Playing The Field

Dear Ken & Ariel: In this day and age, it seems that women are far too interested in playing the field and not committing to a long term relationship. I can understand their wanting to have fun, but in my case my last two girlfriends have come crawling back to me after "having their fun", and I feel like I'm selling myself short by letting them back. So with the last one, I gave her a dose of her own medicine and stated that I wanted to have my fun. She's all pissed off, and actually I feel guilty. What is your opinion?

Ken Says:There’s an upside and a downside to women wanting to “play the field.” The upside is when you’re wobbling though last call at the local pub and some BU chick is crying in her beer about how her long-distance boyfriend who’s taking a semester in Peru just doesn’t seem to care anymore. That’s when you – fueled by one dollar drafts – slide in to the rescue, giving her a ear to bend, a shoulder to weep upon, and a johnson to keep her occupied until Peru guy sails back. The downside, of course, is being Peru guy, staring wistfully into the South American skies while your girl’s servicing half the lacrosse team back home. But let’s be honest; as a guy, I can vouch that our willingness to let a girl back into our hearts is directly proportionate to how hot and/or amazing in bed she is. Otherwise, why would you want to maintain a relationship with someone who basically shows up back on your doorstep saying, “Okay, I’m done having sex with other guys. Let’s party.”

Ariel Says: Thanks to the equality of the sexes, y’all get to experience what we’ve putting up with for thousands of years. So yeah, I admit it--I’m pretty psyched. But let me get off my high horse and tell you what happens when I let the no-good bum back into my heart and into my 750-count sheets.

Ring Ring! (That’s my phone.)

“Um, Hello?”

“Hey Ariel, we’ll be at Shooters at 10, what time are you coming by?”

“Oh geez, Paula, I’m not going to be able to go out tonight.”

“What?!? Why not?!?”

“Uh…I don’t feel good?”

“Yeah, right. Since when have you turned down $1 drafts? Wait a minute…Is that fuckface Derek back?”

“No, no! Well…OK, maybe? But you know what Paula, he’s changed, he said he totally missed me and—“

“Bitch, cut the shit. You know that ain’t true.”

“But Paula—“

“Don’t you start that bullshit with me. Remember the time he got a blow job from that bitch Charlene in the back seat of YOUR car?”

“Yeah…”

“And remember the time he stole your checkbook and tried to cash checks at Building 19?”

“Yeeah…”

“And remember—“

“OK, OK! I get it. I’ll see you at 10.”

So, my advice would be that the next time your no-good hussy comes crawling back after “having her fun,” think of my friend Paula, whose wise words I believe transcend both gender and circumstance: “Bitch, cut the shit.” Don’t settle for less and kick her to the curb.

Episode 316, In Whice The Horse Gets More Action Than I Do

I get roughly 400 e-mails a day from sites offering me such stuff as "Teen Girls Fucking Sheep" and "Horny MILF Taking It Out On The Family Dog" and "Farm Girls Going Wild With Drunk Bear" and "Gene Shalit Making a Pizza, Shirtless." Needless to say, I don't click on any of them, not even out of sick curiousity. But somebody's gotta be buying that shit. The question is, who? Who needs to see a woman blowing a horse? Especially if it's an ex girlfriend of mine and she swears the horse is just an old friend who she's helping through a difficult time.

Myself, I just don't get it. Once, during a high school party, I saw a girl jack off a dog. And it was the single grossest thing I've ever witnessed [never mind the fact that the dog saw more action in that night than I'd had in a month]. Understand, I can't even watch the money shots in a porno featuring humans -- hey, call me crazy, I don't like watching another guy shoot his load. Dogs, even less so.

Perhaps it's just the fascination of the abomination that attracts people to these flicks. But what of the girls who star in them? I know times are tough, and pride always takes a backseat to, y'know, being able to eat three times a day. But if you absolutely, positively had to get into porno, wouldn't you try to get into that branch that focuses on human-on-human fucking? Wouldn't that just make more sense? I mean, if I was a chick, I'd rather be the meat in a Wilford Brimley/Ed McMahon sammich than take it up the ass from a camel.

Perhaps that's just me.

Free Advice Friday: Resurrecting The Dead Libido

To Ken & Ariel: My boyfriend and I started having sex a couple of months ago. However, no matter what he does, I can't seem to feel any pleasure from him, so now, he refuses to have sex at all. What can I do to actually be able to receive pleasure from him?

