LustMongers | A Blog About Sex, Pop Culture and Other Confusing Things

It's Tough Out There for a Gentleman

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 29 Oct 2012 10:21:00 +0000

So I'm walking out of the mens' room yesterday at the office, and just ahead of me, walking out of the womens' room, is one of the premier office hotties. Let's call her L.

Naturally, my eyes descend to her hindquarters -- which are quite remarkable, I might add -- where I see, to my horror, that she's trailing about a foot and a half of toilet paper from the back of her skirt.

And suddenly I'm faced with a dilemma:

If I call her on it, I'm the perv who's checking out a fellow worker below the waist (which, any good HR person will tell you, simply isn't allowed. It's best to think of your coworkers as disembodied heads that you only need make eye contact with to ask about the McClasky file or Sheila in Purchasing's birthday).

If I don't... well, I guess I'm a sort of tool for letting her walk onto the floor, amongst all her catty female colleagues, with a paper tail.

So I cleared my throat and called her on it. And she swiped it away, embarrassed but thankful.

As I saw it, I'm already the office perv. I sure as fuck don't want to be a tool as well.

Never Underestimate the Power of the Finger Smoothie

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 27 Oct 2012 10:25:00 +0000

So I'm out last night after work and I run into the Kenette v2002. She, recognizing me for the hobo that I am, offered up some of her pizza and beer. And within a half hour we were on the Last Train to Sloshedville and reminiscing about "back in the day."

That's all well and good. It's nice to sit down with your former paramours and have a civil conversation that doesn't involve knifeplay. But at one point, I noticed she had a fine string of cheese hanging from her mouth down her chin. Ever the gentleman, I moved to whisk it away, and as my hand approached, she took one of my fingers into her mouth, instantly applying a four second "finger smoothie." She then giggled and got back to munching her pizza. I sat with a flustered look on my face and my cock slowly snaking its way up my trousers.

Ladies, what I need to tell you is that the "finger smoothie" must only be used on those occasions in which you actually plan to give the actual owner of said finger an actual blowjob. When done purely for the amusement of it, as was the case with Kenette v2002, it's just a tease. A damn good one, might I add. But still a tease. A painful, man-I've-got-to-get-home-and-wank-myself-into-oblivion kinda tease.

The "finger smoothie," at least in my book, is and should always tantamount to the real McCoy. Am I right?

Ladies, Your Dream Men Are Here

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 26 Oct 2012 11:47:00 +0000

It's pretty much an established fact that women can get laid whenever they damn well please. As Jerry Seinfeld so eloquently put it, "Women are in charge of sex. If men were in charge of sex, women would never see the insides of restaurants."

Lately, though, I'm seeing a bit of a power-shift. Guys who look like they'd be uncomfortable fingering anything but a Texas Instruments calculator are walking around with fine-ass ladies. Women flood dating sites looking for "Seth Rogen and Zack Galifianakis types." Bill in accounting is banging a former stripper.

Apparently, this is an international phenomenon. Because a recent poll of 2,500 women in the UK revealed that their two biggest turn-ons were unkempt guys with facial hair and geeks. Also among the most desired were guys who cry at sappy films (holla!) and guys who are "soft and cuddly instead of toned and muscly."

I don't see "pale, tattooed, sardonic Irishmen" on that list, but I won't let it bring me down. I'm just gonna up my Hostess Fruit Pie intake, throw away the Gillette Sensor and wait for the pussy to find me.

I'll be right here. Just so you know.

Easier Money. Or Is It?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 06 Jun 2012 15:08:00 +0000

I spend a lot of time, perhaps too much time, trying to think of ways to line my pockets. And by that I mean get paid for doing next to nothing.

Because that's everyone's dream, is it not?

I recently had to come up with a grand. I won't get into details but let's just say I enjoy having both my legs and needed the money to keep them intact. While I probably should have went to the casino, my first instinct was, "Hey, sperm bank."

See, this is what makes this country so amazing. Here, they are willing to pay me for something I do roughly six times a day anyway for free. Unfortunately, unlike the fantasy that's played out in my mind a million times, there's no hot nurse looking to "assist" in obtaining my sample. No closed-circuit cameras fixed on exotic Asian "gentleman clubs." Just a fifty-something dude in a shirt and Dockers who hands me some vials. I expect to have that thousand bucks by tomorrow.

Oh, and if I don't return calls, I died of carpal tunnel.

The Type of Party I Never Seem to Get Invited To

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 11:14:00 +0000

No idea what the ladies in this photo are doing. But, honestly, so long as they'd be willing to let me watch, I could care less.

Guest Post: Halloween Rabbit in New York City

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 09:59:00 +0000

A few years ago I was on a business trip in the US which included a 2 night stopover in New York before pressing on to Dallas Fort Worth. At the time I was working for an online travel company and travelled quite a bit visiting our offices from London to Singapore. Apart from the obvious “perk” of being able to see the world at the company’s expense, there’s not much else going for business travel because you rarely get any time to yourself.

