us to drool, Pavlovian-style. Now, I'm not quite sure why, from a biological standpoint. A woman's breasts make sense, because that was the first form of nourishment; indeed, what kept us alive. And the more rounder, fuller breast, the more food! But the butt doesn't really serve any other purpose except for excreting waste and looking good in Levi's. Perhaps it's just one of God's gift to women, free of charge?

The Evil Twins

I was cursed with breasts at a fairly young age. Yes, I said cursed. I was totally fine, going along with my mosquito bites, cheerfully unaware of the evil that lurked in men's hearts until a crappy family vacation in which I ate too many chips and chocolate suddenly made these boobs appear. And suddenly, boys paid more attention to me. Well, not to me, to the hypnotic "fun bags" suddenly attached to my ribs. Suddenly, I had not-so-nice nicknames and various titty-ditties written about me, and not one of them rhymed. Old pervy men who wouldn't have noticed me before if I had fallen on them ("look where you're going, boy!") suddenly leered and ogled and practically drooled as I walked past, asking if I was single and available for various acts that would get them arrested in most states. And if we were going out to church or a family bbq, my poor father took to throwing sweaters, jackets, blankets or sheets at me, clucking and tsk-tsking and shaking his head, murmuring "cover them UP, for God's sake! You look like a trollop!" when just a few months before that same dress or shirt made me look like a schoolhouse kid extra on "Little House On The Prairie".
So, I suppose, now that I'm a full-grown woman, it's great I got 'em, some people have to pay money for 'em (not to SEE them, I meant plastic surgery!)but when I have to run with 2 sportsbras or I'm asked if I would let the "tittens" come out to play, I fondly think back to a more innocent time, a time of asexual mosquito bites.

My Short But Brilliant Career in Adult Films

This weekend, I was hanging with a female friend of mine from the college days. As is typical once the booze hits, we found ourselves laying on the floor with her laptop, scrolling through online porn sites to find the most inexplicable fetish for which targeted, demographic-friendly fetish films exist (guys hot for girls wearing raincoats, etc.)

"There's actually a lot of money in that stuff," I said, because, shit, that always seems like the thing to say when you're looking at weird-ass fetish films.

So we kept on drinking and scrolling through page after page of this lunacy until our blood alcohol levels got us talking about how to make a quick buck in this market.

"It would have to be something where I didn't have to show my face," my friend says, and I agreed. Nobody wants to be our neighbor, the adult film star.

Also, I added, it couldn't be anything with career-ruining potential if it was ever unearthed. Because once you put a horse's cock in your mouth, you're pretty much kissing any bid for normalcy goodbye.

We finally agreed that one of those jeans facesitting films, in which a woman clad in jeans uses a man's face as her bacalounger, would be perfect. No one's nude. There's limited dialogue (unless "mmmffffff" counts). And, depending on the camera angles, you really can't see the actors.

About twelve beers later, we're setting up the shot. I assume my place on the floor, on my back. She sets up her camera behind my head and straddles my chest. There's about as much eroticism in the air as you'd find at a Milwaukee Brewers game, but we're only in this for the money, so it's all good. Two seconds later she scootches back, lifts her derriere up over my face, and deposits it with a slam. I feel my nose cartilage bend with an audible "crunch" as my entire face floods with pain. My body instinctively jerks itself forward, sending her flying into the coffee table, and setting about seven spent Rolling Rock bottle smashing to the floor.

Five minutes later, we've assessed the damages: my nose may or may not be broken (and I'll be damned if I'm explaining that one to a doctor), the bruise on her head seems okay, and the band-aids seem to have the glass cuts on both our hands under control.

Going forward, I'll leave this shit to the pros.

Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!

