Jesus loves you more than you will know

I knew it was going to be a good night. I had a feeling. I had run into some girlfriends of mine downtown, and we decided to go out “skeezin.” Seriously. I hadn’t even ordered my first drink before he started talking to me at the bar. He tried to buy my drink when the bartender showed up, but I declined. He and I talked at the bar for awhile, then made our way to a corner table while the girls worked the dance floor. He bought me a couple more drinks. He was young, but not too young. I told him he looked 19, I checked his ID. No, he really was 23.

When he brought back round two (or was it three?), I noticed he was wearing a bathing suit. Really? Yeah, he’d been on the river earlier that day. OK. Whatever. He was cute. Tall. Dimpled chin. I could forgive him. He knew my favorite bands. Before long, we were making out. That got boring, so he asked if I wanted to see his place. Oh sure, why not?

We get in his truck. I asked where we were going. “To Booneytown.” Seriously? Booneytown is about 20 miles out of town. Fairly secluded. I also don’t have my cell phone on me. I’d left it at my house. Ah, well. Time to take chances, and this kid was just so babyfaced. A face to trust.

We were about 10 miles out of town when it hit me. I went out on the wrong night. The wrong week, actually.

“Oh, my,” I said, “I just remembered something.”

He looked across the pickup seat at me, his drunken Mrs. Robinson, with his shiny, excited blue eyes.

“What’s that, June?”

His hand was on my thigh. I noted that he was sober enough to drive and to remember my name.

“Well. I’m on my period.”

“Oh,” he said, “OK,” and looked back at the road. Still smiling, still tapping the steering wheel with his left hand.

OK, then. I shrugged. When we got to his house, I was relieved to find that he had black sheets. It was a good night.

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The Over-share

Dating-related things your big sister might not want to hear about:

The size of your boyfriend’s penis. Especially if he’s a disgusting loser-asshole.

How great of head your boyfriend gives. Especially if, in addition to being a disgusting loser-asshole, he is the dickwad, unemployed father of your beautiful daughter.

The time when you and your loser boyfriend were on a break, and you spent the weekend at mom and dad’s, using their computer after they went to bed to find guys on Craigslist, walk to the bar to meet them, hump them (god knows where, thanks for leaving out that detail), and then walk back to mom and dad’s house to go to bed before they got up.

You and your disgusting loser-asshole boyfriend’s forays into anal and how much it hurt. Especially if your loser-asshole boyfriend has long, greasy hair and a thin goatee. And he shows up to Christmas in sweatpants two sizes too big with holes in the ass.

The time you gave head to my best friend’s brother. I totally had the hots for him.

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Bedspring Symphony

Having your mattress on the floor without a bed frame is probably the best way to combat this. For those of us who have a frame, though, things can get a bit noisy. In my experience lots of moving and packing and hauling tends to weaken the joints of the bed frame, resulting in squeaky screws.
I was finally going to the next level with B. We'd been dancing around it for awhile, but in the past we were usually so drunk by the time we made it to bed that we just had some heavy making out sessions before passing out.
This time was different.
When I first climbed into his bed that night I noticed it was a bit on the squeaky side but thought nothing of it (he hadn't had this bed frame in the past). During our very intense making out and foreplay the bed pretty much kept to itself.
It wasn't until I climbed aboard and things really got rowdy that the noise level of the bed struck me as odd. His neighbors could probably hear the rhythmic metal-on-wood squeaking across the parking lot.
It caught me off guard and threw me a bit off my game. Luckily, that lasted about a second before my focus was back on the pleasure at hand.
Still, though, can't he take a screwdriver and tighten that thing up? To heck with the noise, I felt like the bed might just crumble underneath us.
I wasn't sure if I should laugh about it or what. I didn't want to make fun of him for the bed he sleeps in, but can we really just ignore something like that? It's like the big, squeaky elephant standing in the room watching us hump.
The next night I was more prepared. I'd like to get B over for a few rounds in my quiet bed.

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Boundaries

I was visiting a friend on the east coast recently, and since my galpal wasn't on vacation, I found myself going out on the town solo a couple of nights.