This trip to New York was exciting because New York is exciting, even if you only have 5 minutes to yourself. This trip to New York was also the most outrageously brilliant business trip I think I have or ever will experience… and not for business reasons, but because of the rabbit incident.

Upon reaching my hotel from the airport I had bags of jetlag, but also an appetite to dump my bags and explore the city. I wanted to enjoy a bit of New York while I had the precious time available to me on these trips for exploring. To finish the day I sought a bar close to my hotel so that I could roll my jetlagged self a short way to bed once the night was done.

I found a bar that was, like all the others, suitably decorated with Halloween fixtures and which included other essentials like friendly staff, good beer and a couple of TV screens to stare at.

After a few pints, a couple sat down next to me at the bar and upon hearing my English accent struck up a conversation with me as he too was an expat living in New York with his American girlfriend. They were also friends with the bar staff and were all gearing up for a Halloween party later that night.

As the evening progressed, more and more party goers were arriving in their costumes and we were treated to a fashion parade of naughty nurses, French maids and a dominatrix outfit. My new friends weren’t wrong when they said, ‘Halloween is the best time to be here because all the girls love to dress like sluts!”

One of the naughty nurses was carrying a rabbit vibrator round her neck and after a few drinks started waving it around and simulating fellatio with it as the party goers danced to a selection of music from the jukebox that ranged from Bon Jovi to Bob Marley. And then it happened…

It was nearing closing time and most patrons had moved on to other Halloween parties. All except my new friends and the troupe of slutty girls, including the naughty nurse with the vibrator. Now I have played my fair share of drinking games, but nothing I have ever witnessed comes close to what I was about to see.

The girls were all sitting around a long table against one of the walls and were ordering shots of tequila and who knows what else. They were playing a drinking game that I have absolutely no recollection of the rules, but the outcome of which resulted in them taking turns to expose their breasts and later removing their underwear. Then the girl with the vibrator held the rabbit in the air like Excalibur’s sword, switched it on and slowly lowered it under the table where she began to work on herself in front of her friends who were egging her on.

Before long she reached climax to shrieks of delight from her audience and then slumped back in her seat with a ridiculous grin on her face. It was at this point that I realized the girl next to her in the French maid’s uniform had commandeered the vibrator and was now pleasuring herself.

This went on to at least two more girls before I had to quietly leave the pub as the spectacle was becoming too much for a sensible business traveler like me. I paid my tab and left enough to buy the girls a round of drinks as a special thank you for my evening’s entertainment

The Business of Perversion

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 18 Aug 2011 11:04:00 +0000

Last week, a day of seemingly endless meetings finally ended, and I found myself heading out for after-work dinner with some coworkers. Some I knew quite well; others I'd never met. But one of the ladies with us possessed a remarkable ass, which a male coworker friend of mine and I had spent the better part of the day's meetings drooling over. And getting to ogle it for a few more hours was good enough for me.

But not enough, apparently, for my friend. As we're walking into the restaurant, I see him walking close behind her, fumbling with his phone. A couple minutes later, inside the restaurant, he sends me a photo. Of her backside. Now the pic doesn't really do that bum justice, but the point is he sent me the photo, I laughed, saved it (of course), then went about my business.

Until last weekend, when I attended a family cookout and got all silly with the Bud Light. My six year old niece, who loves playing with phones, asked if she could see mine and I quickly obliged. So she goes off, pretending to talk to someone on the phone and I get back to my drinking. Then, a few minutes later, my niece is waving the phone at her mother, my sister.

"Ew, Uncle Ken has a picture of someone's bum on his phone."

My sister took the phone from her daughter, gave it a look, raised an eyebrow in disgust, then scanned the crowd for me. I was already sprinting her way, wishing myself invisible, and blabbering whatever excuses came into my head: "Oh, yeah, a friend sent me that as a joke and I meant to delete it but I kept it andohboyisthisweirdbutitreallyisn'tmyphoneandanywayIjustneedtoblahblahblah..." I took the phone from her, and faded sheepishly into the background, where I remained for the balance of the night.

See, I can handle everyone at work thinking I'm a world class pervert (hell, no way to change their minds now, anyway). I can handle the Kenettes who wander in and out of my life thinking the same thing. But my family? Something about one of my sisters knowing I had that photo on my cell phone... it just makes me wanna join the French Foreign Legion.

I hear they've also got some hot chicks as well.

And To Think He Probably Got Paid For This. Too

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 10:57:00 +0000

Like I always say, there's nothing better than hanging out in a bar with a couple of ladies.

Greatest Award Acceptance Speech Ever

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 08 Jul 2011 13:09:00 +0000

If you can get past the Paris Hilton bullshit, you will witness the single greatest acceptance speech in the history of televised award shows.

Better yet, just forward it to 2:15 for the magic.

Another Reason Friday Rocks

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 22 Apr 2011 14:11:00 +0000

Today is Friday, which is casual day at my place of employ. This means that, even as I type these words, pretty much every woman from 18 to 52 who works in our financial division is wedging herself into low-slung, too-tight jeans. This is not a day for me to be making decisions that could affect the fate of our organization or my position within it. That's what Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday are for. Today, I just slip it into neutral, and soak it all in.

