HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Actual Stuff for Sale on E-Bay

I am not a woman, nor do I possess a female model's figure.

But sweet goddam, am I tempted to buy these jeans.

They Do This On Purpose, Right?

My fifty something female boss, an infinite source of masturbatory material over the seven years I've worked for her, came into my office the other day for a brief meeting. As she walked in, I noticed something hanging from her mouth: a lollipop. One of those Tootsie Pop things with the chocolate in the middle.

Anyway, she's asking me these questions about some project I honestly never did a bloody thing on, and as I try to formulate my alibi, she's working that goddam lollipop over like a Theatre District pro. And every time I think I've got something coherent to say, she starts pushing that thing into her mouth and pulling it out and pushing it back in and my mind turns to loose change. And she starts raising an eyebrow, as if she's disturbed at my inability to produce an adequate response, and all I want to do is scream HOW THE FUCK CAN I THINK STRAIGHT WHEN THE BOSS IS FELLATING A PIECE OF CANDY IN FRONT OF ME? But she keeps on working it, rolling it across her lips, biting at it, then moving her tongue along it--showing this fucking confection more action than I've seen in about three months.

Then, without missing a beat, she lays down the law, informs me of my deadline and what she expects of me, and punctuates it by crunching off the top of the pop with her teeth. And walking out of my office.

I gotta be honest: I'm tempted to fuck up that deadline. Y'know, just to see what the punishment might be like.

"Spreading The Wealth Around"-does this include f**k buddies?

My girlfriend has had this fuck buddy for about 6 months now. Their relationship basically revolves around a couple of neighborhood bars. They met in one, hooked up that night, and now every few weeks or so, if they're both out on the town, run into each other and it's last call, they get booty-call-busy. He's a very good looking guy, a little immature/arrogant/noncommittal, but I guess that's what makes him a good fuck buddy. Anyhoo, one night she and I are out drinking and we meet up with FB and some of his friends and we all go back to his place for some beer pong. Then it ends up being just the three of us, and my friend starts talking about leaving. She doesn't look so good. "I think I have a migrane coming on and those last 3 lemon drops before we left the bar didn't help." Hey, no problem. I start gathering up my stuff to leave. "No, no, you stay. I'm just going to call my roommate to pick me up." Wha? "You should totally stay and have a good time." I don't understand. She's leaving, therefore I'm leaving. I try to insist. "Look, he's totally cute, right? Why don't you have some fun? I so don't mind. Hell, I'd join in if I could." Now my mind is totally blown. She pats me on the shoulder. "Really, it's not a big deal. Don't think, just stay. Have fun."
So I did.

Screwing in the Office: A Primer

1. Remember that the building is never empty. Even if it is empty, tell yourself it isn't. Because then you'll always take the precaution of locking your office door. And this is perhaps the most important rule. Unless, of course, you want to spend the next three months explaining to your IT guy why Jenna from Accounting was sitting on your face when he walked in to upgrade your PC. I've been there, buddy. He's not gonna buy it.

2. Clear off your desk before fucking on it. Sweat and pubic hair aren't going to improve the Kresgee Report. Actually, they might improve it a bit, but the folks at Kresgee probably won't appreciate it.

3. Clean off your desk after fucking on it. The life of the average fella on the night cleaning crew is fairly boring, and nothing makes the evening move faster than a spirited game of "find the ass prints." Don't let 'em find any on your desk.

4. Again, lock the office door. Even if it's not your office. Lock that fucker.

5. Discretion is key. The two of you can't just casually walk out of your office at 10:07pm with hair askew, smelling of ass and sweat. Because, as you'll recall, the building is never empty. One of you must casually leave the office and head outside while the other remains quietly in place, waiting at least ten minutes before follwing suit. If you hear a noise or suspect a coworker may be lurking, one of you should leave while the other heads out the window and repels down the outside of the building.

6. If you know you're "working late," wear a skirt, Ladies. While you look pretty fucking smoking in those tight white pants, getting them back on quickly -- as in "Did I just hear someone working the copy machine?" -- can be tough. But the skirt rolls back into place rather seamlessly, in case of emergency.

7. Never let on. Most office flings are eventually undone by inability to keep one's emotions in check until the next snog session. It's important to remain an enigma, and keep the hounds off the trail. For example, let's say you've been screwing Debra, and one day, as Debra walks by, Phil from Accounts Payable says something like, "Man, I'd give my mother's last kidney for a taste of that." Repress the traditional male urge to extend your thumb and pinky and wave your hand at the wrist while chuckling, "Dude, I've been there, and it's freakin' amazing." Instead, throw out something like, "I prefer a snazzy dresser, like Johnny Kwan in IT." Works every time.

