Loving You Left Me Bankrupt

Originally written for Thought Catalog:  Loving You Left Me Bankrupt

 

This love, I carry it in a coin purse.

We met over coffee; borrowed a pen from the teller and wrote love poems with laughter, opened a new account to deposit our smiles. We sat and drank cupfuls of possibility, like you were the seed of a good person and I was full of all the potential to draw you out. Like my interest was exponential and your arms around my waist would form a tax free loophole.

You stood in a corner and looked down at my face, asked if I knew how beautiful I was and then paid for my muffin in cash. You wore a sweater that smelled like coffee and asked my shoulders if their bareness was overwhelming. Put your arm across my back and asked me if I wanted to come home with you.

It started the first time I let you touch me.

In a split second, before I could stand up straight, you were a split personality and we split the bill and my value dropped threefold. My kisses couldn’t even shop in the half price bin. My love was going fast andslashing prices and everything must go go go. Like I was the free bin at the garage sale and I hardly had time calculate a tip; my head spinning like a top.

You looked me in the eyes and acted like my pleasure wasn’t worth your time; held my hands to keep me from reaching for a second helping. Moved your lips to form the words that spelled misogyny and silenced the sound of my cumming with your demands as you held up your hands and said stopand only if I’m the one to give it to you.

You texted bullshit about maybe stopping by like my time was only worth $0.74 on the dollar, which is funny given that the last time you were here, you seemed totally fine to take just two bites out of the three different apples in my fridge. Like I hadn’t spent my whole paycheque making sure you’d get fed. Every time you put your hand on my back I got mugged.

You’re a criminal math problem, an economic black hole, a pick pocket in a coal mine waiting for Christmas and I’m pretty sure that last Saturday night when I let you cum on my chest, the balance in my savings account dropped to zero. You’re a dent in my credit score; a reason I have to buy this blanket on lay away.

Your mom called me last week trying to tell me that she had raised a beam of light and I have to wonder if she had the wrong phone number. She wanted to cut me a cheque for time served but I told her the bill was already in the mail. She cried a bit and promised to write the wrongs, in a letter, an apologetic poem, a soliloquy to be performed at Thanksgiving dinner when she’ll look at you and her list of your charms will shrink and cringe, burn up at the edges of fiery cheeks. And while she’ll be thinking of me, you’ll just be asking for another slice of pie. You’ll the rip the crispy skin off the turkey and shove marshmallows and yams into your face and she’ll look at your dad and they’ll wonder if I even have enough money to buy Kraft Dinner.

I’ll complain to the internet, I’ll lament the sorrow, write the words down on scraps of paper and place them into the cracks of brick walls around the city. They’ll commiserate with me; the internet, and the bricks; cold and hard and ruddy red and you’ll throw bullshit birdseed in my direction every couple of weeks just to keep me from starving to death. Be careful, you say as your tongue drips with maple syrup and flies, I heard you’re not from here. It gets cold in Montreal.

But I’ve got enough blubber to keep me warm, the layers have built up over the years, and I’m starting to believe it doesn’t get that cold anyway; cold is a luxury for the rich. I’ll press the snow against my hot cheeks to melt and wash it all away and then my eyes will open up like rosebuds or corner stores on Saturday mornings, slow and patient and eventual. I’ll roll my pennies and stockpile my dimes and when Christmas comes I won’t be a pauper wrapped in rags. I’ll fly home to Vancouver and I’ll tell tales of the time I moved to a city where I only met men who stole my money and heart attacks felt more like a literal command.

Until, on a Wednesday in November, I met an accountant who knew the value of good books. Who padded his way across my chest in degrees, like an eclipse or a quarterly statement, four sharp turns from a Bachelor to a Master. So I smile through the telephone and write jocularity in the steam of my bathroom mirror, a sweet message for a man who might one day get a chance to read it, assuming he has enough to pay the toll; just a few coins for my purse, the late fee on my love.

How to Have Casual Sex: Are You Ready for the Big Leagues?

 

Casual sex is like a sporting event. Anybody with a ticket can show up and scream their heart out but that doesn’t mean they’ll score.  If you want to be Major League and play ball in the Show, you have to put in the prep work, you have to have a game plan and for fuck sakes you have to follow through.

Now it doesn’t really matter which sports metaphors I’m using or how exactly I construct the analogy…the truth is they’re all roughly the same.  Train, get in the game, score as much as possible, and do your best to make sure your opponent doesn’t hate you when it’s over.

The prep work is all about you.  You have to ask yourself a few very important questions:

1. Can you separate sex and emotion?  Before you put your name on the roster, you better make damn sure the uniform fits (because nobody likes when casual Candice becomes crazy Cathy or playful Phillip becomes pathetic Paul).  Take some advice from those ancient Greeks and Know Thyself.

2.  Can you manage your expectations?  You can’t expect to win a Heisman when you’re playing hockey, and there are no grand slams in curling.  You can’t expect to pitch a no-hitter throwing ping pong balls.  So when he hugs you close or she kisses your neck, you have to recognize this as a mating call to bang and not misinterpret it as an invite to spend Sunday together locked in cuddles and talking about your innermost fears and desires (unless there sexual and then it’s a very fragile maybe).  Know what ball field you’re playing on and for fuck sakes, bring the right equipment.

 

The game plan is about you, but it’s also about them; really it’s about how you come off, while you’re getting them off, it’s about performing like a champ and doing humanity (and your gender) proud.  Whether it’s a one-night stand or you’re putting in work for a repeat visit, making sure everyone has an excellent time is paramount; nothing ruins sex like not getting yours.

 

A couple tidbits worth knowing:

1.  Kissing is important; don’t slobber, don’t pounce, start slow and learn to adapt.

2.  Reciprocity is vital; if she goes down on you, you damn well better go down on her and vice versa.  Or if that’s not your thing then say something before she swallows up some babies or he loses brain cells from a lack of oxygen; that’s how bitter people are made.

