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

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.