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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.

TROPHY UNDERWEAR
OR WHY YOUR THONG IS NOW HIS WALL-ART

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 my 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 unmentionables becoming wall art is unnerving.

KEN SAYS: In my wilder days, I remember a pal whose dorm room gave him a strategic vantage point of one of the campus laundry rooms. What this dude would do is sit lazily by his eighth-floor window, tucked neatly out of view of passersby on the ground below, and wait for the hottest chicks to come by to use the washing machine.

After he watched them exit the laundry room—with their unmentionables tucked safely in the whirlwind of the spin cycle—he’d get out his own laundry bag, and head on down (at this point, I should probably mention that each of our campus laundry rooms contained just one washer and one dryer). Once inside the laundry room, he'd sift through the booty in the washer before him, grabbing anything even slightly resembling female underwear, and stuffing it in his bag. Then he’d walk back to his room nonchalantly, giving any onlookers the impression that he’s just another sad sack who wants to do his laundry but has to wait for the friggin’ machine to free up. Little did they know that he had just added to what amounted to one of the largest collections of pilfered underwear that I, myself, can recall.

What’s the point of all this? Hell, I don’t know. Ownership of women’s underwear—even as proof of some sexual conquest—seems a bit odd to me. But there is definitely an allure to women’s undergarments that can sometimes get the better of the male species. That’s why walking into Victoria’s Secret is like a religious experience for most guys.

Yes, the embarrassment factor is high—wander too close to the dressing rooms and you feel like a pervert, let your hand rest a bit too long on that camisole and you feel like a cross-dresser—but there’s something about the smell, the atmosphere and the sales assistants that makes my heart do the flippy-flop every time.

And let’s not even mention the incredibly uplifting feeling you get when you see a red hot mama casually sifting through a sales rack of thongs. It is, I can only hope, what heaven feels like.

ARIEL SAYS: My misguided but wonderfully generous chiquita, need I remind you what happened to Molly Ringwald's panties in the film Sixteen Candles when she magnanimously donated them to the king of all geeks? I think you've found yourself a genuine Farmer Ted, and you can bet your bottom dollar that he’s charging his compadres more than that to visit the shrine.

Personally, I'm amazed at your supreme restraint when you saw your beloved skivvies crucified above the headboard—I would have taken out my trusty Zippo and torched the room. But for the sake of objectivity, let’s look at the facts.

Judge Judy, my heroine, faced a similar situation in the case of the disgruntled fiancee. He woke up one day and decided his betrothed looked like a water buffalo, so he wanted the ring back. However, because he had been astronomically stupid, as Judge J. informed him, to have given her the ring on Christmas day, it was considered a gift. That would make the score Water Buffalo 1, Dumb-ass Dude 0.

This brings me to my next convoluted point: are the coochie cutters technically a gift? You state that he asked you for them as a souvenir. Where the hell does he think he is, the x-rated version of Disney World? As far as I’m concerned, you did not give them as a gift, he asked you permission and you lent them. He’s been a royal ass, so it’s time to get them back. My judgment is for the plaintiff.

Oh, and by the way, if I ever again hear you worry about "tact" when dealing with the tactless Farmer Ted, I will personally come over and hang you by your skivvies above his bed!