One night I met a friendly young thing, cute enough, and I thought I might like to spend a little more time with him. But just having met the fellow, I didn't feel comfortable bringing him back to my girlfriend's house. The next morning, after I got back from his place, I was telling her later about this trouble I ran into. She pointed out to me that maybe there was something funny in that I wouldn't, like, "vouch for the guy," and bring him over to her house, but that I was perfectly willing to let him get to know my vagina.

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I got some money ‘cause I just got paid

It was another Friday night, and I had every intention of being a good girl. But I was not staying home alone—not after that asshole neglected to call me. Again.

So I prettied up and took my little coup out for a spin. I parked her carefully and began my strut. Before I’d even made it down the block, I ran into an old buddy for a stop-n-chat, how are you, how’s the family, where ever did you get that leather jacket, etc.

Then I stopped in at some schmancy event, took my free munchies and worked the room for a bit. Snore. So I figured there had to be some live music happening at the local Sip’n’Shake. But winter's coming, kiddies, and mama needs to keep warm. And this particular night was so blasted cold out that I couldn’t even walk all the way to S&S (I never drink and drive) without stopping off somewhere to warm myself.

I found myself walking past a bar next to a sushi place downtown that serves a decent drink. Sometimes there’s even a DJ. This night, there wasn’t, and the place was kind of slow. I was a bit disappointed, but really wanted a Bombay sapphire ’tini. So I ponied up at an empty seat at the corner bar. In front of the empty seat next to me was a nearly-full beer. Something micro.

Just as the bartender set down the gorgeous ‘tini, a young man with a striped shirt, a Joaquin Phoenix-ish face (minus the cleft palate scar) and a baseball cap sat down beside me, grinned, and said in a thick southern accent, “Well hello.”

“Well, hello,” I thought, “So you’re what I’m doing tonight.”

I didn’t really miss the asshole’s phone call after that.

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Excuse Me, Do I Know You?

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes from "Sweet Sickness." Keep 'em coming folks!**

I had one of those "I'm totally telling the internet on you" moments. OH Aaron… he was a fun one. Younger than I usually consider doing … anything with, but he had one of those baby faces that I just melted for. Even stranger, he's blond, and I don't normally go for blonds. Once again, just one look at the baby face with the puppy dog eyes.. you would melt too.

There's his introduction. Now here's the story.

A couple years back, I had some friends that had a constant party house. Pretty much when we weren't partying, we were getting ready to, or getting rid of hangovers in preparation for the next party... You get the idea. One of THOSE houses. Well Aaron and I met through being friends of friends of friends. I actually knew the people who lived there, and he appeared at a party playing with the "band" aka the house people blowing and banging and strumming their instruments.

He played the sax. I love sax. Yes, sAx. Anyway, they all played and we had an instant drunken lust for each other. It's like "love at first sight" but it's actually "drunken-horniness-you're-cute-I'd-totally-fuck-you" at first sight. We went a couple parties just flirting, magically appearing in the same conversations with other people, etc. Then one night, we all ended up too drunk for anyone to safely leave the house. Everyone crashed wherever there was floor.

We, somehow ended up on the same pull out couch bed. And well, come on, two drunk kids sleeping next to each other.. it's rare you actually sleep. Especially with the whole attraction thing. So, my friend still doesn't know this, I'm sure she'd be kind of pissed if she knew, we ended up getting rid of that sexual tension. It was bound to happen.

I am one of those chicks where it's usually really hard for me to orgasm. Long story. I'm just a difficult orgasmer...but no worries. I still enjoy myself, and it's always fun when the guy takes it on as a challenge. I should give out medals to the ones that did… hmm… Ok, anyway, back to the story. So, he soon discovered this, and I tried explaining to him how it's not just him, it really isn't.

After the party and stuff, we exchanged numbers and I had him over at my place a few times. He made promises of dedicating a night to making me orgasm and also to take me to a movie. I thought it was cute he was trying to be "gentleman" like after he had already gotten into my pants.

