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Don't have a question to ask? Fear not. We've got other shit to read, scout! You see, in between answering questions and soliciting high school students, we'll admit, we get bored. The Love Blog, which you'll find on our home page, is a way to channel that boredom into something productive. It's where we talk about anything that happens to cross our mind. Like, "What's turning you on these days?" and "Do marionettes fuck?" Read on, and don't be shy about leaving comments. 'Specially if you're a chick with big guns. We dig that stuff.

"My yacht is double-parked"
IN SEARCH OF THAT ELUSIVE OPENING LINE

DEAR KEN & ARIEL: Hey! Everyone I know has a "move." That thing they do that seals the deal with the opposite sex. I never had a "move" and I so desperately want one. Can you offer any suggestions? And do either of you have any moves that you've tested and you could loan me?

ARIEL SAYS: A move, eh? Having a steady job, enough money in your wallet to pay for a decent dinner and heck, maybe a movie are some classy machinations. Pull up in a sweet ride I’ll be proud to step in and I'm a-swoonin'.

But hey, I'm easy. If you're talking about physical moves, be very careful; one man's move is another woman's nightmare. My girlfriend Michelle went out with a charming bloke, or so she thought until he "accidentally" spilled his drink on her arm. "Sorry 'bout that," he purred. "Let me clean that up for you." He proceeded to douse her arm in saliva, like his tongue was a goddamn Swiffer. She proceeded to rush home and douse her arm in rubbing alcohol.

I know you boys have it tough. If a girl wants to get it on, she says two words: "wanna fuck?" Meanwhile, guys have to undergo a mental root canal just to get a phone number. Relax, petal. It doesn't have to be so gosh-darn difficult. The beauty of a move is that it should feel like it came out of nowhere, like a shooting star or that zit on your ass. It should be subtle, stealthy, but damn sure of itself and even more sure of its target.

First things first: take my temperature. If my knees keep banging yours under the table "accidentally," and I have to grab your arm at least 5 times during your thrilling tale of falling off your bike in fourth grade, then for chrissakes at the end of the night grab me by the nape of my neck and stick your tongue down my throat. If I stare longingly at the Exit sign and keep checking my cell to see if I've missed a call and the conversation is so stagnant there's a slight film of green algae over the table, you might want to save that rough n' ready suck face for another victim.

"But I want to suck face!" you whimper. OK, this one's easy: constant eye contact. Not in a psychotic, restraining order way, just calm, cool and collected. Make me feel like I'm not just the only woman in the room, but I'm the only female on the planet and you simply can't get over the fact that I've chosen you to spend time with. Bore those big blue, black, brown, or hazel laser beams into the back of my skull and the depths of my soul and I'll let you bore something else into the back of my… goodness, is it time to wrap up already?

KEN SAYS: In my younger, foolish days, I'd pack my gym-toned bod into a tight T-shirt and faded Levi's, and strut through the local watering hole, expecting the ladies to just slide my way in a river of drool. By night's end, the only think I'd picked up was a hefty bar tab and the sneaking suspicion that I looked like an extra from "The Peter Allen Story."

Now I'm not much older and not much wiser, but I've come to realize that to a young lad looking for female companionship, a "move" is about as useful as a barber pole.

Think about it: We're all there for the same reason. Conjuring some sort of one-man dinner theatre piece in a misguided attempt to let someone think that you're "slick" or "different" or "on parole" only siphons away precious minutes that you could be spending actually talking to someone. Minutes that some other dude would be more than happy to log.

Consider this: Once upon a college evening, I found myself at the local bar, working toward that liver transplant I've been dreaming of. At the opposite end of the bar was a stunning red head, all hips and lips, with a beer in her hand and a congenial smile on her face. One by one, I watched the suitors line up to impress her with everything from an impromptu hackey-sack lesson (no, really) to a detailed discussion of one guy's stock portfolio. At the end of the night, some dude in jeans with hair covering his face walked up and told her she was simply the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and he'd love to take her out. The next morning, I spotted the pair of them huddled in a booth at a Dunkin' Donuts in Brighton, sharing a croissandwich and basking in that warm, fluttery glow that says, "dude, we just fucked!"