So, God, if you can just go ahead and put me down for this, we’ll be just fine.
SIDENOTE: You can’t tell me that this wasn’t exactly the sort of thing that the folks who invented television would have considered the most appropriate use of this brave new medium.
I’ll come right out and admit it: I’m queer for Christmas.
The stores packed with people. The crunch of snow under my size 12 boots. The wobbly mecha-Santas and inflatable Rudolphs. Hell, I even love the music, which starts playing 24/7 on the radio after Halloween (at least in my neck of the woods). Hearing Bing Crosby and David Bowie tackle “The Little Drummer Boy” for the three-thousandth time in a two day span might push lesser men over the edge. But me? I live for that shit.
Something else that makes me win at the holidays is that unlike some folks who can waffle on for hours over whether to ask for a Samsung Galaxy or an Ikea lamp, I know precisely what I want for Christmas.
Folks, I want ass.
And please note that when I say “ass,” it’s not code for sex, as in “man, I could use a piece of ass.” I literally mean ass. Like, spending Christmas day with my face securely buried under some random female’s derriere. Just like they did in the old days, before fireplaces and Entertainment Weekly.
In those literary classics such as “Men are from Uranus, Women are from Tampax” and “He’s Just Not into You cuz You Ugly”, the central theme is that men have much more difficulty with communication than women. That’s bullshit, your honor. Guys are always on the damn phone.
I always thought I had to compete with aspiring reality show stars with a penchant for guys with girlfriends. Nope, it’s texting. It’s another way of saying, yes, this poorly-spelled, 4-word jumble of letters with less prize offers than “Wheel of Fortune” is still, much, MUCH more important than you.
When we’re on a date and he takes me out to dinner, my main concern isn’t if the waitress is hot. (Of COURSE the waitress is hot. It’s LA.) It’s, oh my God, his phone is ringing. And HE’S ANSWERING IT?!? And he’s talking. And talking, and TALKING. Seconds turn to minutes as I sit there: me, him, the bread basket and the fucking phone pressed lovingly to his ear as he lavishes words and saliva into its mouthpiece. It’s at that point I want to stand up, throw a stale roll at his head, grab the phone and stab the little fucker’s heart out with my stiletto. But instead I sulk, pout, give monosyllabic answers for the remainder of the evening and refuse to kiss him goodnight.
Huh. Maybe I have a problem with communication.
There are a lot of questions that haunt my sleep. Things like, “What if my crazy ex-girlfriend ever gets out of prison?” and “Do you think she’s actually done this before?” and “Why is Whitney still on the air?”
But the biggest mystery of them all is, “How do guys who have secured fake testicles to the back of their pick-up trucks get laid?”
This past weekend, I made the rounds in Newport, watching the beautiful people frolic and swigging freely from the pint bottle in my coat pocket. At one bar, I had my eye on a red-haired older women, probably in her mid-to-late 40s, with a diabolically curvaceous ass and bright lipstick. I was just about drunk enough to ask if those were her real teeth (my best opening line), when some dude swept in and sat down next to her. Apparently, they were together, and I watched them canoodle before heading out of the bar. Realizing I should be on my way as well, I trailed them for a bit (in a totally non-stalkerish way) toward the parking lot, where she hopped into his Toyota truck… which had a pair of those goofy-ass testicles dangling from the hitch.
Ladies, honestly: why is this not a deal breaker? I once brought a girl back to my place and she refused to sit on my face after spying a collection of Lost In Space DVDs on my coffee table. “You’re one of those sci-fi nerds?” she asked, fastening her jeans, causing my erection to crumble faster than the French in World War II. Yet a woman will happily take a ride from a guy whose car has fake balls?
Bizarre as it sounds, I can totally understand why guys purchase and apply these fake truck balls–because deep down, we–as a gender–are fucking idiots. But ladies willingly sleeping with guys who sport these things on their ride? Inexcusable.
I was with a boyfriend at Ralphs or Albertsons getting our usual dinner fare (Cap’n Crunch and chocolate milk) when suddenly he gasped and grabbed my arm. “OMG!” he said in a high-pitched squeal. “Do you know who that is?” He pointed to an attractive, very normal looking woman in sweats, looking at paper towels. “Um, no,” I replied, confused. “Does she teach spinning at my gym?” “NO, that’s Sunny Leone,” he said in a dramatic stage whisper. “She’s a porn star.”
Wow. She looked so…normal. And dressed normal. And her boobs (from what I could tell) looked pretty normal. Porn stars – they’re just like us!
Now, obviously the way they make a living to pay their bills differs from most of the population, or at least my social circles. Not to mention the stigma attached to their choice of profession – “they must be really fucked up to do porn.” Is that really the case? There was an interesting article in Jezebel refuting that assumption. Instead, women in porn have reportedly higher self-esteem, no higher incidence of psychological childhood trauma, etc. They’re about as fucked up as you or me. (OK wait, maybe just you – I’m not a good comparison, I’m completely loco.)