Anyway, a lot of things happened that aren't really important to this story. He moved to Eugene for a while. A year or so later, I ran into him at a Safeway (the Forum) and he was all, "You know, I still owe you a movie and an orgasm," which I thought was hilarious that he remembered. We exchanged our new numbers and promised to call, but never did.

About another year or so later, I run into him again. This time, unless he was being shy, I don't think he remembered how he knew me. I'd love to see it hit him randomly somewhere. Apparently we're both regulars at one of my favorite places. He still has the baby face to melt for, but I have enough stupid little crushes.

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Bros & Hoes

**Editors' Note: This guest post came in from a guy asking to be called "Wingman," which seemed apt given his backstage role in this story."

We've all heard the old saying, "Bros before hoes." For me it's gospel. I'd do anything for my guys way before I would do something comparable for a girlfriend or a potential fuck. After a few nasty experiences with friends' ex-girlfriends, girlfriends of exes, friends and my ex-girlfriends...you get the point. What guy hasn't been burned in the past by not following this one, simple rule to dating?

That's why when last week I had the opportunity to help a bro get a hoe, I was stoked. There's gotta be extra karama points for that, right?

He had managed to lay the hot manager from Barnes and Noble a few weeks ago after meeting her out at the bar. There was enough alcohol involved that although he remembered it being good ("fucking best piece I've had dude!" he said) he didn't remember her name.

Classic.

Even more classic was calling me 15 minutes before their "first date" in a panic.

"Shit! I don't know her name! I mean I think it's Beth, but I'm not 100% positive. What if I call her the wrong name?! Shit shit shit!"

"Calm down," I said. "We can figure it out. I'll call the store and ask whoever answers the name of the manager."

"I fucking love you dude."

We hung up and I called B & N.

"Hi. I was just in there talking to the female manager. I told her I'd bring something back, but I forget her name. What is it?"

"Oh, you mean Beth. She..."

I didn't even wait to hear what the clerk was going to say.

"Sweet. Thanks dude."

My bro got laid again and didn't hesitate to call out her name during it. I made up a new law for our friends: "Help our bros get hoes."

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Submission

**Editors' Note: This guest post came in from "Running On Thin Ice," which is an apt name given that after this story happened, ROTI ran home in a snow storm rather than wait around with the woman and her boyfriend for ROTI's ride home. We only know this because we picked him up on the side of road..**

That title sounds like this story is going in a different direction than it really is.

I have something of a sordid, lascivious history with this woman. We worked together at the same restaurant for about a year and worked together well. There were instances where the place was short-staffed and she and I had much more responsibility than anyone making $3 an hour + tips should ever have, but we made it happen and meshed well as drinking buddies, co-workers, and eventually fuck buddies. Problem: she was on her third husband and has three kids to boot. I am a free-wheeling kid fresh out of college at this point with zero job prospects aside from that which a bachelor's in psych can afford (read: waiting tables, digging retaining walls, etc.). She is much more attractive than she gives herself credit for, and that has always been a turn-on for me, as it complements my joking self-aggrandizement well. Still, I don't wish to be Homewrecker Miles as I have been down that road and have scars and concussed memories to prove it.

That honorable intention lasted maybe a month and we were between the sheets. Things fall apart, and between me moving across the country and her other life we lost touch for a while. Fast forward to more recent times and we are back in touch... promising to connect and drink ourselves silly as a late birthday celebration for her.

I show up at the bar we left when we first got together all those years ago, and there she is, looking fantastic and with a 6'4" boyfriend with arms as big as my thighs in tow. He also happens to be much better at pool than me, which doesn't happen everyday, in addition to being an extremely well-paid engi-nerd. Sigh. Tequila flows freely with Mr. Buff picking up I don't know how many rounds in a row, and all of a sudden Miss Thing and I are talking about what it was like exploring each others' nether regions back in the day. She is sneaking this conversation in when Mr. Buff isn't close enough to hear, but she is getting into my personal space bubble and I don't think Mr. Buff was too excited about it. Thankfully there were a bunch of their friends around to distract him while Miss Thing and I step outside. Then we're kissing. Then we're getting into HIS truck. Then...