3.  Girls, do not fake it.  This doesn’t help anyone.

4.  Boys, asking what a girl likes is not the same as asking do you like that? after every move you offer.  Asking what she likes shows you’re there for her too, asking over and over if that’s how she likes it just makes you seem inexperienced and like you haven’t got a clue; one is asking her what she’s into and what gets her off, the other is seeking constant reassurance that you’re a good lover.  Also, just listen to her…if she’s doing her job and letting you know what feels good and what doesn’t, you’ll be able to tell everything you need to from her breathing, her moaning, her all out screaming.

 

Sex, just like sports, is all about the follow through.  

If you linger too long, the ball curves off to the right (and you end up in either an awkward so uh do you need a ride home or even worse a balls to the wall um…hit the bricks chick!).

If you bolt too soon, the shot falls short and the team might be out of the finals (meaning the sex was amazing and they probably would’ve fucked your brains out for the next 6 months…on call…whenever you wanted…except you acted like such a dick and left before she finished saying I’m cummmmmmmmmming.

 

Social protocol, kids.  You have to find the balance between being a kiss ass and an asshole.  Be clear about what you want as there’s a huge difference between “see you around” and “let’s do this again”.  One is a polite exit and one paves the way for another entrance.  Say it with it smile, say it kindly and pleasantly, but say it directly and honestly because nobody wins when you have a confused and enraged past partner banging drunkenly on your dorm room door grown up apartment door at 3am whining about how much they hate you so much right now followed swiftly by a pathetic please just let me in.

 

So that’s it really, the ins and outs (and ins and outs and ins and outs again), of how to do casual sex right.

 

Don’t end up the underdog (unless you like that sort of thing) and go after what you want, just be sure you can handle it before you go throwing your pom-poms in some dude’s face or swinging your bat for the fences.  It’s all fun and games till someone gets benched or ends up on the injured player’s list.

 

And remember, even mighty Casey struck out at least once or twice.

How to Have the Greatest First Date Ever with SSDated

[dropcap]So[/dropcap], SSDated, the object of my internet desires and subject of more than a few of my booze-fueled fantasies, asked me to contribute a guest post. At first, I was flattered. But then, as it typically does, performance anxiety crept in. I mean, I know I can work some magic at my own blog, by myself. But doing it to—gasp—a woman? And a woman whose mere Twitter avatar gets my saliva glands pumping like a fat guy at the bakery? This would take some planning.

I thought long and hard about how to rep my set. I could go charming (“Here’s a guest post about how I always bring candy and a banjo to every first date”). I could play the hard-edged, possibly damaged guy (“My keys to a successful first date: chloroform, bandages, and a Catwoman costume.”). Or I could just give her something that’s so completely out there, she’s bound to be intrigued enough to return my calls (“Sex in the car is awesome. But, man, sex in a space shuttle…that’s the stuff.”)

In the end, I decided to take the more direct approach, and write something about how I’d envision our first date to go.

In the interest of time (and trying to keep this under 1,000 words), I’ll skip right through the first two hours of my trifling dinner conversation. To summarize, I once dreamed of owning my own lumber yard; I spent one memorable summer working as a butcher; I own more comic books than an adult male probably should and I can clap with one hand (not a euphemism, BTW.).

Assuming she stuck around through this (which isn’t likely), I’d try to somehow con her into coming back to my place. While I don’t like to reveal too much about my technique in this regard, let’s just say that when a grown man starts crying and explaining that his dying mother had one last wish to see her son on an actual date with an actual woman, even the hardest of ladies can become very accommodating.

Back at my place, I’d be playing the part of the charmer. Getting her a beverage, adjusting the thermostat to her precise level of comfort, and perhaps even offering her the chance to view the VHS tape of my high school graduation that I keep on hand for emergency viewing purposes.

Soon, once I’d run out of things to say or finished explaining why a grown-ass man has a life-size cardboard cut-out of Ricardo Montalban in his bedroom, I’d try to make a move. Because hours of staring at the science-defying curve of her hips, the light glistening on her mouth, and the way the very fibers of her shirt were straining to hold in all that goodness would be making me dizzy.

I’d start in smooth. Asking if she’d enjoy a back rub or, depending on my level of desperation, setting my pants on fire with a cleverly concealed lighter and screaming for her to help me get them off.

The eventual goal—as it typically is—would be to somehow get her into a position in which she’s sitting on my face. Granted, this isn’t easy to achieve “by accident” (unless I discovered some way to burrow under the couch where she’s sitting without her knowledge), but it’s where I do my best selling. Because experience tells me that when I finally shut up and put my mouth to better use, letting my tongue work at differing speeds and ever-fluctuating rhythms – in perfect sync with her every moan and flex of the hips – women tend to not mind having put up with four hours of my bullshit.

So let’s assume through some miracle of science, SS decided, “What the hell. I’ll make this nerd’s day.” I’d have to fight the urge to simply sit back and stare at this gorgeous ass she’s been kind enough to stick in my face, and go to work. Up and down, in and out. A long, slow lick here. A quick but deep tongue penetration there. A gentle flickering of my tongue along her clit. I’d listen for her breathing to quicken and let it be my guide.

That’s it, she’d tell me after a while. That’s the spot. Right there. And I’d work it like a man possessed. My mouth and tongue going to town like a deranged possum at an all-you-can-eat barbecue. My hands on her hips, holding her steady, feeling her try to buck and grind while my tongue simply would. Not. Stop. Fucking. Her.

So I’d keep at it. Harder and deeper, every muscle of my jaw working in perfect time, moving, moving, moving. She’d be engorged, hot and throbbing, and I’d know it’s only a matter of time. And she wouldn’t believe I’ve kept it going this long and I wouldn’t even remember the last time I took a breath because I’m so focused on working her over and who gives a fuck about breathing anyway when there is a gorgeous female sitting on your face? I’ve spent the better part of my life taking in oxygen, and this is one of those occasions where you simply pull from the reserve tanks and don’t let it fuck up your game, bro.

