I'm Having More Fun Than You Read online

  CLOTHES ENCOUNTERS

  My buddy went home with this girl once, and when he tried to take her pants off, she said, “No, wait, you can’t. It’s a long story.” Ladies, if you don’t want us to take your pants off, don’t say “long story.” Believe me, you don’t want to let guys’ imaginations run wild. When my buddy told me what happened, I said to him, matter-of-factly, “Well, obviously she has a cock.” He started freaking out. I was like, “What other explanation could there be? Long story short, she has a penis.”

  I’ve always hated getting naked with a girl. I love being naked with a girl, just not the effort it takes to get there. First of all, I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve never taken off a bra with one hand. Sorry, can’t do it. I’ve actually watched several YouTube videos on the subject. I still have no idea. If that wasn’t bad enough, these skinny jeans are now all the rage. They are the bane of my existence. They are impossible to get off without one, if not both participants breaking a sweat. What I’d like to see next season is girls’ jeans that rip off like basketball warm-ups. But I’ll settle for boot cut.

  Nothing is more disappointing to me than seeing a girl’s thong on the floor. It’s just so insubstantial—I feel like I worked so hard to get that sucker off and what does it do as soon as it hits the floor? Curl up in a little ball like it’s frightened. It looks like one of those Shrinky Dinks we used to put in the oven when we were kids. A thong on the floor blends in and disappears like camouflage. The girl asks me if I see her underwear anywhere and I say, “I can’t find it. All I see is this candy wrapper.” She’s like, “No, that’s it.”

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  GLOSSARY

  SB (PRONOUNCED “SIB”)

  SB is short for “surprise body.” A SB is a girl who, when you remove her bulky clothing while hooking up, turns out to have an amazing figure. There’s nothing like taking that J.Crew rollneck off to discover a six-pack and two cannons beneath all that wool. Unfortunately, SBs are very rarely found in the wild, but are more prevalent in frigid, mountainous states and at North Face headquarters.

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  When I moved from New York to Los Angeles, I joked that I was coming to LA to further my comedy career and for the opportunity to touch fake breasts for the first time. Maybe I’m naïve, but to me, fake breasts fall into that same category as strange piercings and tattoos—if a girl’s got ’em, clearly she likes to get down. I mean, no chick with an eyebrow ring has ever said, “You can’t take my pants off. It’s a long story.” When I finally did touch my first pair of fake breasts, I was kind of disappointed. They were, like, little Cs. If you’re gonna get fake breasts, you should be walking around with weapons of mass destruction. Fuck little Cs, you should have triple Zs. Your breasts should be so big you’re living in the bell tower at Notre Dame, that’s how much of a hunchback you are.

  I once hooked up with a girl who had her own eyes tattooed on the middle of her back. That’s right—the tattoo artist sketched her eyes, and then made a tattoo of them. But it wasn’t a tramp stamp—you could only see the tattoo if she was topless and had her back to you. I like to believe this girl got the tattoo for the sole purpose of creating the illusion that you’re looking into her eyes while banging her from behind—which of course defeats the whole purpose of doggie style.

  HOOKED UP

  Another flaw in my arsenal is that I’m not really good at hooking up…sober. It just happens so rarely that I never get any practice. Unless I’m in a serious relationship, I can’t really imagine a scenario where I would be hooking up without having a few drinks first. When I’m sober, I get too far inside my head and start to overthink things I’d never even consider if I was wasted. My inner monologue is like, “Hmm…should I lick her nipple? I don’t know. Do people even lick nipples anymore? Yeah, I’m thinking that should be my next move. Oh man, I could really use a tequila shot.”

  I think if sex were a sport my scouting report would say that my biggest weakness is spooning. I’ve never really mastered the technique. Why am I on my side? I feel so out of place. By thirty I thought I would have addressed all the holes in my game. Instead I’m completely worthless unless the girl is braless, I’m wasted, and there’s no spooning involved.

