A Story of Depravity from the Heart of New Orleans

Live. Nude. Girls.

 

I’m struggling with how I should begin this story. “Once upon a time” just doesn’t seem like the right fit for a tale that for the most part, takes place in a strip club. I’ll just start. I’ve traveled to New Orleans six separate times, and not once was it ever for business. I love the city. Not enough to live there or even stay more than a week. New Orleans just seems confused about who it is. There’s so much history and culture, but it’s also coated with a thick layer of street-urine and bad decisions. It’s the equivalent of someone smearing vomit all over the Mona Lisa.

I’m going to tell you about an experience that occurred the second time I went to Mardi Gras. The following takes place on the morning of the second day. Day one was predominately spent travel-drinking and acclimating ourselves to the swampy air of Louisiana. There were three of us. To protect their future relationships and dignity, I will refer to the other two members of the group using nicknames I’ve assigned them. The group included me, Baby Belly, and Sleaze.

We awoke on day two well rested, and immediately greeted the day by chasing rum & cokes with shots of tequila. Both of which we had purchased the night before. It’s important to note that in New Orleans, you can buy alcohol anywhere; gas stations, Walgreens, Ikea… anywhere. After several drinks, and a hearty breakfast of Cool Ranch Doritos and Skittles, we decided to make our way out into the world. What was there to do at eleven o’clock in the morning though? We were far too depraved for the usual “sight-seeing.” Baby Belly had the idea of going to a strip club. I found myself oddly drawn to this idea. Maybe out of morbid curiosity, maybe because I was still half asleep. What does a strip club look like this early in the morning? Is there a sense of ‘seeing behind the curtain’? Is it weird, like riding in the front seat of your own car? Little did I know that this seed of an idea would grow into a mighty oak of “what the fuck were we thinking?” We took our drinks and made our way to Bourbon Street.

The three of us sauntered into the first strip club we saw, like we had a groupon. As if the universe was winking at us, there also happened to be exactly three strippers working. Not 2. Not 4. But 3. Although, one of them was just playing bar games like she hadn’t had her coffee yet.

[On a side note, I don’t know what strippers prefer to be called. Referring to them as “dancers” seems misleading. That would be like calling a kidnapper a “child care provider.”]

So we sit down, and the other two girls started to cautiously walk over like wild raccoons being hand-fed by humans for the first time. They finally made it over, and things went as well as can be expected. I started constructing a Temple of Doom replica out of singles on one of the their asses, as I am known to do. At which point the stripper turned around and yelled “Don’t stick no dollars in my pussy!” I remember it distinctly because it’s the only time anyone has ever said that to me, let alone yelled it at me. Apparently, I look like a person who goes around sticking currency into people’s orifices like some kind of reverse ATM. I almost had time to be offended before I heard “Ahh! He bit my fucking titty!”

Turns out, Sleaze had paid for a private dance. But since we were the only ones there, instead of taking him to one of the back rooms that every strip club designates for these occasions, she was dancing for him right there in the bar where we were sitting. Apparently he had gotten drunk enough to think that a stripper was showing him affection for any reason other than money. Rather than flirting or asking her out, he took the warp-tube straight to level eight and sampled a chunk of her breast. Luckily it wasn’t hard enough to leave evidence or anything, so we were simply asked to leave by the lone bouncer who was working. The club was so dark and the sun shone so brightly that once we got out the doors, it felt like I was stumbling out of a cave to see the world for the first time. In what would simultaneously become one of my proudest and least proud moments, I was escorted out of a New Orleans strip club at one o’clock in the afternoon, which was perfect because it was time for lunch.