Yeah, I’m jealous of the floor she’s sitting on. You blame me?
…is, without question, women in jeans and boots. In fact, I’m 99 percent certain that God invented winter just so women could sport tight jeans and boots.
Like vodka and a swift punch to the balls, it’s a combination that never fails to bring me to my knees. Which is just exactly where I want to be, if you catch me.*
So today, as I meander out into the mean streets of Providence, Rhode Island, where the temperature threatens to stay below 30 degrees, I will be silently saluting you, women with jeans and boots. And reminding you that if you’re ever looking for an opportunity to lose those pants, straddle a face like it’s the last car leaving Space Mountain, then storm back out into the crisp winter air with the knowledge that you’ve made some nerd’s holiday, then I’m your guy.
Also, I have wine and beer. Like, shitloads.
*SUBTLE CUNNILINGUS REFERENCE!
Dear Ken and Ariel: Is it wrong to dump a guy for being small? I have recently gotten myself into a relationship, which I’m absolutely down for. However I usually “test drive” a guy before anything goes anywhere. Unfortunately for me I said yes to being a gf before sleeping with this guy. And the sex was… well, I wouldn’t even call it “sex” it was that bad. But I was willing to give him another go, and his dick just didn’t do anything for me. Everything else so far has been great and this is a huge disappointment for me as I LOVE sex. Suggestions?
KEN SAYS: Sure, it’s always the guy who’s too small. It’s never the woman who’s too deep or the bed that’s too angled or the house that’s been constructed so poorly that its steep inclines and shoddy foundation screw up a woman’s balance to the point that things that are actually quite massive seem tiny (don’t laugh; I’ve used that last one to great success at times.)
That said, as a gentleman of Irish descent, your words hit home. Because, in addition to being the constant butt of jokes about drunkenness, the Irish must also contend with a bizarre rumor — no doubt started by the Scots — that we, as a nationality, tend to be not-so-well-hung.
This is absolute rubbish, as anyone who knows my friend Billy “The Guy With the Oak-Tree-Sized Penis” O’Sullivan will tell you. But it made me so self-conscious that I spent endless hours fine-tuning my cunnilingus skills so that I might be able to dazzle women with my tongue to the point that they almost forget that we were supposed to start fucking at some point.
Hey, that doesn’t look like Tobey Maguire’s hand…
So a buddy sends me a link to the latest video from fetish porn queen Tara Tainton, entitled “Why, You Have a Deadly Case of Spider-Balls.”
And, because I am a slave to such genius marketing, I click the link. And find that the video, as I probably should have guessed, features Spider-Man being jerked off by a hot nurse (NSFW, of course). Which is something that God knows I’ve always felt should have been addressed in Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man films.
But after watching the preview clip a number of times, I was more troubled by the fact that my lingering thoughts weren’t on the hotness that is Tara Tainton or her ample cleavage or her rather impressive handjob skills.
It was that the guy in the movie had a really, really cool Spider-Man costume.
Not from the Spider-Man 2 Director’s Cut.
Right?
One would think, when my nether regions begin to resemble the Dust Bowl (of the Dirty 30′s, no less!), that I would simply drunk dial an ex and request a full tune up. But no. It’s as if the fates conspire to keep me solidly on the path to better tomorrows, or more likely, a celibate, slightly unhinged potential cat lady, providing hours of entertainment as she searches feverishly for the remote.
I have gone to extreme lengths to break this curse, especially when the current single offerings have violated the terms of their probation are headed back to the Big House. Par example: I researched, signed up for and ran a 26.2 marathon because my ex happened to live in that city. I called and said in my sweetest, little-girl slurry that I just had to stay over his house the night before the race, because we had to be at the start line at 5AM. It worked – but still, no nookie was served (“You have a big day tomorrow, I don’t want to drain you of your energy, heh heh!”). So, with the possibility of post-race nookie serving as my dangling carrot, I somehow managed to finish the goddamn thing. Hours later I crawled back to his apartment, crippled and beyond exhausted. He opened the door and blanched at my appearance, as I now resembled one of those hairless dogs with a slight case of PTSD. He tried to give me the Heisman by insisting he drive me to the hospital, but I threatened to suffocate him with my mylar blanket if he didn’t give me a fucking right then and there. He acquiesced, but the sex was a goner – I had to stop after two minutes because of a cramp – in my aortic valve.
I can’t be the only person in the world who missed out on Black Friday shopping due to a debilitating condition known as “inability to stop masturbating furiously to the last three years of archives at GirlsinYogaPants.com.”
Can I?
Well, shit. In that case, just say I had the flu.
His girlfriend wants a threesome. With him and another guy. Er. http://t.co/ybhSBeo9Cv
RT @Tenacious_Ken: @rogue8bit I'm guessing when they say "solo shows" that's not a Star Wars reference?