It's as good as I remember, even if I am sneaking looks over her shoulder at the bar door waiting to see if Mr. Buff is running in my direction with a pool cue / tire iron / gun. He is not. This is pretty hot, even if my life could be in danger. I wonder briefly if he will smell the sex in his truck.

We hurry back inside and nobody seems to be the wiser. Miss Thing is even audacious enough to go up to her man whom I just cuckolded and give him a kiss. Scandalous. But who am I to talk?

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How Not To Pick Up A Snowbunny

**Editors' Note: This guest post came in today from a Marine who prefers to remain nameless. We don't blame him.**

Years ago I was a marine stationed in Southern California. We did lots of things in our time off, most of them centered on finding girls and then trying to fuck them. Sexist and rude yes, but we were marines after all.

One weekend some buddies and I planned a snowboarding trip to a nearby ski resort. True to form, the intent was not really to snowboard (none of us were all that good anyway) but to lure sexy snowbunnies back to our cheap hotel room and yes, try to fuck them.

At any rate, we got up to the resort, rented our gear and donned our makeshift ski wear. My buddies wore U.S. issued fatigues and laughed at me as I stepped into my insulated one-piece Carhartt suit. Franky, I thought it had a certain honest, everyman appeal. The morning progressed and sure enough, we did locate and team up with a crew of attractive gals. We shared lift rides, chatted a bit as we cruised easy runs, and overall, things were looking good for our ultimate intentions.

At some point mid-day I ducked into the trees at the side of a run to answer natures call, i.e. take a big shit. I felt a bit rushed as I saw my buddies disappearing down the hill with the girls and knew that they had absolutely no reservations about ditching me for the rest of the day in the hopes of improving the odds with the ladies. I finished up, stepped back into my board and bombed the hill, getting to the gondola line just in time to cut my way up to our party as they crammed their way into the crowed gondola car.

The door shut and up we went. The first thing I noticed was that I was located directly under the heat vent and hot air was blasting me. The second thing was the distinct smell of human shit. Very soon it became evident that other people noticed it too.

Comments began circulating: Dude! Smell that shit? Bro! Who Shit themselves?! Clearly, I was the culprit. I checked my boots - all clear. My gloves - all clear. Snowboard - clear. Pants cuffs - clear. A glimmer of hope emerged. Maybe I wasn't the offender.

The ladies were obviously grossed out and embarrassed by the whole thing and by this point the warm air and intense reek had them breathing into their elbows. I knew we just had to get to the top and get out of this damn gondola into some fresh mountain air where I could do a more thorough check of my gear. Ah! the lift shack at the top of the line was in sight, just a few moments more and I was home free!

Suddenly, from just over my shoulder, my buddy, my buddy, the fucker that was supposed to look out for me, put his life on the line for me in battle, yells, no bellows at the top of his lungs -Dude! Dude! YOU SHIT IN YOUR HOOD!!!! HE SHIT IN HIS HOOD!!! and proceeds to begin laughing his ass off. He is very quickly joined by most of the other people in the gondola. Except of course, the snowbunnies.

The look on their faces was textbook disgust and embarrassment. A few moments later, the gondola docks, the doors open and the crowd stampedes out amidst laughter and nasty comments about the hygiene of the US marine corp. My friends are literally rolling on the ground, not even observing, or caring about for that matter, the rapid disappearance of our quarry. I admit, at this point I found the humor in the whole situation as well and joined in with belly laughs of my own. We spent the rest of the day reliving the gondola ride and pounding beers in the lodge, of course, only after I had ditched my trusty Carhartt suit.

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Friends Forever?

**Editors' Note: This guest post comes in from a gal who wishes to remain nameless. Fine by us, just keep 'em coming!**

I need to stop fucking all of my single, male friends. Pretty soon I'm not going to have any left.

