Farewell, Wet Spell

Since I lost my virginity, I've spent 99% of my life NOT getting laid (by choice). Yes, believe it.

Due to living a life only slightly more sexual than your run of the mill nun, I can't really use the phrase "dry spell" the same way everyone else does. I HATE normal people with sex lives who refer to "dry spells" when they haven't been laid in a few weeks or months. Fuck them!

"Dry spell" when applied to my life would sound something like this:

"Yeah, it totally sucks. I'm goin' through a little dry spell now. Haven't been laid in 3 years. Should be over any year now though."

Doesn't really work, does it?

So I guess what I REALLY have is the occasional "wet spell" - rare sex-filled weeks that are randomly dispersed among 1- to 3-year periods where I get no action at all.

Does that mean I'm allowed to say this?

"Yeah, things are awesome. Goin' through a little wet spell right now. Been bangin this hot dude for the last 6 weeks. Makes me come almost every time."

Yeah, that sounds about right.

So how far and few between are my wet spells? Let's just say I have this conversation with my doctor several times a year:

Asshole Doctor: Are you sexually active?

Me: No.

Asshole Doctor: No sex at all?

Me: No. None.

Asshole Doctor: Really? NO SEX?

Me: NO!

Asshole Doctor: Hmmm... Okay. Well, when was the last time you had sex?

Me: I can't remember. It was too long ago.

Asshole Doctor: 6 months?

Me: Hmm.... No, longer.

Asshole Doctor: 1 year?

Me: Hmm... No, longer.

Asshole Doctor: Really? Okay.

Me: Fuck you, doc. Fuck. You.

Why am I bringing all of this up? Because I just wrapped up a recent wet spell by kicking another undeserving dude to the curb.

And since I NEVER meet anyone I want to hook up with (because I'm only capable of falling in love with assholes, apparently), this most certainly means I'm headed toward many sexless, masturbation-filled years.

I'm NOT looking forward to it, besides the substantial financial savings from no longer having to pay for condoms, birth control, and bikini waxes. Good-bye, sex. Hello, pussy hair and shoes!

You're Reading the Words of a World Record Holder

Readers!! I have good news and bad news!!

Here's the good news: I can no longer bitch about the fact that I'm 22 years old (plus or minus 1 to 10 years) and have never had a boyfriend!!

I wish I could have seen you fall off your desk chairs just now. Yes, rub your eyes and re-read that sentence. It still says the same thing - "I can no longer bitch about the fact that I'm 22 years old (plus or minus 1 to 10 years) and have never had a boyfriend!!"

Booyah!

Finally. A man asked me to be his girlfriend. His words were uncreative but still music to my ears for they were words I've awaited my entire life: "Will you be my girlfriend?"

And then we cuddled and made out for hours as he told me things like "I'm all yours now" and "I want to be your boyfriend."

It was amazing.

"Is this love?" I thought to myself.

I savored 5 hours of this bliss.

But then...

...

...

...

... the alcohol wore off.

And here, readers, is where the bad news comes in.

Ready for it?

He sobered up, realized what he had just been saying, and then said, "I told you this before. I don't want to be in a relationship right now."

BAM!

New World Record: SHORTEST RELATIONSHIP EVER = 5 HOURS!!!

Bahahaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

How HILARIOUS is my life?!?!

People ask me if my stories are true, and I can now see why because even THIS ONE seems preposterous to me. I can't even believe this happened, and I fucking LIVED IT!

And so now I have to live with the ramifications of holding this title, and by this, I mean the many awkward conversations I'll have to endure in the future.

Example 1:

Someone: So when was your last long-term relationship?

Me: Depends on what you mean by long-term.

Someone: 6 or more months.

Me: What? 6 or more HOURS?

Someone: No. 6 or more MONTHS.

Me: Fuck! How about 5 or more hours.

Someone: What the fuck are you talking about?

Me: Shit. Nevermind. Well, I guess the answer is, 'NO, I've never been in a fancy shmancy LONG-TERM relationship' then, per your RIDICULOUS standards. Asshole. Why'd you have to rub it in?

