No name

So Long, and Thanks for All The Flesh

2009-07-28T07:07:00.001-07:00

Ken asked me to say a few words before I left for the land of monogamous sex, morning breath and a suitable "+1" for weddings, bar mitzvahs and posting bail bonds. It's been a blast, y'all. Our commenters and lurkers are by far the most clever, sexy, deviant, lascivious bunch of drunks God ever brought together in this lifetime, and your questions were astounding - folks, we just couldn't make this shit UP. Here's to undie stealers, horny dads, blow job queens, ass-in-jeans fetishists (I'm looking at you, K) lipstick lezzies and everlasting hard ons - batteries not included.
I'll miss the good 'ol days of unwrapping that special package, not knowing what was underneath (who knew every Friday/Saturday night could be like CHRISTMAS?!?) I'll miss the morning walk of shame, my spiked stilettos getting stuck in every sidewalk crack and subway grate, my sad bunny ears crumpled and dirty, my cotton tail falling off around State St. as I rushed to catch the bus Monday morning for work. I'll miss the drunken debauchery of my local watering hole where - with just a quick twitch of my nose (and 9 Kamikaze shots) I could witness the magical transformation of a "2" at 10PM to a "10" at 2AM. That is what living life is all about, people!!!
Ken, never one to throw in the towel (or hand lotion, for that matter), has found a new partner in crime who I'm certain will take you on a journey so dirty, so naughty, so fraught with sexual tension and lubrication you may just explode. Just be sure to pack your rubbers and a change of underwear and I promise, you'll be fine.
Lots of love and happy humping,
Ariel

Still Living the High Life

2009-07-20T17:32:00.000-07:00

Hi. It's me.

Ken, remember?

Yeah.

Well.

This is the post that tells you that I'm still very much alive. Still something of a perv, but still alive.

This is also to tell you that something new is coming. Something glorious and low-carb and robotic. More blogging, for one thing. Like, every day blogging. But with some changes. Most prominently, it is with great sadness that I announce that Ariel, my comrade-in-keyboards for a decade, has chosen to spread her sexy-ass wings and fly to brighter horizons. I wish her the best, and still wonder how she managed to get out of town without ever sitting on my face while wearing her jeans.

But here, as Walt Disney said before they froze him, we keep moving forward. I have found a worthy female co-conspirator with whom I shall soon begin devising plans to conquer the world. Or at least to get laid on a semi-regular basis.

If you are a fan of news and excitement, then you picked a bloody excellent time to be alive, mate. Watch this space for a link to the new place. And, as always, hickies are both welcomed and encouraged.

But... Are They F@#king?

2009-03-19T18:42:00.000-07:00

So I'm watching some show that's got Alison Krauss and Robert Plant talking about that album they did together and the interviewer is asking her what it's like to sing with a rock god and asking him what he thinks of Alison's bluegrass background and how many records they think they'll make together and blah blah blah, possibly something else about hair cream and/or trumpets. I listened for about an hour, but never heard the answer to the question I most wanted answered: Are they fucking? Because even though she's, like, 28 and he's somewhere north of 65, I'm certain that they have. I mean, he's Robert Fucking Plant. Isn't that the price of admission?

At Last! A Reason to Go to Church!

2009-03-11T04:28:00.000-07:00

I've always argued that if church wants me back, they're gonna have to up the quotient of hot chicks. So this church went out and got a former Miss Massachusetts as its pastor.

On a recent Sunday morning, 30-year-old Nicole Lamarche, a former Miss California, stood before a crowd in a simple clapboard church next to a local watering hole. She wore high-heeled boots, her thin figure draped in a black robe.

So when is she hearing confessions?

Inexplicable

2009-03-08T04:23:00.000-07:00

This is either the world's luckiest Ken doll or the woman most in need of human companionship. You tell me.

The Little Victories That I Take Pride In

2009-01-02T03:08:00.000-08:00

Look, despite my happy-go-lucky, slap-happy Irishman looks, I'm a miserable, cantankerous bastard. I'd like to blame the drinking or the women or the cold hard lessons I learned in Vietnam but the inescapable fact is, I'm something of a buffoon at times. More often than not, beer is the catalyst.

