Ken & Ariel:

DEAR KEN & ARIEL: I've been dating my new guy for two months. We see each other quite a bit. Lately, he's been leaving me on my own on Saturday nights to fend for myself. So, he does his thing and I do mine. The day after, he interrogates me as to my activities the night before. Regardless of how insistent I am that nothing happened between me and anyone else, he refuses to believe me. I have told him repeatedly that I HAVE never, and WILL never cheat on anyone. He still doesn't believe me. HELP!!! What can I say or do that might help him believe me?

KEN SAYS: There's a reason most guys wanna make like Spider-Man and slap a tracer on their girlfriends' backs whenever said ladies -- particularly in packs -- are hitting the town. And that reason is that we, as men, hit the town. And we know what we do when we hit the town, and that is mentally undress everything with breasts and a heartbeat that happens within our field of vision. After a few beers, it only gets worse, as we start imagining what it would be like to 69 the hat-rack in the corner of the bar. 

Actually, I'm only half-joking. But the bottom line is that when guys head out on the town, the punch list of activities usually looks something like this:

1) Look at women
2) Consume massive quantities of alcohol
3) Shift from "looking at women" to "interacting with women" mode
4) Attempt to sell women on the virtues of letting us in their trousers
5) Absorb slap, continue drinking, continue ogling
6) Repeat until arrested, broke, shot, etc.

So, you get the point. Guys go out because that's where the women are. So when our ladies tell us that they're going out, we figure that unless they're heading to "2-for-1 dyke night" at the local Pizza Hut, they will most likely be in some establishment where there will be men for them to look at, and men looking back at them. And this bothers us to no end. 

For inexplicable chromosomal reasons, women seem perfectly capable of going out with their friends, having some drinks, dancing and flirting innocently, and actually heading back home without the need to blow the bartender. Guys have never been able to get our arms around this concept, and the amount of suspicion our bodies can hold is usually directly proportionate to the amount of guilt we're carrying. 

In other words, as a guy, I'd suggest that your man could be out sampling other items off the dessert menu, and figures you're likely doing the same. The real red flag is that he's looking for "me time" only two months into your relationship. Hell, this is the point where guys usually figure, "Okay, I've put in the hours. Time to ask her to dress up like Batgirl and do that thing with the trapeze." This is the time you two should be drifting through that warm, fuzzy "getting to know you" stage [typically followed by the "I think I need my space" and the "I'm getting a restraining order, motherfucker" stages].

Yet he wants to be out and about with the lads. So I'd ask him straight up if he's got a chippie*. And if he does, damned if you can't go out and get one all your own.

ARIEL SAYS:  First of all, props to you for going out solo—that's right, you needn't join the ranks of loyal Law & Order fans (who generally go to bed at 10:07 PM). You're a social creature! However, it pains me deeply that you feel obligated -- compelled even -- to give your man a play-by-play commentary of your evening's exploits. Indeed, a better question would be, "How the hell do I tell this bloke politely to fuck off and mind his bi’ness?" Because, unfortunately for you, this has nothing to do with your behavior, and everything to do with his. You could spend all night at the local cathedral, drench yourself with holy water, bring the priest, the parish bulletin, and the Holy Ghost and he'd probably still be suspicious. 

Personally, to teach him a lesson, I'd videotape my every move from Saturday night on, then make him watch it the next day. Remember how when some kids were caught smoking their parents would punish them by making them smoke an entire pack? He has to be locked in a room and watch a videotape of your previous evening all day long. We could even put toothpicks in his eyelids, like they did in that movie, A Clockwork Orange. Yeah! I promise you, he'll never ask again. 

Er, what the hell was my point? Oh yeah—he has no right to interrogate you. You don't have to answer without a lawyer, or a really good girlfriend, present. Then she can tell him to "fuck off" for you.

*"Chippie" = obscure Prohibition-era slang for "mistress," typically used by guys who are in their 80s or who listen to way too much Big Bad Voodoo Daddy.

DEAR KEN & ARIEL: The other day, I walked out of the bathroom to find my boyfriend actually tonguing a pair of panties that he pulled from my laundry bag. I'm all for heavy lust, but that’s just fucking sick. Am I wrong?

ARIEL SAYS: Clearly, your man is reverting back to his evolutionary roots, when mammals crawled around on all fours and sniffed each others’ crotches to determine if they were compatible. Nowadays, astrology has replaced this elegant ritual, as evidenced by the popularity of the phrase, "hey baby, what’s your sign?"

Your little Neanderthal isn’t all bad; he obviously digs your musk. Which is better than a guy who thinks you smell like a sweaty monkey, right? Whether or not you can de-evolve to his level is entirely up to you.

If you still think it’s "fucking sick," I wouldn’t necessarily phrase it in that manner to him, but perhaps just pat him gently on his enlarged frontal lobe and tell him, "naughty cave man, leave woman loincloth alone."

KEN SAYS: While it is completely understandable for guys to become obsessed with objects that have been dangerously close to their loved one’s skin, such enticement can lead to some pretty bizarre behavior.

Case in point: My old college roomie had a serious jones for a girl in his History of Bipolar Economics class. He was a baseball-cap wearin’, Ford truck drivin’ werewolf and she was a Eurotrash goddess who wouldn’t look in his direction if they were showing the director’s cut of Fellini’s La Dolce Vita on his ass. So without any hope of a connection (at least one not involving roofies and probable jail time), he began collecting various scraps of memorabilia. Once, after a class, he watched her casually loogie her gum into a wastebasket, then dove in to retrieve it. Back at the dorm, he secured the gum in an airtight sandwich bag and began examining the teeth marks as I called the campus counseling center to inquire about finding a new roommate.

A few weeks later, while propping my head up in class, I glanced out the window into the quad and noticed his Eurodream sitting under a tree, flipping through a copy of Turn of the Screw, and puffing madly on a cigarette. As she got up to leave, flicking her spent cig to the ground, my trusty roomie emerged from the shadows, picked up the butt, stared longingly at the lipstick traces swirled around it, and placed it in his chest pocket.

This sort of behavior went on for weeks, over which time our room became littered with her cigarette butts, chewed gum, discarded corn chip bags, old soft drink tins and browning apple cores. Every time I asked him what he hoped to gain by all of this, he’d just chuckle and begin tracing his fingers along the opening of an empty Pepsi bottle. I could see it in his eyes. He wanted something more.

About a month later, news of a dorm room break-in began to spread across campus, and with an ounce of trepidation, I asked about to find whose room had been burgled. Sure enough, it was our Eurotrash queen, who was happy to report that no money or credit cards had been pilfered—just a pair of old jeans she’d bought in France.

Now the crazy bastard has done it, I thought. He’s finally crossed the line. I confronted him, but he denied any knowledge of the crime, serving up a darn good alibi involving a sick family member, a long car ride, and a visit to a wax museum.

So all was well and good, until about two weeks later, when I found my Gorillas of the Fifteenth Century class cancelled and returned to our room an hour ahead of the norm. I walked in and, to my horror, found my roomie huddled in the corner, his hands all over the backside of a pair of French jeans, which had been stuffed with old shirts and pillowcases to somehow resemble an actual ass and legs. He laughed nervously, broke down in tears, then moved away to Zurich the very next day, where he is now a successful commodities broker.

What’s the moral of the story? Hell, I don’t know. But whatever your boyfriend is doing sounds pretty fucked up to me, so tell him to knock it off.

Got questions? Need advice? We’re here for you. Just hit us up at kenandariel@barstoolsports.com. Except for that dude who keeps asking us if marionettes fuck. We can’t help him.