Exhibit A:
I had just left the dorm of this boy I was seeing (which brings up the substory about the fact that I was only really seeing him because my friend wanted his friend. I know, I am a GREAT pal sometimes). I was smoothly sporting a lacy black and silver top, heels, and....wait for it....worst of all....ENORMOUS men's basketball shorts. Add last night's makeup, the scent of day old alcohol exuding from my pores, and that haggard I-just-got-f'd aura, and you have the best recipe for a simply delightful walk of shame.
Luckily, my girlfriend was along for the ride, since the boys were roommates.
Unluckily, we somehow picked the perfect time and place to run into a meandering group of 10 or so priests on campus. I know those things aren't supposed to have had sex or anything, but I'm pretty sure they figured out that I had. Once we realized the blackhole ahead of us, we even attempted to take a minor detour through the parking lot. GOD FORBID I try not to get judged by men that have never supposedly touched their own penis, an idea which is blasphemous in and of itself. They of course changed their own direction in order to run straight into us and our judgment. Yay.
Exhibit B:
I was getting a ride home from my cousin's friend, a nice boy with an uncircumcised penis (yes, my first one!). We had some fun, that is, after I got over the shock of blindly feeling the anteater with my hand down his pants. He sweated a lot, which was weird, but he gave me one of the top 5 best compliments ever received in saying, "You have the body of a pin-up girl." So I let his odd bodily attributes slide. No pun intended. Ok, maybe it was a little intended.
The next morning, he gave me a nice ride home...
...
...
...to my parents' house. Woops. I don't know why I didn't care in the least, or why I wasn't even a tiny bit nervous. I guess you just have to know my family. 'Sweaty' over in the driver's seat apparently had no idea what they were capable of, and stupidly tried to drop me off in front of the house next door. As if that is going to not make it completely obvious that he's trying not to be seen/caught/made fun of. Seriously, could you make it ANY worse? Anytime you're stuck like that, you just have to run with what you've got. Make it a great story, maybe start a blog?
I'm pretty sure I was wearing heels and maybe even a dress. I got out of the car and started walking up the sidewalk towards my house. I think I might have even closed my eyes and shuffled my feet in a post drunken stumble to try and power through the potentially mortifying event. But, of course, avoiding confrontation with my family and/or neighbors is simply out of the question. 27 seconds into the sidewalk strut, I hear the tapping of a finger on a window and look up at my living room to see my mother repeatedly knocking on the window and waving to me with a facial expression of mockery and excitement. I walk in the door and she immediately asks, "Where have YOOoOOuUUu beeeeen? Hmmmm???" As if I'm simply coming home to my curious and jovial college roommate who knows EXACTLY where I've been. My older sister, home for the holidays, follows up her interrogation with a shrill "WALK OF SHAME!! WALK OF SHAME!!" accusation, while my brother joins in on the fun by laughing hysterically, and I ran up the stairs as quickly as my hungover and sore body will allow.
Luckily, my father was not home at the time. Again, not that I was concerned that I might get into trouble. I just can't bear being humiliated by my entire family after a long night of lovin'. Call me (or them) crazy. Unluckily, he came home 2 hours later, heard the absolutely hiLARious story of my adventures and came up to my room straight away to address me saying with a coy smile on his face, "Heard you've been doing some really good things."
Alright, now you choose. Which one is worse?
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
The Parisian Male Model
He was reallllyy hot. So hot, that if I didn't have a boyfriend at the time, it would've been all over. Sold, deal signed, in the bag. BUTTT I had to resist my carnal desires since you kind of have to be, you know, faithful when you're in a committed monogamous relationship.
I was abroad in France. We met at a club on the Champs Elysées. What a hot story to tell our friends, family, and future children if we had married. I approached him--duh, probably my forte. I asked him to dance and let the rhythms of the pornographic techno music take us away on the floor. I wasn't even wearing a low-cut shirt, which is a great life lesson for the girl at work who doesn't even seem to know what a crewneck is: you can get a hot guy without showing him your boobs first.
Nothing happened but I entertained the idea of boning him on the banks of the Seine. Still haven't crossed that one off my bucket list, but I'll get there. I always do. He said he worked between London and Paris as a male model. Do I care if that was true or not? It could've been, so it was good enough for me. He said something along the lines of "Every girl I meet wants to sleep with me" and that American girls were the easiest. They always gave blowjobs, GREAT blowjobs.. HAH. Had he met his match! I hate giving head--at least all the way through. If head leads to sex, sign me up. Call me selfish if you want.
