Girls, Yeah All I Really Want Is Girls (Part 4)

College: Little Bitch

*Author’s Note: I, once again, intended for this to be the final chapter in Girls, but it looks like I’ve done it again. I have far too much material for part 4. So it looks like there will be at least one more part (possibly two) to this saga. This part only focuses on one girl and her bat shit crazy behavior. Enjoy.

The summer before my senior year I got a job at the campus bookstore. I worked in the clothing department where I was the only guy. It was a pretty sweet gig. Besides working with a myriad of girls, I hardly had to do any actual work. About three weeks after I started, a new girl was hired. Her name was “Mandy.” She was a petite girl, barely over 5 feet, with long blonde hair and a tight body. Mandy was, to put it simply, outgoing. And hot. Very hot.

She had no problem voicing her opinion, which she did often. During the college orientation period she would often talk to incoming students and their parents for a half hour or more. But there was also a mischievous side to her gregariousness. She made as many, if not more, inappropriate innuendos as I did. Mandy was also very open about sex. One day I was stocking t-shirts with her, and I had a conversation I never expected to have.

I forget how exactly the conversation started but I think it was when I made an off color joke about the word “loose.” I nearly hit my head on a display table when she said, “actually I’m tight, you know, down there.” If I had been drinking a glass of water I probably would have spit that shit out. Besides being surprised by the subject itself, I was also perplexed by her tone. She said it matter-of-factly, like I asked what she had for lunch. I was taken aback so I just muttered, “uhhh?” But she just kept going. “You know because I’m so small, but guys like that right?” “Uhhh, I guess.” “Because it feels better right? That’s why guys like to have sex with virgins, right?” “Sure.” What the fuck? In what world is that an appropriate workplace conversation?

Vaginal elasticity was not on the list of things I expected to talk about when I got up for work. That wasn’t the only example either. She would frequently tell me that she, “loved sex.” She also let me know when she lost her virginity and that her parents didn’t know she was fucking more than a rabbit. On top of that, she was a shameless flirt. She set her sights on a cashier, “Nick,” right after she was hired. Eventually, she sunk her claws into him, the poor bastard.

Now, I have no problem with outgoing people; I can get along with most people. I liked Mandy, but it didn’t take a genius to see what fueled Mandy’s personality. She was an attention whore. A big one. She had to be the focus of a room. Like many girls, although they would never admit it, she liked to create drama where there was none. She overreacted to something minor almost daily. And god forbid if something or someone drew the spotlight away from her. I remember coming into the store one summer day after my class, and everyone on the sales floor greeted me warmly. Unfortunately, Mandy had been in the middle of a story when everyone stopped to say hi to me. She started pouting because people stopped paying attention to her. Low maintenance she was not. Right now, you might be wondering how I ever got involved with this girl. Well, I’ll tell you dear readers.

Like I said, Mandy started dating a cashier soon after she started. After about a month and a half they broke up. I assume it was because Nick couldn’t stand her constant berating and generally dramatic behavior. Around the same time, I had just moved from a one bedroom apartment outside of town to a huge four bedroom house just off campus with three of my friends. It was and old house, complete with dining room and spiral staircase. It was far too classy for four schmoes like us, but it did have excellent potential for parties. And believe me, we partied. Actually, by the end of our lease we ended up trashing the place, but I don’t feel bad about it because our landlords were more like slumlords.

At work I let it be known that we would be having many a party. When I moved in at the end of July I was the only one in the house for a couple weeks. I had a few small get-togethers and attempts at parties, which I invited my co-workers to. None of them showed, though. However, by the middle of August my roommates (“DF,” “Dump Mcstump” henceforth referred to as “D-Stump” and “Seal”) turned up and we began planning some serious parties. Mandy, for some reason, seemed to be extremely interested in attending one of our parties. It got to the point where she would ask me daily if I would invite her to one. I pointed out that she already had a few chances, and she responded by telling me that I didn’t give her enough notice. I assured her that next time we had a party I would invite her with plenty of notice.

About a week before school started my roommates and I were sitting around doing jack shit when we decided get sauced. In the interest of not seeming like such raging alcoholics, we decided to call some friends. We all got on the horn and started inviting everyone we knew. It was only around 5 p.m. so we had plenty of time to organize a grade-A hootenanny. I called Mandy first. She didn’t answer. I left her a message and then sent her a text, satisfied that I had covered all my bases. By 10 people started showing up, lots of people. But Mandy wasn’t one of them. I gave her one more call and then I started hitting the hooch. I was having so much fun that I didn’t really notice Mandy wasn’t there.