I don't know why it happens or how it happens. Well, actually I have a pretty good idea of why – they know me and I know them and it's comfortable. And, thinking about it, the how too – alcohol is usually involved. Is there some kind of underlying sexual tension with some of those single, male friends that just sometimes, on the right night and the right conditions (or wrong ones), just erupt?

A history:

1. A really good friend who I worked with and got close to over cigarette breaks. He was leaving town to move back to his homeland and his last night on earth…well, yeah. Since then we haven't been able to keep the friendship. I still really want to be friends, but it doesn't seem to be working.

2. Another friend about this time last year, not as close but still designated as a pal. This one hit me sideways, I wasn't expecting it to happen and it happened again and again quite a few times, on those certain nights. He left town too.

3. And just recently, a good friend that I have known for years and hang out with on occasion. I am currently in the process of trying to figure out how to approach this one – should I be honest and tell him the truth? I think he wants to get to know me better and he is a great guy, but I'm not sure if I want to start anything serious. How can I keep the friendship? Does it have to change our relationship?

Maybe I just need to start going out to bars more.

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A Portrait of a Date

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post came in from she who wishes to remain anonymous. Fine by us, just keep 'em coming.**

It was a funny date. Not funny "ha ha," but funny "mildly awkward." Just not a really good match, but still a decent time. And the making out was good, so that's sort of how I ended up at my suitor's house. Then he made gin and tonics, and then he was obviously too drunk to drive, and it was late, and I didn't want to deal with waiting for a cab in his far-flung borough, so I decided to sleep at his house. Now, I could have slept in the guest room, or made him sleep in the guest room, but please. That's ridiculous. So I let him know that there would be no pants-off partying, and that I would figure out an exit if that was a problem.

"No, no, stay, I'll be good," he slurrily promised. And this guy was basically a frigging boy scout, so I trusted him. As well I should have. He didn't try a thing … until the next morning. And what he tried was very convincing, as it didn't involve the removal of clothing on his part. So I accepted his offer, but I still had no interest in what he was packing.

When he got out of bed, he was sad, mopey, even a bit mooney faced. I, of course, felt wonderfully sleepy, glowy, etc. He moped into bathroom to take a (presumably cold) shower. I rolled over and nuzzled deeper into the blankets. He turned on the radio. Over the water I heard the whiny warble of Morrisey cry out, which seemed entirely, hilariously appropriate to me.

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i'm so blue...

recently my girlfriend and i had a series of brief grope, kiss, and grind sessions. due to time and place, none of them culminated in anything other than a heightened sense of arousal. while the encounters were warm, tender and very enjoyable, the lack of a climactic finish left me with a serious case of blue balls. now, the girl fancies herself a bit of an authority on human anatomy and physiology and she immediately dismissed my uncomfortable situation by discrediting the entire existence of the blue balls phenomenon. while i respect her knowledge of all things biological, i know for a fact that blue balls happen and i assured her that should she poll other guys, they would undoubtedly confirm my belief. come on fellas, help me out. weigh in on this one.

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The Pubic Combover

**Editors' Note: This guest post came in from "Donna Trump." What we'd like to know is how'd it go that weekend? Perhaps a follow up post Donna?**

The best part about a long distance relationship is that you can go chunks of time without worrying about maintaining the illusion that you are nearly hairless on most of your body. While I don't ever subscribe to the fully shaved pubes, I do like to keep them tidy when I'm getting ready for a weekend bedroom marathon.

I was doing just that the other day, getting ready to go see my man, who, honestly, probably wouldn't care one way or the other whether I had trimmed in preparation for him or not. Here's how it goes:

I get out the trimmers and start doing my thing. It's been a VERY long day, I'm exhausted, and with one slip of the wrist everything changes. There, about an inch northeast of ecstasy, is a nearly bald spot. DAMN SHIT FUCK HELL STUPID FUCKING FUCK SHIT. I go to the mirror to inspect the damage. Since we're always more critical of ourselves, I'm sure it's the most obvious thing in the world.

First things first, can I cover it? I start manipulating the rest of the hair around it to try and cover it up. Marginal success. There's really nothing else I can do. I refuse to shave it all off to cover up my mishap.