After we were done displaying our feathers of arrogance, the night somehow came to an end, and we exchanged numbers. He texted me the next day asking me what I was doing later in the evening. I said I might be heading out with some friends, and that I wouldn't mind meeting up with him. That's really the only kind of platonic dating you can do when you're committed to someone else. I don't really care if you call that being unfaithful. We were fucking continents apart for four months and I never touched a penis. You should call me a SAINT.
He explained that he'd rather do something alone, just the two of us, like watch a movie. In a bed, I'm guessing. Wow, I wonder what he wanted to do? I gave him a taste of rejection and he got angry. This is the best part about being in a relationship--you can be a complete mindfuck to every cocky guy you meet since you know you can't sleep with them. Don't worry, they definitely deserve a taste of their own medicine.
So, after he finished pouting, I politely asserted via texto, "Guess you don't fuck every girl you meet." And his penis probably inverted while he cried himself to sleep. Mission accomplished.
I was abroad in France. We met at a club on the Champs Elysées. What a hot story to tell our friends, family, and future children if we had married. I approached him--duh, probably my forte. I asked him to dance and let the rhythms of the pornographic techno music take us away on the floor. I wasn't even wearing a low-cut shirt, which is a great life lesson for the girl at work who doesn't even seem to know what a crewneck is: you can get a hot guy without showing him your boobs first.
Nothing happened but I entertained the idea of boning him on the banks of the Seine. Still haven't crossed that one off my bucket list, but I'll get there. I always do. He said he worked between London and Paris as a male model. Do I care if that was true or not? It could've been, so it was good enough for me. He said something along the lines of "Every girl I meet wants to sleep with me" and that American girls were the easiest. They always gave blowjobs, GREAT blowjobs.. HAH. Had he met his match! I hate giving head--at least all the way through. If head leads to sex, sign me up. Call me selfish if you want.
After we were done displaying our feathers of arrogance, the night somehow came to an end, and we exchanged numbers. He texted me the next day asking me what I was doing later in the evening. I said I might be heading out with some friends, and that I wouldn't mind meeting up with him. That's really the only kind of platonic dating you can do when you're committed to someone else. I don't really care if you call that being unfaithful. We were fucking continents apart for four months and I never touched a penis. You should call me a SAINT.
He explained that he'd rather do something alone, just the two of us, like watch a movie. In a bed, I'm guessing. Wow, I wonder what he wanted to do? I gave him a taste of rejection and he got angry. This is the best part about being in a relationship--you can be a complete mindfuck to every cocky guy you meet since you know you can't sleep with them. Don't worry, they definitely deserve a taste of their own medicine.
So, after he finished pouting, I politely asserted via texto, "Guess you don't fuck every girl you meet." And his penis probably inverted while he cried himself to sleep. Mission accomplished.
Friday, January 22, 2010
The Luck of the Irish
A more recent adventure started spring of 2009, when I happened upon a nice, attractive boy...who just happened to have an Irish accent. I hate to say it, but honestly, accents are sooo hot. Granted, there are definitely some that make me cringe (think Southern drawl, South Boston, Valley Girl), Irish accents simply make me melt. Don't worry, I mean, I make sure there are other attractive qualities so I'm not being completely superficial. But the accent just kills me. I think it's because I enjoy experiencing other cultures, and hooking up with people from other cultures is a great way to start.
I met him at this popular college bar. He was working abroad as a soccer coach (Attractive quality #2). He was tall (#3) and hot--jet black hair, adorable freckles, and I think his eyes were hazel. I was trying to shift through a crowded spot in the bar when I became stuck behind some rowdy boys arguing about something incredibly stupid, I'm sure. I literally couldn't move forward, so I just stood there for a few minutes, quickly realizing that the other boys that surrounded me were yapping in some foreign accent that just so happened to be Irish. Aaron, noticing that I was a damsel in distress, mentioned something to me about the predicament I was in. We began to talk, joked with his friends, discussed soccer, America, Europe, etc. Aka, all of my favorite conversation points. Over the next ten minutes, I completely forgot that I had actually intended to simply cut through that section of the bar to get back to my friends.
After the bar closed, he offered to walk me home (how gentlemanly--not--come on boys, I know your true intentions). We kissed a little bit, he went pee on a building--you know, the usual romantic, post-bar, drunken college stroll. He ended up coming up to my apartment because, let's face it, we both know girls want to have sex just as much as guys. It's really not fair that us women are the ones that have to resist and hold off. As my mother always says, if you want to sleep with a guy on the first night, that's fine. Just don't give a fuck what he thinks the next day. And of course, I always tell myself that will be easy, but it never is. Unless it was terrible sex, he's ugly, or you were roofied. Just kidding. Date rape drugs aren't a laughing matter.
