The 34 Year Old Virgin

Hi, there.

No, we're not dead. Well, I'm not.

In fact, I'm a bit rage-y lately. That boy that turned me into the Southern Girlfriend? Let's just say things didn't work out and it was 100%, utterly, and completely of his doing. Oh, and remember the one I wrote an open letter to (who I've been calling Fuck You Guy)? He came back in the picture and is throwing my li'l heart for a loop. Anyway, there's a touch of background to why I'm about to share a story that sums up in a really mean thought. And yes, only a thought, because try as I might, I'm a good girl at heart.

Ahem.

A few years ago, I had recently broken up with my first real, long-term boyfriend. I had done the grieving (there wasn't a lot) and had gone on a few dates. I'd even spent some time out of town, but then returned to the big(ger) city. Upon my return, I met a guy at a party who was totally not my type, but I was so drunk I started holding his hand. Things just happen sometimes, right? Anyway, he was a gentleman and drove me home, making zero moves. I promptly forgot about him.

A few weeks later, I get a text from him. Turns out that a friend of a friend had given him my number, and he thought I was cute. I was flattered, and agreed to go out with him, even though I wasn't sure whether I wanted anything to happen. This one time turned into a few times, and I got to know him more. Turns out that he's what we non-churchgoers of the bible belt call a Super Christian. Along with weekly church services, little to no drinking or swearing, and general goodness, most Super Christians also believe in abstaining from sex until marriage. That's right - I was dating a guy who was a 34 year old virgin.

I didn't believe it at first. I mean, really? So I dropped some hint-y questions. He never said, "Yes, I'm a virgin," but he also never said that he wasn't, either. One night, things got hotter and heavier than usual, and he asked if I wanted to go to the bedroom. I was curious, so I went for it. The heavy petting continued, and he started to awkwardly undress me. All the while, my mind was racing - "Has he done this before? It's pretty awkward. What would Jesus do?" All I could muster was to ask, "I thought you were a good boy. Are you sure you want to do this?" And he jumped up, ran to his dresser, and grabbed a brand spanking new box of condoms. In response, he said, "Would a good boy have these?" In my mind, I thought, "Why, yes, yes a good boy would have a box of condoms that he bought roughly 6 hours ago," but my mouth played along and said, "No, I suppose not."

Anyway, things kept going, and if you've ever stolen someone's innocence, you can guess how bad it was. He placed himself very much in charge and was not open to any suggestions. My comfort and pleasure were not important, and there was only one goal in his little mind. It became more and more apparent that he was, indeed, a good boy. Once his mission was accomplished, I got dressed and left. We kept in touch, but just barely.

Here's the part that I love, though. To everyone else he's ever met, he's still a virgin. To his fiancée, he's a virgin that will be giving himself to her on their wedding night. To his friends, he's as pure as the driven snow. I have friends who are married to his best friends, so I know the truth of this to a very comfortable degree.

Knowing that he's harboring this sinful secret, I really, really, really want to tell someone. The ultimate fun would be showing up at his wedding and speaking up instead of holding my peace. But really, in the society of this little corner of the word, I'd ruin his life and end his marriage before it started. Instead, then, I'll bite my tongue and keep my dirty secret. My uncomfortable, zero fun, sinful little secret.

HAPPY DATING!

Blondie and the hottie from the gym

** Today we have a guest post from Blondie, who has agreed to share some of her dating adventures in the city. Like some people we know (ahem) Blondie is enjoying a fairly fresh foray into singledom, making good use of the wonders and joys of the Internet. ***

Friday night was supposed to be my dating night off. Thursday night I had been with a couple I see, and I had a date on Saturday with a guy I've been seeing for a little while - so Friday I was going relax and give my "body" a rest.

I ended up going out to the bars with a couple friends. The plan was just to have a beer or two, go home and watch a movie. Well, I get to the bar and we hang out a bit and I realize that this guy who I've had a massive crush on at the gym is there. Not some guy I've seen - but a hot 6 foot 7 inch tall basketball player I've been watching while I cool down on the track for the last 5 years.