8 Reasons Why I Date Younger Guys

Cougar Paw

 

Technically a “cougar” is a woman who dates men seven years her junior, but I have yet to dip that low so I assume I am still a cougar in training. My current boyfriend is 5 years younger than me and since I’ll be 30 any minute now and I’ve been analyzing why I like to date the young’uns. So here goes:

1. Older men judge too harshly

If you were a nice person you would call me a “free spirit.” I don’t have a long-term plan; I’m a stand up comedian who has a day job that has nothing to do with my college degrees because I don’t want to live on the streets nor do I want a typical career. Older guys ask me things like, “But what about when you’re done with comedy? Don’t you want kids? Why are there so many donut wrappers in your car? When’s the last time you did laundry?” Ugh, no thanks. I’ve been married and I sucked at it. Yeah he was controlling, but I just straight up wasn’t ready to be a responsible human yet and I’m in no rush to get wifed up again. I don’t take well to commands.

There’s probably some psychology mumbo jumbo in there because my stepdad was violent when I was younger so maybe I date younger guys because then I can have the control and they’re less likely to have the balls to challenge me, much less hurt me. It could also be the reason why I like these younger guys to be under 6 feet and with cherubic faces—the less intimidating the better. Fuck psychology, let’s keep it simple.

2. It’s easier to win arguments and feel validated

When you’ve got years of life experience over someone else you can win pretty much any argument on that basis alone. I can recite precedents to prove my validity, I can bullshit like people had to before Google was a thing, and in general condescend just enough to where they feel like I’m an authoritative figure and just give in. It gets a little “sexy librarian” sometimes and yeah you guessed it, we’re into it. Some of the young guys are feisty—these relationships never last with me. I like to be the alpha and normally the guys just fall in line. Sometimes I bribe them with candy and then the fighting is over. See? Fun.

Although, regular conversation stops at a certain point and sometimes I’d sure love if it could go deeper but hey, that’s what my friends are for. Most of my buddies are comedians too, so I’m surrounded by a ton of really smart, really deep and mostly broken humans—literally my perfect matches. I get my intellectual conversations out there and keep it simple with my pups.

3. Sex stuff blows their minds

I’ve been around the block and I’ve learned a lot of things about sex; knowing how much kink I can handle allows me to start it slow and build up to my potential. Younger girls aren’t sure of their bodies and their sexuality yet, so a confident woman who knows how to keep things moving and make it interesting can be pretty alluring. I’m not saying I’m a goddamn panther in the bedroom or anything but I have learned a trick or two to keep me on my game and it is always appreciated.

4. They can usually get it up

You can’t have sex if they can’t get a boner and that’s a fact. That’s why Viagra is covered by health insurance as it aids in procreation. Older guys who’ve already developed drinking problems and/or anxiety from past relationships can struggle with erectile dysfunction and being on the receiving end of that is one of the worst feelings in the world for a woman. Yeah, you were drunk/nervous/tired or whatever, but I’m still going to think it’s because you didn’t like my ass or you noticed one boob is slightly larger than the other. Young dudes are in awe of nakedness and live their lives as ambassadors to Boner City. It’s…pretty awesome. They’ll develop anxieties in their own time but that’s not my problem right now.

5. Their activities don’t bum you out and are super #trendy

Young dudes like to hike, take your dog to the park, eat from food trucks and binge watch Netflix.  They don’t want to sip wine, look at art or go on double dates. They basically just want to go places where they can take fresh to death Instagram pictures and honestly…I’m into it. Hashtag #adventures! These guys are my personal photographers, charting my 20’s for me in one concise little app where I can be immortalized as busy and for having flawless (filtered) skin. These guys aren’t thinking about trying to be the best husband material they can—they just want people to see them balling out of control.  They keep me current with trends and that makes me feel young. Also, the joke fodder I get from them has helped me write at least 10 minutes about dating younger dudes. Thumbs up for that.

6. No one takes the relationship seriously

My friends don’t have to listen to me gripe about a guy’s inefficiencies as a boyfriend because I honestly couldn’t care less. I’m in it for the fun, the sex, and the lack of fighting and judgment. I listen to my friends discuss their engagement rings, the traits that make their lovers potentially good or bad fathers and how their families tolerate them. I don’t give a fuck what my family thinks. The only people who seem to care about the age difference are his parents, but once they’re convinced I don’t want to trap him with a baby (which I don’t, holy shit do I NOT want a baby) then we’re usually cool. Some of my friends seem jealous of my carefree attitude but in their core I know they think they have it better because their relationships are “going somewhere.” Maybe they do. Maybe right now I don’t care.