It's late, I go to bed and decide to discuss it with the roommate in the morning. Meanwhile I think about how I can keep my guy from seeing it. Is this going to be a lights-off, dark-of-night sex only weekend? No daytime fun? That doesn't sound good...

My roommate assures me that it's not noticeable, especially when I manipulate the surrounding hair.

And that is how I created the pubic comb-over.

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Strictly Business

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post started out as a conversation we had on the phone yesterday with a friend. Quickly realizing he sounded too much like a Craigslist personals ad to not share on DIW, we wrote down what he said.**

So here's how my dating usually goes:

Either I like a woman or she likes me in the romantic way. Rarely is it a two way street. One person feels it much more than the other and it's obvious but not awkward. Or at least, it's not awkward in the we-have-to-have-a-conversation-about-me-having-feelings-for-you sort of way.

It's more like a business negotiation. In fact it usually is. I like to have it over lunch. "Hey, let's talk about us and grab a bite to eat." That way it's no big deal.

You figure out the details like, hey we're going to sleep together from the hours of 12 am and 4 am, we'll call each other typically between 5-8 pm. And outside that, we do our own thing.

But always, always one is secretly wishing it will turn into something more.

So then you sleep together, maybe like 3 times in a row, boom boom boom.

And then you take a break because it gets too serious for one person.

But then you start calling each other again and things return to normal, ie sex, and then you're right back to where you started which is one person wanting more and the other doesn't so then the awkward conversaiton ensues.

I'm done with that crap.

Here's what I'm looking for:

I have good women friends and I value them a lot. I'm not trying to fuck my women friends because that's a horrible idea, so that's why I have to find strange trim instead

So unless my skirt is flipped, i don't want to date you. I want to have sex with you because daminit beating off gets old and sometimes I just want to eat the pie.

That's why I end up seeming like an asshole because I'm like, I'll call you. Between the hours of 12 and 4 am. Sometime in the next three weeks. We already worked that out. In our negotiations. Remember?

So if you're looking for the same, actually just looking for no-strings- attached sex, feel free to drop me a line.

Women who want more need not apply. No seriously do not fucking apply. For really real, just don't.

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My First Lay in a New Town

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from "ZZ Bottom" about his first lay after leaving home.**

so i am writing my first blog...so i'm chosing to write about my first lay in a new town. at 18 i moved to a city out west, and i was having a little trouble meeting the ladies as i did not have a fake id, and i had no friends. well, everyone knows the best way for an underage scrub to meet a young, willing woman...house party!! a co-worker invited me to a house party, and beverages were being served. well, later in the night, a classy young breezy started talkin' to me. before long we were tongue wrestling atop a freezer box in the basement...pretty standard hook-up story up to this point...

enter her hippie ex-boyfriend.

lets call him Kip, and lets call her Jessica...which was her name (i'm surprised i remembered that). in any case, Kip, a disheveled, passive aggressive hippie common to the region, accosted us while we pawed at each other's goodies. being a glutton for self-punishment, he hung around us like the smell of patchouli and body odor while we made out. not long after he says to me, still next to Jessica, "Hey dude, she means a lot to me and we just broke up a week ago... just please promise to wear a condom." Interesting request, but i nodded and we continued kissing and groping. We made the natural course to the cramped bathroom. Young Jessica lifted her skirt and we commenced to boning...without a condom. HA! (now i typically don't endorse this cavalier attitude about sex, but luckily i've since been tested and came out ok!)

Anyway, dude, Kip, sees us coming out of the bathroom, fully sexed out. Being the sweet doormat that he is, he offered us a ride to my new apartment. SWEET! this dildo let us pile into his cute little yellow VW bug (like Ted Bundy's) and took us! Then he dropped us off and gave me the whole, "hey, she's a great girl...treat her right" speech. Then he left and we had more unprotected sex on my couch. the next morning i found her panties on the sidewalk in front of my house. poetic.

thanks Kip

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It Would Be Better If This Were a Friends Episode

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post hails from "Rachel" who wants us to know she doesn't get paid a million dollars to deal with this crap.**

So the first time I was approached about contributing to DIW I had to carefully explain that I couldn’t really contribute since I hadn’t actually dated. Yes, I was about 8 months in to my first serious relationship (lasted 15 mos. Boo-ooring!), but everything before had been pretty much the same: he’s cool, we start hanging out alone together, he acts weird, I go out of town and I never call when I get back. All in less than 3 weeks. That just didn’t seem DIW worthy. That’s when I learned that you don’t have to have officially dated the person, just tell us some crazy relationship shit. Oh! In that case, I’m totally in.