The trick to getting the full show: Slide a manila folder under your arm. That's your "hall pass," so to speak. As you wander aimlessly through any place of business, so long as you're carrying a manila folder, peeps figure you've obviously transporting something of grave importance. This is particularly critical to getting into the IT wing, where many a cute young lass waits. And very likely bent over a server. Bonus!

Er, hold my calls.

By Any Other Name...

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 13:48:00 +0000

So I happen to overhear a conversation between two female coworkers this morning, and one of them starts talking matter-of-factly about her boyfriend's "dink."

"Dink"?

Honey, I wanted to say, you do your man no favors by calling it a "dink."

A newborn baby has a dink. Possibly some midgets. But not any male over the age of 16. That's about as sexy as some chick getting me all hot n' bothered, then asking if she can hold my "pee pee." Just like that ::finger snapping sound::, the tower collapses and the game's over. Thank you, and good night.

For the record, I use "cock." Not "dick" or "wang" or "Love Missile F-11." Okay, maybe there's the odd occasion where I'll use "Little Jimmy O'Sullivan," but that's typically relegated to St. Patty's Day. Or, y'know, when I'm on "bizness."

Similarly, I like it when a woman refers to her holiest of holies as her "pussy." And I'm man enough to admit that "cooter" is pretty hot too. Yeah, that's right. I said "cooter." Represent!

The Ass That Stopped Traffic. Literally.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 13:32:00 +0000

So I'm driving back to Boston from a weekend up north. And all of a sudden, traffic hits a standstill. And it wasn't in one of the typical places either (i.e., the New Hampshire tolls, the Zakim Bridge, Ma Kessler's Handjob Ranch). So I figure it's gotta be an accident. And I sit and I stare and I crawl along and after thirty minutes pass I'm starting to wonder where the fuck this parade actually ends.

And then, up ahead, I see what's keeping us down. A car by the side of the road with a girl in impossibly tight pants bent over it, checking something in the trunk (no pun intended). People were literally slowing down to look at her ass, and I even saw a couple dudes in a Jeep in front of me taking pics with their phones.

Not too many people can say they have an ass that actually caused traffic to stop. This girl can.

Oh, and I totally stroked it the rest of the way home. Hey, anything to keep myself awake.

Lipps, Inc.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 18 Mar 2011 10:42:00 +0000

There are certain things I can overlook in a relationship. Psychotic behavior. Rambling stories about the ex-boyfriend. Threatening me with an empty Heineken bottle. Having to be carried out of your best friend's wedding because you drank 15 Jaeger shots and proceeded to vomit on every inch of carpeting in the reception hall. Rambling stories about how the ex-boyfriend liked your blowjobs. Erratic, almost irresponsible driving. Refusing to tip the paperboy because he "seems Mexican." Throwing all my clothes out into the driveway because I was a half-hour late coming home, even though you knew I was tending to my sick aunt.

But one thing I can't overlook is a bad kisser.

And, man, they're out there.

How To Win Any Argument With a Guy: A Useful Reference for Women

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 14 Mar 2011 13:31:00 +0000

Ken [looking at a photograph]: Honey. Did you fuck Bob?

Kenette: Now why would I screw your best friend?

Ken: Not sure. But someone just mailed me these photos of you fucking Bob.

Kenette [glances about nervously, then...]: Hey! I totally want to blow you right now!

Ken: Really? Hot damn! [Tosses aside photo, pants.]

As If They Needed Another Reason Not to Send Me to the Conference...

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 12:56:00 +0000

I find that whenever I'm at any kind of Conference, whenever there's a female speaker at the podium, all I can think about is how it would feel to go down on her.

Seriously. From the minute she steps on the stage to the minute she leaves, I just sit there, tracing the outline of her legs with my eyes, trying to pinpoint exactly where on her body I'd begin my descent, and mentally conjuring what her reactions might be.

Have I reached the point of irreversible perversion? Do other guys do this? Do women do this when watching men speaking at a conference?

Not Much of a Boob Guy

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 04 Mar 2011 11:43:00 +0000

Actual conversation [as best as I can recollect] between myself and a former Kenette, whom I recently met for a post-work drink:

Kenette: See that girl's boobs? That's the worst boob job I've ever seen. She should sue.

Ken [glancing up from beer]: Huh? Sue who? You're suing someone?

Kenette: My god, why am I even pointing this out to you. You wouldn't know a set of boobs if they hit you in the face.

Ken [keeps pulling from beer]: Huh? I like boobs.

Kenette: Ken, back when we were dating, you had your tongue up my ass before you'd ever even touched my boobs. That's never happened to me before. With any guy.

Ken [takes another sip]: You sure?

Kenette [nods as she takes a swig of her beer]: Rimmed me before you'd even felt me up. That's when I knew you were a sicko.

Ken: I notice you hung around for a year. I must have done something right.

Kenette: Part of it was fascination. How long will it be before this guy actually has his mouth on my boobs.