Someone: What the hell is wrong with you?

Me: So so much...

Example 2:

Someone: When was the last time you were in a relationship?

Me: Oh. August 21st.

Someone: Awww. You remember the exact date it ended?

Me: Yeah, it was pretty rough.

Someone: I'm sorry. How long were you together?

Me: Since August 21st.

Someone: Oh no! You broke up on your 1-year anniversary?

Me: No. He dumped me after he sobered up and realized he had made a mistake.

Someone: Oh my god.

Me: Yeah, yeah. I know. NOW will you let me have that 7th vodka tonic? Thanks. Thought so.

Example 3:

Someone: How long was your longest relationship?

Me: 5 hours

Someone: Ha! You mean 5 months? Or 5 years?

Me: No, you piece of shit. I'm not a retard. 5 HOURS. As in 300 MINUTES. As in it ended more quickly than my Saturday afternoon naps.

Someone: Oh..... Wait. REALLY?

Me: Yes. Really.

Someone: Oh....

Me: Yep. I know. It still hurts.

Someone: That sucks.

Me: No. It FUCKING sucks.

*sigh*

Like my life wasn't already filled with enough excruciatingly awkward moments!

But on the bright side, I can now tell people "Yes, I HAVE been in a relationship" and "Yes, I HAVE had a boyfriend before."

And that's PRETTY fucking sweet!!!

I think I'm going to roam around the street now, tap randos on the shoulder, and just share the good news: "Hey! Guess what? I've had a BOYFRIEND. I know. I'm totally cool, right?"

Woohooooo!

Happy Motherfucking Birthday

Apparently, I'm more BORING than I realized.

My birthday recently passed. Let's call it my ... oh I dunno ... 22nd birthday. My 22nd birthday recently passed, and I decided to spoil the crap out of myself that day by giving myself whatever I wanted all day long.

So in contrast to the 364 other days of the year when I live in a constant state of deprivation, I pigged out and got wasted.

Okay, so maybe I get wasted every day, but I totally don't eat delicious food.

So what did I consume to celebrate?

- My first chocolate chip cookie in YEARS
- Chicken tikka masala
- Ranch-flavored Wheat Thins
- Pizza
- Cheese platter
- Fruit tart a la mode
- Donuts dipped in chocolate sauce

It was a FINE day. One of the best eating days of my life. Near perfect.

But I wasn't content.

By around 10 PM, after I was down 1/2 a bottle of red wine, I decided that I needed one more thing to complete my day: BIRTHDAY BOOTY.

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

I was ready to work off the calories within my distended belly by spending the night riding some cock.

So I did what any respectable girl does when she wants play. I booty texted!

My first message: "Want to give me a birthday gift?"

His response: "What would you like for your birthday?"

WTF? WHY was he asking? What ELSE could I possibly want at 10 PM on my motherfucking birthday?!

My response: "You have 2 hours to deliver!"

His response: "Ok! I'll think about it! :)"

My response: "So what did you come up with?"

His response:

His response:

His response:

No, readers. Those are not typos up there with missing text. THERE WAS NO FUCKING RESPONSE!!!

Until 9 AM this morning.

When I received this response: "I was concentrating so hard I fell asleep!"

BAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

OH

MY

FUCKING

GOD

Clearly, I am the least desirable woman on earth.

WHAT MAN gets a booty text and FALLS ASLEEP AT 10 PM?!?!

I was offended. And for a moment, I was able to empathize with a man I once hooked up with whose dick I fell asleep on. But that was different. I was DRUNK!

Back to me. How shitty is what happened?! I practically rang a dinner bell, spread my legs, and put a flare between them and got NO RESPONSE!

Humiliating. Devastating. Life-scarring. And on my BIRTHDAAAAAAY.

I hate my life. I hate it! I hate it!

