Yankee Candles has unleashed a line of scented candles aimed at men. Featuring stuff guys apparently love to smell, like popcorn and bacon and something called “Man Town” which honestly frightens the shit out of me.
No word on when “Sofia Vergara’s Ass,” “old porno mag” and “masturbation-ruined sweatpants” will be available. But I have to assume they’re coming soon.
So simple, they even put it on a T-shirt
Dear K&A: Long time reader, first time writer. I’m a healthy, attractive, gainfully employed, 31 year-old woman. The guy I’ve been dating for the last couple weeks revealed to me last night that he “doesn’t eat pussy.” Interestingly, the last couple guys I dated before him were equally averse to cunnilingus. And the one before that was so bad at it–clearly doing it just because I asked him to–that it was about three steps lower than masturbation. My question is: is going down on a woman a dying art, and how the fuck do I go about reversing this trend? Thanks, Tara.
KEN SAYS: I remember a time when I was young and foolish and unschooled in the ways of eating pussy. ::Puts on sailor hat and lights pipe:: It was back in college and I was dating a young, wild rapscallion named Michelle. After a couple hours throwing back vodka shots at a local pub, we stumbled to her place where we engaged in an epic tonsil hockey session. After a half hour of rolling on the floor, she stood up, dropped her jeans and tossed her panties aside and, without a word or warning, straddled my face like it was the last bicycle on Earth and she was looking to escape the apocalypse.
Now, at the time, I was hardly skilled in the art of cunnilingus. But Michelle literally dropped me in the deep-end without a life vest. Her marching orders were simple: eat this if you want to breathe.
Folks, I’m getting to an age in which the boys keep getting younger and younger and my boobs keep getting saggier and saggier. Hey, nothing a push-up bra and a few rounds of plastic surgery wouldn’t fix, but at any rate, it’s starting to feel like an issue. For me, at least. I know we’re supposed to feel empowered now with the whole Demi Moore/Stifler’s mom/cougar/puma/half-feral coon cat thing, but I just find it…embarrassing. I can’t help myself, I do the whole, oh gaaaaad I was probably your babysitter. Or I was applying for my social security card when you were learning to walk, making minimum wage at Orange Julius while you were struggling to use a sippy-cup…
I hear what you’re saying, interwebz armchair commenters: “So then don’t fucking go near them. No one’s holding a gun to your head.” I know. I KNOW! But they’re so cute, and they’re so damn…eager. They haven’t had the weight of the world placed upon their shoulders, their drinking is still years away from full-blown alcoholism, they’re not going to bitch about their ex wives or moan about being broke because of alimony or talk about the latest round of meds their doc put them on for high blood pressure or complain about their sciatica. No, these fresh-faced young pups are full of energy, optimistic, and insanely clueless. Very endearing.
The worst is when you get carded. I guess I should appreciate that I still get carded? But I think it’s more the bouncer’s way of checking exactly how vast the age difference is, like they’ve been placing bets as you’re walking up to da club. Then they smirk, maybe give me a wink, say, “have fun, mama” and Blue’s Clues happily prances inside while I’m hanging my head in shame and wondering if I should just get it over with and buy a mini-van.
Here’s another downside: they may be hot for teacher but I’m done with being Mrs. Crabapple in the bedroom. Yes, oh yes, the force of impact and the amazing ability to regenerate a stiffie in zero seconds is da bomb, but. But! I don’t want to be fucked by Energizer Bunny, poked to madness by Pinocchio or feel like I’m kissing my seventh-grade boyfriend. Seriously?!? I have to give you instruction on how to kiss properly?!?
There must be a happy middle ground. Tell me there is, people. Maybe the old soul who can rent a car with abandon and has at least started a 401(k)?
For years, I’ve figured “Every Breath You Take” by The Police to be the most disturbing song ever written. Despite the cool, snaky bass and ’80s pop flourishes, Sting is basically telling this person (his ex? his secret crush? George Lopez?) that he’ll be stalking him or her for the rest of their days. Creepy stuff.
But then I attended a wedding last weekend where the couple’s first dance was to “You’ll Accomp’ny Me” by Bob Seger. And we suddenly have a new champion.
Got a question? For bad sex advice, ask away.