But I'm working on it, you see. For example, I've long been regarded as the office perv. The guy whose head swivels like a county fair carousel when a hot intern crosses his path. Who lingers a bit too long in the lush company workout room when there are female co-workers present. Who once hired a girl whose resume noted that she was the reigning "Miss East Coast Fitness" and could fit a Buick Skylark in her mouth. So one of my career pathing objectives is, quite frankly, to be less like that guy.

Thing is, I'm starting to realize that being "that guy" may have comprised the bulk of my already limited appeal. To illustrate, last month, my boss informed me that I'd be spending the better part of December working at our office in Virginia. That was not a bad thing, as I saw it, because Kristy, the woman who ran that office, was not only a good friend of mine and outlandishly spectacular drinkin' partner, she was also the owner of one of the most majestic derrieres I have ever encountered in the corporate world. And she was quite aware of this last point, no doubt in part due to my alcohol-fueled odes to her expertly-sculpted buttocks, which she took with a smile and a nod and, I'm sure, a quiet note to have me shot, beaten or fired at some point in the future.

So when my boss gave me my assignment, I nodded and accepted it, silently doing cartwheels in my mind. And then she noted, "Kristy's excited about it too, because she said when she hangs with you, you make her feel like a rock star."

And that was the slap back to reality. Because, seriously, that's all I was doing. Hanging out with these slightly unhinged office chicks, getting sauced and revved up, blathering on and on about how hot they were, and pumping up their egos. Suddenly, I understood why HR meets regularly to discuss "the Ken problem," and I was determined to change my ways. I was going to Virginia, and, goddam it, I wasn't gonna say word one about that ass.

My first day in Happy Virginny, Kristy picks me up at the airport, wearing a skirt so tight that as she bent down to get into her car, I shielded my eyes from possible denim shards. And I never mentioned her ass.

Second day, she greets me at the office wearing pants so fitting it looks like she basically painted herself black from the waist down. The same pants she has on that night when she takes me out for after-work drinks. And I never mentioned her ass.

On my last night there, she took about 8 of us out for post-work drinks. Everyone gets sloppy and, one by one, they fall out of the ranks. Soon, it's just me and Kristy. She's dropping things, bending over left and right, shaking her ass to the music and doing that thing that hot white women in their late 30s do when they're drunk and not quite sure what else to do. She even pulls the classic "did I sit in something?" maneuver--always a favorite of mine--and shoves her ass in my face for inspection. I gave it the once-over, gave a thumbs-up, and ordered another drink on the company tab. I drank it, thanked her for the hospitality over the last few weeks, and wished her a happy holiday. Then we got up, got into her car, drove to my hotel, and she dropped me off. And not once, over a three week stretch, did I say anything about her ass.

Sure, once I got back to my room that night I masturbated furiously for roughly four hours thinking about it--to the point that I swore I'd fractured my wrist. But I never said a thing. And it's the little victories such as these that get me through the work week.

Tough Guy Cred, Without the Toughness

2008-12-15T04:42:00.001-08:00

About a month ago, I saw a dermatolgist about a suspicious looking blue-ish dot under my left eye.

"I don't like the look of that," she said as thoughts of gloom and doom swum through my brain. "It's gonna have to come out."

And so it did. And, thankfully, it was benign. But the process left me with a small scar under my eye which, I'm told, with a lot of ointment and some TLC, will eventually fade.

I haven't thought much about it until last week, when I was meeting with one of my hot, younger, female co-workers.

"I've got to tell you," she offered, as we were going over the Muldoon report. "That thing looks fucking awesome." [Her exact words.]

"Huh?"

"That scar. It makes you look tough."

"Really?"

"Yes. Very cool."

Whether she was messing with me or not, I could care less. For the rest of the day, I was the office park's resident scurvy dog. Not to be fucked with under any circumstances. And it felt pretty good.

Who knows? I might just skip a day or two of that ointment...

Oh, If They Only Knew

2008-12-09T20:52:00.000-08:00

This sixty-something woman in my office, whom I lovingly call "everybody's grandma", brought a stuffed turkey to work the week after Thanksgiving and positioned it within her cubicle. The damn thing makes this crazy-ass cackling noise when you squeeze it, and I find it positively enrapturing. Because, let's face it, I'm pretty easy to please.

The other day, I was walking by her cube and, as always, my hand automatically reached out to tweak the turkey's belly. Grandma heard the cackling and, from the copy machine a few cubes over, noted aloud that, "Ken just can't stop squeezing it. It makes him feel really good to squeeze it."