7. His bros boost my ego

I anticipated being called “grandma” or “Mrs. Robinson” a lot more than I have been…which is not at all. I have not heard one negative comment from any of my lovers’ friends, only high praise. “Nice pull, dude. Older chick, dig it,” etc. I’m seemingly unattainable, dipping into forbidden territory to fuck up social standards. I’m seen as a rebel, sexier than I should be given credit for (because of the confidence that comes with age and experience) and my stories are valid and interesting to them. I give advice on how to get women (respectfully), and at the same time maybe I advise them on how to pick a credit card and start trying to build their credit for their futures. Or maybe I tell them where the napkin goes at dinner. I give off a super mom vibe but seriously who doesn’t love moms?

8. Respect from other women your age

I get a lot of props from women 30+. My cuties look great in pictures and pump up a boring dinner party by upping the sexual atmosphere and keeping everything fresh and relevant. I’m a little bit of a hot mess, and the fact that my guys don’t seem to be bothered by that elicits comments like “He’s just 100% into whatever you want to do, isn’t he?” Yep. “He can fuck you morning or night, can’t he?” Yep. “Do you guys go out on dates and stuff, talk about life?” Totally. I really can’t complain.

Oh wait, yes I can. I’m a female human so it’s kind of my intrinsic right. Before you think this is a free-for-all awesome amazing fun happy time, there are some cons: for one, porn these days has stepped up its game to the point where I either need to ban it from our relationship or learn how to compete with it. This concerns me. On the positive side, it makes me stay in shape and keep stretching to keep myself limber. They’re also super active outside, and I have been sedentary in an office job for years. But again, they challenge me to keep myself active. Those 20 years of ballet only come in handy in the bedroom these days but I’m in better shape now than I was 5 years ago, because of that pressure to keep up. These guys literally keep me young.

So if you’re a chick in your late 20’s to early 30’s (possibly even a divorcée like myself), looking for a fun relationship judgment-free, consider fostering a cougar pup for a while. But make sure they have a smart phone to keep you socially present or else what’s the point, you know? Enjoy.

A Day in the Life: Registered Nurse

Nursing

 

A Day in the Life: Registered Nurse in a Pediatric Hospital

6 a.m.   Alarm goes off.  Firecracker out of bed, wash face, brush teeth, put on scrubs, put on oh so sexy compression stockings using special rubber gloves (waste of time*), cram breakfast, lunch, and dinner in bag, jump in car, and on the road by 6:13 a.m.

*Compression socks are basically knee high socks made of spandex, measured specifically to fit your leg and apply a certain amount of pressure.  Nurses wear them to prevent sore legs and nasty looking varicose and spider veins when we’re older.  They are really tight and I have to put them on with special gloves that have grippy things on them because you can’t just pull them on or it’ll ruin the tightness if you keep stretching them, so I kind of have to roll/massage them on with the grippy gloves.. That’s why it’s a waste of time, takes like an extra 5 mins to put socks on!!

6:30 a.m.   No free parking available on the street – ugh – I loathe construction and early birds! Begrudgingly park in the pay lot underground.

6:40 a.m.   Switch into sexy nursing clogs (I complain but they’re the best back saving purchase I’ve ever made).

6:45 a.m.   Check the list to find out which unit I’m working on 10 minutes before starting my shift (ah the life of a float nurse!*).  Please not oncology, please not oncology**… oh thank goodness, general medical floor!!

*Float nurses don’t work in the same unit every day.  I’m trained in a variety of places and basically fill in when there is a sick call or vacation coverage (unlike a ward nurse would be on the same unit all the time and have a permanent position in that one unit).

**My dislike of oncology is just a personal preference.  It is really hard/sad working with on this ward – the kids are so incredibly sick, they’re in there for such a long, and they don’t always go home any better, they often get sicker and sicker and lots of times they end up dying.