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  MAILBAG

  One of the questions I get most frequently from my female readers is, “What are guys thinking about during sex? Is he thinking about me? Is he thinking about Jessica Alba? Is he thinking about his fantasy football team? What’s the deal?” Well, if we’re talking about a one-night stand, surprisingly the answer is none of the above. Usually I’m thinking, “Oh man, I can’t believe I’m actually having sex right now—this is awesome! I’m so happy I decided to go out tonight! Dude, in ninth grade, did you ever actually think you’d be having semi-regular sex? I don’t think so! This is so cool!” I guess the novelty just never wears off.

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  I’ve recently been informed that I text incorrectly because I use my right thumb and left index finger instead of both thumbs, which is apparently how the rest of the world does it. Normally I wouldn’t be too concerned, but about five years ago, I found out that I also snap incorrectly (I use my thumb and index finger instead of thumb and middle finger). Now I can’t stop thinking about why the fuck I can’t use my fingers properly and—gasp!—what else I may have been doing wrong the whole time.

  The benefit of hooking up drunk is that it renders all these deficiencies moot because both parties are sloppy, uninhibited, and won’t remember much in the morning anyway. Plus, there’s the fight-or-flight factor. When I hook up drunk I find myself attempting positions my body normally wouldn’t be able to handle. It’s kind of like if you witness an accident and then run over and lift an entire car off a person because your adrenaline is pumping so hard. No one has ever had sex standing, hanging, or balancing unless they’re hammered.

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  OBSERVATION

  Getting laid while wasted can be a tricky endeavor. Sometimes it just doesn’t work. If I’m too fucked up, trying to have sex is like trying to get the straw into a Capri Sun.

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  Have you ever been hooking up and realized the other person is still chewing gum? And she’s not even chewing it, but rather just holding it in her mouth like a wad of tobacco. What possible reason could a girl have to chew gum while hooking up? If she’s worried about her breath, a two-hour-old piece of Orbit ain’t gonna help. When I call a girl out on it, she gets slightly embarrassed and offers to get up and throw it out. Not so fast—once I’ve got you in bed and horizontal, I’m not taking any chances. One time I asked a girl if she could just swallow her gum. She responded, “Oh, I don’t swallow.” Well, that sucks for me.

  Whenever I’m trying to sleep with a girl, I always keep one hand on her body at all times. It’s kind of like one of those contests where whoever touches the car the longest wins it. If I go to shut off the light, I keep a hand on her breast. Looking for a condom? Hand on her ass. Just like all my other strategies, it’s all about keeping her preoccupied. I may not be able to take her bra off, but I sure can put a condom on while making out and never break stride.

  One of my least favorite sexual situations is hooking up in a pitch-black room with a chick who doesn’t make any sound. I have no idea what’s going on. I think to myself, “Is she enjoying this? Am I hurting her? For God’s sake, gimme a whimper or something.” Then my eyes start to adjust and I hear this strange noise and I’m like, “Wait a minute. Where did you get another piece of gum?”

  DIRTY TALK

  The girls I hook up with these days are comfortable with their bodies, they know what they like, and they’re vocal about it. Which is good. But the thing is, if a girl tells me what gets her off, pretty much no matter what it is, I’ll do it. If the girl says, “I want you to kiss my neck—but not too hard—then do a triple lutz off the bed, come back, and punch me in the face,” I’ll reply, “Not a problem.” But when I tell a girl what I like, she treats it like a ne
gotiation. I’ll say, “Actually, I really like it when you kiss my nipples.” And she’ll respond, “Let me think about that. No. What else ya got?”

  I can talk dirty if I need to; I can keep up. But is there anything more awkward than when you talk dirty and the girl doesn’t hear you the first time? The girl will be moaning, “Oh, Karo. Oh yeah. That’s good.” And I’ll whisper, “Oh yeah, I love your ass.” And she’s like, “What?” I’m completely embarrassed. “Um. I love your…ass? I don’t know, it sounded better the first time.”