Yeah, I'd say they know me pretty good at the office.

Speaking of Gay Porn...

2008-12-04T07:25:00.000-08:00

I saw "Fright Night" for the first time around Halloween - total 80's movie, right down to the gratuitous boob shots (refreshingly un-enhanced!. One of the spastic dudes in the movie I recognized as the chronic masturbator from "Heaven Help Us" (Another awesome 80's flick, featuring Johnny Drama himself.) That guy was funny, I thought. Wonder whatever happened to him?

2008-12-02T07:06:00.000-08:00

How come "dating a stripper" doesn't hold the same card-carrying membership for women as it does for men? Case in point: I went out a couple of times with a guy named Derek. He was really pretty, as in, 1. he'd look much better than me in makeup, and 2. he was way out of my league. I was bewitched, bedazzled, etc. until I found out he was doing Chippendales to put himself through college. Instead of hitting star status with my friends, it promptly hit the skids when I happened to let it slip that my new guy likes to dance in a thong and bowtie. I was annoyed and frustrated - female strippers get a lot more respect, not to mention money, I argued, and when female strippers put themselves through school they make a movie or write a book, not get invited to Mrs. Kerbapple's 50th birthday party. But at the same time...I was kinda horrified at the ridiculous cheesiness of it all, and ended up having to call it off. Also, not to mention the two words my friends gleefully shared as the natural next step to a budding career in the male striptease profession: gay porn.

Mr. Nice Guy.

2008-11-20T06:37:00.000-08:00

Back in high school, every girl seemed to have it bad for Jake, the heart-throb in Sixteen Candles. But re-watching the film as an adult, a couple things jump out at me:

1) Jake's interest in Molly Ringwald's character seems to spike significantly after he intercepts that note that says she wants to "do it" with him. An easy score lined up in the cross-hairs? Why the fuck not?

2) After the mad-ass party at his house, he explains to Farmer Ted that his girlfriend is passed out upstairs and that he could "violate her a hundred different ways if I wanted to." Although I think he meant it in a sweet way.

3) After he packs said passed-out girlfriend into his dad's car, he sends her off with a wink and suggestion of "have fun" to Farmer Ted... which everyone recognizes as secret code for "she's out cold, dude. By all means, touch her boobs!"

Yup, this is the guy you'd want escorting you to cousin Clem's Bar Mitzvah. Fo sho.

Get Out of Jail Free Pass

2008-11-13T07:43:00.000-08:00

Couples, seemingly happily ensconced in their smug together lives, still have the need to stray. They are open about it, share it with their respective others, sometimes even laugh (smugly) about it at their Monday Night Trivial Pursuit party. It's the allowable fuck, most often (for the sake of the relationship) the out-of-this-orbit celebrity. "Margie says that I can cheat on her with Angelina Jolie," chuckles Ted with his golf buddies. "I told Jimmy, if Christian Bale ever becomes available, I get to spend the night with him, no questions asked!" giggles Jen to her Mommy & Me group. But, what if it WERE possible? Or what would we think of a couple who, instead of the daydream-like quality of celebs, pick, say, the president of the PTA or your next door neighbor? Why, we'd call them swingers, freaks, perhaps polygamists in training. But still, as long as the choices are safely out of reach, it's "OK".

If It's Monday It Must Be Some Woman Sitting on a Stuffed Rabbit

2008-11-10T04:35:00.000-08:00

I know what you're thinking. "Sure, this Monday morning's going great. But if I could somehow see a video of a woman in jeans sitting on a stuffed rabbit, man, that would just push things over the top."

So here ya go:

Myself, I'd love to know what's going on in the minds of the people making this. I mean, is there a subculture of folks out there who actually want to see women sitting on stuffed rabbits? Or is this some sort of coded warning to other plush animals?

Further, I'd love to know how much, if any, cash the people responsible for this clip stand to take in. Because if there's a good chunk of money to be made, I'm gonna throw down the gauntlet and appeal to any women out there reading this: If you've got the ass and the jeans, I can get my hands on plenty of stuffed animals. Let's get paid, ladies. Let's do this.

Either way, it's just good to see that ass is still a critical element of our national economy.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

2008-10-31T07:48:00.001-07:00

Actual Stuff for Sale on E-Bay

2008-10-30T20:04:00.000-07:00

I am not a woman, nor do I possess a female model's figure.

