Cheap Feel Paradise: Lascivious Tales of Sex, Dating and Other Confusing Things

Cheap Feel Paradise

Lascivious Tales of Sex, Dating

and Other Confusing Things

by

Ken and Ariel

www.KenAndAriel.com

Published by KenAndAriel.com

First published in 2013

All Material Copyright KenAndAriel.com, 2013

All Rights Reserved

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission of the copyright owner.

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Table of Contents

Welcome to This. Or How We Got This Way.

Chapter 1 Sex & Your Head: What You Think About 24-7

Chapter 2 Sex & The Act Of: Penis, Vagina, et al

Chapter 3 Sex & Bars: Navigating a Beer-Goggled, Cheap Feel Paradise

Chapter 4: Sex & Pop Culture: Sex sells. You buying?

Chapter 5 Creative Writing 101: Amateur Erotica

Chapter 6 Sex & School: High School, College, Hard Knocks, Etc.

Chapter 7 Sex & the Office: You spend half your life there. Might as well get laid.

Chapter 8 Sex & the Gym: Working it whilst working it

Welcome to This. Or How We Got This Way.

Hullo. My name is Ken. And, like most red-blooded males, I spend the majority of my time thinking about getting laid. In fact, the ratio of time I spend thinking about getting laid compared to time spent actually getting laid is probably about 99.1 to 0.9 percent.

As you can see, those percentages just aren’t good. So I set out on a mission. To try to help others learn from my mistakes, missteps and flat-out disillusionment. I had stories to tell, and by telling them, I hoped others might take the road I didn’t travel and enjoy much greater quantities of sex.

I found a kindred spirit in Ariel, and while she still refuses to put her glorious derriere anywhere near my face – despite my constant requests – she has helped show me that fumbling with potential lovers isn’t just a guy thing. In fact, it’s a universal language.

Together, we started a blog. But that just wasn’t big enough. Our ideas were crying—dare I say screaming—to be collected in book form. So here it is, folks. Read it. Share it. Use it. But please, no matter how much you dig it, don’t try to fuck it. I mean that’s just fucking sick.

Hi there. My name is Ariel. And I am perpetually single.

Hey, it’s cool. I date. I have sex. I even stumble into a relationship or two (or as my therapist likes to call it, toxic enmeshment). But for the most part you’ll find me slurping drinks at the dive bar, chasing after one-night Stans or scurrying around the supermarket at 11PM, Ben & Jerry’s and D batteries in tow.

Being single has its advantages, besides the obvious benefits of hogging the bed and being able to fart with impunity. It has given me lots of opportunity for adventure, mayhem and falling flat on my face – learning experiences that I am happy to share here with you. For example, I’ve learned what happens when one’s gaydar is broken, what’s the best way to prep before watching porn, and the horrific consequences of attempting friends with benefits. In short, I share numerous dating and sexual experiences that have culminated in triumph, tears, and the occasional restraining order.

I do hope these tales of our trek through Cheap Feel Paradise bring a smile to your face; or, at the very least, a feeling of immense relief that you, sharply-dressed and intelligent reader, are clearly not as fucking desperate and/or stupid as we. Indeed.

So pack your lube, a few pairs of clean underwear and an emergency contact or three, and let’s begin our journey!

Chapter 1

Sex & Your Head:

What You Think

About 24-7

My Brilliant Career. In Self-Pleasuring.

Hello. My name is Ken. And I can’t stop whacking off.

Seriously. If I don’t work myself over at least once a day, I get all kinds of zany.

Even during those periods in my life where I’ve found myself knee-deep in pussy (which, I’ll admit, come as rarely as an astronaut sighting at Taco Bell), I still manage to keep up a healthy partnership with Little Ken.

Is it a hobby? An obsession? A self-administered tool for stress-release? I’m not sure. And I haven’t got the patience or the wherewithal to try to figure it out.

Let’s just say I really dig jerking off.

I can’t recall exactly when the fascination started, but I know that most of my early teen and high-school years – in a Catholic school no less – were spent in a dangerous flirtation with early-onset carpal tunnel syndrome. Our sex ed teacher mentioned the concept of masturbation once or twice, got the pre-requisite titters from the students, then moved on to bigger and better things.

But I never did. In fact, I saw it as a great escape from the drudgery of teen angst. Why in the hell did I need to waste my time begging Suzy from math class to go out with me when there were half a dozen women way hotter than her on Cinemax and MTV willing to shake their asses in my face whilst I worked the stick shift?

Like most kids my age, I chalked it up to the type of thing people do until they get older, hit college, get jobs, and have actual apartments they can bring actual women to. Then I got older, hit college, got a job, and had an apartment… and still made time each day to beat the bishop. So what I probably needed to hear from my sex ed teacher back then was that what I was doing wasn’t just a hobby. It was going to be a career.

Looking back on this legacy of self-employment, I’m forced to wonder: is this normal? Am I some sort of twisted goon who should have dropped the habit the minute I got a taste of pussy? (Ah, the memories of burying my hard-on deep inside a woman for the first time and yelling, Whoa, this is WAY better than my hand!)

Or am I just doing the thing that God intended for us to do as a way to clear the mind, keep ourselves grounded, and make sure my testicles never get full to the point of medical trauma. I mean, what if they make too much semen and it starts to build up? Do they risk bursting? I don’t want to be the first guy to find out, thanks.