I tell my friend the story and he talks me into talking to the guy. Long story short - I talk to him and end up going home with him that night. Yep - I got to sleep with my gym crush. But that's not all.

Side note - this gym guy ends up not being very bright. It was an interesting situation for me - I felt like one of those guys who sleeps with hot dumb chicks. While we were hanging out post sex, I was found myself having an internal debate about hotness vs. intellect. Does his hotness make up for lack of smarts? Would I ever dare bring this guy around my friends? Would I be comfortable keeping a guy around for sex just because he was hot, even if he wasn't that interesting to talk to? (I appreciate that this might make me sound like an asshole but I have smart friends and they would call me out on this.)

But, the sex is fun, I have a good time. And, oddly, after sex, he hung out completely naked until I left. He was up walking around, doing all kinds of things. I thought it was cool how comfortable he was, most guys throw on a pair of boxers or something. Though I guess I could have done without him leaving the door open and looking at and speaking to me while he pissed.

As we're hanging out afterwards, he asks if I want to spend the night. I say no because, quite frankly, his apartment was kind of a shit-hole. I don't quite understand how a 32-year-old guy with a professional-type job could live like that. Anyway, I say no thanks and go home at about 3:30am or so. When I got home, I sent him a text saying I made it home safely. He didn't text back until the next day, but this is the conversation:

Me - I made it home safely.

Him - Who is this?

Me - Uh ... Blondie. The girl you slept with last night.

Him - Haha, no seriously, who is this?

Me - I am serious. Don't you remember?

Him - I'm in Seattle with my fiance. I think you have the wrong number

Me - HA! You're right. Wrong number. That's hilarious.

Well.

It turns out that I don't have the right phone number for this guy. He just gave me his number, I didn't give him mine. So now, not only did I hook up with the hot dumb guy, but I'm the one who never called again. Part of me feels a tad bad about that, but part of me thinks it's a little funny, if a bit of a bummer because I would like the option of sleeping with him again ... but c'est la vie.

Captain Obvious

I am happy to say that I am seeing a card-carrying member of the Human Race now. New One and I went to the Apple Store last night and bought a computer for him. That's not what this is about, though. This is about the unwelcome drunk texts I got from a previous fling-guy this past weekend.


(FRIDAY/SATURDAY 2:00 A.M.)

HIM: Are U in?

ME: Functionally asleep. Goodnight. Been lights-out for almost an hour now.

HIM: What floor are you on again?

ME: Shuddap.

HIM: But I am in the elevator.

ME: You have a home to go to don't be weird like this.

HIM: The only weird part is that you don't want to f#ck me.

Me: You're being really weird now and by weird I mean illegal.

HIM: Okay, if U say so.


(SATURDAY/SUNDAY 2:10 A.M.)

HIM: Hi. Sex? I like it :)


(MONDAY, 6:09 P.M.)

HIM: Sorry about Saturday. I was drunk which is never an excuse! Sorry!


This evening New One and I are going to dinner and a movie. My phone will be turned off at night from now on.

Dear Serial: Is this legal?

Dear Serial,

I attended my cousin's wedding. Yes, the reception was open bar. There was a guy there and... truth be told, I knew he was on the Bride's side too because he managed to sit next to me at the wedding proper. We exchanged pleasantries and photos of the wedding.

Later, we ended up running away from the celebration and mindlessly making out on streetcorners throughout downtown Major Midwestern City. We have since done the other rather more naked things that people tend to do.

He is my father's brother's widow's great-nephew. There is no real blood connection so we think we might be okay (despite the fact that we are both the black sheep of our families). Oh, yeah, and I don't really look my age and he's 12 years younger than me. Still, is this illegal? He's 23... so it's probably legal in most states.

Help me,
"Sophia"

Dear Sophia,

I had to draw a picture to get this one straight in my head.