That’s when I’d feel it. It’s happening. It’s working. I’d give my tongue a solid twist, working my whole mouth (and perhaps even a few fingers) into it. And just like that, she’d throw her head back and scream in approval. And I’d feel my cock start to balloon as she fell back, exhausted, exuberant, satiated, and sat down on my face with full weight, burying me between her utterly fantastic ass cheeks. So engrossed in the moment I wouldn’t even notice the damage we’d done to the stack of mint copies of The Amazing Spider-Man that I keep next to the couch.

And then, right at that moment in fact, is when I’d wake up. And realize I don’t even have the balls to call her and ask her out.

But some day, man. Some day…

By Ken (@Tenacious_Ken)

pantz4Oh Ken.  I would say there are no words to properly describe Ken except that there are.  However, most of them should only ever be utter with warm breath across pillows and under bed sheets.  Needless to say, I’m already planning the wedding.  And the divorce.  And the make up affair.  And then the friendship that stands the test of time.  Or something that sounds more spontaneous and less “planny” because I’ve heard guys don’t like that stuff.  Seriously though, I’m moving to Montreal and you know what’s close to Montreal…Boston…and you know who’s in Boston?…Ken.  Just sayin’.  All jokes and sexual innuendo aside, Ken writes an AMAZING blog with the lovely Ariel who was featured earlier this month and if you don’t read their work…you’re really missing out.  To be honest, I’m not sure who I’m more jealous of…Ariel for being around Ken or Ken for being around Ariel.  But basically…LOVE TRIANGLE!

How To Be a Voyeur (and Other Lessons Learned at a Sex Party)

Something She Said

Stories about sex and dating, screenshots of sexist online dating messages, murder jokes, elaborately long fruit puns–you never quite know what you’re going to get.

Every Exhibitionist Needs a Voyeur…and Other Lessons Learned at a Sex Party

By Ms. Blue

Last night I had a first: a rather titillating experience that quenched my voyeuristic side. You see, yesterday for the first time ever, I attended a…

Sex party.

A private, invitation only orgy, comprised of a horny horde of 40 or so. True story.

The main result? I, a very nervous, repressed (I know that’s a weird claim for a girl who writes for a pretty raunchy sex blog, but it’s my truth), suddenly shy straight girl discovered her inner voyeur, Skye The Gawker (aka STG), last night.

Folks, as nervous as I was about what I was going to see before I arrived**, once the action started on the many mattresses strewn about the floor of our hosts very large living room, STG was transfixed. But how could she not be? There were so many delightfully dirty scenes being played out between couples, trios and even larger groupings of frisky folk. It was a voyeur’s paradise, and my newly found alter ego enjoyed every minute of it.

So much so, that although I never found the courage to participate actively (though I did encourage more than a few to people to go for theirs and then cheerlead loudly when they finally did) – more so because STG didn’t spot an available cock attached to an owner that tickled her fancy (what can I say, watching people get it on for hours makes a randy girl even randier) – she and I can’t wait to attend the very next fuck fest we’re invited to. You see, in addition to STG having the chance to feast her eyes on all the action going on in the room, I learned more than a thing or two, to boot. Things like the fact that…

Every good sex party needs a gaggle of gawking pervs: Though this one may be obvious for some, I thought I’d be the odd non-participant out at the orgy last night. But as it turns out there were a number of ‘regular’ attendees, who much like me, sat happily perched in their chairs watching all the action – with big smiles on their faces. What’s more, the ‘show ponies’ in the room, who spent much of the night getting busy like no one was watching, were all too happy to have all eyes on them. Case in point, the man who turned to thank those of us in the corner closest to him, after his back door had been tended to (very well I might add) by his lady. To hear him tell it without STG and all her fellow gawker buddies intently watching the proceedings “none of it would have been as hot or humiliating.”

Watching sex is just like watching any other form of entertainment: Now people, I arrived at the party convinced that watching people sucking and fucking would be an incredibly awkward and even nerve wracking experience. I mean, only recently have I been able to view the porn without breaking out in hives after about five minutes. But much to my surprise and STG’s delight, watching a room full of people engaged in the most intimate of acts, felt just like watching TV. In fact, I even managed to have a few conversations (however brief) with people who were completely nude as they partook in some rather salacious sexual play, and was nonplussed. The shit was surreal.

You can’t judge a book by its Church Mother cover: Readers, I’m not sure what I expected your everyday, run of the mill, sex party attendee to look like, but I do know that I didn’t expect to see an endearing 50+ woman, with a mane of curly white hair and the disposition of a Sunday school teacher, going for hers – HARD – in the middle of a group of lusty young’uns. Ms. Hallelujah-I-love-Jesus-and-sex-too was so adorable I wanted to pinch her cheeks (the ones on her face, people!) and as another attendee watching her as avidly as I was stated, “Damn, it’s good to know that middle aged church ladies love sex as much as the rest of us do.” Indeed.

Nothing says ‘We’re all having a real good time’ like a female orgasm: Take it from me, a repressed straight girl, nothing – and I mean nothing – tops hearing a bunch of women in a room reach states of genuine ecstasy simultaneously and/or in relatively quick succession over the course of a few hours. Despite the fact that I never got my orgasmic swerve on, listening to woman after woman get off was positively Cheshire cat smile inducing for me. No joke. And based on all the dancing eyes locked on each woman who O-O-Ohhhh’ed her way to bliss last night, I’d say there’s no way anyone can help but get happy, inspired and more than a little bit turned on while listening to the sound of a woman’s climax.

