So the other day I’m fumbling through Copley Place when I get stuck behind this couple in their mid-40s. All is good except for two things: They’re walking so slowly, they’re practically standing still [and, thus, hampering my "on the go" lifestyle].
Also, the guy has his hand secured snugly inside the back pocket of the woman’s jeans.
Ass man that I am, I have never understood the allure of the “let me walk around with my hand in the back pocket of my girl’s jeans” maneuver.
So I ran into this guy over the weekend – as you may recall, I had made the fatal error of spending the night and had had about the same warm reception the next morning as when one finds an errant poo in the can. No business cards, phone numbers or warm wishes were exchanged – just a GTFO. Which I did.
Running into One Night Stan again isn’t that extraordinary, considering I’m the ding-dong who found a guy right in my own backyard (note to self: don’t shit where you eat. Yes, more scatalogical humor.) And I was at the same dive bar I’m usually at, and where I had met him (again, Ariel, this time with feeling: DON’T SHIT WHERE YOU EAT.) He saw me first; I believe I was doing my rendition of the Running Man when he walked over, arms outstretched: “Ariel!” Like we were old college buddies at a reunion. Flummoxed, I did the same. I mean, what else do you do? Dude’s seen you naked. No point in formal reintroductions. It was…him. I think? Yeah, it was him. Pretty sure. And he was loaded. Continue Reading…
I was drunk and lost the remote this weekend and, being too lazy to get up and find it, spent at least 72 hours watching The Game Show Network.
Among the horrors I witnessed was this bit from an old $25,000 Pyramid from the ’80s. Check the clever method this young lass employs to get her partner to guess the word “asparagus.”
I officially dedicate my Saturday to the girl who spent the better part of this afternoon tying down a mattress to the hood of her car, treating me to three plus hours of college girl derriere in yellow shorts whilst I got my drink on.
Every beer I downed and every filthy thought that entered my mind was for you, Mattress Girl. I salute you, your shorts, and whoever ends up buried beneath your particularly awesome ass this evening.
Love, Ken.
Can you find yours?
DEAR KEN & ARIEL: Last semester I met this guy at a party and, because he seemed charming and we were both a bit intoxicated, I invited him back to my dorm room for what amounted to a night of backbreaking sex. Next morning, he asks if he can take my underwear as a “souvenir.” Part of me wanted to belt him, but the other part of me was somewhat flattered, so, once he found them tangled up in the sheets, I let him have them. Couple weeks ago I happened to run into the same guy again at a party off-campus, and, again, ended up heading back to his room. When we got there, I discovered to my horror that my underwear was hanging on the wall over his bed like a mounted deer head trophy! I know I have no one to blame but myself, but is there a tactful way to get my skivvies back? Somehow the idea of my thong becoming wall art is a bit gross.
KEN SAYS: While it doesn’t sound like the most sanitary way to decorate an apartment, I have to give the guy props for choosing a far cooler room decor than NFL player Fatheads or Metallica posters. In fact, the entrepreneur in me sees potential for the first-ever Playboy Channel-HGTV cross-over.
But I digress. Your situation reminds me of a story.
So...just to confirm...you DON'T want a threesome?
I was having a conversation with Smudgebox yesterday about our threesome bucket lists- we don’t want frat boys who want to DP (look it up, I had to), we want bi guys who are lovely and romantic and want to pleasure the boys as well as the girls. Free love, y’all.
Anyhoo, it reminded me of the threesomes I almost had. The boxer dude I dated from NH who had a buddy come down and hang out with us in Boston; after a long night of drinking (I vaguely recall passing out and drooling on one of their shoulders on the cab ride home – such a lady) we all ended up back at my place, a tiny studio with just my bed and no couch. We all crawled into bed at my insistence; no one was going to sleep on the floor, nor was I about to pass up the chance to be in-between two six packs, four large biceps and eight hours of nocturnal emissions. Nothing happened; all three of us passed out within seconds but I had a permanent grin plastered to my mug and my dreams were the stuff of Nancy Friday.
Other almost-tri’s usually involved a guy, a girl, a lot of alcohol, blurred boundaries, and a third party’s confusion of their sexual orientation. But again, aside from a few sloppy kisses and groping, nothing came to fruition. One encounter stands out from all the rest – the night of a friend’s wedding. Continue Reading…
"Not looking fo any action, ma'am. Just doing my job."
The company I work for encourages volunteerism among its staff. A noble thing, to be sure, and being a noble gent of sorts, I anted up and put in for some hours last weekend at a local food pantry. The work is fairly easy; you just sort packages of food into boxes, then seal up the boxes. Then we all go home or get liquored up and chase tail.
At the volunteer site, I got paired up with a girl from my office who I’d never met. We’ll call her Sandy. Sandy’s job is to tie three boxes of food together, then she hands them off to me and I pack them six-deep in a large crate. Sandy is short and chubby with a flat ass, large round boobs and a pretty face. Not my type at all, but she seems friendly and I anticipate at least some decent conversation to make the time pass as we’re sorting and packing.
I’m a pretty reasonable person. Work 9-5, pay my taxes, stop at red lights…but I can also be a psychotic bitch, especially when another woman is in the picture.
“Why is your best friend a GIRL?”
I posed this question to a guy I was dating. I hadn’t met her; to say I was threatened is the understatement of the year.
“We’ve known each other since high school…I used to date her sister and she’s like my little sister…she’s like one of the guys, she loves to just hang out with us and get stoned, watch sports, go camping…” That’s when he happened to notice that one of my talons was uncomfortably close to his ballsack. Stepping backwards into the dog’s food bowl, he hurriedly continued: “And I’m totally not attracted to her, she’s so not my type.”
Yeah, right, my insanely-jealous inner Carrie says. We’ll see about that. I don’t care if you’ve been best friends since you were fetuses and have gotten shitfaced 80 million times together without so much action as a handshake. Sex is always lurking in the background, rubbing its greasy palms together in anticipation.
Someone’s attracted to someone, and I’m about to find out if it’s her or him. Continue Reading…
About eight years ago, neglecting the golden rule that you just don’t swim pantsless in the company pool, I got in bad with a girl from the office. She was married and apparently suffering the one-year itch. I was the object of her desires, and since my inbox wasn’t exactly toppling with blowjob offers, I just rolled with it.
We did the drinks-after-work thing, the three-hour make-out/heavy petting sessions in my car, and then, throwing caution to the wind, we started fucking right there in the office.
One night, after the place cleared out at 5:01, she shuffled into my office with her bag and closed the door behind her, locking it. She then sat on the edge of my desk, hiked up her skirt, and begged me to come hither.
On the Spanish weather channels, it’s always sunny with a chance of one hot piece of ass.
RT @Tenacious_Ken: @rogue8bit I'm guessing when they say "solo shows" that's not a Star Wars reference?
@rogue8bit I'm guessing when they say "solo shows" that's not a Star Wars reference? SWEET HOME ALABAMA! RT @TB211277 @Remymeow: Have a bootyful day everyone! http://t.co/tJpC82uWO8