Ken [trying to think back]: I'm sure I did... at some point, right?

Kenette [shakes her head in mock disgust and finishes her beer.]

There Goes My Morning Productivity

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 01 Mar 2011 10:48:00 +0000

Today was supposed to be a big day for me. A couple reports to finalize. A last-minute conference call. Meeting with a vendor.

Then my buddy Raster sent me a link to a website called "Girls in Yoga Pants." And everything kinda unraveled from there.

So now if you'll excuse me, I have to go masturbate myself into a state of unconsciousness.

::Places "closed" sign in window.::

Guest Post: What WON'T You Do in Bed?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 17 Feb 2011 23:19:00 +0000

Well, shortly after I wrote my last post I contracted a double cock-punch of the flu and a strep infection -- none of which, I'm sure, has any connection to the woman I was rimming just two nights prior. Anyway, I apologize for the lack of posting and figgered I'd kick off the return with another scintillating guest post. This one's from the lovely Simone of Skinny Dip. And it's damn good:

* * * * * * * *

What won't you do in bed?

I'm pretty open-minded when it comes to Sex. My whole philosophy is "everything is worth trying at least once" (well, almost everything). When Ken asked me to write this post about Sexual Deal-breakers, I actually had to sit down with a drink and ponder, "What exactly WON'T I do in bed?". After some deep soul-searching and a couple of glasses of Bailey's Irish Cream, I've come up with my master list of Sexual Deal-Breakers. In other words, "a list of stuff that the mere mention of is guaranteed to turn my girl parts inwards" or alternatively titled "stuff to do if you want me to kick you out of bed". Drum-roll please!

1. Water-Sports: The thing that you have to understand about me is that I am your text book Virgo. I love cleanliness, I love order, I love crisp white sheets. I'm kind of obsessed with all things bedroom and bedding related. I make my bed every morning as soon as I get out of bed because if I don't I feel like it sets a bad tone for the day (I even do this when I stay in hotels, even though I know I don't have to). I lust after designer duvet covers & keep my bed in tip top shape because I want it to always be this fresh, fluffy, cozy oasis for sleep & sex. With that said, any kind of sexual activity that involves urination will never take place chez moi. Its not so much the idea of peeing on someone or having someone pee on me (no, wait I TOTALLY DON'T WANT ANYONE PEEING ON ME) its more the clean-up factor. If you think you're going to get me to pee on you while you're lying on my 300-thread count Hungarian down duvet you're out of luck. The only way it might work is if there was extensive plastic sheeting laid out before hand. But, who really wants to stop mid-sex so they can create a condom-like bedroom environment? Which brings me to my first rule of thumb when it comes to sexual experimentation: If a sex act requires me to make my bedroom look like one of Dexter's "kill sites" or involves extensive "clean-up" afterward, its not happening.

2. The "Hot Lunch" or the "Blumpie". Rule of thumb #2: if a sexual act requires me to do a search on Urban Dictionary to find out what it is, its also probably not happening. This is definitely the case with the "Hot Lunch" and the "Blumpie". Did you read the definitions?! Are you throwing up in your mouth yet? ARE YOU?! Because I am. Also, I think the inclusion of both of these on the Sexual Deal-breakers list is pretty self-explanatory. Sex and making a shadoobie are two things that in my opinion just shouldn't go together. I know there is a bumper sticker that says "Is Sex Dirty? Only when its done right!" however, the "Hot Lunch" takes that to a whole new level. I'm guessing post "Hot-Lunch" probably involves some pretty interesting clean up. The only good that has come from learning the definition of a "Hot Lunch" is that now whenever I pass that diner in my hometown that has a sign that says "We specialize in Hot Lunches", I burst into hysterics.

3. Furry Sex: Once again I had to consult Urban Dictionary for this one. "Furry" sex is a term usually used to describe the act of two people having sex with each other while dressed in furry animal costumes. I think its pretty obvious why most people wouldn't be into this. Lots of people fantasize about having sex on a bear skin rug, very few people fantasize about having sex with a bear skin rug. I mean, I'm not even into chest hair - the last thing I want is for you to try and bone me while you're dressed as Tony the Tiger and I'm wearing a fuzzy unicorn one-sie. Furry sex mystifies me more than anything. How does one actually have sex while also wearing a fuzzy animal costume? Do the costumes include some kind of "trap door" like those old school pajamas with the bum-flap? Or, do they work more like a giant pair of fuzzy crotchless underwear? Where does one buy a crotchless animal costume? I guess I could Google this but honestly I'm afraid to find out.

4. Rape Fantasies: Besides the obvious power dynamics at play here, I've never understood why guys have the fantasy of sleeping with a woman who's pretending to not want to sleep with them. I love to please my partner & I'll gladly act out most fantasies (as long as they don't involve an animal costume) but, this is one I just can't do. The only time I've tried this, I felt like my skin was crawling & I was going to throw up. I don't mind a little bit of hand-cuff play & light spanking but, generally I don't like to be dominated. I'm more of a "tie you to the bed with a pair of my thigh highs & do naughty things to you while you beg for mercy" kind of girl. That's just how I roll.

