The mess in the living room

I recently realized something. A little blip of recognition.

If you're a breeder: Between your parents' house, your dorm, your roommates, and then kids of your own, a retirement community, maybe a nursing home ... there are very few -- precious few -- years when you can wake up on a Sunday morning and stagger out to your living room to find you'd left a pile of underwear on the floor, empty bottles stacked up on bookshelves, and lube and toys on the coffee table. Enjoy them.

I know I plan to.

Miss Manners Neglected to Talk About...

You have a Good One: nice, considerate, sweet. Only thing is, you have the sex drive of a blue-assed baboon and they have the sex drive of... well, do they even have a sex drive? A few of my friends are having this problem, and it's not limited to guys or limited to girls. So I'm asking you: is there a loving way to tell someone that you care about that they need to put out or ship out? I mean, I'm a woman in her 30's... and it's true what they say about women in their 30's. I think sex is healthy and demand a healthy amount of it right now. Maybe we can get some guy advice: has ANYONE ever come up with a tactful way of having this conversation with someone?

Ooooh Girl, an honest R&B song

Thanks Dave for the video heads up!

Messy First Impressions

I met my steady beau's parents for the first time over the holidays this year. Everything was great. They loved me, I loved them, presents were exchanged, etc.

So I was feeling pretty solid when a few days into the visit, beau and I have sex in the spare bedroom. I'm on my period, so we put a towel down. At one point in the whole romp I feel a bit more wetness than normal but I think whatever, there's a towel..

Oops.

When we're done doing the deed, I get up to examine the towel and sheets. And there are three bright red spots on the top sheet. Three more bright red spots on the under sheet. And three more bright red spots on the down comforter thinger on top of the mattress. Thankfully there weren't any on the actual mattress.

Mortified. Absolutely mortified at not only the three bright red spots but also the fact that beau has to tell his mother that I started my period and had an accident. (No fucking way are we telling her what it was actually from.)

I can overhear their conversation, in which he actually says "______ had her period last night and it got on the sheets. She's mortified." and somehow the level of embarrassment increases ten-fold.

Beau's mom handles it like a champ. She's nice and says its no big deal, gives me a hug and sends us on our way for the day. When we return, the sheets are all clean with no sign of last night's mess.

Ok, great. No problem. Handled that. But then the next morning, I wake up to find black spots all over the pillow case.

My fucking hair dye from three weeks ago stained the pillow case. I had gone to bed with my hair wet and apparently there was still dye left all these weeks later.

Fucking hell. No way am I taking the fall on this one so I insist that beau take responsibility and say it's his dirty working man's hands that caused the spots.

Whether or not beau's mother believed him, I wasn't around to find out.

Vicarious sex

Not getting any, but have an active fantasy life? Or do you like the idea of porn, but think all that ACTUAL humping is a little freaky? Check out this hipster fad, AIR SEX competitions. It's exactly what it sounds like.

This video is not work safe:



I know a lot of our readers are Oregonians, so how lucky are we that Portland is hosting its very own Air Sex competition this Saturday night at Berbatis. Please go, take video, and send it our way. Because that shizz is hilarious.

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.

Sports Obsessions Are NOT Sexy Time

**Editors' Note: The same gal who sent us Where Were You in 1983? sent us this lovely bit about internet dating.**

I was lonely and bored, and my ex had just changed his facebook to "in a relationship" with the stripper he dumped me for. So I decided to give internet dating a try. And thus the story of Sex Blanket, as I now refer to him when warning others against internet dating.

SB seemed like a cool guy at first. Then it quickly became clear that his obsessive love of sports took up all the places in his personality where "intelligence" "humor" and "charm" should be. Then it became clear (from the multiple bumper stickers, posters and flags plastered all over his apartment, and lastly, enormous back tattoo of the school's logo) that he was a little TOO obsessed with his alma mater, a la Andy Bernard (Cornell) from The Office.

I was unimpressed and disinterested, but said loneliness and boredom convinced me that sleeping with him was an okay decision to make. I won't go into detail about exactly how and why, but it was THE. WORST. EVER. and multiple times I had to close my eyes and imagine that I was someplace else so I didn't throw up. No exaggeration, it was awful. And very, very sweaty. Him, not me.

Afterward, while I debated high-tailing it out of there and risking a DUI or trying to find a non-sweaty spot on the bed, he went to his closet and pulled out a blanket that was fuzzy on one side and kind of satin-y on the other.

"Do you know what this is?" He asked, in the wannabe suave voice that had added to my nausea.