Getting all that you need sexually just might improve the connection – sexual and otherwise – you have with your SO: Our hosts for the evening were a couple in a long term common law relationship, who happen to really enjoy sex – as evidenced by the fact that they host orgies in their home regularly. Now, as the festivities began, they each boldly declared what they wanted to experience that night to the room and then set out to sate their desires…separately. He quickly found two women to play with, while she got into some bondage with a dude and another girl on the other side of the room. They continued to play with and fuck other people to their hearts’ content for most of the evening. But when I did finally spot them communing on their own in the middle of the melee on the mattresses, I don’t think there were two more connected people in the room. As the rest of the revellers spanked, licked and tapped the asses they were holding, those two were straight up making love – constant eye contact, sweet caresses and all. And it was all kinds of beautiful.

Don’t EVER show up to a sex party, without a playmate: People, this one right here is crucial. Last night I went in intending to happily voyeur it up, and despite the efforts of a few people who tried to entice me to play, that’s exactly what I did. That said if I’d had the good sense to have an emergency cock with me, I know without a shadow of a doubt, that my suddenly-shy-sex-party-attending behind would’ve succumbed to the energy in the room and likely added to the symphony of female orgasms. Instead, due to my oversight, I left the party in heat and even though I tried my hand at a little ‘self-cultivation’ once I got home, I fell asleep feeling mighty frustrated. FML. But never again I tell you. Never. Again.

FIN

**My sidekick, Belle and I were so full of trepidation about what we were going to see as we drove to the party that we made all kinds of agreements to stay close to each other, leave early, etc. – all of which we quickly forgot when the action got real hot.

 

Ms. Blue one of the amazing aficionados of amorous activities over at MetAnotherFrog, a website guaranteed to fulfill all your sexual needs: whether you’re looking for advice, torrid tales of tingling entanglements, or just exposure to all the explicit escapades you haven’t yet experienced.  Ms. Blue is a champion of exploration, and for that, my love, I thank you.

How to Handle Getting Stood Up by Never Wasting an Evening

Guest Post

 

[colored_box color=”red”]”If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.” – Oscar Wilde[/colored_box]

When SSDated first approached us over at Met Another Frog for our stories of dates gone wrong, I was hesitant. Not to write for her, that is an honour I was most grateful for, but to find an original story of woe in the dating life I have catalogued so fully over the years.

I am Elizabeth Rose, and I write tales of slutty adventures and humour with my fellow defenders of the filth at metanotherfrog.com, and it is the case that much I have to tell has already been told. But it occurred to me there are several stories, or non-dates I have yet to share with anyone…

Those of wasted evenings and ill-fated nights of being stood up.

I think it might be the worst of any dating experience, that slow realisation you aren’t going anywhere. That this night will never be a tale to tell your girlfriends over cocktails or your grandchildren over cake frosting.

It’s a nothing of a night, where no new connection is made, no new story to be told, nothingness. It’s a bleak feeling. I think the worst of it is that ownership, the feeling of blame, of rejection. A bad date can always be their fault, not mine. There will always be some character flaws to assassinate endlessly at dinner parties to entertain the coupled guests. To be stood up is to be denied that, there are no what-ifs, no stories, no amusing recollections. It is an ending without a beginning and as such leaves me feeling most piqued at such a slight.

The worst feeling, however, is knowing that I’ve done this to others, that there have been gentlemen sitting in restaurants, pubs and bars waiting for Ms Rose, who will never appear. In the moments when you realise they aren’t late, that they aren’t coming, that’s one of the few times I feel any empathy for the men I date. I share with them the sense of betrayal – that this other person has betrayed our possibility, ended us without beginning. I always feel a moment’s remorse to previous slights I have committed. I even sulk briefly, wondering if this is karma, or what of the multitude of possible excuses he might have, that this wasn’t intended.

At the end of it all, my ego and libido will right themselves (they have always been naturally buoyant). I find rather than skulking away with a look of rejection, that leaving with the cute waiter/bar man / innocent bystander, has a way of making me feel better. After all, the worst thing to do with an evening is to end it without at least a small fumble.

 

Ms. Elizabeth Rose is one part of the fabulously indomitable crew over at MetAnotherFrog who regularly widens my eyes with her sexual honesty, genuine support, hilarious wit, and let’s be real…general fucking awesomeness.

How to Have a One Night Stand: with Marky Mark and his Funky Bunch of Felons

 

[dropcap]I[/dropcap] was in a hot, sweaty and loud Irish bar in Allston, MA with some girlfriends. I was barely 21, still in college and had
a steady boyfriend who I was unattracted to and dying to escape. I was trying to escape my own life, really. I had only had sex with two guys so I decided that I was due for a one-night stand. From what I had gleaned from rom-coms and
Lifetime movies, they were supposed to be exciting, thrilling affairs that usually consummated in a marriage proposal or a restraining order.

So I was ready. Back to the sweaty, hot bar. I recall I was wearing some sort of despicable leotard/bodysuit that had snaps at the crotch. Snaps! So when you had to pee you had to forcibly pull down the crotch/metal buttons from your cervix, and then reattach when done to give yourself a severe wedgie.  Why in God’s name I wanted to look like a busty, camel-toed MaryLou Retton is beyond me. But there I was, ready for action, with some cotton/rayon fabric shoved up my twat.

Tommy was with his buddies, hanging out, being cool. He was a cute townie boy – a dose of Marky-Mark muscles in a tight shirt, gold jewelry, and gelled hair. He looked good, not like a fucking slob. I had my eye on him from the moment he walked in.
So what brought me and Tommy together? My usual move: dirty dancing. I managed to bump and grind my way over to Tommy’s section, rubbing my ass against his jean leg as he leaned against a post, smirking. His friends hooted and hollered. “Yo that bitch is all up in your grill! Her pussy’s calling your NAME yo!”
Tommy took my outstretched hands and did a gentle dance, smooth like quiet storm smoove, then grabbed my bucking, spastic hips and pulled me in for a close embrace. “What’s your name?” 
“Ariel.”


“Tommy.”