OK, so I'm not really great at drawing family trees (And I totally gave him Justin Beiber hair). Basically, it looks like while you guys are of the same generation. I'd go so far as to say you're family, but I'm not pulling the incest card. I googled family relationships and looked at some charts written by people who understand this shit, and I don't think you're actually any kind of cousin, not even a cousin 14 times removed.

As for the age, yes. You're cool.

So, legally, we're all good.

The real question is whether it's OK, morally. And I say, yes. Not only is it OK, morally speaking, but it's pretty hot. Forbidden fruit, but without the yucky concerns of arrest or babies with arms growing out of their foreheads.

Fact is, people are supposed to hook up at weddings. That's what weddings are for. It's not about the couple. Weddings exist for the purpose of making old ladies cry, giving people the opportunity to dress up, and giving all of us an excuse to get wasted and get laid. Even if you're humping a way younger, almost-relative. Or, maybe especially if you're humping a way younger, almost-relative.

Rowr.

Love,

Serial



Got a question for Serial Monogamist? Oh, sure you do. Send them to seriallymonogamous[at]gmail[dot]com

All about ass

*** Today we have an anonymous guest post with a little (though direct) message for the fellas ***


Hey, so I just want to say, from a woman's perspective, for all the guys out there: I do not want you to put things in my ass. If I do want you to put something in my ass, I'll go ahead and tell you. Otherwise, maybe it's safe to assume that no, I do not want you to put your dick or your finger in my ass.

Seriously, every dude I'm with, when we're going at it, and I'm getting close, will grab hold of the cheeks (THIS IS GOOD!) and then a finger will wander southward. THIS IS NOT GOOD. I'm trying to focus on getting off, I do not need to be thinking, "Oh, god, is he putting his finger in my ass? What if his finger smells afterward?" It's just goddam distracting. The thing is, guys, women do not have prostates. So applying pressure to my arse doesn't feel the same for me as it does for you. Are you trying to tell me you want me to put my finger in yours when you're about to come? If so, then tell me by TELLING ME. I'll do it. No biggie. Don't tell me by sticking your finger in my pooper.

Now, I know some women are into anal. You know what though? They're into it. They'll ask for it. Or, you can ask them for it, and they'll agree to it. Don't test the waters by trying to dipstick a test run. Among other things, if you shove your peter in my crapper, you then can't stick it in my vag. There are bacteria that live in the back door that should not go to the front (this is where the whole "front to back" thing comes from).

Thank you.

One night stand gone wrong

Most women have the occasional low self-esteem low points. Some women live in that space chronically; we call that having “daddy issues.” One of my worst low points wasn’t daddy related, it was wicked painful breakup related.

I went out solo one night, just because I couldn’t stand to be at home alone another night. My cats were starting to look at me like, “Girl, get the fuck out of here, you’re depressing us, and we’re cats. We always mope.”

So I was sitting alone at the bar, and in walks Chester. He looked vaguely familiar, and when he started talking to me, he told me why. Apparently he and I worked together, or at least for the same company. But we were in different departments, on different floors. We’d never met before, so we chatted for awhile, mostly about work.

No point getting into the nitty gritties here, you guys know where this is going. I got drunk. We made out in the park, we went back to his place. We fucked.

The thing is, he had a nice body. Tall, lean, strong, and, well, nice machinery. So in the morning, when he felt randy again and my head was still swimming in Coors Light and Jaeger bombs, I let him go for it again, and he got me off, again.

Then I looked around as morning filled the room, and memories started coming back to me. There, on the wall, was the picture of his daughter. She looked like maybe she had a touch of the down’s Syndrome. There, on the nightstand, was a photo of his girlfriend. She had Sally Jesse Rafael glasses. There, on another wall, was a poster: A wolf on a cliff, howling at a purple moon. And the thing is? I knew it wasn’t ironic.

I remembered how, the night before, he kept calling me sweetheart and asking if I was OK, if I was comfortable. In my wastedness, I giggled at him and asked why, “Well when an angel falls into your lap, you have to do what you can to hold on.”