Whateverrr. I mean, I wanted to, its done, and what can I do about it now? It was great, though. It didn't last extremely long, but he was constantly rejuvenated, so we could always do it again 5-10 minutes later. No complaints there. I think he still holds the record for # of times in a 24 hour period. We exchanged numbers; I thought he was pretty cool, so I hoped to hear from him again.
Over the next couple of weeks, we saw each other numerous times. He took me out to breakfast, introduced me to his friends, and told me he really enjoyed spending time with me. I'm not saying that I was expecting a fucking ring, but I liked him, and didn't think he was going to end up being a complete douchebag. The damn accent got to his head. I feel like it always does. These foreign boys always realize that the words that come out of their mouths can bed a girl in 15 minutes flat. Kudos to them, cause it certainly works. I've definitely used my foreign language to turn a guy on.
Basically what happened was, he ended up coming over one night after seeing each other for several weeks. We hooked up, and THEN he told me these terrible things like, "This is strictly sexual," "I don't want to see you exclusively," and "I am insecure about the size of my penis so I am going to treat you like shit." He left, made me feel cheap, and I cried. As mentioned earlier, its not like I was telling everyone he was my goddamned boyfriend, but don't men understand that even if you are strictly fucking somebody you still have to treat them like a human being?
So, the next day, I called up my mother upset about this boy. She always brightens my day by putting it in perspective and belittling him (literally). This particular situation, she started off by saying, "You should've told him you were going to Youtube his penis because you've never seen a dick so small!" and "Tell him I'm going to go on facebook and tell all of my friends that he has a small penis!!" Me, crying, immediately turned into me doubled over in laughter, realizing that I don't really give a fuck about this guy.
As my mother always says, "Next!"
Epilogue: Aaron called me about a week later asking to come over. I didn't let him inside. We sat outside on my front steps and he apologized and begged for my forgiveness. Honestly, this is the constant cycle I go through with every asshole I meet. He said he never meant to say those things (probably because he wanted to get laid). I told him that he wasn't worth my time. You know, I was HONEST. I told him how he was a jerkoff. I think we may have hugged, or something, and he left. At the end of the summer he called me all debbie-downer and said he was leaving in a week for Ireland and that he wanted to get coffee with me. I never called him back. Oops. Maybe I'll see him in Europe, and we can have a quickie, since that's all he's capable of.
I met him at this popular college bar. He was working abroad as a soccer coach (Attractive quality #2). He was tall (#3) and hot--jet black hair, adorable freckles, and I think his eyes were hazel. I was trying to shift through a crowded spot in the bar when I became stuck behind some rowdy boys arguing about something incredibly stupid, I'm sure. I literally couldn't move forward, so I just stood there for a few minutes, quickly realizing that the other boys that surrounded me were yapping in some foreign accent that just so happened to be Irish. Aaron, noticing that I was a damsel in distress, mentioned something to me about the predicament I was in. We began to talk, joked with his friends, discussed soccer, America, Europe, etc. Aka, all of my favorite conversation points. Over the next ten minutes, I completely forgot that I had actually intended to simply cut through that section of the bar to get back to my friends.
After the bar closed, he offered to walk me home (how gentlemanly--not--come on boys, I know your true intentions). We kissed a little bit, he went pee on a building--you know, the usual romantic, post-bar, drunken college stroll. He ended up coming up to my apartment because, let's face it, we both know girls want to have sex just as much as guys. It's really not fair that us women are the ones that have to resist and hold off. As my mother always says, if you want to sleep with a guy on the first night, that's fine. Just don't give a fuck what he thinks the next day. And of course, I always tell myself that will be easy, but it never is. Unless it was terrible sex, he's ugly, or you were roofied. Just kidding. Date rape drugs aren't a laughing matter.
Whateverrr. I mean, I wanted to, its done, and what can I do about it now? It was great, though. It didn't last extremely long, but he was constantly rejuvenated, so we could always do it again 5-10 minutes later. No complaints there. I think he still holds the record for # of times in a 24 hour period. We exchanged numbers; I thought he was pretty cool, so I hoped to hear from him again.
Over the next couple of weeks, we saw each other numerous times. He took me out to breakfast, introduced me to his friends, and told me he really enjoyed spending time with me. I'm not saying that I was expecting a fucking ring, but I liked him, and didn't think he was going to end up being a complete douchebag. The damn accent got to his head. I feel like it always does. These foreign boys always realize that the words that come out of their mouths can bed a girl in 15 minutes flat. Kudos to them, cause it certainly works. I've definitely used my foreign language to turn a guy on.