  The worst is when the girl says something that makes me realize she’s totally not paying attention. We’re going at it, I’ve got my iTunes hook-up playlist rocking, everything’s great, and I whisper, “Does that feel good?” And she’s like, “Oh my God…I love this song.” Really? Well then go fuck John Legend!

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  OBSERVATION

  Ever notice that when you’re hooking up and the other person says, “Oh right there,” or “Just like that,” you immediately forget what the hell you were doing and totally fuck it up? I think to myself, “Wait, what was I doing? Was it like this? I lost my rhythm now. What was my cadence again?”

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  When I’m hooking up with a particular girl for the first time, I love the pillow talk chess match that goes on. If she says, “Karo, I’ve actually never gone down on a guy before,” I’ll call her bluff and respond reassuringly, “It’s OK. I’ll teach you.” If she says, “Karo, I just got out of a serious relationship,” “I’ll reply, “It’s OK. I’ll be your rebound guy.” If the girl is really into it, and she begs, “Karo, you can do anything you want to me,” I’ll always pause, consider the request, and then ask, “Anal?” To which the inevitable response is, “Anything but that.”

  I’m convinced that twice as many girls have experimented with anal sex as actually admit it. The scenario is always the same: you were with your boyfriend, he kept begging you, you had a little too much wine and, well, it was his birthday. Then he stuck it in a quarter of an inch, it was excruciatingly painful, and you vowed never to do it again. Hey, can’t blame you for trying.

  The ultimate form of dirty talk is, of course, phone sex. It can get confusing, however, especially when practicing safe sex with a girl in real life, and then occasionally having phone sex with her to boot. The girl will say on the phone, “Karo, I want you to fuck me right here and right now.” And I’ll lean into the phone and whisper, “I’m kissing your neck, I’m stroking the inside of your thigh…and now I’m running across the street to buy condoms at the gas station.”

  GETTING A HEAD

  At times, being a single guy feels like a grind. We have to work so hard to hook up. Which is why it’s disheartening that fellatio is more commonly known as “giving head.” This implies that a blow job is a gift that any guy should be appreciative of ever receiving. Sadly, it’s true: we have very little say in the matter. But that doesn’t dissuade us from pursuing BJs with unparalleled intensity.

  Many people believe that fellatio is a more intimate act than sex. I don’t disagree. After all, a girl can tell if she really likes a guy by the way she feels when she’s around him, or if she gets goose bumps when he kisses her. I know that I really have feelings for a girl when I feel bad that she’s blowing me. As I’ve already made clear, my boys are well-groomed and immaculate. But any guy who spends hours in a hot, crowded bar and then goes home to hook up has the equivalent of five jeans manufacturing plants in his boxers—that’s how much of a sweatshop it is down there.

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  GLOSSARY

  THE FRIGHTENED PELICAN

  Ladies, I have a request: spit or swallow, but choose one. Sometimes I’ll be getting head and, as I’m coming to fruition, the girl will hesitate, call an audible, get some in her mouth, and have no idea what to do with it. She then proceeds to stagger wide-eyed across the room, chin out, arms flailing wildly, searching for a place to spit. This, my friends, is called the frightened pelican.

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  Giving and receiving head has its share of awkward moments. Like when you randomly make eye contact with the girl while she’s in the act. She always has that deer-in-headlights look on her face. And there’s nothing more uncomfortable than never-ending head. Whether it’s because I’m drunk or she’s using teeth, blow jobs really only have an enjoyable shelf life of about ten minutes max. After that, there’s just something disconcerting about a girl sighing while my penis is in her mouth.

  Luckily, when the going is slow, guys have an easily accessible erogenous zone: our balls. Girls should learn to caress and befriend them. Experienced women will pay more attention there than anywhere else. Believe me, it definitely speeds up the process. Just don’t be too enthusiastic. A buddy of mine once told me he took home a girl from a bar and got head so incredible that in the middle he actually became concerned. Not that he might finish too quickly, but that the girl he was with could be a paid professional.