But sweet goddam, am I tempted to buy these jeans.

They Do This On Purpose, Right?

2008-10-23T00:06:00.000-07:00

My fifty something female boss, an infinite source of masturbatory material over the seven years I've worked for her, came into my office the other day for a brief meeting. As she walked in, I noticed something hanging from her mouth: a lollipop. One of those Tootsie Pop things with the chocolate in the middle.

Anyway, she's asking me these questions about some project I honestly never did a bloody thing on, and as I try to formulate my alibi, she's working that goddam lollipop over like a Theatre District pro. And every time I think I've got something coherent to say, she starts pushing that thing into her mouth and pulling it out and pushing it back in and my mind turns to loose change. And she starts raising an eyebrow, as if she's disturbed at my inability to produce an adequate response, and all I want to do is scream HOW THE FUCK CAN I THINK STRAIGHT WHEN THE BOSS IS FELLATING A PIECE OF CANDY IN FRONT OF ME? But she keeps on working it, rolling it across her lips, biting at it, then moving her tongue along it--showing this fucking confection more action than I've seen in about three months.

Then, without missing a beat, she lays down the law, informs me of my deadline and what she expects of me, and punctuates it by crunching off the top of the pop with her teeth. And walking out of my office.

I gotta be honest: I'm tempted to fuck up that deadline. Y'know, just to see what the punishment might be like.

"Spreading The Wealth Around"-does this include f**k buddies?

2008-10-22T07:24:00.000-07:00

My girlfriend has had this fuck buddy for about 6 months now. Their relationship basically revolves around a couple of neighborhood bars. They met in one, hooked up that night, and now every few weeks or so, if they're both out on the town, run into each other and it's last call, they get booty-call-busy. He's a very good looking guy, a little immature/arrogant/noncommittal, but I guess that's what makes him a good fuck buddy. Anyhoo, one night she and I are out drinking and we meet up with FB and some of his friends and we all go back to his place for some beer pong. Then it ends up being just the three of us, and my friend starts talking about leaving. She doesn't look so good. "I think I have a migrane coming on and those last 3 lemon drops before we left the bar didn't help." Hey, no problem. I start gathering up my stuff to leave. "No, no, you stay. I'm just going to call my roommate to pick me up." Wha? "You should totally stay and have a good time." I don't understand. She's leaving, therefore I'm leaving. I try to insist. "Look, he's totally cute, right? Why don't you have some fun? I so don't mind. Hell, I'd join in if I could." Now my mind is totally blown. She pats me on the shoulder. "Really, it's not a big deal. Don't think, just stay. Have fun."
So I did.

Screwing in the Office: A Primer

2008-10-20T05:04:00.000-07:00

1. Remember that the building is never empty. Even if it is empty, tell yourself it isn't. Because then you'll always take the precaution of locking your office door. And this is perhaps the most important rule. Unless, of course, you want to spend the next three months explaining to your IT guy why Jenna from Accounting was sitting on your face when he walked in to upgrade your PC. I've been there, buddy. He's not gonna buy it.

2. Clear off your desk before fucking on it. Sweat and pubic hair aren't going to improve the Kresgee Report. Actually, they might improve it a bit, but the folks at Kresgee probably won't appreciate it.

3. Clean off your desk after fucking on it. The life of the average fella on the night cleaning crew is fairly boring, and nothing makes the evening move faster than a spirited game of "find the ass prints." Don't let 'em find any on your desk.

4. Again, lock the office door. Even if it's not your office. Lock that fucker.

5. Discretion is key. The two of you can't just casually walk out of your office at 10:07pm with hair askew, smelling of ass and sweat. Because, as you'll recall, the building is never empty. One of you must casually leave the office and head outside while the other remains quietly in place, waiting at least ten minutes before follwing suit. If you hear a noise or suspect a coworker may be lurking, one of you should leave while the other heads out the window and repels down the outside of the building.

6. If you know you're "working late," wear a skirt, Ladies. While you look pretty fucking smoking in those tight white pants, getting them back on quickly -- as in "Did I just hear someone working the copy machine?" -- can be tough. But the skirt rolls back into place rather seamlessly, in case of emergency.