The conversation continued, shouting over the loud music – “You went to Dedham High? Did you know Melissa Donnatelli?” And so on. “My girlfriend’s from Dot…my boyfriend grew up in West Roxbury…”

“Wait, your boyfriend?”
Oops.
He laughed. “I guess he has no idea where you’re at tonight, huh.”
I dismissed his mention with a shrug of my shoulders.
He gave me a smile, and a cool appraisal.
“So you a heartbreaker, huh.”
I shrugged again, secretly thrilled he would think that I actually had a cadre of guys who gave two shits.
His friends soon came over and interrupted. “We gotta do SHOTS! C’mon man, it’s your turn to buy!”
Tommy gave me a wave and walked off. I played it cool and went back to my friends, but kept one eye constantly on him for the remainder of the evening. I knew it would be just a matter of time.

“LAST CALL FOR ALCOHOL!” the bartender bellowed. There was Tommy, suddenly at my side. “Where you and your girls headed now?”
“Uh, I don’t know, I think they’re going home. But I’m still up for hanging out – what are you guys doing?”
I think we’re headed back to the hood, probably gonna chill and have some beers. Why don’t you snag a girlfriend and come over?”
I hurried back to my girlfriends, who were indeed practically passing out and trying to leave.
“Please please please please come with me! Tommy is so so fucking hot, I really want to go!”
My girlfriends were done and pleaded with me in return to just get his number and come HOME. But I was not to be swayed, a dangerous combination of buzz and horny desperation.


Against my friends remonstrations I left with Tommy and his buddies. Packed 6 deep in a Jeep Cherokee, we hurtled through empty streets away from the familiar and into townieville. I wondered briefly if I would be gang-raped, in a parking lot behind a store. But my drunk bravado and staggering naiveté assured me otherwise. “Nah, Tommy’s a good guy and he really likes me.” This was also reconfirmed as I was squished next to Tommy in the driver’s seat, him holding my hand and telling me how pretty and sexy I was as his friends shouted and punched each other like wild first-graders in the back of the bus.

We get to his place, and it’s decked out like the ultimate bachelor pad. The guys immediately jumped on the couch, turned on the TV and started playing video games. 

“Do you live here with all these guys?” I asked nervously.
“Nah, but you’d think they did since they’re over here ALL THE FUCKING TIME.” He yelled over to them. No response.
I was quickly beginning to sober up and wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into. “Um, where is…your bedroom?”
“Upstairs. But wait, first I wanna show you the game room.”
He smiled and held out his hand so I followed him downstairs. He turned off the overhead lights so the Miller Lite neon sign on the wall gave the room an icy blue and white glow. Not exactly mood lighting, but whatever.
Tommy grabbed me and kissed me hard. “Hey, sexy,” he whispered.
“Hey.” I whispered back, feeling more at ease. We started making out and then he nuzzled in my ear: “ever done it on a pool table?”
“No.”
“Wanna try?”
“Uh, I guess…”

His fingers caressed my boobs, then tried to pull off my top. The resulting ultra-wedgie sent the bodysuit’s metal snaps into my appendix. I squealed like a ferret.
“What the—“ He stuck his hands down my pants, searching for the edge of the
fabric. “What have you got on, body armor?”
“It’s a bodysuit,” I answered miserably. “It has…snaps.”
“Snaps, huh?” He made a devilish grin. “Well, might as well cut to the chase.” He helped me out of my jeans, and I feverishly pulled down and unsnapped the crotch of this heinous piece of shit clothing invented by S & M enthusiasts, then ripped it off and threw it across the room. 

He mistook my rage for passion and hurriedly took off his jeans and t-shirt. Then we just stood there, looking at each other – me with my unkempt punani and gray-white 3-year old bra, him in duck boxers and socks. 

He looked a lot scrawnier with his clothes off. He moved to kiss me. 

We fucked on the pool table. “You’re leaving your socks on?” I said at one point, as it was that exciting and passionate and I was getting rug burn, I mean felt burn, on my ass. “Yeah,” he replied defensively. “My feet get cold.”
I could barely feel his penis inside me, but he thrusted and groaned as if it were a huge weight he had to maneuver with his hips. After my elbow kept falling one too many times in the left corner pocket I’d had enough. “I’m really tired,” I said.
He stopped. I felt about as sexy/sexual as a three-day old fruitcake. We got dressed and made our way upstairs.
His buddies had now either passed out in various chairs or couch cushions, while two were intently watching “A Current Affair.” Neither of them turned around as we went up to bed.

I crawled into the strange bed with the cold sheets and pillows and too-puffy comforter and lay there, feeling numb. When Tommy came out of the bathroom I pretended to be asleep. Soon I was.


The next morning the guys woke us up by banging on the door, then piling into the room. I pulled the covers up to my neck as they practically jumped on the bed and leered and hollered.
“Yo dude we’re fuckin STARVIN man. We didn’t even go to IHOP last night! We gotta get some grub!”
Tommy laughed, got out of bed and went to piss, leaving the bathroom door open.
“Uh, Tommy? Can you drop me off somewhere?”
Tommy poked his head out of the bathroom. “Sure hon. Where do you live?”
“Needham.”
“NEEDHAM?!?” One of the guys yelped. “You live waaaay the fuck out there?”
“It’s off Route 9,” I snapped defensively.
“It’s fine,” Tommy called out. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll take her home then go to breakfast.”
I felt stupid and embarrassed, and just wished I could take a bus; a five-hour trip on public transportation would have been fine compared to this hell ride. But Tommy insisted.

“So,” he said with a smile as he got in the car. “How do we get to
your house from here?”
“Uh…I have no idea.” I had no idea where we were. We could have been in New Hampshire for all I knew.
“We’re in Roslindale.”
Roslindale. Fuck. I’d heard of it, but I had no idea where it was.