As all this flooded back, all I could think was Oh, shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

So then he rolls over and tries to go down on me, again, which, I admit, I have a hard time turning down, but as sobriety reared its ugly head, I just needed out. I pushed him off, told him I needed a ride home.

“What’s wrong sweetheart? What happened?” he asked. I cringed when I looked over and saw his awful bowl cut. I remembered that he’d been wearing a Doors T-shirt last night. Tucked in.

Jesus Christ.

“I’m sorry, I just need to go,” I said, tearing around his room looking for clothes.

We got in his El Camino (I am NOT making this shit up). He drove me home. In the driveway, he paused, and seemed about ready to ask a question.

“So,” I said, “I don’t think we need to, like, talk about this. And I really don’t need you to tell anyone at work.”

“What, really? Just one night? That’s it?”

I felt like I was the man. And what I wanted to say was: “One night stand, pal, what do you think that means?”

What I said was: “Chester, you have a girlfriend.”

He nodded, but then tried to tell me again that they were on the outs.

“Nope, I’m sorry. I’ll see you around. Bye.”

I still see him at work from time to time. In the parking lot, or in the hallway. I try to avert my eyes, or just say, “hello,” in the exact same tone I use with all the people I don’t know, but he always smiles brightly. Wistfully, even.

I wonder if he’s told anyone sometimes. But then I think that even if he did, they probably wouldn’t believe him.

Taking Out The Trash

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from a gal who knows how to get 'er done. Er something.**

Back in my 'hey day' I was a fun-loving girl looking for a good time. Now, I'm a fun-loving girl looking to get drunk and dance her ass off surrounded by people she knows once every two weeks.

Yeah.

Anyways, back when I was living in Akron, I had a studio apartment on the third floor of a building a couple blocks down from one of my hangouts. Being the 'artistic' type, I hated the fact that I had to lug my garbage down four flights of stairs on a VERY NARROW stairwell, and then walk half a block up to where the dumpsters for our building were. It was winter at this time.

So of course there were about four big black hefty bags full of trash sitting in my extremely tiny kitchen. I couldn't even open the fridge. I didn't let that fact bother me, cause it was Saturday night and it was drinkin' and dancin' time.

At the bar (this one was across town), I proceeded to get very drunk with some acquaintances. I notice, however, this very adorable Skater Boy giving me the eye while he plays pool in the back with his friend. He has sandy blond hair, nice lips, and looks really good in the jeans he was wearing.

We eventually strike up a conversation although for the life of me I cannot remember who said what first. The night goes on, and I say I'm going to head home.

Skater Boy- "Um, did you need some company?"

Me- "Sure, but you have to do one thing for me. If you do that, you can stay the night."

Skater Boy-"Anything!" (sigh, I wish I could hook them in like that nowadays!)

Me- "You have to take all my garbage out."

Skater Boy- "What?!?! You're joking."

Me- "Nope. Deal or no deal."

Cut to Skater Boy looking horribly disappointed when he not only saw how much garbage I had, but where he has to dump it.

But he took that trash out in record time. And he got to stay the night.

MySpace Sucks

I had forgotten all about the hellish side of MySpace until I was cleaning out my messages last night.

Let me back up.

Once upon a time long long ago in a living room of a house I used to live in, I drunkenly hooked up with a guy I knew from firefighting. We used to work together. He was my boss. Of sorts. He was also rather attractive and knew it. We both did. Of course there was sexual tension the whole summer fighting fires. Of course he had a girlfriend. Of course she hated me even though I'd been nothing but pleasant and respectful.

Of course he didn't tell me they were still "on again off again dating" until the next morning.

"Huh. Interesting. So is the switch on or off this morning?" I asked.

"Uhhh. On. Yeah, on I guess. She would say on, so yeah. On," he replied.

Awesome.

Let me also back up to give some character development of this on-again-off-again girlfriend: She liked attention. She was loud. She was abrasive. She was attractive. She had a flair for drama. And if we had to go to blows, I might put my money on her and I don't often say that about other chicks.

