The Little Victories That I Take Pride In

Look, despite my happy-go-lucky, slap-happy Irishman looks, I'm a miserable, cantankerous bastard. I'd like to blame the drinking or the women or the cold hard lessons I learned in Vietnam but the inescapable fact is, I'm something of a buffoon at times. More often than not, beer is the catalyst.

But I'm working on it, you see. For example, I've long been regarded as the office perv. The guy whose head swivels like a county fair carousel when a hot intern crosses his path. Who lingers a bit too long in the lush company workout room when there are female co-workers present. Who once hired a girl whose resume noted that she was the reigning "Miss East Coast Fitness" and could fit a Buick Skylark in her mouth. So one of my career pathing objectives is, quite frankly, to be less like that guy.

Thing is, I'm starting to realize that being "that guy" may have comprised the bulk of my already limited appeal. To illustrate, last month, my boss informed me that I'd be spending the better part of December working at our office in Virginia. That was not a bad thing, as I saw it, because Kristy, the woman who ran that office, was not only a good friend of mine and outlandishly spectacular drinkin' partner, she was also the owner of one of the most majestic derrieres I have ever encountered in the corporate world. And she was quite aware of this last point, no doubt in part due to my alcohol-fueled odes to her expertly-sculpted buttocks, which she took with a smile and a nod and, I'm sure, a quiet note to have me shot, beaten or fired at some point in the future.

So when my boss gave me my assignment, I nodded and accepted it, silently doing cartwheels in my mind. And then she noted, "Kristy's excited about it too, because she said when she hangs with you, you make her feel like a rock star."

And that was the slap back to reality. Because, seriously, that's all I was doing. Hanging out with these slightly unhinged office chicks, getting sauced and revved up, blathering on and on about how hot they were, and pumping up their egos. Suddenly, I understood why HR meets regularly to discuss "the Ken problem," and I was determined to change my ways. I was going to Virginia, and, goddam it, I wasn't gonna say word one about that ass.

My first day in Happy Virginny, Kristy picks me up at the airport, wearing a skirt so tight that as she bent down to get into her car, I shielded my eyes from possible denim shards. And I never mentioned her ass.

Second day, she greets me at the office wearing pants so fitting it looks like she basically painted herself black from the waist down. The same pants she has on that night when she takes me out for after-work drinks. And I never mentioned her ass.

On my last night there, she took about 8 of us out for post-work drinks. Everyone gets sloppy and, one by one, they fall out of the ranks. Soon, it's just me and Kristy. She's dropping things, bending over left and right, shaking her ass to the music and doing that thing that hot white women in their late 30s do when they're drunk and not quite sure what else to do. She even pulls the classic "did I sit in something?" maneuver--always a favorite of mine--and shoves her ass in my face for inspection. I gave it the once-over, gave a thumbs-up, and ordered another drink on the company tab. I drank it, thanked her for the hospitality over the last few weeks, and wished her a happy holiday. Then we got up, got into her car, drove to my hotel, and she dropped me off. And not once, over a three week stretch, did I say anything about her ass.

Sure, once I got back to my room that night I masturbated furiously for roughly four hours thinking about it--to the point that I swore I'd fractured my wrist. But I never said a thing. And it's the little victories such as these that get me through the work week.

Tough Guy Cred, Without the Toughness

About a month ago, I saw a dermatolgist about a suspicious looking blue-ish dot under my left eye.

"I don't like the look of that," she said as thoughts of gloom and doom swum through my brain. "It's gonna have to come out."

And so it did. And, thankfully, it was benign. But the process left me with a small scar under my eye which, I'm told, with a lot of ointment and some TLC, will eventually fade.

I haven't thought much about it until last week, when I was meeting with one of my hot, younger, female co-workers.

"I've got to tell you," she offered, as we were going over the Muldoon report. "That thing looks fucking awesome." [Her exact words.]

"Huh?"

"That scar. It makes you look tough."

"Really?"

"Yes. Very cool."

Whether she was messing with me or not, I could care less. For the rest of the day, I was the office park's resident scurvy dog. Not to be fucked with under any circumstances. And it felt pretty good.

Who knows? I might just skip a day or two of that ointment...

The Office Perv, Volume 312

You may or may not recall this post of mine from about a year ago:

So in the hopes of getting employees "healthy" and "engaged" and "clad in gym shorts," our company unveiled an in-house fitness center last year. While the thought of working out next to Clive from marketing didn't quite appeal to me, I realized it was free and probably the easiest way to keep on a workout schedule, so I succumbed.

After a couple months, I noticed one of the many hot chicks from accounting working out roughly around the same time I did. And said chick developed a pattern of going from one machine to the next without wiping down that telltale smudge of ass-sweat, which is in direct violation of all known gym etiquette.

Myself, well, I could care less. And actually found it a bit of a turn-on. But others didn't care for it. Like Mel, a coworker who, for some reason, felt insulted by the fact that this impossibly hot woman would dare leave an ass imprint on the recumbent bike seat. So he lodged a complaint with HR.

Problem is, when hot chick was called in by HR to discuss the matter, she inadvertently assumed the accusing party to be me, and said, according to my reliable source, "Are you kidding me? That dog's probably just upset because he wasn't able to lick it up without someone seeing him."

My reputation at the office: solid as ever, folks.

Well, the woman in question unceremoniously tendered her resignation last week, and one of my pals in HR (keep your friends close and enemies closer, people) informed me that during the exit interview, she noted me--Me!--as one of the reasons she was leaving. "I think he's got a sort of ass fetish," is what she supposedly said, and I am thrilled beyond belief that this very line might be making its way into my personnel file.

I've got a sort of ass fetish, ladies. Watch the fuck out!

How Vomit Can Kill a One-Night Stand

When I got out of grad school, I took a job at a small publishing company. One of the magazines we produced was a career guide for nurses. So, as fate would have it, I found myself attending lots of meetings and events with, er, nurses.

One night, after a "gala" event hosted by the publisher, a 50 year old and stunningly hot nurse started cozying up to me--fueled by booze, the fact that I was a good 29 years younger than her, booze and probably booze. A few hours later, she invited me back to her place. I was waffling at first, but the whiskey pumping through my veins and her constant tongue-in-my-ear action melted my resolve. "I'm going to bang this fifty year old nurse," I decided. And that was that.

Only, it wasn't. Because on the way to her place, she offered me a cigarette. And feeling a bit James Bond, I accepted, despite the fact that smoking makes me sicker than a hobo's balls. We got back to her place, and it was decision time. Do I take a moment to excuse myself to puke, or do I just keep things rolling. The latter won, and before I knew up from down, my head was spinning, my lungs were burning, my stomach was beginning its revolt, and this 50 year old nurse had me pinned to the wall of her kitchen, grinding her fully-clothed ass against my fully-clothed hard-on. Two minutes later, I was hoisting her up on the counter, my tongue down her throat, and I felt it. The slow churn of rising vomit.

A better man would have simply turned away, excused himself, and retreated to the bathroom. But I was green. With a woman older than my mother. Who was stroking my cock with one hand. And kneading my nuts with the other. How do I just say, "Er, can I take a breather?" Dude, I'll look amateur!

Just then, she hiked her skirt, pushed my face from her stomach to her crotch, and I went to work. About seven seconds later, I turned my head and covered her kitched floor with puke.

Worse timing? Hell no. She recoiled, closed her legs and pushed me away. I stumbled back, whammed into her fridge and knocked magnets six ways to Sunday. Then I slipped on my own puke and landed on my ass.

Needless to say, the mood was shot. The night was over. And, no, I never did get invited back.

The lesson here? Take care of shit like that before you get down to business.

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.

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.