Granted, it isn’t exactly the sort of thing you can confide in close friends and colleagues. The last thing Bill from accounting wants to know is what my right hand and me were doing before work. But during a recent drunken conversation with a thirty-something female compadre, I somehow let slip my penchant for self-love [thanks, Budweiser!]. She shot me a visual ewww and said, quite seriously, Dude, grow up.

The results of that informal poll had me thinking that it may be time to give Lefty and Righty a rest. But I don’t think it’s gonna happen. I can’t see myself waking up at 40 or 50 or 60 and saying, Okay, that was fun, but I think I’ll just leave the ol’ boy alone from here on out.

In fact, I’m guessing that until it’s either rendered inoperable due to age or overuse, I’ll always be the guy who takes an extra five minutes or so in the shower.

You’re welcome for the visual.

They Should Have Made It an Olympic Sport

When I was in fourth grade or so, I was quite the competitive (annoying) lass, always challenging my classmates to various athletic feats: who could run the farthest, who could throw the ball the highest, and who could climb the pole the fastest.

But my interest in speed and agility gradually moved to endurance. Namely, who could stay on the looooooongest. I was soon winning all the pole contests, at least the 50 that I insisted on having before the end of recess. I was really good at it. Because it felt kinda… weird and special. Between my legs. And I didn’t want it to stop.

Suddenly, I saw metal suitors everywhere: the tall, skinny pole next to the monkey bars, the smooth pole next to the bus stop. Chances are if you were driving down my street on a weekday afternoon, you’d see a small, slightly pale, average-looking girl with a Princess Di haircut, clinging like a freaking spider monkey to a No Parking Thursdays. Street Cleaning sign, possibly for hours.

It was a sweet, secret relationship, between Steele, Rod and I. I wished there was some way I could install a pole in my bed. Not vertically, but horizontally, so I could just straddle it face down and fall asleep. Mind you, this is BEFORE I knew about the birds and the bees, and was also ridiculously naïve. I never once considered it was the beginning of my sexual awakening. I knew enough, however, to keep my mouth shut when I realized that no one else seemed to share my enthusiasm for long metal. Sadly, I also wasn’t made aware of the lucrative career opportunities pole straddling could provide.

Imagine, the places I could have gone.

Happy Ending

Ladies, don’t get me wrong. Anytime one of you is kind enough – some might argue charitable enough – to take my measly Irish cock in your mouth, it’s a damn good time. Seriously. Like a parade in my mind. Because blowjobs are second only to breathing on the list of things I enjoy experiencing, and any female who helps further my experiences in this department is, as my Uncle Topper would say, Aces!

That said, and at the risk of sounding like a nitpicky bastard, I feel that it’s important to call your attention to that magic moment that occurs when you have orally stimulated me to the point that my body is helpless in a spasm of release. For some of you, this represents the end of the blowjob. But what I need you to understand is that it’s actually the beginning of the orgasm. And how one navigates the course from this point on is of critical importance.

Using the last few Kenettes as examples, I’ll offer some different approaches – some very desirable, some not so much:

1. Once that stuff [her words] starts coming, you immediately remove your hand and mouth from the cock, recoil and back away sharply, like a puppy that’s just been kicked. Or my buddy Pete when he realizes it’s his turn to buy a round.

2. You immediately stop any and all kind of mouth movement until I’m finished. You then scoot to the bathroom to spit in the sink with an audible pfffffttttttpppptthhhh.

3. When you feel the inevitable throbbing, you instantly remove the cock from your mouth and start jerking it madly in a bizarre attempt to see how far you can make it shoot. [Actual Kenette dialogue: Holy fuck. That’s a new record – clear over my head!]

4. Feeling my abdominal muscles start to quiver and my balls begin their inevitable ascent, you intensify the suction, taking everything in. You then not-so-gently massage the base with your thumb and index finger and continue said massage until I am dry and moaning and going on and on about how I can’t wait to meet your family and fuckgodalmighty can we get together tomorrow and every fiber of my body has melted into the couch or floor. Or until the Red Sox start a massive rally.

Of course, number 4 is the girl you marry. Although, I must admit that when she was sober and not calling me from the bar saying she was heading to my place with a loaded rifle, number 3 was a hell of a lot of fun.

Need an Oral Fix-Station

Call me weird, but I rarely get off (pun intended) on the oral thing. Yes, I know, I know, it’s just ‘cuz I haven’t met YOU yet. But seriously folks, I’m more likely to win $50 on a Scratch n’ Win from Liquor-Mart than get a jaw-slacking, salivary-gland-inducing, toe cramping, eyes-rolling-back-in-my-head orgasm from your cunnilingual vernacular.

No offence, really! I just have a hard time rolling with it. I feel so left out, for one thing: you’re down there, and I’m up here, and hell, you could be installing a new light fixture for all I know. I want to chat and you’ve got your mouth full. You say: Relax and enjoy this. I lie back, and here’s where my mind goes: "I’m waxed, but did Mai Ling wax enough? She was on the damn PHONE through most of it… Is he going to get stubble burn? Am I going to get stubble burn? Do I smell? My friend who’s a dentist says that a human mouth is dirtier than a dog’s, so Jesus, am I allowing a Petri dish of germies and cooties all over my cooch? Do I smell? Did I wipe