This is an awesome goofy picture I found of "couples fighting" in Google images. The guy looks like he's quacking like a duck, the chick is doing the classic "what about my needs?" pose whilst the fat cab driver is enjoying the show. I do feel, in many ways, like that fat cab driver when I see a couple fighting, it's the ultimate schadenfreude. Pookie and smookie normally have no problem in any social situation, because hey! They have each other! until someone says something or does something to piss the other one off. And when they really get going, they have completely lost all sense of their surroundings or that other people can see/hear them, especially, say in a crowded deli or the middle aisle of an airplane. Sure, they may try to keep their voices down, but the jabbing gestures, the strained facial expressions (somewhat akin to constipation) and bulging eyeballs are usually a dead giveaway. And man, it can go on for hours--I was once waiting for a friend at the beach next to the bike path, and this couple, all decked out in cute, almost-matching pastel summer gear on their shiny new beach cruisers, we're going at it for a good 45 minutes (I got totally sucked in watching until I realized that, wait a minute, I'm at the wrong beach!). They were literally in the middle of the bike path, people and kiddies whizzing past them, as they waved their arms wildly and yelled things like "youNEVER--" "whycan'tYOU--" "whatthefuckdoyouWANTMETODO!!!" Again, totally awesome. Of course, until it happens to me.

New One On Me

The other day in the office cafeteria, I'm minding my own business, scoping out the ladies from Finance as they stroll in, when I hear this twentysomething dude behind me telling his friend, "Man, she moved like a screen door."

Huh?

I may be woefully out of touch, but the only image that came into my head upon hearing that was the painful thought of my erect cock being caught repeatedly between a door frame and slamming metal.

But, hey. Some folks like that shit.

mute

Some people can sleep with the TV on. Some people can have sex with the TV on. Unfortunately, I can't do either. Brilliant multi-taskers, there are those who can share a chuckle with David Letterman whilst performing fellatio from a trapeze. Me, I am haunted by "now for just $19.95 you get THESE KITCHEN KNIVES plus FOUR POTATO PEELERS and this COLLAPSEABLE TUPPERWARE!" And I think, wait, collapseable? I wanna see! Then I'm distracted and my mate is mad because he was just about to come before squashed plastic became more interesting. Or I'm forever going to associate doing a 69 with the time that the Fonz won the dance marathon. So yes, turn it off, turn it off!

But then I think,
oh Jesus, it's so quiet! Can everyone hear us? Are we making too much noise? Is that the bed post hitting the wall to the neighbor's bedroom? Are his roommates gonna give me sly looks when I run out to pee? I think that little kid who lives downstairs, his bedroom is right underneath, am I completely ruining his childhood? And so on.

Eating Ice Cream Off a Woman's Ass: A Primer

Okay, listen. I like ice cream. I like ass. So really, it was only a matter of time until I concocted some Costanza-esque way to enjoy them both simultaneously. But as I learned just a couple nights ago, when eating ice cream off a woman's ass, you should keep a few things in mind.

1) Roll with vanilla. Trust me on this. Chocolate is just too weird and if you're into Mocha Latte Crunch with Teaberry Leaves then you're probably not into chicks anyway. So, vanilla.

2) Go high-grade. Listen, it's hard to find a woman who will let you eat her ass. It's even harder to find one who'll consent to having ice cream dolloped on her backside while you make like Jughead from the Archie comics. So spend a few extra bucks and roll with the Ben & Jerry's or the Haagen-Daz to mark this occasion. This ain't the time for that yellow "Stop and Shop" house brand vanilla.

3) Scoop some out gently with your fingers and let it fall onto the thick of her buttocks. In the name of all that is holy, don't try to stuff it into her rectum like you're filling a goddam cannoli. Part of the fun is watching it gently cascade down her curves, and stopping it with your tongue before it dips too far south. Just like our ancestors did before God invented television and Entertainment Weekly.

4) If you decide to ask her to flip over so you can try this on her holiest of holies, remember that ice cream is "motherfucking colder than a fucking iceberg packed with ice, you fucking prick" when applied to her more sensitive regions. Or so I've been told.

5) As attentive as your tongue may be, there will always be stray ice cream on her skin. After a while, this becomes sticky. Make sure that there's a shower or at the very least a few moist towelettes nearby, lest she be shuttled off to Mass General to have her pants spot-welded off her body the next day.

If you take one thing away from this, let it be the vanilla. Always roll with vanilla.

My name's Ken. And I approve this message.

I'm tired

I was watching her reality show the other night - granted, it's filmed in impossibly grainy, washed-out, extreme angles (today's version of 'soap opera filter') but she still looks fantastic. And I just feel so tired when I look at her, because it would take so much damn work to look like that. Let's just forget diet, workout, and plastic enhancements for a second. Nails, hair, makeup, tanning - it would take 5 hours before I could even leave the house. Right now, we're lucky if the teeth are brushed and the hair's been washed sometime in the past 72 hours.