Later that night D-Stump and DF asked me where Mandy was. They probably assumed that I made her up to boost my self esteem. But their questions did make me wonder where the fuck she was after all her badgering. At about 2 a.m. I sent a very ill advised text, while I was bombed out of my goddamn skull. It said something along the lines of, “I invited you to our party tonight but you didn’t show. I guess I just won’t invite you from now on.”

Clearly I was being sarcastic and making light of the situation. I forgot that sometimes sarcasm doesn’t translate well via text message, well that, and sarcasm isn’t usually the preferred currency of language for most women. I thought I was making a joke; In reality I was lighting the fuse to a ticking time bomb. A couple days later I went to the bookstore to buy some school supplies. I stood in an aisle contemplating whether or not to spend the extra 30 cents on a more durable notebook, when Hurricane Raging Bitch hit.

“Chesterfield? Hey! I got a really rude text message at two in the morning the other day!” she said bitchily. I don’t think the exclamation points really convey what a scene she was making. She was having full fledged tantrum in middle of a crowded store. I tried to explain that it was joke and that I was really drunk at the time, but she just kept bitching. People were starting to look, and I was starting to get embarrassed. I finally gave in so she would shut her scone hole. “Alright, alright. I promise next time there’s a party I’ll let you know, just shut up.” Mandy, seemingly appeased, left. After that little episode some of you might be wondering why I would continue to hang out with a diva like Mandy. I’ll tell you why, because she was hot and she wanted to hang out with me. And when a hot girl wants to hang with you, you either do it, or you trade your balls in for a nice set of frilly, white panties and package of sanitary napkins.

The Saturday before Labor Day there was a big football game. Dean decided to throw a barbecue/party at his house. D-Stump, Rigolega and I headed over to Dean’s around 2 p.m. Dean and his roommate, “SP,” were already hitting the bottle pretty hard, and I wasn’t completely sure it was safe for them to be around a flaming grill. I tried to take it easy at first because I actually wanted to remember part of the game. But, even if you take it easy, when you start drinking at midday you’ll be walking like you have Lou Gehrig’s Disease by the end of the night. I, along with everyone else, was absolutely shitfaced by game time. So forgive me if a few events are a little fuzzy.

Shortly after the game ended I received a text from Mandy asking what I was doing. Holding up my end of the bargain, I invited her and her friend, “Leigh” to Dean’s party. It was a stupid move because she was completely sober, and I was on the verge of blacking out. Mandy showed up with her friend, and I showed them around Dean’s. I don’t remember exactly what happened next. In my mind everything from that part of the night is fuzzy and in slow motion, kind of like a Zac Synder film (an incredibly lame one). All I know is that there was drinking and talking and dancing and kissing.

I don’t know how it happened, but all of a sudden I was making out with Mandy on the couch in Dean’s garage. I also made out with her in Dean’s driveway and probably a couple other places too. I have no recollection of the initiation of the kiss; all I have are a few snapshots in my mind of us in an embrace. While we were standing in the driveway, Mandy pulled her tongue out of my mouth and asked where Leigh was.

I had no fucking clue. I wouldn’t have had clue even if I hadn’t had 15 beers. Plus, I didn’t really care about her friend; I was mostly thinking about how to get to second base without getting thrown out. Mandy’s den mother instinct (more commonly known as the cock block instinct) kicked in and she insisted on finding Leigh. Apparently, I had to come along on this wild fucking goose chase too. To make things even more difficult, Leigh wasn’t answering her phone.

Not knowing where to start, Mandy just crashed every other party in sight; It wasn’t the best way to find a friend or make one for that matter. She walked into complete strangers’ houses and interrogated everyone in sight. And I was stumbling along right behind her like her pussy-ass, personal whipping boy. She explained that she was just worried about her friend and said please and thank you in all the right spots, but she was still acting like a bitch. I was on the verge of passing out and even I could see that. The things I’ll do for a chance at some tang.

Finally, we figured out where Leigh was. She was with some bro down the street. Mandy stormed up to the door and started banging on it and raising all sorts of hell. Nobody answered. She called Leigh. She didn’t answer. Mandy continued to bang on the door, while I stayed back because I was embarrassed. Eventually, “Broham McDouche” answered the door. I realized why he couldn’t hear Mandy; he was playing some unbearable frat rock as loud as his shitty stereo would go (O.A.R totally rules brooooo!).

Mandy explained the situation and demanded to see Leigh. McDouche was a little confused, but he let us in. I hung back again because, like I said, I was embarrassed as shit. Mandy collected Leigh and informed her and McDouche that we were going home. McDouche said it was okay and that he understood, but I could tell he was pissed about getting cock blocked. I almost felt bad that his plans for non-consensual sex were disrupted, so I apologized to him on the way out.