5. Biting: Years and years ago, I dated this guy who would try and bite me every time we were in bed. After we broke up I found out he belonged to a group that put on "Vampire Role Play parties" and that he was a two-timing creep who liked to have his cake and bite it too. Now, whenever I feel teeth brush against my neck or any other body part I get this sicky feeling and I am reminded of that guy, his basement apartment that smelled like marijuana, his creepy friends & the fact that he kept a life sized stuffed plush tiger on his bed. Wow, that's a lot of deal breakers in one paragraph! Simply put, I just don't like biters (or adult males who own large stuffed animals). This also applies to the guys who think its OK to use their teeth while going down on a girl. I've had enough experience to know that treating my lady parts like you are eating a cob of corn at the State Fair does not constitute "doing it right".

I realize that this list is completely subjective. What makes me cringe, might have the complete opposite effect on someone else. Some of you may think this list makes me incredibly close-minded. There are no right or wrong answers here. Everyone has their own tastes & preferences. That's what makes sex so fascinating.

What are some of your sexual deal-breakers?

Why Kurt Russell's Life Is Infinitely Cooler Than Mine

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 30 Dec 2010 11:10:00 +0000

Besides the fame and money, here's three reasons:

1) He was Snake Plissken, goddam it.

2) He spent the better part of his life tagging Goldie Hawn, whose ass stands as one of Hollywood's finest.

3) He got paid for this:

Thanks to Dana for the vid.

My Christmas Wish...

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 15 Dec 2010 13:40:00 +0000

The folks at Met Another Frog were kind enough to give me the floor today, and my guest post is all about Crizzmazz:

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 Droid X or an Ikea lamp, I know precisely what I want for Christmas.

Folks, I want ass.

Get over to Met Another Frog to read the rest of my not-so-veiled attempt to get more butt.

Guest Bloggess: Turkey vs. Pussy and 11 Other Reasons Why I Love Ken

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 12:47:00 +0000

Today's guest post comes from Skye Blue from Met Another Frog, a woman whose talent and humor and mad writing skillz are equaled only by the unstoppable awesomeness of her derriere. And you're damn right I always find a way to mention the ass, because if there's one thing that all of the fine female bloggers who've been checking in here at LustMongers have in common, it's a majestic bum. But Skye owns a special chunk of my heart, as she's the one who stepped forward and offered to help corral our various guest bloggers when Ginger moved along. She's also hot and Canadian--the winning combination. So, naturally, I am smitten.

Anyway, just when I thought I couldn't love her any more, she sends me the following post. Now I've got the full bug. Skye, if you're reading, my standing offer of three hours of unreciprocated oral has just been upped to five. Come, throw off the shackles of your job, and meet me in an abandoned alley for some hot snogging and gratuitous ass grabbage.

I'll let Skye take it from here.

* * * * * * * *

Okay, so there I was sitting in front of my computer on US Thanksgiving morning, wondering what the hell I could write that would be worthy of being featured on the awesomeness that is Lustmongers. At first, it was a bit of a struggle. Nothing juicy enough was coming to mind. But then, as I started to think about:

1. The fact that I had made a commitment to my good buddy Ken and I couldn’t let him down; and

2. The many reasons why I think he’s the bees knees, the cat’s meow, the shit, so to speak.

The bestest idea ever (at least IMO) came to me. Just. Like. That.

“Skye, you adore the guy. Why not write a piece celebrating Tenacious and oh so delightfully Salacious Ken?”

Now I could’ve tackled this subject from many angles, most of which would include a whole lot of gushing – but even I don’t want to read that. So, I decided to let Ken and his words of wisdom, what I like to call @Tenacious_Ken-isms, highlight all the reasons why I have come to love the tall, pale, dorky, Irish redhead behind this insanely funny blog...

He’s the HPIC (that’s Head Perv In Charge):

Kissing and telling is awesome. Especially when you just bypass the "telling" entirely and replace it with dry-humping.

Even at His Day Job.

Facesitting. In the office. Man, I love when the boss is away.

If productivity was measured in sheer horniness, I'd be, like, the office's top performer today.

Seven hot girls from accounting in a closed-door meeting. I just KNOW part of the agenda is a banana-eating contest. Gotta be. Right?

He Takes His Role as Office Perv Seriously, Because He Knows There is No “I” in Team.

Think it's easy being the office perv? Some women get pissed if you check em out as they walk down the halls; others get pissed if you don't.

What this office needs is legalized prostitution. As a morale booster.

He Worships at the (usually while lying on his back with his face smothered beneath it) Altar of Ass.

Ass. Is awesome.

Let me clear off a place for you to sit. ::Lays down on floor, brushes off his face::

He Readily Admits His Frailties and Is Quite Appreciative of Others’ Strengths.

The way a coworker's ass is moving under her skirt has literally rendered me incapable of rational thought for the balance of the day.

The ass-in-the-face maneuver. Always a classic. And my weakness. Well played, new girl from accounting.