7. Never let on. Most office flings are eventually undone by inability to keep one's emotions in check until the next snog session. It's important to remain an enigma, and keep the hounds off the trail. For example, let's say you've been screwing Debra, and one day, as Debra walks by, Phil from Accounts Payable says something like, "Man, I'd give my mother's last kidney for a taste of that." Repress the traditional male urge to extend your thumb and pinky and wave your hand at the wrist while chuckling, "Dude, I've been there, and it's freakin' amazing." Instead, throw out something like, "I prefer a snazzy dresser, like Johnny Kwan in IT." Works every time.

8. Lastly, always, always lock the door. Nothing ruins a blow job more than your boss watching you get one. Trust me.

Car Talk

2008-10-09T07:18:00.001-07:00

I haven't had sex in a car in a loooong time. Presumably because I'm an adult and I own a larger piece of real estate, but let's face it, it was never spectacular. (For the purposes of clarity, I'm talking about straight-up intercourse, not oral.)
The conundrum lay in that the flashy sports car was definitely an aphrodisiac (hey, what do you want, I was a teenager, easily impressed) and the more slick, fast, low to the ground and rumbling, the more I crossed my legs in agitation. I'd start reaching over and grasping and rubbing, and he'd reach over and attempt the same, trying desperately to keep the car on the road at 97 mph while checking my oil. Then we'd both be so worked up we would pull behind a gas station, barn or next to a cemetery (btw, I'd like to apologize to the funeral attendees at Mount Auburn Cemetery on April 17, 1996). That's when things would get complicated--I'd climb on top and my foot would be stuck on the gear shift, my cheek/head literally stuck to the tinted top of the windshield, my ass somewhere southeast of the radio dial and the turn indicator knob dangerously competing with his cock for penetration. A few attempts with thrusting and grinding would be met with loud honks, the windshield wiper switch turned on "high" and suddenly a blast from the AM radio preaching salvation/damnation to a predominately Vietnamese audience. I don't think either of us were able to reach any sort of climax; so we'd save up our pent up sexual frustration for another day, when the parents were out of town.
It's unfortunate that a larger car such as an SUV or minivan failed to have the same erotic effect as an Alpha Romeo GTV or BMW 8 series. Generally, those vehicles evoked images of soccer practice or claustrophobic family vacations and I had to get out of them as soon as possible. Think Marty in Back to the Future kissing his mom and you get the idea.
For all the difficulties of auto-erotica, there's something about the anticipation coupled with a high-speed ride that still gives me chills. If the auto industry comes up with an Audi TT or a Z Series that turns into a deluxe king water bed, I'll be first in line.

Things I've Overlooked Because the Sex Was Spectacular

2008-10-06T07:20:00.001-07:00

A penchant for Xeroxing her various bodyparts and handing them out around her office.

Inability to go more than 34 minutes without saying "redonkulous."

A criminal record.

Six cats, all of whom enjoyed taking a swipe at my cock and balls whenever I was in their ladykeeper's bed.

The daily threatening of: "If you ever leave me for someone else, I'll shoot her, then shoot you."

Little Nemo on Ice.

A bizarre obsession with flipping off bouncers once she'd "had a few."

The roommate with the crossbow.

Her four-foot plush Clifford the Big Red Dog that sat next to the bed and I swear was staring at me every time we screwed.

That anniversary party for my Aunt Agnes when she got drunk and flashed the room.

The eyepatch fetish.

Every "Ernest" movie on DVD.

"Screwing white guys is fine, but I eventually want to settle down with a rich Asian."

Her ex-boyfriend, the homicidal maniac.

Her brother, the homicidal maniac.

Her sister, the homicidal [but ridiculously stacked] maniac.

"What time do you want to get up for church?"