7:30 a.m.   Finish report which seems to go on unnecessarily for 30 minutes, call bell rings… already? kill me… this is going to be a long day!  It’s parents ringing me to weigh their baby’s poopy diaper… really? really? leave it on the scale… I’ll be in soon.  Ugh… new parents…

8 a.m.   Find myself a 6″ space in the tiny med room, amongst 10 other nurses, to crush 17 tablets using ancient pestle and mortar, mix with water annnnd someone bumps me! Meds on the floor!  Start again.  But wait, we don’t have any extra meds in the unit, call the pharmacy… and wait..

10 a.m.   Finish morning assessments, attempt to chart, but alas! med student has stolen my clipboard.  Hunt down med student, who then proceeds to ask me 1001 questions that could be answered by looking at the paperwork on my clipboard (that he stole), answer his questions… trying to walk away… im in a rush… steal clipboard, find somewhere quite to chart… and call bell… ugh

10:15 a.m.   Morning break (at last!).  Get me out of this mad house! Take my food and get OFF the unit… outside I go… 30 minutes to eat and do personal errands, pay VISA online, book massage, talk with friends, etc… and back to the unit.

10:45 a.m.   Back to work.  Bells ringing, parents complaining, med students taking up my precious time.

12 noon   Next round of vital signs… quick, easy, done, relax

12:45 p.m.   LUNCH!  I need to microwave my food, wait 6 minutes while the powerless microwave attempts to reheat my leftovers.  I give up, I’ll eat them cold.  Weakness setting in, too lazy to leave unit and get some vitamin D, laze on couch for 45 minutes staring at a TV that seems only to ever play TLC or food network…

2 p.m.   Parents needs a break.  Yay!!  I will gladly cuddle your baby while you go for a walk…Yay! baby time baby time baby time!!  This is the highlight of my day!!

3 p.m.   6 year old’s IV “falls out” (ugh uncontrollable orangutan).  Call IV team to restart IV, 3 nurses and 2 parents hold down 6 year old while hearing damage worsens with every second longer this takes and blood curdling screams ensue.  Failed 1st attempt, I don’t blame them, this kid is squirming like crazy!  2nd attempt, oh great, now he knows what’s coming for him.  More squirming, more force applied, deaf in one ear, success!!  Give him a popsicle and prize from the prize box, and now we’re best friends again.

4 p.m.   Check more vital signs.  Parents don’t want blood pressure or temperature done on their napping child because it will wake them (if we can’t monitor your child who is sick enough to be in the hospital, then you should probably go home and nurse them back to health yourself!).  Educate parents on monitoring, don’t give me those sad puppy eyes, I’ll come back in 30 minutes and try again.

4:30 p.m.   Child still sleeping – Sorry I need to do my job and monitor your child.  Parents hate that I’m their child’s nurse today.  Vital signs done, child still asleep!  Yes, praise me, you want me back now don’t you…Super stealth nurse…the stealthiest!

6 p.m.   Shift ending soon, watching the clock hardcore.  Charge nurse phones and wants me to take an admission?  with only an hour left on my shift?  Obligingly say yes.

6:30 p.m.   Where is my admission?!  Call Emerg…on their way up…finally!

6:40 p.m.   Start admission.  Get report, do vital signs, tour parents around, chicken scratch some charting down… the entire time I’m thinking I refuse to stay late, I refuse to stay late, I deserve to have a life, I refuse to stay late, I m leaving on time dammit!

7 p.m.   Where is the nurse I need to give handover to?  Not here yet?  Great.  Wait.  Wait.  Wait.  Watching clock, pacing floor.  Ah there she is, still has her bag on and hasn’t settled in yet, too bad… I’m outta here… give report, and twelve hours after starting my shift, I clock out…

7:12 p.m.   Forgot I parked underground.  Wait in line to pay along with the 100 other nurses who parked in the parkade and all get off at the same time.