Outside, I found out he would have been out of luck anyway. Leigh was on the rag. I got a hardy chuckle out of that. We walked back to Mandy’s car, and she asked what I wanted to do. Remember this next part because it will become important later. Being on the verge of passing out, I asked her to take me home. I didn’t have some nefarious plan to get her back to my room. She said, “What do you want to do?” and I said, “Drop me off at my house.” That’s it. Mandy obliged and gave me a ride. I kissed her goodnight and said I would talk to her tomorrow.

Later, I found out a few interesting things about that night that I was too drunk to remember. Apparently, Mandy and I had a long, heart-to-heart talk at some point. I wasn’t really surprised, as I’m prone to do things I wouldn’t normally do when I’m sloshed. Other examples include: dancing, singing and hitting on fat chicks. I guess some guy stole something from Dean’s house, too. Dean went to confront him and Mandy told me to go back him up. Well I went, but I slipped and fell on my ass on the way. Then I started laughing my bruised ass off, and then I only backed him up in the sense that I stood behind him and did absolutely nothing. As for events that didn’t directly involve me, Dean and his girlfriend, “Cougs,” informed me that every time that I was more than a foot away from Mandy she came to them and asked where I was and why I wasn’t paying attention to her. That’s not an exaggeration. Also, DF hitchhiked home rather than crash at Dean’s.

The next day I woke up at the crack of 1 p.m. D-Stump was MIA and DF was sitting shirtless in all of his hairy glory on one of our filthy couches. He kindly recounted his hitchhiking adventure for me while I attempted to defeat my hangover. D-Stump showed up a while later with his high school girlfriend (read: she was in high school, not that they had been dating since high school) “Chloe” in tow. I can’t remember where the fuck Seal was. We sat around and bullshitted while discussing our plans for the night.

We decided to go to a house party some of my buddies were throwing. I called Mandy and invited her and Leigh to the party. My buddies’ house was relatively close, so I told her to come over around 9 and then we would walk to the party. This is when things start to go bananas. It’s also when I started to doubt how much I actually liked Mandy. Her behavior the previous night didn’t seem all that strange because I was hammered-ass drunk, but over the next two days I started to realize what a clingy psychopath she was.

Mandy and Leigh showed up around 9:30. I let them in and formally introduced them to DF, D-Stump and Chloe. Again, I can’t remember where the fuck Seal was. They asked if we were pre-gaming. What the fuck kind of question was that? What kind of dog and pony show did they think we were running? Of course we were pre-gaming. I told them that they had a choice of cheap whiskey, Everclear or Milwaukee’s Best. I could see by the looks on their faces that they didn’t ascribe to the cheap=more hooch=more drunk=more fun, school of partying. It’s always something with women. I don’t like grain alcohol; why are your couches covered in beer and semen?; quit downloading porn when I’m hanging out with you. Geez. Who am I? The Pope?

Being underage, Mandy asked if I would buy them some booze. I reluctantly agreed and asked what they wanted. Without skipping a beat they said, “Bud Light With Lime.” Great, not only did I have to go on a pain-in-the-ass errand instead of getting drunk, but I had to look like a faggot while doing it. Mandy and Leigh wanted to come with me, so we hopped in my car and left.

After driving one block, not even half way to the booze-porium, Mandy decided she was tired of my music. She had the audacity to eject my CD and put on some bullshit top 40 radio station. You don’t change the music in my fucking car, especially if I’m going out of my way to do a favor for you. But it wasn’t just that she changed the music, it was that she turned off Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite For Destruction in favor of Rihanna or Katy Perry or some other bullshit. I know women usually have suspect musical tastes, but come on. She turned off an album that rocks so fucking hard it once melted Satan’s balls off. I wanted to say something but I didn’t. I didn’t want to ruin my chances that night. I just sat there and cringed the entire way to the store.

When we got to the store I went in and prayed that no one would see me purchasing such a fruity beer. I got in and out as quick as humanly possible. When I got back to my car I was disappointed to find that my speakers were still spewing bubble gum, pop-crap. I handed Mandy her beer and started the car. “Did you get these from the cooler?” she asked. Did I get them from the cooler? What, did she think I was some Eurotrash surrender monkey that drank beer at room temperature? “Of course I bought it from the cooler. This isn’t my first time buying beer,” I replied. I started to get the feeling that it would be a long night.