I'm Gonna Phone Sex You Up

I'm a competitive person, and I like to believe that I can accomplish anything if I set my mind to it. Well, almost anything. There's also a list of things where I've realized that NO MATTER WHAT I do, I'll always fucking suck ass, so I'm not even going to bother trying. Like lying. Or not putting out when I'm drunk. Or playing volleyball. Or any other sport on earth.

But I learned last night that there's another thing that I will NEVER do well. And that's making a man come during phone sex.

I FUCKING HATE PHONE SEX! How do people do it?!?! It's so .... AWKWARD. Does anyone actually get turned on?

To add even MORE pressure to the situation, the dude who called me last night called me from Ibiza, so every minute was costing him God knows what, so I totally felt like I had to make the call worth his money! OMG! HOW do prostitutes deal with this kind of pressure!?!?

I told him I'd never had phone sex before, and I felt totally nervous and awkward. So I tried to talk him out of it.

"You're in Ibiza! Why are you talking to me? You shouldn't be having phone sex. You should be having REAL SEX! Get out there and bang any girl you want! I don't care at all. Seriously!"

"But I'm rock hard thinking about YOU."

Fuck. I was totally on the hook for this. So I figured, what the hell? I'll give it my best effort and try it out. I mean, I'm not going to get good unless I practice. And, fortunately, I already have the perfect voice for phone sex (yes, my voice, though manly, can also come across as being very sensual when I'm in the right mood), so I really only needed the content.

I got naked and got down to business.

The next 68 minutes might have been the most awkward 68 minutes of MY ENTIRE LIFE.

Here are my problems with phone sex.

First, it involves me talking. And when I talk, I'm never serious. I can't utter more than three sentences without making some ridiculous smartass remark. And apparently, wisecracks kind of kill the mood during phone sex.

"And there's a girl eating my pussy. She has brown hair because I'm not attracted to blondes. Ugh! And she, unlike me, has big beautiful breasts because she suckered her boyfriend, who is now her ex, into buying her implants. Would you buy me implants? Oh sorry. Off topic. Where was I? Oh yeah. Anyway, this ho is hot and has low self-esteem, as evidenced by her fake tits and willingness to join us for this threesome. It's too bad her skin isn't as soft as an Asian's."

Second, it involves having to describe my fantasies. This is a problem for me because 95% of my fantasies would disturb and turn off a man.

"A 55 year-old billionaire picks me up in his Bentley and throws a wad of hundred dollar bills in my face."

"No, I don't like that one."

"Fuck!"

So I end up having to try to make one up on the spot, which is just way too much pressure!

"Okay, so let's imagine that this girl...uhhh...what do you like? I dunno! Shit... So this girl is licking your dick while I'm making out with you. And then... ummm... Fuck! So... Hmmm..."

Do you feel awkward just reading this? Well, you should. Because I WANTED TO DIE. It was worse than the night I lost my virginity. The first time I had sex, all I needed to do was spread 'em and hold back the tears. This phone sex thing actually required THINKING.

I considered looking up some kind of script online, but I realized that that would mean I'd have my vibrator on my clit, my cellphone in one hand, and my laptop on me, but I was was like, dude, I'm not setting up a fucking phone sex control center to give this guy an orgasm.

About 30 minutes into the call, I came, and he still hadn't. He kept asking me to make him come, and there was nothing that I could say that would work!

Only one fantasy quasi-worked: "Okay, let's imagine that there's a girl going down on me, and you're banging her from behind..."

And before he could come, his phone died.

Worst. Phone sex. Ever.

He would've had a better shot coming if he dialed up Domino's Pizza. Or a Shell gas station. Or his mom.

If I were him, I'd send me an invoice for that phone bill. Fuck! I'll probably just write him a check because I feel so shitty about it.

And so I've added phone sex to my list of Things to Never Do Again Because You Suck So So Horribly.

I Was Propositioned

It's not unusual for a man to show up on a woman's doorstep shortly after 2 AM. It happens to me all the time. It once happened as late as 3:30 AM. Yes, I tend to have that effect on men. And by "effect," I obviously mean Will Put Out At Any Hour.