“Are you…near the Pike?”
“No we’re not near the Pike!” One of the dudes yelled from the back seat. “We got no highway around here, just the hood – Roxbury, Mattapan…”

Tommy told him to shut up. “We’ll figure it out.”
He did – managed to get us to Route 9. But I still had no idea where we were, and the lack of sleep and creeping hangover did little to fire the sleepy synapses. “Um, take it…east?”
We got completely lost. What should have been a 40 minute ride turned into a hellish hour and twenty minutes, the guys in the back freaking out and cursing like a fucking prison riot was about to break out. I was practically sweating with anxiety. Tommy kept his cool, just smiled and kept saying, “We’ll figure it out.”
I was almost ready to have him stop the car and just let me out on the side of the road when I saw a familiar sign – “Needham Heights 3 mi.” thank God.
I had Tommy drop me off a few blocks away – no need for my parents to see the clown car, nor did these felons need to know where I lived. I didn’t even bother giving Tommy my number, nor did he ask. I just wanted this nightmare to be over.

As I walked away, I heard one of the guys scream out that I was a fucking stupid bitch or something to that effect, and then the jeep peeled off. A suitable ending to a worst night ever. That was the last time I ever wore a bodysuit, or ever went home with a guy. OK, scratch that last part…


[Editor’s Note:  Aside from the obvious love of this story and Ariel for sharing it…I do think we’ve stumbled across a teachable moment and I would be remiss if I didn’t point it out.  So I think we all see the actual sex was a bust, the whole night really, but what is Tommy’s shining moment???  How he handled the next morning.  He didn’t give her bus fare and drop her off in the middle of nowhere.  He didn’t get all pouty and huffy about having to drive her home.  He even did his best to keep the cretins that were his friends at bay.  And that, my friends, is a gentleman.  And it needs to be acknowledged, and others need to take note.  So take note, boys.  A little bit of courtesy goes a long way in the eyes of the ladies.  Just Sayin’]


Ariel is one half of the amazing duo over at KenAndAriel.com, who spend their days making me love them more and more (sharing their dating stories, offering up wisdomous advice, and in general just being awesome).  When I’m not obsessed with reading the blog (where I’ve learned that Ariel and I differ GREATLY on one very important issue…morning sex), I’m avidly following her on Twitter because let’s face it…she’s pretty fucking awesome.


How to Have a One Night Stand: The Unspoken Rules

Guest Post

 

[dropcap]W[/dropcap]ell, here we are nearing the end of June and time is damn near FLYING by.  So far we’ve learned all about

How to handle rejection by getting used to it when Alex the Urban Dater shared his tales, and then Sam from Metanotherfrog told us all about handling rejection in a way that doesn’t give the other person PTSD, and then I gave all my tidbits of wisdom (and genius!) on HOW and WHEN you need to reject someone and how to react when it happens to you.

The following week was all about one night stands…or really…not having one night stands, because of course, things don’t always turn out quite the way you want them to.  Candice talked about all her experience with NOT having one night stands in her preventative post How to NOT Have a One Night Stand, and as a prolific purveyor of the fucking up your own chances at having a one night stand, I couldn’t help but share with you guys just a few (seriously…barely any…and I have a million!) stories of the times I Screwed Myself Out of Getting Screwed.

But as hilarious as those tales of missed connections and fizzled fireworks are, I know what my readers want (what I want!) and that’s real advice and real stories about one night stands…that ya know…actually happened.  And even some real tangible advice about how to behave when they do in fact happen.  And thus, I give you the first of this week’s many posts.  A little ditty by Meghan.  About the unspoken rules of one night wonders:

_________________________________________________________________________________


There are certain things in the dating world that are unspoken rules.


You
don’t ask or tell the number of sexual partners you’ve had after the age of 25. 

A man should always at least offer to pay for the first date, but a woman
should make a polite gesture towards grabbing her wallet & offering her
part. 

It is not appropriate to text someone for a booty call after 11pm at night
unless you’ve already had sexual relations with them, or there is a pre
conceived agreement.

But then there are the rules no one tells you about. The unspoken rules
of a one-night stand. Do you make the first move? Should she? How about oral?
Truth be told, no one wants to get into the etiquette of one night stands,
because it’s easier for us all to pretend we don’t have them.
Except that isn’t the truth.
Whether it’s a trip abroad, a drunken night at the bar, or simply a
first date with sexual chemistry that is palpable, one night stands are no
longer the recreational activity of Pink Ladies on the back of motorcycles.
They’re common. You’ve had one. I’ve had one. They’re everyone’s dirty little
secret. Except the secret’s out, because here’s where we get down to the nitty
gritty of one-night stand etiquette.
1.)  Always, always, ALWAYS use
protection.
 I am not your mother, and if you have sex you probably won’t get chlamydia and die (name that movie), but in today’s day and age we’re educated,
socially aware individuals. If you can manage 6 social media accounts, you can
put on a condom. Don’t expect the person you’re about to have sex with to
supply them either. Always have condoms on hand, as well as any other birth
control devices available. Embarrassed to bring up protection? Then imagine the
awkwardness of a “you should get tested” phone call. Choose the lesser of the
two.
2.) Make an effort.  One night stands are what they are. At best, it’s
raw unadulterated sex, at worst it’s a body to masturbate with. But that body is
attached to a person, and a person who will be talking about said night with
their friends. Nobody calls their friends (guys or girls) to say, “Wow.______
and I fell asleep during Jeopardy last night, and then ate the rest of the tuna
melt before seven minutes of sex before bed.” One night stands are ripe for
analysis, blog fodder and story’s told over hung-over brunches. Don’t be the
starfish (for ladies) or the guy that skipped foreplay. Even a little bit of
concentrated effort will go a long way in how their friends will look at you
when they see you (and they will) and if you’ll get another call for sex or
more. Wear the good underwear, and this goes for both ladies and men- groom/
trim your genital area. Nobody wants to go down on somebody that has a
wolverine growing in their pants.
3.) Courtesy.  Whether or not you’re stumbling back post bar, or someone
is coming over for a “movie night” offer them a glass of water or wine, or a
beverage. Take a few minutes to talk. Even if it is obviously just sex, you can
take a minute to go through the niceties small talk. If it’s late, offer the
person to spend the night or to call a cab for them. If they stay — give them a
glass of water & Advil in the morning. If they don’t, walk them to the
door. The person just had their genitals in or around your mouth, it’s the
least you can do.
4.) So you forget their name, now what?  So you wake up in the morning
with the taste of dirty sock in your mouth, a stranger tangled in your sheets
and a vague recollection of too many tequila body shots last night. Hey, it
happens. How do you deal with it with tact? Well there’s two possible ways this
scenario could play out. One is to look at their wallet while they’re in the
bathroom to check for ID. The second is just to admit you were both a little
tipsy/out of it last night with a chuckle (actually nix the chuckle. Who
actually chuckles?) and it’s a tad blurry. It’s easier to take the couple
minutes to rehash the night of drunken screwing then forever having them in
your phone as “Weird Orgasm Dude”.
5.) So you’ve mashed crotches together, now what?  This is where the area
gets grey. There is the age old stereotype that nothing will ever come of a one
night stand except a lack of respect. Sadly, this can be true. When someone is
introduced to you by shaking your private parts, rather than your hand, it’s hard to
get them to look at you at eye level. That being said rules are meant to be
broken. If the post coital attitude is dismissive and awkward, take it for what
it was and just chalk it up to a number on the headboard. If there is actual
chemistry beyond the bed sheets; and often there is, that is the time to
exchange numbers and see what can happen. It could be nothing, but then again
it could be something. I’ve stood up at weddings of those who met at the bar
during a one night stand. Don’t judge them for steering with their libido if
they are not going to judge you. Never say never.
Oh and most importantly of all, don’t wear socks in bed. That’s just
weird.