He’s a Hard Worker. Really, Really Hard.

Struggling with the embarrassing all-day hard-on at the office. So I reach for the handy FedEx box whenever I have to head down the hall.

Not sure what's worse: walking around the office all day with a raging hard-on or no one noticing. I'll guess the latter.

He Unabashedly Enjoys a Good Round (or 10) of Self-Cultivation.

Just had breakfast. Now ready to masturbate for the fourth time this morning. Man, I love vacation days.

Dying to start jerking off in the office so that when someone comes by and asks what I'm doing I can simply say, "Oh, just masturbating."

He’s Always Game for a Little Field Work in the Name of (un)Science.

My extensive research has led me to the conclusion that receiving a blow job is pretty fucking awesome. Like, ridiculously so.

My recent not-so-scientific survey tells me that getting laid is way, way better than not getting laid.

Word on the Street is He Has a Hurricane Tongue (which I have yet to experience. FML! And, yes, me and my girl parts are pouting).

2 months into dating, an ex told me "you've had your tongue up my ass more than you've had your hands on my boobs." #notmuchofaboobguy

One of my exes during dinner this weekend: "You were like a magical, pussy-eating robot." Wasn't that also the name of a Neil Simon play?

I can literally perform oral on women for hours. Hours! If a woman is kind enough to let you pray at the altar, you have to deliver.

He Knows How to Make a Girl (and all her female tweeps) Feel Special:

#FF I pray to be reincarnated as these women's jeans:
@skyemetafrog @thenakedredhead @elizabethrose_m @missalphawrites @_Lola_Nicole_

@elizabethrose_m I love you, Elizabeth Rose. Though that could be the lust talking.

#FF vibes to @man_shopper, whose underwear I am profoundly jealous of. And "profoundly" is worth 36 Scrabble points, mind you.

He’s Lived Out His Dream (he survived a face-sitting session with a porn star).

@SinnamonLove just finished an awesome smothering session @tenacious_ken w/some excellent Tease & Denial. Silly boy kept choosing breathing over a handjob.

Just had my goofy white boy face buried between the spectacular buttocks of @SinnamonLove. Now I can die a happy man.

He Understands that There Are Times in Life You have to Make Sacrifices.

Turkey vs. Pussy. Only one can win.

He’s Among the Very Few People Who Know the Truth About Thanksgiving – That it Has Absolutely Nothing to Do with Native Americans, Pilgrims or any Kind of Harvest.

Man, do I love Thanksgiving. And by "Thanksgiving," of course, I mean "going down on women."

Guest Bloggess: The Truth About Brazil

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 26 Nov 2010 16:10:00 +0000

Today, in the wake of a turkey- and ass-induced haze, I am happy to present yet another spectacular post by another fine female guest blogger. Today, it is the stunning Elizabeth Rose of Met Another Frog, an English lass who has conjured many a British-school-marm-and-undisciplined-punk fantasy in my fevered brain. Sit back. Soak it in. And see if you, too, don't fall under her spell.

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Brazilian women. Only Swedish women may come close to having the same mythological aura. It is a legendary level of hotness. Something mere mortals cannot hope to aspire to.

Or so they say.

I visited Rio de Janeiro recently and before I arrived I was worried about what such specimens would do to even my infallible confidence. I flew with my beloved British Airways, and had a very pleasant flight by any standards. By business class standards even – Elizabeth Rose does not fly economy – I was actually bemused by being served both lobster and steak on an eleven hour flight.

My flight landed late, and I hurried to join my friends for our first (Saturday) night in Rio. As it was, we managed to check off one vacation “must-do” that night: doing the waiters of the local bar. I wasn’t paying much attention, but I don’t remember seeing any “Giselle”-like stunners around to eclipse my dear friends and me.

The next morning, I was in the arms of a waiter checking off another vacation tradition; taking a romantic walk to watch the sunrise. And later that day after some rest, hydration and a long hot shower our bikini-clad bodies headed to the beach.

It was during the first leg of this constitutional that I became aware of one of my favourite aspects of Brazilian culture: Perving.

It is entirely acceptable to stare openly and appreciatively at others’ anatomy. The lewd looks our little trio scored from the men about were quite soothing to the ego, I must say.

I did my fair share of perving too. There were some truly delectable male specimens along Copacabana and Ipanema beaches. Made all the more enjoyable to the eye as they were often found at the exercise stations working out. Mmmm…rippling muscles overlaid by tans and tattoos. (As you can imagine, I have quite the “scenic” vacation album from my trip.)

After taking a whiplash inducing stroll of the beach, it dawned on me...

“Where were all these undiscovered supermodels of Brazilian lore?”

There were pretty girls; there were average girls; there were stunners; and those who hit every branch of the ugly tree on the way down. In short, there is the same glorious mix of looks, shapes and types of women as can be found in any city of the world. Really not the intimidating glimpse of Amazonian perfection I was led to believe existed there. Quite a relief all told.

However... Brazilian men are fine.