Ariel Says: Trade him in for a newer model, sugar! Nah, just kidding. But I need more specifics. How is he not giving you the ride of your life? Is it the size of the wave or the motion of the ocean? Are you lying there like a dead fish, counting the ceiling tiles as he puts in his three minutes of hard labor? Because sex, my dear, is a two-way street. It’s not all up to him. First, you need to find out what gives you pleasure. You know, shortness of breath, turns the tips of your ears red, makes your pulse do triple-time…Here’s a pop quiz: where are your erogenous zones? Where are his? I strongly suggest that you do some research and start getting some supplies. (Thanks to this amazing invention called “the internet”, you can now order this stuff online and it arrives in completely anonymous packaging! I swear, you’d think it was an order from Office Depot! Uh…BTW you might want to make sure it’s not delivered to your work.) Now, the next thing I want you to do is get together with your man and not have sex. Yup, you heard me right. I want you to do everything BUT—put on some Al Green, get to know each other’s bodies, discover each other’s secrets and desires, but NO SEX. Do this for about one week. You’ll have a PhD in Pleasure Priniciple, I gar-uhn-tee it.

Ken Says: Let’s take a few steps back a minute. For all our gusto and bravado, guys can be sensitive, too. Kick us in the nuts, and by god, we’re gonna fall over, possibly calling for our mothers. Likewise, if we’re enraptured by a particular female and get all caught up in those first magic months of dating, before the drunken fighting and death threats kick in, we’re gonna be at least a little concerned that our “performance” in the sack measures up. If you happened to address the issue with him by saying something like, “Is it in yet?” or “You sure you know how to use that thing?”, there’s a good chance your man may have retreated to the Island of HolyShitNowWhatDoIDo, where he’ll hang out until you toss him a line or show him the door. So why not suggest ways to spice things up. Saying something like, “You know, it would be totally hot if you put on this Batman mask and nailed me from behind, while we blast the Dead Kennedys on the stereo.” You never know what might trigger his inner wildebeest. And if all else fails, hit me up, because I’m totally down for that Batman mask shit.

Dating Outside Your Comfort Zone

For me, this generally means someone who has washed his hair in the last 48 hours, who owns more than one dress shirt (that was not purchased at Salvation Army) and has worked for "the man" for more than six months. In a row. Believe it or not, I'm not putting down my "type". I'm just telling you what the composite sketch looks like. And I dig these boys, because they are creative, independent, don't give a shit what other people think. But anyway, back to the normie. Every so often, I let one of these guys take me out for a spin. The one who has a decent 401(k), wants to be vice president in the next 5 years, who actually want to spend Sunday afternoons going to open houses in wealthy neighborhoods. And I have a nice time (believe me, it's great to reach for your purse and have someone actually stop you) and I enjoy their company. But I just get so antsy. And figety. And bored. Gee, I think, you'd make a really great husband and father someday. But...you know the rest.

Hickies: Not Just For Teens Anymore

The other day I was in a meeting with some women from our production department, and I'll be damned if one of them, a single mother of 4 in her late thirties, wasn't sporting a dark purple hickie on the side of her neck.

As someone who hasn't had a hickie since I was, I dunno, 21, it got me thinking: at what age do you look just plain ridiculous with a hickie? Or is it a proud badge of "I'm Gettin' Some" that should be displayed whenever possible?

Mayerbag (with apologies to HCWDB)

I once knew this folk singer in the Boston music scene. I really liked her stuff: sweet, sensitive, thoughtful, someone who sang with a tender, loving voice, who understood pain and also salvation. Then, by chance, she entered the outer orbit of my social circle. And what a fucking bitch. Stuck up, mean, entitled, just a real miserable shit. And I was shocked. Shocked! She's an ARTIST, who sings songs about broken hearts and lonely nights; shouldn't she at least be a little nicer, maybe pay for a round of drinks once in a blue moon? I guess not.
I had the same experience when I kept stumbling upon negative stories about John Mayer. No no, I thought, it can't be true. This is the guy who wrote the song "Daughters", a message to fathers everywhere to be the best male role model for women. He sang about running through the halls in high school! That Jennifer L. Hewitt's body is a wonderland! A sweet, sensitive geek with a heart of gold! And then I read his blog (since taken down, BTW--must have a good publicist.) And what a pompous, egotistical DB. Once again, I learned my lesson: the "sensitivity" of an artist is inversely proportional to their asshole-ness.

Train Wreck

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Watching Amy Winehouse last night made me think of all the female train wrecks I've come across as I traverse this great world of ours. Indeed, I have been a fucked-up mess as some point in my life, but unfortunately no one really listened to my tantrums and self-piteous mewling and I had to eventually pull myself out of it. But as we all know, these professional train wrecks know how to pull off a spectacularly dazzling display of self-destruction, and there's always a captive audience. I guess just like for every psycho behind bars there's some sympathetic housewife writing him letters, for every girl hunched over the porcelain goddess every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, there's always a knight in shining armor waiting for the privilege of holding her hair back. I've dated these guys, briefly, when I was the amateur train wreck; but as soon as they realized I was actually self-sufficient, they were outta there. Man, that always pissed me off.