But I recently learned that I have another "effect" on men.

A male friend of mine - let's call him Slumber Party - called me at 2 AM and asked to come over TO TALK and NOT TOUCH AT ALL. In his words, it would be "strictly platonic."

It seemed like a weird but harmless proposition, but before I could decide, he was ALREADY AT MY FUCKING DOOR.

And so Slumber Party and I got under the covers, stayed up late gossiping and joking around, and remained fully clothed the entire time. We even slept on opposite sides of the bed.

It was a platonic sleepover.

A man literally wanted to come over and lie next to me so he could LAUGH AT MY FUCKING JOKES ALL NIGHT!

And this is the second "effect" that I have on men. Men want to hang out with me and chat with me all night. And they especially love telling me about the other girls they're dating. But they don't want to touch me. I've actually had TWO straight men sleep beside me in bed WITH THEIR ARMS CROSSED! Hahahaha! As stiff, rigid, and uninterested as mummies!

This cracks me up because all of my other girlfriends are COMPLETELY unable to maintain a platonic relationship with a male friend, whereas I can have men DRUNK and IN MY BED at 2 AM and still ... NOTHING!

It's not that I wanted anything to happen. Believe me, I didn't.

But I'm just sayin! Don't my boobs look at least slightly tantalizing? Not even the left one, which is slightly larger?!?!

FUUUUUUUCK! I'm getting implants. I'm over having 527 platonic male friends. Someone needs to cop a fucking feel before I kill myself.

How a Cab Driver Drove Me to Suicide

True story (as are all stories on this blog, believe it or not). I was in a cab talking on the phone with my mom. I told her that I'm hanging out with a dude who is smart and cool. I then confessed that he's also hot, which is something that my mom HATES. She has scolded me my whole life for caring about men's looks, which she believes is totally irrelevant when it comes to picking out a boyfriend or husband. Clearly, she's an idiot. But this isn't the point of this post.

The best part of the cab ride was AFTER I hung up the phone with my mom, when my FUCKING CAB DRIVER decided to ask me about my love life and offer me advice. He said, "So you're dating someone who you think is hot?"

"Yeah, and even I'm surprised," I joked.

And what did my sage cab driver say?

"Yes, I'm sure you like him. But the problem is he probably doesn't like you!"

And then he cackled for five minutes straight. I'm so glad he was amused.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT. If you never read anything from me again, know that it's because I've literally ended my life.

Why I’m The Weirdest Most Fucked Up Woman On Earth

Everything we’ve experienced has made us who we are. No, you have not accidentally clicked on the O Magazine blog. Keep reading, you impatient motherfucker.

So why am I saying such a cheesy cliché? Because it’s the perfect introduction to the questions that I’m asked most often:

- Who ARE you?
- What’s WRONG with you?
- What MADE you?
- Why do I like you so much?

None of these questions could possibly be answered in one post, so I’m going to add stories from my formative childhood, teenage, and college years to my expansive blogging repertoire.

These posts will all be categorized as “Scarred for Life: A Retrospective of Rejection, Failure, and Humiliation.”

Stories in the pipeline include the following:

- How I lost my virginity (in Mexico)
- Why I’ve cried over a boy only once
- My first kiss and blowjob (happened on the same day)

You’re salivating, aren’t you? God I am a phenomenal writer.

Let’s begin with one of my favorite life-scarring stories: my high school prom.

I believe that high school girls fall into one of two buckets; they are either pretty or not pretty. It would be a waste of time to bother assigning other adjectives because 99.9% of them are not confident, not well-dressed, not savvy, not witty, and not nice. The other 0.1% are on Gossip Girl or are fabrications in male masturbation fantasies.

I’m sure you can guess which of the two buckets I fell into – NOT PRETTY.

If you’re half as perceptive as I am about the way the world works, then this should explain a lot of things to you.