They are tanned. They are toned. They are tattooed. They are the undiscovered natural resource of that wonderful country. This isn’t something I had heard tell of before; which leads me to conclude that there may be a very cunning conspiracy by Brazilian women afoot...

In order to keep the abundant fineness all to themselves, they have created this beauty myth, scaring other females away from their “sperm bank."

And now that you know the truth about Brazil, I’d like to encourage you all to pack you tiniest bikini and book the next flight to Rio so we can all share in the testosterone available. Just don’t show up when I’m there – I’d like them all to myself.

Fantasy vs. Reality. Or the Night I Almost Broke My Nuts

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 14:02:00 +0000

Every straight male has had the "doctor's office" fantasy. No, not the one in which you find yourself tied down to a table as Charles Nelson Reilly walks in to administer something he calls "the full tomatoes." I'm talking about the one in which two [or possibly three] sexy-ass nurses come into the examining room and proceed to "manhandle" you. But in the good way.

My version of this fantasy always began with a routine exam for, I dunno, a sprained index finger. The nurse would ask me how it felt and if I could bend it, and before I could pick out which color splint I'd prefer, she's mounting my face like it was a front row seat to the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular.

That was before last week. When I took an unfortunate tumble off a ladder and landed balls-down on a can of paint.

Pain? Check. Mind-numbing, in fact. And the next day, with my boys still feeling like someone had them in a vice [and my el sacko now an impressive five sizes bigger than before], I sucked up what little pride I had left and went to the emergency room.

Of course, once there, I didn't want the world to know I'd hurt my nuts. So I told the woman at the desk I had abdominal pain and I took my place in the waiting area. Sure enough, when my name was eventually called, it was by the most stunning blonde I'd laid eyes on in some time. Six foot ten or something close, bright blue eyes and an outfit that fit so snug I had to blink to make sure it wasn't painted on.

So I went back with her, got seated in a little exam room, and when she looked at me with those goddamnfuckingmarvelous blue eyes and asked about my abdominal pain, I had to come clean, and explain that it was actually a bit lower. And she cocked an eyebrow. And said, "Oh?" And I melted. Because that was how I'd always dreamed it would begin.

But the Issac Hayes music never kicked in. Instead, she proceeded to ask questions. About my balls. And I talked to this gorgeous, statuesque blonde for ten minutes. About my balls. How I hurt them. How one is now larger than the other. How the ol' bag has inflated significantly since the tumble. And as I talked, I almost couldn't even hear the words spilling out of my mouth. Because all I could think about was how I was talking to this woman about my balls. In detail I've never spoken about my balls in my life. Ever.

So she finished her notes. And got up and smiled. And said the doctor would be in soon.

And me and my balls just sat there. For twenty minutes.

And in walked the doctor. Again, a pretty woman. This time, she's Asian.

And she looked at the chart. And I wanted to laugh because I knew she was reading about my balls. And it was funny and horrifying all at once.

So she asked me to take down my boxer briefs. And I did. And she started feeling my balls. And she asked if this is the swollen one and I wince and say that it is. And she kept squeezing and feeling. But there was no mood music. No sudden change in her grip. No quick massaging of the shaft. No comments like, "Mr. Ken, what you need is just a bit of release" or "let me get my friend Buffy in here to give a second opinion."

Just a gloved hand on my balls. And then it ended. And she explained that sometimes when your nuts are struck, there can be swelling that lasts for days. But I should have an ultrasound, she recommended, because on occasion, you can get what is scientifically referred to as "twisted testicles" [which, it turns out, is not the name of a new Broadway show starring Nathan Lane]. And when they twist, it's bad. Because they get no blood. And then, well, they gotta go.

So I panicked for a couple more days, then had the ultrasound. This time, a cute, middle-aged nurse was holding my balls, and even applying a warm, gelatinous goo to allow the machine to see them clearly. But I was immune to it all. I just wanted it to end. To let the boys live in peace. Just let me clear this hurdle, I prayed, and I'll never set foot on a ladder again.

And the results came back. And my balls were fine.

So I breathed a sigh of relief and went home, more than eager to close this chapter of my life.

But now, some days later, I find myself reflecting. About how vulnerable and fragile we are. And how life can change in the blink of an eye. And how your health really is everything.

And wondering if maybe, just maybe, that cute Asian doctor is sitting at home, thinking about the night she held my nuts.

Eyes Wide Shut

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 09 Nov 2010 10:56:00 +0000

Dear readers, I have a confession: I am something of an oddity in the animal kingdom.

No, it's not because of my obsessive love of giving women rimjobs. Or that freaky, irrepressible part of my psyche that can't get through a first date without asking a woman if she'd be willing to sit on my face. Or even my fondness for dressing up as Garth Brooks and hanging outside the local bakery.

It's because I'm a guy who doesn't like watching porno.

Two chicks going at it? I'll watch that any day. Three or five chicks? Even better. But watching a guy and a girl get into some straight-on fucking? Honestly, I can't watch it.

Not that I'm against fucking, mind you. In fact, I've spent the better part of my professional life trying to better myself in that department.