Basically what happened was, he ended up coming over one night after seeing each other for several weeks. We hooked up, and THEN he told me these terrible things like, "This is strictly sexual," "I don't want to see you exclusively," and "I am insecure about the size of my penis so I am going to treat you like shit." He left, made me feel cheap, and I cried. As mentioned earlier, its not like I was telling everyone he was my goddamned boyfriend, but don't men understand that even if you are strictly fucking somebody you still have to treat them like a human being?
So, the next day, I called up my mother upset about this boy. She always brightens my day by putting it in perspective and belittling him (literally). This particular situation, she started off by saying, "You should've told him you were going to Youtube his penis because you've never seen a dick so small!" and "Tell him I'm going to go on facebook and tell all of my friends that he has a small penis!!" Me, crying, immediately turned into me doubled over in laughter, realizing that I don't really give a fuck about this guy.
As my mother always says, "Next!"
Epilogue: Aaron called me about a week later asking to come over. I didn't let him inside. We sat outside on my front steps and he apologized and begged for my forgiveness. Honestly, this is the constant cycle I go through with every asshole I meet. He said he never meant to say those things (probably because he wanted to get laid). I told him that he wasn't worth my time. You know, I was HONEST. I told him how he was a jerkoff. I think we may have hugged, or something, and he left. At the end of the summer he called me all debbie-downer and said he was leaving in a week for Ireland and that he wanted to get coffee with me. I never called him back. Oops. Maybe I'll see him in Europe, and we can have a quickie, since that's all he's capable of.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
That first college hook up.
Let's call this young man...Lance.
Being a bit prude in high school, I really wanted to break out of my shell in college. Thus, the first few weeks of school were spent figuring out how to get as drunk as possible and which cute guys we would (attempt to) approach. I may not have been sexually active in high school, but let's just say that a player standing on the sidelines probably learns just as much about the sport as the MVP. It's just a matter of time before she gets in the game.
My girlfriends and I immediately noticed the athletes. Who wouldn't? They're young, dumb, and hot. I was a serious one myself at the time, so why wouldn't I look for the same in a mate? Between the dorms and the cafeteria social scene, we jotted down on our mental notepads which ones we thirsted for. Freshmen have that oh so squeaky clean slate, so why not dirty it up during the first few weeks at school?
Right off the bat (not to play with sports metaphors too much), Lance caught my eye. I have this weird photographic memory and a strange knack for noticing people in a crowd, so I noticed him pretty quickly and always knew when he was in the "caf". I think I read Where's Waldo too often as a kid. But don't get it twisted; I'm not some crazy stalker girl. I think it's just a natural female instinct. We are quiet, swift, and crafty hunters. We don't just barge into the first solid piece of meat that comes along. We think with our heads, not our genitalia (at least, at first).
Lance definitely held the top spot for guys I was dying to awkwardly run into at a trashy college party. The sex gods must have been watching, because only 2 weeks into school went by and I walked straight into the basement at the lacrosse house with Lance practically spread out naked on a silver platter. And by that, I mean standing by the beerpong table with a shiny red cup in his hand full of beer. Same difference. Seriously, if you've gotten laid in college, it's pretty much the same thing.
Granted I was preeetty belligerent at this point in time, my memory is tuning in a tad fuzzy about the process I went through to get Lance into the bathroom of the lacrosse house. Basically, all I remember is that it was unbelievably easy (weird, a guy, easy?) because only 20 minutes of conversation passed before we were making out in the bathroom upstairs. And then making out led to sex...on the sink...in the shower...which led to me not remembering what the F happened after that. Long story short, we didn't exchange numbers, and if we even exchanged names, neither of us remembered AT ALL.
I mean, go big or go home. Am I right or am I right?
Epilogue: Between my crazy memory and the strenuous process of reasoning my girlfriends and I went through, we figured out who he was...while Lance either pretended that he didn't know me or seriously didn't know that he had stuck his p in my v. FOR AN ENTIRE MONTH. I don't know what's worse...that, or the fact that I didn't really care? Eventually, with a small enough school, he figured it out. And we hooked up again, and again. For an entire year...and beyond. Thus, this little fairy tale is to be continued....