You know how on Friends they had the whole “We Were On a Break!” thing? Mine is “I Don’t Think We Should Do This Anymore”. And just like on Friends I can say it and all my friends know what I’m talking about. And just like on Friends, it never quite gets to the “we will laugh about this one day” stage. Its always just as awkward and hurtful as the day he said it.

So you should probably know that while we weren’t dating, 88 and I were sleeping together pretty regularly. We were good old-fashioned fuck buddies, there for each other at all the right times (ex: After bar time). Oh, we were also really great friends. But that’s what friends do in college; they sleep together. And if they are a really great friend, they’ll be ok with no strings attached and they won’t get all emotional on you every time they down a 12-pack. So that was us—really great friends. And I think we must have been sleeping together for about a year before things got ugly the first time.

I could totally feel it coming; things just weren’t feeling as friendly between us as they had been. I knew it. He knew it. I knew that he knew it. You know. But less than friendly sex with your FB is better than no sex at all. Apparently that only holds true until your FB girl (me) shows up to your house shit faced off tequila and with a group of friends.

It was a friend’s birthday and we had been at a Mexican restaurant doing the obligatory underage “pitcher of margarita/flirting with the waiter” thing. And I was properly shit faced. I can’t give you great details about the first half of the night at his house other than at one point, I was mummified in scotch tape, I opened a bunch of flavored condoms that were in a bowl on the counter and tried to get people to taste them, and my wallet was missing for about a week. What I can tell you is just about every single thing that happened after 3 am that night.

I ended up passing out in his bed of course and somewhere around 3 am I got that half-asleep sex nudge. You know, you’re both still kind of sleeping, but you still know you want to have sex, so you fumble around for a bit until you wake up going at it?! I know I don’t have to explain that to this crowd.

So I got the nudge and I responded and I was fine with it. He, apparently, was not. It wasn’t more than 15-20 seconds after we finished, we’re both totally naked, I’m laying on top of him, resting a minute, when he said the words that have come to define an entire period of my life:

“I don’t think we should do this anymore”.

He said it with the kind of slight hesitation that you know he had been practicing it over in his head and for just a second he had to make sure that this time he was saying it out loud. That’s it. No, “I think we need to talk”, no “I think you should put your clothes back on”. Just, “I know I just initiated this sex, but now I got what I want and am ready to humiliate you”

Ok, that might not be word for word, memory can be a tricky thing. But I got up, I gave him a little “Are you fucking kidding me that you did this right now, like this? You’re the one who started this.” speech, I put my clothes back on and I went home. I’m not totally sure, but I’m guessing I was starting to cry at this point too. I know myself and I was sort of drunk, it was the middle of the night, and I just got broken up with by my non-boyfriend. That’s usually the kind of thing I would start crying over.

So I left. But I didn’t get in my car and drive home like a nice self-respecting girl would do. I didn’t have my car there so I stomped out the front door and started to walk the 7 blocks back to my apartment at 4 in the morning. And I had gotten about a block and a half before I realized I had forgotten my shoes at his apartment.

So now comes my mental debate: Is it better to turn back now and have to walk a few extra blocks and get the shoes, or wait until morning and have to call and ask for them back?

I turned around and retrieved my shoes, deciding I’m still a little drunk right now and can probably pull this off better now than when we all sober up in the morning. And I was pretty sure I didn’t want to talk to this asshole again for quite a while. So I walk back into his house, announce that I’m not returning to talk to him, only to get my shoes, and I walk right back out the door.