7:40 p.m.   Get home.  Consider spending the next two hours daydreaming…but there just isn’t enough time in the day.  Instead – eat, shower, pack lunch for tomorrow, crawl into bed

10 p.m.   Must go to sleep… alarm will go off to do it all again in 8 hours

11 p.m.   Shit!  Still awake.  Can’t stop watching Glee.

Midnight   Come on mind, turn off… go to sleep… alarm will go off in 6 hours now!

A Day in the Life: Female Comic

Female Comic

 

A Day in the Life:  Female Comic 

9:00AM  I flutter my eyes open briefly as my boyfriend (Aristotle, also a stand up comedian) gets up and starts getting ready for work. The minute he leaves the bed I roll over and spread out, face down, head under the pillow as I cling to a few more minutes of precious sleep.

9:15AM  Aristotle comes in and hands me my breakfast sandwich and then starts the coffee maker. If I’m in a loving mood I will start the coffee maker, but this is a rarity. I eat while I watch him putter around, packing his bag. He kisses me good-bye, and I get my phone out and tweet for half an hour to an hour and check my Instagram comments to make sure no one called me fat.

10:15AM  I get up and get ready which usually involves throwing on jeans and a t-shirt, curling my hair a little bit and flinging on some mascara. I throw my notebook in my bag, check twitter again, toss some Trader Joe’s snacks in my bag, lock up and say bye to my gay Asian roommate who is coming home from the night shift. I head to work.

11:15-ish  I park in a garage down the street and walk to Flappers Comedy Club where I am the “Guest Appreciation Manager” which means I manage the people who call you about tickets and I run the Barkers (street promotions team). I am also the liaison between the office staff and the programmer for the website (since I used to project manage website redesigns) and I help out with social media tactics since I was the social media manager at the Improvs in south Florida and the chick who does it at Flappers is my bestie so I advise her on comedy-related tactics.

12:30PM  I text or DM with other comics (mostly males) asking where they’ll be getting up and if we reach a consensus someone will usually put my name down on a list somewhere so I can make it after work or I’ll just show up and hope to have my name pulled in a lottery. We all check The Comedy Bureau (run by Jake Kroeger) for mics and if it’s a slow night I’ll just go see a show with some awesome headliners. Carpooling is the best; when that works out the whole night is better. Even if I have a booked show later I like to try to hit a mic first as a warm-up. I’m a glutton for punishment, you see.

2:0oPM  I go try to bond with my employees and drink another cup of coffee. I sync up a podcast episode (usually one that a fellow comic is on, which I saw on a Facebook post) and zone out while I do boring stuff for hours.

4:00PM  I eat whatever healthy, low-calorie crap I packed so I don’t eat again after that unless something bad happens. It’s L.A. and I was a ballerina for 20 years, so I feel the pressure to be skinny (as well as hear my mother’s voice in my head).

5-6PM  I am completely focused, barking orders at my employees while trying to boost morale, discussing comedy with my co-workers and constantly thinking of ways to get butts in seats for the club. I have some major projects too, so I have like eight running to-do lists. I don’t have much time to tweet or write, but I squeeze it in every hour or so. I close up my computer and bail unless I’m on a show at the club. Flappers has open mics around this time during the week but I don’t go up on them often.

7:00PM  I leave the club and go to an open mic within a 20-minute drive. My usual haunts are Amsterdam Café in North Hollywood, Sardo’s in Burbank, Echoes Under Sunset in Echo Park or Jake’s in Pasadena. During this drive is when I make a phone call to one of my non-comic friends (mostly dancers) just to try to maintain a semblance of a normal life. Usually before 8pm it’s a dead room with mostly male comics staring at their phones, but at least I can verbalize some of the garbage that’s been spewing in my head all day. I bring my notebook on stage and record my set with my iPhone so I can listen to it later while I’m banging my head against the steering wheel and wondering what I’m doing with my life.

