Ken & Ariel

 Dear Ariel and Ken: Weird question, but I have to ask it: Lately all the women in my office have been chirping over this new guy who apparently displays a pretty large bulge right around the crotch region. My personal feeling is the guy's using a well-placed sock, but that's beside the point. What I want to know is--do women ogle a guy's crotch in the same way that guys' eyes are drawn automatically to women’s chests? Let me know if I should be investing in socks.

Ken Says: I’ve always liked to think of females as the more demure of the sexes. Unlike guys, who will burst into spastic chords of air-guitar every time a tight skirt or supple bust enters a room, chicks always seem a bit more calculating, silently sizing up their prey, and then moving in for the kill.

Women have a clear understanding of the power of their bodies, and most aren’t afraid to vacuum-pack themselves into tight T-shirts and jeans just to remind us guys how easily we can be hypnotized or led into cross-town traffic. As a guy who has been lead into traffic, I can vouch. On the flipside, however, the "dude in tight pants" phenomenon is just a fucking sickening thing to me. Whereas chicks have no problem checking out—and openly critiquing—the competition ("oh my god, those have to be fake" is a popular battle cry in such moments), guys (or straight guys anyway) have absolutely no threshold for checking out another guy’s crotch. It simply ain’t done. So I’m just gonna withdraw myself from this question entirely and leave it to Ariel.

However, to set your mind at ease, my young Jedi, I will offer that it doesn’t matter whether this dude is packing a sock, a coupla carrots, a lead pipe, the Op/Ed section of the New York Times or a Sammy Sosa Beanie Baby. The most important—and most impressive—bulge in a man’s trousers is, was and always will be his wallet. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Ariel Says: You’ll be pleased to know that from a woman’s perspective, the answer is yes, no, and maybe.  It all depends on whether our knowledge of the 31-plus flavors of the male member is limitless or severely stunted. 

If we’ve been satisfied beyond recognition by a collection of rather grand phalluses, then as you stroll by, we’ll be gawking like schoolboys, mentally calculating jeans-size ratio to the dimensions of the Washington Monument. However, if our experiences have been more Love Boat than Pearl Harbor (i.e., the motion of the ocean versus the size of the tidal wave), then we just look dreamily into your eyes and think soft porn thoughts.

Forget about a well-placed sweat sock--the real audition for bedside action is on the dance floor. Just because God gave you a tool doesn’t mean He included directions, and we’d like to see the trailer before the actual movie, if ya get my drift. So if you want to prove yourself to us, dance. And don’t give me that "boys don’t dance" shit. Can you shake your ass with even a hazy sense of rhythm? Can you grind your hips with the enthusiasm of a power sander? Alrighty then, get to it. Maybe now you’ll understand why TNT shows Dirty Dancing 18 times a week. PATRICK SWAYZE IS A FUCKING GOD IN THAT FILM!

Oh yeah, I almost forgot. We all look at your ass. That is a universal girl move, regardless of experience. We all turn and watch as you make your way to hit the head, get a beer, or bend over (uuhh) to pet the dog humping your leg. Guaranteed, those two golden globes will have us transfixed, grasping the table for support as a delicate jewel of saliva glides down our chins.

Caveat: you will not get this reaction if your derriere resembles a meager stack of flapjacks or a laptop. Start investing in pillows and save the socks for puppet shows.

DEAR K & A: 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? Dude, in my book, having a steady job, enough money in your wallet to pay for a decent dinner and heck, maybe a movie is enough. 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 texting my friends who are at a bar across town 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 one thing always works for me: 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, my move consisted of stumbling up to women at last call at the Cask, cigarettes and cheap beer on my breath, and somehow expecting I could actually talk any of them into coming back to my place. 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 just started talking with her – with being the operative word. 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!"

More foolishness and fake advice can be found at www.kenandariel.com.