When we got back to my house I started mixing my whiskey and Coke. Mixing a cocktail had seemingly become a two man operation because Mandy was attached to me at the hip. In fact, she wouldn’t leave me alone. She was all over me every step I took. Now, there’s nothing wrong with having a pretty girl on your arm. It’s actually quite nice sometimes but not when you can’t take a piss with out her following you to the bathroom. She was smothering me, and it wasn’t just following me around like a lost puppy.

In the kitchen she grabbed me by the front of my t-shirt, pulled me toward her and gave me a slow kiss. She followed it by saying, “Mmmmm, you’re special.” I found that extremely weird. I had worked with her a couple months and it was only the second time I had hung out with her. She shouldn’t have been saying shit like that yet. My own mother doesn’t tell me that and I’ve known her at least twice as long as Mandy.

Mandy and Leigh started in on their beer. It took less than 10 minutes for Mandy to start complaining. “This isn’t as good as it usually is. It’s not doing it for me.” First, my liquor wasn’t good enough, and then, the liquor I bought specifically for her wasn’t good enough. What a bunch of horseshit. What self respecting college student is so picky about their booze? I mean, if you told me there was alcohol in goat piss I’d probably drink it. Because Mandy imagined her beer tasted different than usual, she was not getting drunk, which she then complained about. DF, being a professional facilitator of bad decisions, offered to solve the problem and suggested Mandy and Leigh do shots of Everclear. This was not a good idea, nor has it ever been.

I’ve done Everclear shots, and any good night I’ve ever had has not included them. Once, D-Stump and DF took shots of Everclear, blacked out and wrestled in the hallway of our dorm for half an hour. Then DF threw up in my bathroom for half an hour and D-Stump passed out on my floor. Does that sound like a good night to you? Mandy and Leigh were unsure about the idea (for good reason). After a bit of convincing Mandy and Leigh both agreed to do some shots. After some sputtering, coughing and choking they finished their shots. To my surprise, 15 minutes later they were ready for round two. For two 100 lb. girls, two shots of Everclear is like getting hit by a Mac truck of drunkness. They were now sufficiently wasted.

The booze stopped Mandy from complaining, but now she was acting like giggling, infantile high school girl who just had her first wine cooler. I’m still not sure which was worse. Mandy’s pissing and moaning took up a good chunk of time so it had quickly gotten to be 11:30. I rounded up the crew and finally managed to get us out the door. Mandy viewed the walk to the party as another opportunity to complain about inconsequential bullshit and things I couldn’t control.

First, she criticized the way I held hands, which to be honest, I didn’t want to do in the first place. I’m no Llyod Dobbler. After that she asked, “how much farther,” every two fucking minutes. The party wasn’t that far away. It was maybe, a 15 to 20 minute walk. In other words, not far enough to justify driving to. Her constant nagging made it seem like the Bataan death march, though. Once we got half way, she started nagging me about having to pee. The party was another 5 to 10 minutes away, but she wouldn’t let it go. I put my foot down and told her to hold it, which she pouted about. By the time we got to the party alarms were going off in my head. I was starting to think that maybe this whole thing was a mistake.

We got to the party and it was in full swing. When we entered I had five different people calling my name. I showed Mandy where the bathroom was, and then I attended to my friends. When Mandy got out of the bathroom she found me immediately. “Come with me,” she said grabbing my arm. I didn’t know where the fuck she wanted me to go; she didn’t know anyone at the party and there was hardly an inch of free space. Besides that, I wanted to go talk to the hosts, who I hadn’t seen in months. “Uhh, actually I’m gonna go say hi to some people,” I said. “Oh, okay. Fine,” she said pouting, yet again. I’ve learned that it’s never a good thing when a girl says, “fine.” But I didn’t care. God forbid, I want to talk to my friends that I haven’t seen in months at their own party that I invited her to.

A couple minutes later, I was talking to some friends when mid-sentence Mandy pulled me aside and started making out with me. I’ll admit the kiss was pretty hot, but for fuck’s sake, couldn’t this girl be by herself for more than a minute? Understandably, my friends were put off by the awkward situation. After that I was subject to continuous choruses of, “Why aren’t you paying attention to me?” and “You’re not giving me enough attention!” Thank god my veins were filled with equal parts blood and whiskey, otherwise I might not have been able to bear it. I was still a little annoyed, though. I pulled Mandy on to the dance floor (the living room) hoping it would shut her noise hole. It worked.

And holy shit did she dance skanky. Her ass was all over my junk and as an added bonus, she wasn’t complaining. It was great. Leigh also found a guy for some scandalous dancing. D-Stump and Chloe joined the action too. DF was probably off somewhere saying inappropriate things or taking his clothes off or both. But Mandy just had to open her fucking mouth again.