In short, don't fuck with her man.

Which, I wouldn't have done had I known. But, he conveniently waited to tell until after the point of no return. Fucker.

So back to last night's mailbox cleaning.

I found the series of messages she sent in the weeks after. Oh boy. Here's a taste:

"Subject: O.P.P.

It has been brought to my attention that you had sex with the man who had been my partner for over four years. What's amusing is that he's been telling me for the last year that I'm gonna marry him and have his children. Fortunately for me, I learned (before making a big mistake) that I can't trust him.

While I primarily blame him (after all, he was my boyfriend)I also find you guilty of serious misconduct. Apparently you haven't learned or just aren't grown up enough to realise that you don't go around fucking other people's boyfriends. I must be honest, I never liked or trusted you from the beginning. It's too bad (for me at least) that I was right about you.

Let's face it, you wanted ___ from the beginning and I never tried to keep him from being your friend cause he always said he didn't find you the least bit attractive. Interesting how men can do that, screw woman they think aren't appealing. I guess one hole is as good as another if you're drunk enough and the lights are off so you don't have to see their face.

If this message hurts you in any way, I can't say that I'm sorry because nothing could describe the pain that I feel. Maybe you are laughing as you read this, or maybe you could give a shit; but on the chance that you have a shred of decency, I hope you take this to heart and realise the damage you have done. I would also take a moment to think about the fact that no bad deed goes unpunished, meaning that things have a way of coming back to you."

So ok. I felt bad. I mean, she has a point. And she even cleverly put a Naughty By Nature reference in the subject line. I didn't respond however; instead, I forwarded her message along to her "man" and said that perhaps he should look into it. He created the fucking mess after all. I thought he should be the one to clean it up.

But no. She didn't see it that way. Here's another:

"I want you to delete him as a friend from your myspace and never call him again. If you don't want to comply, I will show up on your doorstep and we can talk about it in person."

Show on my doorstep and talk about it in person? Um, no fucking way. Fuck you. Show up at my doorstep bitch?! That would be a bad idea. For both of us. Remember how I said I might put my money on you if it came to blows, yeah, not on my fucking doorstep. Bring it.

But again, I didn't respond. Simply forwarded it to her "man."

Thankfully all that died away. I haven't spoken much to him since, though he did text me a few weeks ago saying he'd be in town.

The best part? I found all the other messages from jilted girlfriends who felt it was my fault they were dating a shithead. Thank you MySpace. Thank you for allowing stupid bitches to send me ridiculous threats and for saving them for years.

Quote of the day

I have a new pal who's just moved to town, and like many women in this situation who are regularly getting my own action, my mind immediately goes to who I can get into his pants. It just seems like the friendly thing to do. Plus, I think it reflects well on me as a friend and on my town if he starts getting some split-tail pronto.

I was telling a girlfriend about him (accent, big purdy eyes, loves his mama), but knowing that she's been more apt to cuddle up to bear-ish guys, I warned her that new pal is "skinny-cute."

"Well," she said, taking a deep breath and lifting her palms toward the sky, "I've fucked a few skinny guys lately, and it hasn't killed me."

Way to take one for the team, sister.




** Psst! You! You over there with the girlfriend who chews with her mouth open. Yeah, you. Or you, the guy who can't get past the third date and can't figure out why. Send your burning dating questions to seriallymonogamous[at]gmail[dot]com. Let me help you. Or tease you. You know you want it. **

Dear Serial Monogamist: Gettin' Some

Dear Serial Monogamist,

What's the easiest way for a girl to get laid in this town?

Sincerely,

Tired-Of-Masturbating


Dear TOM,

I’ve believed for some time that nearly any woman who possesses at least average looks and charm can probably pull tail on any given night. I know a single gal or two, and I know that when they’re determined to bone down, they’re successful.