The problem is, nothing sickens me more than the male "money shot."

In college, my roommate and some of his drinkin' pals used to live for that shit. "Here it comes!" they'd shout in anticipation, right before the obliging female porn star got drenched. But I couldn't even watch. Guys, I wanted to yell, that's a fucking dude shooting his load. You see, I have a limit as to how many times a day I need to see a guy shoot his load. And that limit is "zero."

And when it comes to, y'know, wanking to porn, I have another problem. Because the law of averages dictates that you're every bit as likely to be staring at Ron Jeremy's greasy o-face when you reach climax as you are Alexis Texas' exquisitely contoured ass.

Too risky, as I see it. So just hand me a DVD copy of Swedish Lesbian Stewardesses in the Jungle of Doom and I'll be fine.

Guest Bloggess: Shopping for the Ideal Man

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 05 Nov 2010 11:02:00 +0000

Today, we come to yet another guest post, this one from the unstoppably awesome Man Shopper, checking in from her base of operations in Paris. While I have always been a fan of MS's prose, I am particuarly fascinated by her appreciation of the derriere, which almost matches the intensity of my own. And though I could go on about how I've filled many nights with dreams of lounging with her on the banks of the Seine, my head resting comfortably on her buttocks as I feed her bread and wine, I'll just cut right to the chase and get on with her spectacular post:

* * * * * * * *

If you look only at my blog entries, you’d think that I spend 100% of my dating time being a brutal buzz-saw – that all I do is gut my Parisian victims as if they were animal carcasses in my own personal slaughterhouse. I’m terribly offended that anyone could possibly think this of me. Unlike my mother, who was born without tear ducts, I am somewhat human, and I am here on Lustmongers to combat these vicious assumptions.

For the record, I only spend 99% of my time being the Man-chopper, so to speak. There is a whopping 1% of positive thinking that goes on, I swear. To prove it to you, this post is dedicated to unveiling the Man-shopper’s ideal man.

Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t focus ALL my energy on finding fault with my men. Even though I find myself assuming the worst of Parisian ‘gentlemen’, there is an itty-bitty-teeny-weeny-yellow-polka-dot-bikini part of me that still holds out hope that my ideal man is out there.

Who is this fairy-castle-in-the-sky of a man that I’m looking for, you ask? Brace yourself. This list is so profound that it very well may change your life.

He adores me.
Duh.

He makes me laugh.
Not fake laugh. LAUGH. Even better, he makes me giggle. Dear readers, I don’t giggle. If I giggle, that means that I’ve got a severe case of totally-into-him. I make it a point to be disgustingly healthy, so this is a rare affliction for me, but it’s been known to strike me down from time to time.

I make him laugh.
He needs to think that I am drop-dead hilarious. What can I say? I’m vain. Besides, I AM hilarious, dammit.

He has a certain appreciation for my nerdly pursuits.
These include but are not limited to activities like crosswording, popular science books, obscure documentaries, Scrabble, and partitioning my hard drive (no, that is NOT a euphemism for anything; get your minds out of the gutter, you gutter-dwellers!).

He is adventurous and physically fit enough to keep up with me.
Aside from the obvious sexual innuendo that can be read here, I also mean that he would go cycling with me, go rock climbing with me, be my sparring partner, or at least go to the gym with me.

He has broad shoulders.
I need to have a good spot to lay my head when I snuggle with him. It’s MY SPOT.

He wears sweaters.
Sweaters are adorable. If you disagree, go away. I love a man in a manly sweater. Moreover, I like to wear his sweaters when I want to feel thin.

He has a great butt.
I just like a nice bum. Ken understands. I would have put this at the top of the list, but I didn’t want to seem too superficial.

He likes dogs.
I love dogs. I intend to have one soon, and he is going to be a French bulldog named Pickle. If I were forced to choose between some dude and Pickle, I’d choose Pickle. Pickle may be strange-looking, slightly incontinent and incapable of controlling his snoring, but he would never betray me. Pickle adores me. And he wears sweaters.(Don’t pity Pickle, he loves wearing sweaters. It’s not animal cruelty, I swear.)

He likes to clean.
I like to cook. I believe this to be a reasonable and reciprocal arrangement.

His mother loves me.
Hey, I did warn you that this is a list of IDEAL characteristics, not ACHIEVABLE characteristics.

He is faithful.
Like I said... IDEAL characteristics. I’m going to have to move out of France to get this one checked off my list.

He has a great butt.
I thought that this point deserved reiteration. Moreover, this is Lustmongers, and I believe it to be my solemn duty as a guest blogger to take another moment to give another nod to the ass-worship for which Ken is so famous.

And there you have it: my list of the thirteen essential characteristics of my ideal man. The number ten is so... jejune. So I came up with thirteen for you.

It was exhausting for me, so I hope that you all appreciate my efforts to think in positive terms instead of making a list of things that I DON’T want in a man.

THAT list is actually going to be my great American novel, so stay tuned.

N.B. Big shout-out to Skye for the idea for this blog post! She is goddess.