D-Stump and Chloe were dancing in front of us, and I said some innocuous comment about them. “I like Chloe. She’s a cute girl; nice too. But I think she could do a lot better than D-Stump,” Mandy said. Oh no she didn’t. Listen, there are a lot things that I’m not: tactful, tolerant of morons, tall, good with women, etc… But if I am one thing, it’s loyal. A slight on one of my friends is a slight on me. I wasn’t about to let Mandy bad mouth one of my best friends who she didn’t even know. “Don’t say that. Don’t you fucking say that. You don’t even know him.” That shut her yap pretty quickly.

The rest of the party went without incident, but that’s because it was cut short. As cops are wont to do in college, they broke up the party. I gathered the group up and then we started to walk home. On the walk home Mandy mentioned that I seemed distant, and I was. I was inside my head; I kept wondering whether or not I was making a mistake and how much I actually liked Mandy. It was a classic chess match between penis and brain. Mandy was smoking hot, but her behavior was suspect. My ding-dong begged me to give her a shot so that he might shake hands with her. My brain begged me to throw her to the curb so her complaining would cease to harm him. The resulting match wasn’t even close. It was like penis was Deep Blue and brain was a monkey with Down’s Syndrome.

When we got back to my place I plopped down on the couch. Mandy sat down too and put her legs over me (the ole’ legs over lap move from part 2. See, I told you it was a thing). I turned the TV on and passed one of Dane Cook’s stand up specials. Mandy told me to go back. Mentally, I marked another strike against her. Meanwhile, DF and D-Stump were doing their sacred duty as wingmen: entertaining Leigh and keeping her the fuck away from us. I have to hand it to them, they did a good job. But Mandy’s occasional glance toward the other room and Leigh’s frequent visits to the living room led me to believe that I would get cock blocked that evening, despite the best efforts of my wingmen, and brothers in poontang wrangling.

We were watching Dane Cook’s shitty stand up and he got to the joke in his act about “the first time you see the other person’s prizes and goodies.” First let me say, that joke sucks and so does Dane Cook. I didn’t say that because I didn’t want to start a fight, which would inevitably end with Mandy sulking and being a bitch. But I had to say something. “That’s not really true. You kind of know what you’re getting based on the person,” I said to Mandy. “What do you mean? Like, you can just tell by looking at someone,” she responded. “I don’t think it’s that simple but yeah, basically.” Yet again, she said something I was not expecting. “Okay, then what about me?”

I had to be very careful with this question. Insinuating either that she was hairier than a sheepdog or that she was shaved in some elaborate pattern like a porn star would send her off the deep end. “Uhhh, I don’t know, trimmed? But not completely shaved.” She paused and then she said, “Yeah, basically. You wanna see?” Mandy pulled her shirt up, unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans and pulled her underwear down a little bit. As if that wasn’t shocking enough for me, she took my hand and put it on her freshly mowed lawn.

I couldn’t believe it was happening and didn’t know how to react. I was in a catatonic state. I was also very drunk, which probably didn’t help. But seriously, who the fuck does that? I highly doubt that move is in the standard chick playbook. It seems more like a move out of the standard hooker’s playbook. I don’t just whip out my wang on a first or second date. Even I know you have to wait until the third date. I didn’t have time to think about it more because Leigh came into the living room a few minutes later and had a conference with Mandy.

Like Nostro-fucking-damus I had correctly predicted the blockage of my cock. I guess Leigh was mad that DF and D-Stump were trying to give me and Mandy some space. She didn’t like that, “she was being kept away from her friend.” Keep in mind she was on her period, so she was extra bitchy. Mandy relayed this information to me, and I told her that I didn’t ask them to do it; they just did it (like I would have done anything about it anyway). Mandy and Leigh left in a huff shortly after that.

The next day I awoke to three missed text messages, all from Mandy. What was with this girl? She either got too many hugs as kid or not enough. I’d also be willing to bet that her dad called/calls her “princess.” A word to the wise, always be cautious of a girl whose dad calls her princess. More often than not, she believes it. Anyway, The first one said, “Happy Labor Day!” The next one was in reference to something I had drunkenly promised her the night before, “So when are going for the drive in your Camero?” The cherry on top of the clingy sundae was the third message, “What, no response? .” I had just gotten up and I had to deal with this shit? We weren’t even boyfriend/girlfriend (or even close to it) yet and she was already rolling out the guilt trips and trying to keep tabs on me. Fuck me sideways. I explained to her that I had just gotten up and since there were no classes I was using the day to catch up on my work. She reluctantly accepted my explanation, and I proceeded to go to the design lab and slave over a computer all day.