"Um, no" I replied, terrified at what the answer might be.

"It's a Sex Blanket... you put it down before or after you have sex so you don't have to sleep in the mess afterward"

"Oh super" I replied, hoping to sweet jesus that the blanket had been washed since its last use, and wondering how the F this guy was having enough disgusting sweaty sex to necessitate a blanket of this kind.

So tell me, DiW friends... are sex blankets for real? Are all blankets with one fuzzy side and one satin-y side intended for this purpose? I received one as a Christmas gift from a female friend a few years ago and use it as a throw for my couch...

Anyway, SB and I haven't kept in touch since then, and so far all of my other internet dating prospects have produced similarly unappealing/creepy results. So for now I'm re-dating people from real life that I have dated in the past, cause at least I know what mistakes I'm making beforehand.

In praise of Monday night nookie

This note from "Old Married Hag" (she came up with that name, not me) came in as a response to my latest Dear Serial column.

As Serial pointed out a few days ago, married life can be unkind to the old sex life. Kids, cooking, mortgages, soccer practice - who has the time for sex? Or the energy?

Which is why marriages like mine descend into the deadly rut of Saturday-night sexcapades. Sure, we throw on a porno occasionally or bust out a dildo. But sex on Saturdays after the kids were in bed had taken on a distinctively dull feeling. Yawn, is it Saturday night again? OK, you get the KY.

Which is why my new solution is so much fun: Monday night nookie!

I know it seems like not such a groundbreaking notion, but Monday night nookie has freshened up my week considerably. Sex outside the humdrum routine of a 15-year-relationship adds a spice that's all to rare for those of us who are old enough to have voted for Clinton. And who knows what a day-of-the-week shakeup could lead to? This week, adding Monday sex also introduced a new location to the repertoire. Nothing like a carpet burn on the ass to remind you that sex is fun even when it's not in bed or on the couch.

Getting out of the sex rut may also lead to other firsts: It's surprising how open to experimentation both of you will be if you just step outside the normal screwing 'schedule.'

Dating may be weird, but marriage can be weirder. And hotter.

Serial here. You got a question for me, dating (or, apparently marriage)-related? Or do you have feedback on my advice? C'mon. I know at least some of y'all think I'm full of shit. E-mail me at seriallymonogamous[at]gmail[dot]com.

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.

Dear Serial Monogamist: Time to get freaky?

Dear Serial Monogamist,

Any recommendations for spicing up a lackluster sex life?

Signed,
A lady who thinks being married is weirder

OK, Weirder, you didn’t give me much to go on. I mean, what have you tried? Role play? S&M? Pegging? Watching porn together? Sex toys? Dirty talk? Sex in public? New positions? Dress-up? Sex games? Threesomes? Stripteases? A little ass play? Have you been doing your Kegels?

I kind of hope you haven’t tried all that, to be honest. Because I sometimes wonder how couples who start off with crazy rockstar monster sex deal once they get bored with THAT. “God, the sex swing and the midgets again? Snore.” What a nightmare.

However, if you’ve been having mellow, vanilla sex with your hubby, then there’s a long list of things you can introduce that can make things seem new again. The internet is full of ideas.

Of course, that advice assumes that you and your husband are willing to try. And that can be scary and weird. But you have to talk to your husband, and tell him that you’re not happy with the situation as it is and make sure he gets that it’s important that you guys fix the problem. Because it is important. Humping matters. And who knows, maybe there’s been something he’s been wanting to try that he was afraid to bring up. What if all you have to do is put on some high heels while you go at it, and suddenly he’s all wound up and the next thing you know you are, too?

Don’t forget this, though: Being negative in the conversation won’t help. You don’t want him to feel like a loser who can’t get you off, because then what’s his motivation to work on finding your G spot? The whole thing needs to be fun. “It’s an adventure, honey! An adventure that leads to more sex!” Who’s going to say no to that? If he does, after you approach it in a positive way, if he’s still hesitant, you could always tell him that satisfied wives give more BJs.

Love,

Serial



Got a dating question for Serial Monogamist? Let's hear it. Send it to seriallymonogamous[at]gmail[dot]com.

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

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.

Worst One Night Stand Ever

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

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


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


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

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



And these:



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

Jesus H. Christ.

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

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

My First Lay in a New Town

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

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

enter her hippie ex-boyfriend.

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

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

thanks Kip

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.

Strictly Business

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

So here's how my dating usually goes:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm done with that crap.

Here's what I'm looking for:

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

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

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

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

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

A Portrait of a Date

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

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

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

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