Meghan is a fiery little vixen who I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in real life and when we’re not talking boobs, boys or poutine is full of wisdom, but more importantly jokes and a good heart.  I met her through Twitter where she aptly describes herself as just damaged enough to be interesting but she can also be found through her blog Pirate Meghan where you can be regaled with stories about her life (some sordid, some heart warming, some heart breaking), and even learn a recipe or too (hot and sour soup detox…the love story basically writes itself no?) 

How to Screw Yourself Out of Getting Screwed: Lessons in How To NOT Have a One Night Stand

 

[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he first time I tried to have a one night stand I may I repeat MAY have been rushing my young self a little fast.  You see up until that point I had only ever made out with a boy (whose attempts at fondling I’d brushed aside).  But as far as feasts or famines go, I was in the mood for a feast, or at least wanted to get stuffed and in my excitement and never having actually seen a real live grown up man penis before (and by seen I’m speaking metaphorically as the tent was a black hole of darkness…I couldn’t see anything) I was unsure of how to proceed.  And thus…in my overzealousness, squeezed a little too hard…which in turn made sure that he was not.  He suggested I suck his dick.  I was 17 and inexperienced but smart enough to know I wasn`t interested in going down on some random…in a tent…who I was only vaguely interested in…while my entire grad class partied in near pitch blackness…in the middle of the forest…of a logging road…near Harrison.  And thus my first one night stand fell flat…much like his flacid penis.

And for someone as experienced as I, as I look back now, I’ve had a surprising number of near misses, total failures and all out regrettable blunders.  It would appear that instead of being queen of the casual sex…I may in fact be its court jester.

 

There were times when the malfunctions were mechanical (theirs…not My machinery).  There was a fella named Doug when I was in 2nd year university.  He didn’t watch TV.  He didn’t even own one.  I should’ve known right then it would never work.  He was 30.  I was…19…barely.  And his height matched my experience…short.  And while I may have had some trepidation…the problem was really on his end…and his tiny penis…that…well…never seemed to get quite hard enough…and given that I’d maybe had sex twice before (and I’m not even talking with 2 guys…I literally mean 2 times)…well…it was not the little engine that could.  We eventually parted ways with a few shrugs, a few embarrassed smirks, and after he was on his way I’m pretty sure I made some ichiban noodles in my hot pot and watched some sex and the city in the common room, no biggie.  I imagine he went home and cried.  But that’s just me.

 

There were times when location became a problem.  There was the guy from Blaine who I met at the nightclub just this side of the border (for the life of me I can’t remember what it was called).  My friends and I used to frequent the bar on wednesday nights…for the hip hop…for the Americans…for the black guys.  Ironically, Spencer, was as white as white can be.  But he was cute and American and that was good enough.  Only…there were a few hiccups.  You see, Spencer lived with his parents (a fact I didn’t find out till way later and would’ve been helpful to explain the route we took).  When we left the nightclub he suggested we stop by a friend of his place because he was having a party.  Now perhaps I didn’t speak American at the time because I misunderstood party to mean party but not Spencer…to him party meant helping my friends move at 2am.  Um…what…the…fuck.  I sat on a couch.  He helped his friends move.  We ended up making out in a car later.  A makeout session he clearly didn’t deserve given the weird happenings.  But since I wasn’t interested in fucking in a car, at 4am, in Blaine, when it was freezing outside…we eventually called it a night…and I dropped him off at his parents house.  Worst.

 

There were times when excessive substances were an issue (like with Marcothe drug dealer…should’ve seen that coming)…there were times when the presence of a girlfriend only came up after the things had already got rolling…like with Ricky…the firefighter with a girlfriend who said “but I can still finger you”…um…no thanks…I’m all set dude…unfortunately, given that we were both sleeping over at a friend’s house there was no easy exit…so instead I just kicked his ass to the floor)…and then there were simply just those times when the dicks came out just as the dicks were coming out (like with…uh…too many to mention…but when fellas were about to get laid and just couldn’t help talking themselves out of getting some).  Worst, boys…worst.

That being said, there was definitely a time or two when the act of non-consummation was entirely my fault.  Like blatantly, hands down, no question, because of something I did.  And admittedly the thing I did was usually another guy, but there’s neither here nor there.