And I never slept with him again.

Actually, that was about 4 years ago and we finally ended things last week. You’re probably going to be hearing from me again.

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Worst One Night Stand Ever

**Editors' Note: Found this little story from across the Atlantic. Holy shit. **

Wayne Fisher looks like your typical early 20-something guy:


Wayne likes to drink, likes to fuck, and enjoys taking some Valium every now and again to cut loose, according to a story in the Daily Mail. His tastes lean toward the pretty, young, attractive girls at the clubs as evidenced by Dominique Fisher, a young lady he went home with:


According to the story, Wayne went home with Dominique after meeting at a club. They had both had a few drinks, Wayne had taken some Valium, and they bumped uglies in the bikini area, as the saying goes.

But when Wayne woke up, something was horribly, horribly wrong. He was covered in blood and found this:



And these:



"When I woke I was covered in blood. Dominique was snoring. I just had to get out of there. I didn't even wake her to ask what she'd done," Wayne told reporters.

Jesus H. Christ.

Needless to say, Wayne high tailed it out of there and called the police. Dominique was arrested, charged and found guilty of "unlawful wounding." (God I love the British vernacular.) She has yet to be sentenced.

Next time you think of going home with that pretty thing from the bar, think of Wayne.

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Damn Tubes

**Editors' Note: Slightly Disheveled sent this in after reading about June's burning biscuit. We've had many an embarrassing sexual mishap (bed wetting, farting, etc.) grace this blog. We're just thankful this particular phenomenon has yet to happen to us personally.**

Okay, okay... so the last posting did bring this on. "Alejandro" and I had moved in together and all was blissy blisstastic. He was a tall, dark, handsome, Argentinian painter of the MFA variety and was just about as cute as cute could be. We went out drinking with friends one night and came back to our little love nest and started to Go There. Right around where we left third base I started to feel something Rather Odd which turned immediately to something Rather Unfomfortable and then to Really Very Unpleasant as we reached home base. All this in under a minute. Something smelled rather like wintergreen.

He started to howl in pain and we turned on the light. The tube of Name Brand Lubricant was sitting nicely in the drawer and the tube of Name Brand Muscle Rub was on the bed next to me. I had never noticed that they were in the exact same tubes. From then on he kept the muscle rub in his nightstand and the lube in mine.

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My Biscuit's Burning

So this story goes into some detail about my sex life. Probably more than I’d generally trust the internets with, but this is a public service announcement, kiddos. I have a lesson to share. One that should have been obvious to me, but sometimes, in the heat of the moment, I can be forgetful. Woe to she who pays no heed to my warnings. Hot woe.

So, I was, as the kids say, “in the red.” My delightful new pet and I, though, have a hard time keeping our hands off of one another. In this case, he had a hard time keeping his hands off of my bits. But knowing as I did that it would all only lead to frustration, I playfully pushed his hands away, kissed him again and bid him good night. Moments later, the tingle began. I shifted. It got worse. “What the?...” And worse. Soon enough, my lady parts were afire. “Oh, god, babe, no,” I said, “It burns!”

At the same moment, he and I flashed back to earlier in the evening. I was cooking one of my favorite Thai recipes, and he, being an expert knife handler, seeded six peppers for me. Hot, hot fucking peppers. When I looked down at his pile of hot seeds, I said, “Now don’t go sticking your finger in your eye later.” I’d forgotten at the time to also recommend that he keep his hands off my own sensitive, damp areas.

“Oh, no, the peppers!” said he.
“Shit, it really burns!” said I.
“Do you want some ice?”
“No, I’ll be fine. God! That’s really hot!”
“Well, should I get some vinegar?”
“Vinegar? I’m not putting vinegar on my snatch.”
“You know some women douche with vinegar.”
“OK, well, I don’t feel like doucheing right now.”
“Peanut butter?” he offered.
“Peanut butter?”
“I don’t know, all I can think of is kitchen items.”

Now, I'm not sure, but I think it may have been the food connection that led him to the proper solution to the problem. He’s a smart boy, he is.

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Get It On

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