8. Lastly, always, always lock the door. Nothing ruins a blow job more than your boss watching you get one. Trust me.

Car Talk

I haven't had sex in a car in a loooong time. Presumably because I'm an adult and I own a larger piece of real estate, but let's face it, it was never spectacular. (For the purposes of clarity, I'm talking about straight-up intercourse, not oral.)
The conundrum lay in that the flashy sports car was definitely an aphrodisiac (hey, what do you want, I was a teenager, easily impressed) and the more slick, fast, low to the ground and rumbling, the more I crossed my legs in agitation. I'd start reaching over and grasping and rubbing, and he'd reach over and attempt the same, trying desperately to keep the car on the road at 97 mph while checking my oil. Then we'd both be so worked up we would pull behind a gas station, barn or next to a cemetery (btw, I'd like to apologize to the funeral attendees at Mount Auburn Cemetery on April 17, 1996). That's when things would get complicated--I'd climb on top and my foot would be stuck on the gear shift, my cheek/head literally stuck to the tinted top of the windshield, my ass somewhere southeast of the radio dial and the turn indicator knob dangerously competing with his cock for penetration. A few attempts with thrusting and grinding would be met with loud honks, the windshield wiper switch turned on "high" and suddenly a blast from the AM radio preaching salvation/damnation to a predominately Vietnamese audience. I don't think either of us were able to reach any sort of climax; so we'd save up our pent up sexual frustration for another day, when the parents were out of town.
It's unfortunate that a larger car such as an SUV or minivan failed to have the same erotic effect as an Alpha Romeo GTV or BMW 8 series. Generally, those vehicles evoked images of soccer practice or claustrophobic family vacations and I had to get out of them as soon as possible. Think Marty in Back to the Future kissing his mom and you get the idea.
For all the difficulties of auto-erotica, there's something about the anticipation coupled with a high-speed ride that still gives me chills. If the auto industry comes up with an Audi TT or a Z Series that turns into a deluxe king water bed, I'll be first in line.

Things I've Overlooked Because the Sex Was Spectacular

A penchant for Xeroxing her various bodyparts and handing them out around her office.

Inability to go more than 34 minutes without saying "redonkulous."

A criminal record.

Six cats, all of whom enjoyed taking a swipe at my cock and balls whenever I was in their ladykeeper's bed.

The daily threatening of: "If you ever leave me for someone else, I'll shoot her, then shoot you."

Little Nemo on Ice.

A bizarre obsession with flipping off bouncers once she'd "had a few."

The roommate with the crossbow.

Her four-foot plush Clifford the Big Red Dog that sat next to the bed and I swear was staring at me every time we screwed.

That anniversary party for my Aunt Agnes when she got drunk and flashed the room.

The eyepatch fetish.

Every "Ernest" movie on DVD.

"Screwing white guys is fine, but I eventually want to settle down with a rich Asian."

Her ex-boyfriend, the homicidal maniac.

Her brother, the homicidal maniac.

Her sister, the homicidal [but ridiculously stacked] maniac.

"What time do you want to get up for church?"

I Aint Your Bitch

So me and my girlfriend decided to meet up for drinks after work one night at some trendy new bar. It's a typical wanna-be hipster crowd, speckled with various pharmaceutical reps. Soon we're approached by "Austin," a good-looking 20 something wearing a $120 t-shirt and a Rolex. He starts chatting us up, asking us where we work, etc. Turns out he's a realtor. "Ooh, I'm sorry," I reply. He shoots me a dirty look. "What's wrong with that?"
"Uh...the markets?" Is he retarded?
"Oh, that. Nah. I'm doing pretty good still. Just sold a million-five over in PV last month. And it's a buyer's market baby. Fire sale. You ladies in the market for a new place?"
We say no. He shrugs, talks to us for a few more minutes, then ambles off.
A half an hour later I'm making my way to the bathroom when I see Austin the realtor stud at the bar. He's trying to catch my eye, then waves me over to him, like he's suddenly really excited to see me.
"Hey...Ariel?" I nod.
"Like you to meet Gary. He's a great guy. Runs golf tournaments and owns several businesses up north, looking to expand in SoCal."
Gary is at least 60, trying to look 35. Way expensive new jeans, shiny shirt, hairplugs, Just For Men. He looks strangely thrilled to meet me.
"How ya doin' honey. Buy you a drink?"
"No thanks - I'm actually headed for the bathroom."
Austin cuts in. "Stay and chat with us for a little while. Gary was telling me this great story about a - Hammerhead shark? he caught off the coast of Catalina. That's gnarly dude." He pushes me towards him.
Gary practically giggles in response and tries to squeeze my knee. I quickly turn and move away. "Gotta go, nature is calling."
Austin tries to protest but I'm gone. I go to the bathroom, and as I'm making my way back over to my seat I see Austin out of the corner of my eye, still next to Gary, Viagra spokesman. Austin is standing up, trying to wave me back over like he's landing a 747. I ignore him. I hear him yelling my name, Gary starts to get up and do the same. I grab my girlfriend. "We are so outta here."
"Wha-?"
"Fucking realtor dude thinks I'm a brand new condo."