I Aint Your Bitch

2008-10-01T07:34:00.000-07:00

So me and my girlfriend decided to meet up for drinks after work one night at some trendy new bar. It's a typical wanna-be hipster crowd, speckled with various pharmaceutical reps. Soon we're approached by "Austin," a good-looking 20 something wearing a $120 t-shirt and a Rolex. He starts chatting us up, asking us where we work, etc. Turns out he's a realtor. "Ooh, I'm sorry," I reply. He shoots me a dirty look. "What's wrong with that?"
"Uh...the markets?" Is he retarded?
"Oh, that. Nah. I'm doing pretty good still. Just sold a million-five over in PV last month. And it's a buyer's market baby. Fire sale. You ladies in the market for a new place?"
We say no. He shrugs, talks to us for a few more minutes, then ambles off.
A half an hour later I'm making my way to the bathroom when I see Austin the realtor stud at the bar. He's trying to catch my eye, then waves me over to him, like he's suddenly really excited to see me.
"Hey...Ariel?" I nod.
"Like you to meet Gary. He's a great guy. Runs golf tournaments and owns several businesses up north, looking to expand in SoCal."
Gary is at least 60, trying to look 35. Way expensive new jeans, shiny shirt, hairplugs, Just For Men. He looks strangely thrilled to meet me.
"How ya doin' honey. Buy you a drink?"
"No thanks - I'm actually headed for the bathroom."
Austin cuts in. "Stay and chat with us for a little while. Gary was telling me this great story about a - Hammerhead shark? he caught off the coast of Catalina. That's gnarly dude." He pushes me towards him.
Gary practically giggles in response and tries to squeeze my knee. I quickly turn and move away. "Gotta go, nature is calling."
Austin tries to protest but I'm gone. I go to the bathroom, and as I'm making my way back over to my seat I see Austin out of the corner of my eye, still next to Gary, Viagra spokesman. Austin is standing up, trying to wave me back over like he's landing a 747. I ignore him. I hear him yelling my name, Gary starts to get up and do the same. I grab my girlfriend. "We are so outta here."
"Wha-?"
"Fucking realtor dude thinks I'm a brand new condo."

The Best Part is Thinking Up an Excuse

2008-09-30T05:03:00.000-07:00

"So, Ken, how exactly did you break your nose?"

"Well, there was a mugger, two dump trucks and Godzilla..."

2008-09-25T07:37:00.000-07:00

Now that the financial markets have officially hit the skids (or as Ken so delicately puts it, "shit the bed"), I'm a tad annoyed because now my beloved dive bar has been positively packed with down-and-out realtors and investor dudes who normally would be drinking $15 martinis and are now arguing over $3 PBR's. I suppose the bright side is now there'll be plenty of sympathy fucks to go 'round, or hey-the-world-is-ending-tomorrow-so-let's-get-drunk-and-screw moments. Never dull.

The Office Perv, Volume 312

2008-09-24T04:33:00.001-07:00

You may or may not recall this post of mine from about a year ago:

So in the hopes of getting employees "healthy" and "engaged" and "clad in gym shorts," our company unveiled an in-house fitness center last year. While the thought of working out next to Clive from marketing didn't quite appeal to me, I realized it was free and probably the easiest way to keep on a workout schedule, so I succumbed.

After a couple months, I noticed one of the many hot chicks from accounting working out roughly around the same time I did. And said chick developed a pattern of going from one machine to the next without wiping down that telltale smudge of ass-sweat, which is in direct violation of all known gym etiquette.

Myself, well, I could care less. And actually found it a bit of a turn-on. But others didn't care for it. Like Mel, a coworker who, for some reason, felt insulted by the fact that this impossibly hot woman would dare leave an ass imprint on the recumbent bike seat. So he lodged a complaint with HR.

Problem is, when hot chick was called in by HR to discuss the matter, she inadvertently assumed the accusing party to be me, and said, according to my reliable source, "Are you kidding me? That dog's probably just upset because he wasn't able to lick it up without someone seeing him."

My reputation at the office: solid as ever, folks.

Well, the woman in question unceremoniously tendered her resignation last week, and one of my pals in HR (keep your friends close and enemies closer, people) informed me that during the exit interview, she noted me--Me!--as one of the reasons she was leaving. "I think he's got a sort of ass fetish," is what she supposedly said, and I am thrilled beyond belief that this very line might be making its way into my personnel file.

I've got a sort of ass fetish, ladies. Watch the fuck out!

Is May-December Out Of Season?

2008-09-18T07:31:00.000-07:00

I've never dated anyone older than me. OK, scratch that; I did date someone older than me, but I forced him to stop taking his antidepressants when we were going to have sex because I wanted his libido at full mast. Mo' years, mo' problems - also thanks to the ubiquitous Viagra and Cialis ads, I'm convinced that anyone over 45 needs a little blue pill before takeoff. Whereas younger colts, whist having the attention span and relationship experience of a tsetse fly, at least never have any issues in that area. Selfish and superficial? Egotistical and self-centered? You betcha. But hey, perhaps the difference between the sexes is not quite so distinct.