After I finished my work, Mandy called me and asked if I wanted to hang out at her apartment later. Alone. I suggested that we watch a movie. Mandy agreed and told me what time to come over. The way I saw it was that it would be the truest test of whether or not I wanted to continue the relationship. Neither of our friends would be there to distract us; we would both be sober; and we would be on her turf, not mine. I was still nervous, though. Based on Mandy’s constant talk of sex, her sexual innuendos and her willingness to shove her tongue down my throat, I was fairly certain that she might try to seduce me. And to be honest, I wasn’t sure I would know what to do after I rounded second base. From there it would just be asses, elbows and awkwardness.

Not only that, but the situation would most likely lead to another brain vs. penis chess match. I was afraid of the moral dilemma that could possibly ensue. This meeting could very well confirm the fact that Mandy was an insufferable brat that I was intellectually repulsed by. But that would all go out window if I was riding her like Seabiscuit. There’s no way I could pass that up even if it meant sacrificing my principles. In which case, I would be faced with yet another dilemma. If I did tax that ass and then split, I would be labeled an asshole, and I’d be living up to every negative stereotype women have of men. On the other hand, if I started a relationship, I would be living an unfulfilling lie. Of course, everything could go great and I would live happily ever after, but, come on, you know that’s not what’s coming.

Monday evening came, and I commenced operation 3-S: shower, shit and shave. I went downstairs and was greeted by hoots, elbow nudges and general razzing. Seal had resurfaced too. I started to sift through my movie collection with the help of all three roommates. I wanted to keep the mood light so I eliminated drama, action and horror flicks. And porno, I eliminated that too. We looked through my comedies and voted. I ended up with Wedding Crashers and Superbad. Armed with my movies and an incredible urge to vomit, I left.

I arrived at Mandy’s apartment, and she seemed genuinely excited to see me. I almost felt bad that I couldn’t match her enthusiasm. It’s tough being a cynic. I asked Mandy which movie she wanted to watch and she picked Superbad. Of course she would pick my #2 choice. She popped the movie in and went into her bedroom to change into a sweatpants and a sweatshirt even though it was 95 goddamn degrees outside. She was “freezing” because of her arctic grade air conditioning, but I was still sweating my nads off.

We started to watch the movie. She laughed. I laughed. We kissed. A lot. She switched positions about a thousand times, all the while keeping her hands all over me. I tried every trick in the book to turn my petrified wood into pulp. I thought about baseball statistics; I pictured a nursing home orgy; I even ran the prison rape scene from American History X in my mind. Nothing really worked. Then, as the movie was ending, Mandy took her hand and put in my short leg, slowly moving it toward my fun zone. Hello, Boner City; population me. The credits started to roll, and Mandy got up to turn the movie off.

She returned to the couch and promptly straddled me. Let’s stop the tape and break this down. She wanted me to come to her apartment. She came on to me (several times). She had been all over me the entire night, as well as the previous two nights. She had proven herself to be a very sexual being based on her actions and words. I think any reasonable guy would see these actions as a green light to do the no-pants dance. However, when dealing with women, it’s important to remember that they rarely use reason or logic. Alright, roll tape; let’s watch this fucking train wreck.

Mandy was on top of me and we were going at it. She was really getting into it. I had to make a move soon. By this point in my dating career (or lack there of), I realized that I lost many opportunities because I played things to conservatively and didn’t take chances. Doctors believe this is a symptom related to chronic pussy-itis. I took my hands and started sliding her sweatshirt up. To my surprise, she was okay with it and even raised her arms over her head to expedite the process. We continued to make out for a while, and I decided to take another chance. I put both my hands above Mandy’s hips and started moving her tank top up. She didn’t stop me. She didn’t say anything either. Holy shit! She really did want a hot beef injection, and luckily for her, the doctor was in.

I got her shirt up to her ribs and then the proverbial train jumped the goddamn tracks. She pulled away from me and with a shocked expression said, “what did you think was gonna happen tonight?” Was this bitch serious? She was the one that climbed on top of me. She was the one that was all over me for the entire weekend. She was the one who talked about sex every time I worked with her. Did she think this was sending out any other message but “I want some dick”?

“Did you think you were going to have sex with me tonight?” There was so much disdain in the way she hissed sex that it made me shudder. I was so confused that I didn’t know what to do or say. Eventually, my brain unfroze, and I tried to defuse the situation the only way I know how: humor. “I don’t really expect anyone to have sex with me.” She didn’t laugh like I thought she would. She repeated herself again, and I told her that I did not in fact expect to have sex with her. Okay, so I thought there was a chance we might do it, but I certainly didn’t expect to. But can you blame me after the way she acted? And I certainly wouldn’t have pressured her or forced her to. I’m not that guy, and I thought she would be perceptive enough to see that. I was wrong.