 

The Bouncer. There used to be this bouncer *cough* at Atlantis *cough* who was such a fine specimen of hot huge beefy muscley manliness that a girl could hardly be expected to be responsible for her actions.  The truth is, I barely remember what his face looked like…but years later I can still picture him in all his bouncing glory.  He’s was a black Adonis.  No question.  And while I didn’t frequent the nightclub, I had seen him more than once, maybe he freelanced, maybe I had just seen him out at the club and in my dreams but regardless, he was hot and I wanted him.

And that’s basically what I told him.  Walked right up to him…and said:

You…are taking me home.  Tonight.

To which he said, with a face chiseled in stone, give me your number, I’ll call you as soon as I’m off.  And so I did.

Unfortunately, I continued to party.  A couple friends and I headed over to the Purple Onion where we had several bouncer/bartender friends who were continuing the night after hours.  Now as far as I can remember the bouncer called pretty soon after.  I told him where I was and he said, I’ll come get you.  Yes.  I said.

Only then I got distracted.  Because you see there were other boys.  And coupled with the boozing and other illicit activities, it was really no wonder that when he showed up, I was already interested in another party with another boy.  In hindsight, I totally made the wrong choice but I was young and foolish and a bird in the hand was better than a hot bouncer in a car waiting outside for me…right?  Wrong.  Life lesson learned.  Always ALWAYS pick the hot bouncer who looks like he could take down the hulk with just a look.

And fyi (before you think…well that’s not really a story of fucking up a one night stand because she still got it on with someone…I did not, in fact, get anything on with choice number 2.  Probably because I sobered up and realized the erroneous decision I had made.  Not to mention I felt like a total dick for having lured the bouncer around to where I was, only to never go down and meet him.  See that’s the thing about being 21, you’re a moron.  And an asshole.  When Mr. Bouncer came around, I never even went down to tell him that I had made a change of plans.  I just left him out there.  In his car.  Till he presumably figured I was never coming.  Total Dick Move.  Worst.)

And those, my friends, are just a few of the many tales I have of one night stands gone awry, or really, one night stands that never even occurred at all.

 

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Sex Fail: How to NOT Have a One Night Stand

Guest Post
[dropcap]I[/dropcap] may be a tad out of my element, as I am usually found tweeting and blogging about cakes – but when I received an email from my friend to come over here and do a guest post, I put down the cake (into my mouth) and started thinking.

She gave me some topics, and one was How TO have a one night stand. Since I have not had very many successful one night stands in the past, I thought it might be more up my alley to write about how you should NOT have a one night stand. And trust me, if you feel you are even approaching any one of the following situations – stop. No sex is worth it, not even drunk sex (ok, maybe drunk sex).

So goodbye cake and pleasantries, and hello sex and swear words. Now I’m not saying any of these stories actually happened to me, but I’m also not saying they didn’t (but not because they did). And thus I bring you:

How NOT to have a One Night Stand:

 *Avoid Foam & Farmers Fields*
When you’re at a outdoor bar foam party, in the middle of what some would call “the boonies” – the music plays loud and the drinks flow freely. You drink them, you dance, you get all foamy. And then you see him. I don’t know who “him” is, but you know in that moment that your foamy bodies need to make bubble magic. So you venture off, wandering (stumbling) around the dance floor in search of that perfect spot. What’s that? There’s an empty corn field behind the bar? Perfect. Or so you would think before you start doing the nasty and end up falling into an irrigation ditch. In one moment, you go from being covered in bubbles to looking like you just rolled around in a pile of shit. Oh yah – and having to walk through the bar to find your friends and then wash the car that finally decides to give you a ride home would only be the icing on your terrible, muddy cake.

*Keg Stands & Childrens PlayGrounds*
The ever-popular keg party, where cheap people gather to get wasted until the cops come. Or, until you find that special someone that makes you want to explore whoever’s home you happen to be in at the moment until you find a bed, and door with a lock. Ok, maybe not a lock because that’s hard to come across these days, but nonetheless. You gropingly search the dark hallways, and find them to be full of people who were smarter and faster then your drunk ass. So you walk. Oh look, a playground. Let’s go up to the top of the slide where no one (except the entire party who walked home past it) can see! Alright, time to get going, let me just take off my pants an—– One. Piece. Bathing. Suit. About now is when you’d start praying the keg wasn’t tapped out.

*Snowboards & The Darkness*So you’re at a female stripper bar where you can pick up the guys who can’t touch the girls on stage so they touch you (who would DO that? *looks away*).  It’s basically like you don’t have to do the foreplay because they PAY other women to do that part. WIN WIN. Near the middle of the night, you will lock eyes. Sure, he may be staring through the legs of another woman, but the point is you connected. All bets are off now. So you go to his house – where does he live? Who cares. You’ll figure it out later. Do you have your wallet? Not important. FOCUS. You start doing things, and you vaguely recall the word “parents” but figure role-play seems fitting after the evening you’ve had. It’s done and it’s dark. Like, really dark. And you have to pee. You get up. You feel around a room that you have no idea what it looks like, for a door you’re not sure exists. *CRASH!* Um…?? *LOUDEST NOISE EVER* Uhhhh…….??? Light on. Snowboard down. If anything, the lesson you learn is: hold your pee.

Aside from how NOT to have a one night stand, I’m starting to think you should also just not drink. Like, ever. if there are any other ways not to have a one night stand that I might have missed, please feel free to let me know in the comments. The worse stories the better so I (errrr…my friend…?) can feel better about herself. Myself. Shit. Maybe I should stick to cake…

Candice or LoveYourCake (as she’s known to her Twitter followers) is a serial tweeter who loves cats and creates cakes and while she does have sarcasm and whining on the menu…they will cost you a bit extra.  Like me, Candice blogs about her weight struggles but also like me never struggles with being awesome, that comes naturally to both of us (I dare you to prove otherwise!!!).  And when she’s not helping me out by guest blogging on my blog Candice can be found creating amazing cakes that she sells to people (well, the ones she can sell before I manage to eat them).  Her magic and wit can be seen on her blog Baked In Vancouver.