Being a bit prude in high school, I really wanted to break out of my shell in college. Thus, the first few weeks of school were spent figuring out how to get as drunk as possible and which cute guys we would (attempt to) approach. I may not have been sexually active in high school, but let's just say that a player standing on the sidelines probably learns just as much about the sport as the MVP. It's just a matter of time before she gets in the game.
My girlfriends and I immediately noticed the athletes. Who wouldn't? They're young, dumb, and hot. I was a serious one myself at the time, so why wouldn't I look for the same in a mate? Between the dorms and the cafeteria social scene, we jotted down on our mental notepads which ones we thirsted for. Freshmen have that oh so squeaky clean slate, so why not dirty it up during the first few weeks at school?
Right off the bat (not to play with sports metaphors too much), Lance caught my eye. I have this weird photographic memory and a strange knack for noticing people in a crowd, so I noticed him pretty quickly and always knew when he was in the "caf". I think I read Where's Waldo too often as a kid. But don't get it twisted; I'm not some crazy stalker girl. I think it's just a natural female instinct. We are quiet, swift, and crafty hunters. We don't just barge into the first solid piece of meat that comes along. We think with our heads, not our genitalia (at least, at first).
Lance definitely held the top spot for guys I was dying to awkwardly run into at a trashy college party. The sex gods must have been watching, because only 2 weeks into school went by and I walked straight into the basement at the lacrosse house with Lance practically spread out naked on a silver platter. And by that, I mean standing by the beerpong table with a shiny red cup in his hand full of beer. Same difference. Seriously, if you've gotten laid in college, it's pretty much the same thing.
Granted I was preeetty belligerent at this point in time, my memory is tuning in a tad fuzzy about the process I went through to get Lance into the bathroom of the lacrosse house. Basically, all I remember is that it was unbelievably easy (weird, a guy, easy?) because only 20 minutes of conversation passed before we were making out in the bathroom upstairs. And then making out led to sex...on the sink...in the shower...which led to me not remembering what the F happened after that. Long story short, we didn't exchange numbers, and if we even exchanged names, neither of us remembered AT ALL.
I mean, go big or go home. Am I right or am I right?
Epilogue: Between my crazy memory and the strenuous process of reasoning my girlfriends and I went through, we figured out who he was...while Lance either pretended that he didn't know me or seriously didn't know that he had stuck his p in my v. FOR AN ENTIRE MONTH. I don't know what's worse...that, or the fact that I didn't really care? Eventually, with a small enough school, he figured it out. And we hooked up again, and again. For an entire year...and beyond. Thus, this little fairy tale is to be continued....
Sex IN the cities
After many escapades in various cities I've lived in and visited, I often find myself telling and retelling these ridiculous stories about my life. To friends, family, even strangers. Everyone loves them. I'm not trying to sound arrogant (even though I may be...I am a Leo after all), but there's just something about each absurd situation that I get myself into, and perhaps the format in which I narrate these tales, that always has people standing there in awe, shock, or laughter.
I suppose you could say I am some female version of Tucker Max, or whatever else douchebag is out there running around making his life entertainment for others. Don't get me wrong--keep in mind that I AM in fact a woman, and therefore have feelings, fall in love, seek serious, monogamous relationships, and desire to eventually get married and have children. But the single life was made for me.
I thrive in it. I love the chase, the game, the catch, the morning after. The weeks after. The months, even the years, or wherever it takes me (Yes, I have had serious relationships). The conquests, the rejections, the orgasms (err, yes, even the fakes), and the teary nights. I am confident, nervous, intimidating, and intimidated.
But knowing that everyone else is going through this same bullshit, and that this bullshit eventually produces a great guy, a fabulous relationship, and of course, some really fantastic sex, makes every day a little bit brighter, and keeps all of us going. Because, when it comes down to it, where would we be without love? (And sex?)
I suppose you could say I am some female version of Tucker Max, or whatever else douchebag is out there running around making his life entertainment for others. Don't get me wrong--keep in mind that I AM in fact a woman, and therefore have feelings, fall in love, seek serious, monogamous relationships, and desire to eventually get married and have children. But the single life was made for me.
I thrive in it. I love the chase, the game, the catch, the morning after. The weeks after. The months, even the years, or wherever it takes me (Yes, I have had serious relationships). The conquests, the rejections, the orgasms (err, yes, even the fakes), and the teary nights. I am confident, nervous, intimidating, and intimidated.
But knowing that everyone else is going through this same bullshit, and that this bullshit eventually produces a great guy, a fabulous relationship, and of course, some really fantastic sex, makes every day a little bit brighter, and keeps all of us going. Because, when it comes down to it, where would we be without love? (And sex?)
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