“Did you bring a condom? Do you have a condom in your wallet?” Uh, oh. I did have one in my wallet, but it wasn’t mine. And I hadn’t intended on bringing one at all. Right as I was about to leave for Mandy’s, DF asked me the very same question Mandy did. All three of my roommates insisted (and by insisted I mean yelled and demanded) that I bring a condom. DF grabbed me and literally wouldn’t let me leave until I took the Trojan he had in his hand. But to diffuse the situation I told Mandy I didn’t have one.

“Come on really, what were you expecting?” “I was expecting to hang out with you; I came over here for you!” Jesus-tap-dancing-Christ, I couldn’t believe this fucking girl. When a girl climbs on top of you, what are you supposed to do? Have some fucking tea and a nice chat? “I just feel like after Dean’s party you just trying to get me back to your house to sleep with me.” WHAT!?!?! If you’ll remember (which I told you to) I simply asked Mandy to drop me off at home that night. I didn’t even make an attempt to get her inside. Even if I did manage to get her inside, nothing was going to happen. I was shithoused drunk by 9 p.m. Nothing short of a fistful of Viagra and Shyla Stylez lying in my bed was getting me up that night.

“What? I just asked you to take me home.” Mandy didn’t seem to have a reply to that. Funny how the truth has that effect. Confounded by my stone cold reason Mandy kept going on about what I “expected to happen” that night, while I started to get seriously irritated. Then she went into a self-righteous speech about how sex was “really special” to her, which I found hard to believe. Maybe sex was special to her but all evidence pointed to the contrary. She lost her virginity at 16 and had been fucking ever since. She never went more than a couple of months without a boyfriend. She was boning Nick the cashier after a couple weeks of dating. Not to mention, how much she talked about sex during the course of a regular workday. She was literally addicted to dick, but, somehow, saw herself as a virtuous romantic; an angelic ladylike character out of a Victorian Era novel. Yeah right. I wasn’t the buying the bullshit she was selling.

The other thing that bothered me about her spiel, besides self righteous attitude, was the condescension. Mandy was up on her moral high horse looking down on me. She thought just because I was guy, sex didn’t mean anything to me. It doesn’t mean so much to me that I’d abstain from it until marriage; that’s fucking stupid. But, unlike some of my friends who were at school to complete their doctorate in hoodrat slaying, I wasn’t trying to screw every booze slut in sight of the beer pong table. I actually want to know and like and connect with the girls I have (or try to have?) sex with. I brought this point up to Mandy, and she started backpedaling.

Mandy was on the ropes. She realized that she was acting like a silly little bitch. She started backpedaling and trying to apologize. “I’m sorry I ruined the mood; how can I fix things?” The part of my brain that constantly fucks with me, and makes everyday life as difficult as possible, offered an answer to her query: a blow job. While that would have a been hilarious and made for a great story, it also would have endangered me physically. I answered honestly, ” I don’t know.” After that we sat on the couch in a strained, awkward silence that seemed like hours, but in reality was only minutes. Realizing that the situation wasn’t going to get any better and not wanting to make it any worse, I grabbed my movie and left.

I hopped in my car, cranked Guns N’ Roses and sped home. I got home and busted through the front door, still seething. DF, D-Stump and Seal were congregated in the living room, awaiting my return. Three variations of, “how’d it go?” were spoken simultaneously. Rather than answer them and recount my story, I unleashed the anger that had been building since I left Mandy’s apartment. “GOD DAMMIT!!!,” I shouted as I threw my keys at the wall.

After retrieving my keys (and newly broken automatic opener), I recounted Mandy’s bat shit crazy behavior to my roommates. They agreed that she was indeed fucking nuts, and I did the right thing. Although it was a given that they would take my side. As I was sitting on the couch and cooling down, my phone rang. It was Mandy. I looked at my phone for several seconds and decided not to answer. I was still pretty pissed off and insulted, and I really didn’t want to yell at her or say something I might regret.

About five minutes later I got a text. It was from Mandy. I read the text and listened to the voice mail she left earlier. They both basically said the same thing; she was sorry and wanted to talk to me about a second chance. About 30 minutes later I got another text saying the same goddamn thing. I wondered if she was actually remorseful or just upset about the possibility of losing such a promising source of attention for her insatiable need.