Dear Ken and Ariel: I’m a 29 year-old single female living in Boston and while a lot of my friends are starting to settle down and move in with or marry their boyfriends, I still enjoy the thrill of the one night stand. In fact, I have trouble maintaining a relationship for more than a year because I get bored with the same partner very easily. Is this something I might grow out of or should I just resign myself to a life of rotating partners? Any insight is appreciated.
KEN SAYS: I’ve read your question about a dozen times and I still can’t get my mind to make the connection between “the thrill of one night stands” and something that should be grown out of. As animals — which is what we are, especially Robin Williams — we are put on this Earth to propagate the species. Granted, some people get a lot more action than others (I’ve been stuck in an unfortunate cycle of self-propagation these days), but you get the point. It’s in our DNA, man. You can’t fuck with science.
I finally had the chance to watch “Silver Linings Playbook” during a recent flight and all I can say is that the voting members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences got it right this year. In fact, it left me wondering if Jennifer Lawrence is the first actress to win an Oscar for a leading role that contains so many gratuitous butt shots? And if so, I hope it inspires other actresses not named Kathy Bates to pursue such ass-centric roles. Think of the fans, ladies. And the Academy voters.
Also, I hope JLaw’s ass got its own Oscar. After watching this scene, you can’t tell me it doesn’t deserve one.
I don’t know what the whole “rose in a fisted glove” or “eagle flies with a dove” signifies, but I do know that CSN tune so very well: “if you can’t be with the one you love, honey, love the one you’re with.” And that song seems to be a top ten hit for yours truly.
“The one I love” usually refers to hot dudes that are stratospherically out of my league, celebrities, or ex-boyfriends who have filed restraining orders. “Love the one I’m with” refers to coworkers, beer drinkers the next stool over, friends that should just remain friends and nothing more, and mailmen. Seriously, what is that about? In my case, methinks it’s ultimately ego.
This is how my brain works:
“Huh. Is it me or is Fill-In-The-Blank actually looking like he showered in the past week? He actually cleans up OK. I mean, for an overweight white dude. Let’s see what he orders. A-a-a-n-d, it’s a Coors Light. The drink of Aryan Nation. Well, let’s see what he’s up to…”
*Later*
“Wow, he is so into me. I mean, can you blame him? I’m probably the best thing he’s seen in a loooong time. And you know, I clean up pretty good too. I would so rock his galaxy. Like fucking Battletits Puss-tacula. He’d fall in love with me in like two seconds and I’d have to let him down gently, because I’m just bored, dude, and you’ll do, at least for now…”
DEAR KEN & ARIEL: The other day, I walked out of the bathroom to find my boyfriend actually tonguing a pair of panties that he pulled from my laundry bag. I’m all for heavy lust, but that’s just fucking sick. Am I wrong?
ARIEL SAYS: Clearly, your man is reverting back to his evolutionary roots, when mammals crawled around on all fours and sniffed each others’ crotches to determine if they were compatible. Nowadays, astrology has replaced this elegant ritual, as evidenced by the popularity of the phrase, “hey baby, what’s your sign?”
Your little Neanderthal isn’t all bad; he obviously digs your musk. Which is better than a guy who thinks you smell like a sweaty monkey, right? Whether or not you can de-evolve to his level is entirely up to you.
If you still think it’s “fucking sick,” I wouldn’t necessarily phrase it in that manner to him, but perhaps just pat him gently on his enlarged frontal lobe and tell him, “naughty cave man, leave woman loincloth alone.”
KEN SAYS: While it is completely understandable for guys to become obsessed with objects that have been dangerously close to their loved one’s skin, such enticement can lead to some pretty bizarre behavior.
Case in point: My old college roomie had a serious jones for a girl in his History of Bipolar Economics class. He was a baseball-cap wearin’, Ford truck drivin’ werewolf and she was a Eurotrash goddess who wouldn’t look in his direction if they were showing the director’s cut of Fellini’s La Dolce Vita on his ass. So without any hope of a connection (at least one not involving roofies and probable jail time), he began collecting various scraps of memorabilia. Once, after a class, he watched her casually loogie her gum into a wastebasket, then dove in to retrieve it. Back at the dorm, he secured the gum in an airtight sandwich bag and began examining the teeth marks as I called the campus counseling center to inquire about finding a new roommate.
Getting pinkeye from a woman sitting on my face? To me, that's a perfect example of reward outweighing risk. @KenyaGoldenkiss So long as it's YOU in booty shorts and not Malcolm, I say roll with it.