7:30PM  I’m at the mic, either head-down in the back with my notebook or chatting with my homies. There are a couple of female comics sometimes, which is always exciting for me. True story, the ratio of male to female comics is like 100 to 1! I try to make friends with everyone. Often times at mics I’ve never been to before the male comics ignore me because they think I’m a groupie or a bimbo (even though I dress down) but then once they’ve heard my set I usually get a few interesting conversations out of it and maybe even a friendship or booking. I mostly discuss horrible, awful, dark things that get groans more than laughs and male comics seem to appreciate that.

8:00PM  I head to my show, sometimes needing an escort to my car. Going to mics alone can be intimidating, especially for a woman. A couple of weeks ago a crazy guy was following me down the street in Pasadena and I got lucky a cop came around and walked me to my car. Not that I can’t handle myself I mean I carry a knife and I dress down but still, it’s a little scary and shit happens. A lot of these mics are in dive bars where the clientele are less than stellar in terms of sobriety and ability to act like humans. I should buddy-up, as they taught us in Girl Scouts. Easier said than done, what with the crazy erratic schedules of comics.

8:30PM  I’m en route to my booked show. Recently I was booked in Manhattan Beach, sometimes I’m in Los Feliz or Claremont, next month I’m in Covina, etc. The host or whoever runs the show usually knows who I am and recognizes me, sets me up in the green room or at the bar, and gets me water (I don’t drink).

9:00-ish  The other comics show up and once they know I’m a comic too they either say hi quickly or walk away and get out their phone, notebook or recording device and do their own thing. I really don’t actually get hit on that much so more than likely they’re going to go away and write. I’ve made a lot of good friends from doing booked shows where I was alone because I’m basically a male comic in a female comic’s body. After my set I chat with audience members who are usually men who say things like “I don’t like female comics but you were funny” or women who say stuff like “Get it, girl.” So I leave motivated either way. Nights that I’m booked at my home club of Flappers I get home later because I hang out a lot longer since I have many friends there.

Midnight or later  I make the decision to either call a female comic like Lauren O’brien or Delanie Fischer and try to meet up and hang out at the Improv on Melrose or with my best buddy Erik Myers at the Laugh Factory or just go home. Hanging out is the best way to meet people and get booked but it can be very taxing when you have a day job. I’d also never do it alone. Sometimes comics come over to our apartment because we have an awesome patio, which makes for great smoking/writing sessions.

1AM I return home to North Hollywood to find Aristotle either already home or en route after shows of his own (or he’s about to scare the shit out of me and Vine it à la his “Scaring @craydrienne” series). We put on gym clothes, smoke some weed, and go work out for about an hour, catching each other up on our days as we do. His hustle is similar to mine, and he learns more about what it’s like to be a female comic during every chat. After cardio and weights I do ballet stretches at the bar because if I go too long without dance in my life I get stir crazy and this is my time to think about my jokes and what I would’ve done differently and how I want to take a joke to another level.

1:30AM I’m in the zone. I look at my hand where I’ve written a one-word prompt for each of my newest jokes so I won’t forget to do them onstage and the sweat starts to seep through my hands and the ink smears as I absorb the material and decide in that moment whether I want to continue working on that joke, table it, or scrap it for good. Sometimes I’ll just tweet it and see what kind of reaction it gets, but it can be difficult to fit an entire bit in 140 characters.

2AM We get home from the gym, shower, tweet, smoke again, put on Buffy, make love and pass out. We’ve been together 2 years but with the slight amount of male attention I get being one of very few women in the field I have to keep reminding Aristotle that he’s the one I want and that I will always come home to him. Again, not a lot of people hit on me, but enough to make him puff his chest a little so I have to keep him happy…if you know what I mean.

3AM We’re about to get up in 6 hours and start everything all over again and I can feel my jaw clench as I think about what’s next for my jokes and my career and whether I’m starting to look old and if I should be thinking about having a regular life and then I pop up and write down a tag for a joke really quickly before laying back down. Aristotle tickles or rubs my back and I feel myself drift off to sleep. This is my life, at least for now.

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?)