But so much depends on you, darling. I mean, have you checked out all the options at work? Interns maybe? They’re usually pretty easy. Do you pass out your phone number indiscriminately to any male who glances your direction? I mean, you’ve gotta keep casting if you want to catch one.

You know and I know that I can’t write you a recipe for action, but I wonder if you know the basic recipe for “getting laid.” (Which is, of course, a helluvalot different than the “meeting someone special” or “having good sex” recipe)

1) Go out.
2) Apply alcohol.
3) Make eye contact with a target.
4) Look away.
5) Look back.
6) Smile.

Repeat until your target approaches.

From there, it’s easy. Laugh at his jokes. Touch your hair, but not too much. Tease him. Drink more. One item that women sometimes make a mistake on: Don’t try to get him to buy you drinks, buy your own. This is about getting some nookie, not about getting free booze.

At some point, hopefully after a spell of making out in the corner, all that’s left to do is offer to pour him a drink at your place. Do not pass go, and do not, for the love of tits, ask if he has a girlfriend (remember, kids, this is a “get laid” course, not a “be a good person” tutorial).

I should say something about safety at this point, you know, carry a knife in your purse, have a fruitbowl of condoms on your nightstand at all times, have a safety “out” word if you play with S&M; but Jesus, I’m a dating blogger. I’m not your mother.

One more tip. If June has taught us anything, it’s this: Fly solo. You’re less intimidating when you’re not surrounded by a flock of women. If you’re too afraid to go out alone, at least go to the bar alone when you get a refill.

If all else fails, lower your standards. Ugly dudes, guys with one leg, guys wearing silk shirts, hell, they all need love. Grab a hold of a mullet and go to town. Imagine approaching a nerd and taking him home. He’d be so grateful. I won’t judge you.

Haha, just kidding. You know I will. But I tease because I love.

Got a question for the Serial Monogamist? Sure you do. E-mail it to seriallymonogamous@gmail.com

Get It On

A Friend of Mine Recently Lost His Mind

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from anonymous. But not the same anonymous who wrote about reading his girlfriend's email. We hope.**

At least, that's what I thought when he abandoned a decade-plus relationship with a woman I admire and started playing house with his new, 19-year-old girlfriend.

He's 35. A relatively normal guy. His long-time girlfriend was age-appropriate, lifestyle-appropriate and a good match for him, or so it seemed. Now she's starting over in the love department - a sad state for a woman in her mid-thirties who wants children but doesn't yet have any.

Meanwhile he has a shiny new girlfriend, fresh out of her parents house and still driving her first car.

When I first heard this, I got all hung up on the math: She was 4 years old when I met him; he was in high school when she was born; I have pubes older than she is.

But now, I just worry.

If this man can start over, can ditch his longtime girlfriend in favor of the flower of youth, what's to prevent my husband, or your boyfriend, from doing the same? This guy is not a player, or I never thought he was. But are all guys secretly players, just waiting for the chance to act on it?

Damn Tubes

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

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

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

My Biscuit's Burning

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

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

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

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

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

It Would Be Better If This Were a Friends Episode

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I never slept with him again.

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

Tarzan Responds

**Editors' Note: Last week a guest submission from "Jane" came in about the first time she saw her boyfriend too drunk. Her boyfriend, Tarzan, responded this week.**

I must admit I was amazed at the response I received by your friends when I (drunkenly, I admit) made my pubic hair preferences public knowledge. Aghast looks, dropped jaws, smirks of derision. Since when did an attraction to a natural and beautiful thatch of luxuriant pubic hair become a sexual deviance? I argue that a sculpted and manipulated bush, or god forbid, a fully shaved one is much more strange and freakish.

The Pubic Combover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friends Forever?

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

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

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

A history:

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

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

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

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

Submission

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hooking up

From an interesting story in the New York Times. After defining what hooking up is, the author writes:

"It turns out that everything is the opposite of what I remember. Under the old model, you dated a few times and, if you really liked the person, you might consider having sex. Under the new model, you hook up a few times and, if you really like the person, you might consider going on a date."