  PRODUCE THE GIRL

  Sex isn’t so amazing just because it’s pleasurable, it’s so amazing because it only happens when all of a bachelor’s hard-earned work finally pays off. Sometimes it’s more of a relief than anything. All that drinking, all that flirting, all that rejection wasn’t pointless after all. But once I find a partner who’s willing and able, the fun has only just begun. For instance, I was hooking up with this chick once, and she wanted me to lift her up and fuck her on her desk. And I was like, “Not a problem.” But there was a problem, namely the desk was a little too high. So I’m holding her up and we’re going at it, but it’s totally awkward and I’m standing on my tippy toes, and then all of a sudden she yells, “Wait, wait, stop!” I thought she was having second thoughts. Instead she just wanted me to move over because my balls were on her 401(k) paperwork. That’s the kind of shit that never happened when I was twenty.

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  PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

  Attention women: The penis, as you are well aware, is a very sensitive organ. If we are having sexual intercourse, and you are on top, “riding me,” as it were, please do not rapidly hop up and down on said organ like a fucking bunny rabbit. It’s not a toy. Do not mistake me grabbing your shoulders as a sign that I’m enjoying it. I’m merely trying to hold you down so that you don’t fly off and break my dick in half.

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  One of the first girls I slept with after moving to Los Angeles was also the loudest. To say she was a screamer would be an understatement. About twenty minutes into our roll in the hay, my doorbell rang. My first thought was, “Wait, I have a doorbell?” But I quieted the chick down and got up to look through the peephole, where I spied the building’s security guard. I opened the door and this bleary-eyed dude with a faded blue uniform said to me, “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but we received a noise complaint. However, in order to validate the complaint, I stood outside your door for five minutes listening.” I gulped hard as the guard continued. “At first I heard screaming and moaning,” he said, “but then I just heard screaming.” And then, I shit you not, he uttered to me the following words: “Produce the girl, sir.”

  Stunned, I said to the guy, “Wait a minute. You think I’m beating her?” He just repeated: “Produce the girl, sir.” I said, “Come on, man. We had a few drinks, we’re just having some fun.” “Produce the girl, sir,” he said once again as he reached for some kind of nightstick or Taser he had on his belt. “Whoa, whoa, no need for that,” I pleaded. “We’re all friends here. Just give me a second.” So I ran into the bedroom, got this sloppy drunk chick out of bed, threw some clothes on her, and brought her out to inform the nice security guard that I was not in fact beating her. When the guy was sufficiently convinced, he apologized for disturbing us, asked me to keep it down, and informed me that I would be receiving a $500 fine from building management. So I went back in the bedroom and got my money’s worth.

  COME AS YOU ARE

  Guys like to look at their bedside alarm clock just before sex and time h
ow long we can last. Along with rating girls, this is just another example of guys bringing their love of stats and competition into the bedroom. But no matter what happens, sex always seems to go a lot quicker than I expected. At the end, I think, “Damn, that took forever; must be a new record!” And then I look at the clock and exclaim, “Seven minutes!?”

  I’ve realized that, believe it or not, many women have a stronger sex drive than I do. I slept with this chick once, and about a minute after we finished, she turned to me and said, “Karo, let’s see how many times we can fuck tonight.” And I was like, “Actually, I think I’m good.” I don’t know why women are obsessed with having sex more than once in a night. Listen, everybody loves orgasms, but for women, the more the merrier. For guys, there’s a law of diminishing returns.

  I really don’t understand the point of the much-lauded simultaneous orgasm. Can’t I just have my own orgasm? You’re getting a whole bunch; I only get one. If you don’t mind, I’d like to enjoy mine without worrying about getting you off at the exact same time. You see, guys give girls orgasms. It’s a manual procedure. One hand here, one hand there, medium thrust, and…we have liftoff. But girls don’t give guys orgasms. The male orgasm is like flying on autopilot. No matter what she does, I’m gonna get where I’m going eventually.