Mostly, it should explain why I’m FUCKING HILARIOUS. I hope that you’ve noticed by now that hot girls are NEVER funny, and this is because all the stupid men in the world (which is the same as saying "all men") laugh at any “joke” a hot girl tells, regardless of whether it’s actually funny. So hot girls can never learn how to be funny because it’s a skill that needs to be honed after years of experimentation based on responses to different jokes. Hot girls can’t benefit from this because when EVERY MAN laughs at ALL their jokes, then they end up (1) having no clue what is funny or not funny and (2) (this is even more annoying and repulsive) THINKING THAT THEY’RE FUNNY WHEN THEY’RE NOT!!!

Okay, I’m almost calm now. Back to my story about being ugly in high school.

[Unnecessary Tangent #2: I literally JUST went to a bar and then came back within 1 hour. The music was too loud, so no would could hear me, and what good am I to the world if I can’t be heard?!?! So I decided to come home and give the world more of my words. I now realize why the world’s greatest writers are recluses. It’s not because they – wait – I mean “we” don’t want to interact with society. It’s because we need to be home writing nonstop, without interruption. Could it be that I am the reincarnation of Emily Dickinson?]

I’m back for real this time, and I won’t sleep until I finish this fucking story. I was not attractive in high school (not much has changed), so I didn't particularly look forward to my senior prom. At that point in life, I’d been rejected by every boy I ever had a crush on, and I still had never been kissed. I don’t even think I so much as held a boy’s hand. I was a late bloomer. And I wore Disney t-shirts and no make-up.

So while movies like American Pie indicated to me that all other high school students were planning on getting banged on prom night, I found the whole thing to be rather inconvenient.

Let’s rewind to the summer before my senior year on the day of my 17th birthday. On this special day, I received a phone call from a boy I had been obsessed with since 5th grade. I'm going to call him Pihs (pronounced “piss” and short for Peaked In High School).

Pihs called me to wish me a happy birthday, and we chatted on the phone for at least a half an hour. This wasn’t unusual because he was a friend of mine. In other words, I helped him with his homework (obviously, I was a straight A student and he was not), and I drove him around (until he got his own car and stopped hanging out with me).

The highlight of the call, however, was when Pihs asked me, “If we’re both still single during prom, will you go to prom with me?”

I ALMOST DIED. It was literally a moment I had been dreaming about since the days I carried my lunch to school in a Kero Kero Keroppi lunch pail. Of course, I answered, “Yes!”

Now let’s fast forward to the spring of my senior year. Motherfucking Pihs started dating a ho about one or two months before the prom. Whatever. It’s not like he would’ve shown his face at prom with me anyway. And his girlfriend was one of the Pretty Girls. Obvi. She looked like a Latina version of Jessica Simpson, humongous boobs and all. Even I would’ve ditched me for that hot piece of ass!

And so I had no options for a date. Well, one boy asked me, but he was the fattest boy in our class, and we all know that fat people don't count/matter. I opted to go alone instead.

Prom totally blew. I literally only recall sitting at a table by myself wishing I had never come at all. This is fucking absurd because I'm sure that the prom theme was some stupid shit like "A Night to Remember." Yeah fucking right! My theme would've been "Countdown to Ditching These Losers When I Leave for Stanford University."

And the icing on top? The next day, when I was in line to pick up photos from prom, Pihs’ sister asked me if I had a good time at prom. I said, “Not really.” And in front of at least 10 other people, the bitch loudly asked, “WHY? Was it because you LOOKED UGLY?”

CAN YOU BELIEVE WHAT I ENDURED IN HIGH SCHOOL?

Thank you, Worthless Piece of Shit Who Invented Prom. Thank you for wasting my time and money and subjecting me to stupid twats dancing in tacky Jessica McClintock dresses before giving it up to horny high school losers at the Hilton Hotel.

This excruciating trip down memory lane has given me two interesting new goals, however:
(1) I will wear my prom dress on a date, tell him a virgin, and then fuck him afterward because I think it’s totally twisted, pathetic, and hilarious.
(2) Find out what Pihs is up to these days and post every detail on this blog. What do you wanna bet his job somehow involves a cash register? Ha!