I went to sleep that night without responding to Mandy. Over the next few days I got more calls and more texts from her. I got cornered one day when I answered my phone without looking, because I was stressed and in a rush on campus, and it was Mandy. I told her we would talk about things when I had some time. This was not lie. I actually happened to be very busy and stressed that week between school and work, without her horseshit on top of everything.

Sitting on our front porch the next day, smoking and drinking, my friends asked what I was going to do. “I think I’m gonna just gonna end it. Get rid of her,” I said. “She’s an attention whore; it would just be constant drama. Plus, I realized I don’t really like her that much, and I’m not going be with her if I don’t feel the same way. I’m not gonna do that to her.” The reaction to my decision was mixed. Rigolega and Seal were on my side, but DF, D-Stump and Dean weren’t as supportive. D-Stump, being a paragon of virtue, offered his assessment, “you don’t have to like someone to get some puss.” Dean was less sleazy but was basically thinking the same thing as D-Stump. But he could only muster, “No, no, come on!”

I called Mandy and we talked about the situation, well, she did most of the talking. I just listened and said, “yeah” or “uh huh” in the right spots. When she was done, I told her what I thought. “Well, do you want to give me a second chance?” Mandy asked hopefully. “Ahhhhhh, to be honest, not really. I’d rather not.” Mandy was shocked. I don’t think anyone had ever said no to little miss princess. “Wow, that’s not what I was expecting.” “Yeah, well, sorry.” I hung up and literally never saw her again.

To this day, I don’t regret the decision I made. I don’t think I ever really liked Mandy. I convinced my self that I did, though. For once an attractive girl liked me and my excitement over that fact blinded me. I had never been on that side of the equation. I was always the one doing the chasing, but this time I was the object of attraction. And it fucked with my head. I ignored her dramatic behavior and attention whore tendencies. I kept making excuses to look past the fact that we clearly weren’t compatible. The truth is, she would have constantly been trying to stuff me into a box I would never fit in, and I would have been miserable.

Oh, and if you’re wondering how I never saw her again even though she worked with me, I’ll tell you. Right before our little debacle, she switched to a different department. Then she left school and went home the next semester because she was too stupid to get into the nursing program. And a couple weeks ago I found out she defriended me on Facebook. So I have no problem writing the next sentence.

Fuck that whore.

The Mandy situation kind of set the tone for the rest of my year. It seemed to be constantly raining shit on me. I was struggling with my school workload, while trying to work part time. Around Christmas my Crohn’s disease flared up and I felt like shit for months (basically my entire final semester at college). I even had to spend most of my spring break in the hospital. Now, one would think, that after all that something would finally go my way. Well, guess a-fucking-gain.

Stay tuned for part 5, which involves two shorter, but equally fucked up, stories.

Girls, Yeah All I Really Want Is Girls (Part 3)

College: Some Girls

*Author’s Note: Sometimes plans change. Originally I intended to call this part “Pretty Girls Make Graves,” a reference to a Smith’s song, but that sounded a little too dramatic and emo. Instead I went with “Some Girls,” a reference to The Rolling Stone’s song and album. I also intended for part 3 to be the last entry in this epic saga, but it was getting ridiculously long. Like 9,000 words long. I think it would work best as a single entry, but Rigolega pointed out that no reasonable person is going sit down and read something that colossal. That’s why I’m breaking it up and adding a part 4. So sorry if this part doesn’t live up to the previous two or seems like it’s missing something. Anyway, enjoy motherfuckers!

I finally made it to college. Unfortunately, my v-card still seemed to be firmly stuck in my wallet and it appeared that nothing short of a $100 bill sticking out of my zipper would dislodge it. At least, I thought that until my first day on campus.

I know it’s cliche’ to say but college was like a different planet. An awesome planet filled with cheap hooch, which is to say easy girls and criminally inexpensive liquor. There was booze. There were bitches. There was very little adult supervision. It was like Disney World for perverts.

As I just mentioned, there were girls everywhere. Attractive girls. My head was spinning. It was a pretty big leap from high school. Let’s just say most of the girls at my high school were no prize pigs; they were mostly just pigs. I had never been around so many single, attractive girls in my life. It was like discovering girls for the first time. In a way it was like entering middle school again, only binge drinking wasn’t frowned upon.

But being in college for the first time I had some things to learn:

1. If you drink too much you may not remember most of the previous night, otherwise known as “blacking out.” Although, I like to think of it as time traveling. This meant that often I would wake up and think “where the fuck am I and where are my pants?” It has the advantage of you not really remembering and thus not really caring about acting like an asshole. While it has that advantage, everyone who wasn’t as drunk as you remembers you testing the temperature of their beer with your dong.

2. Beer goggles. I always assumed that beer goggles were kind of bull shit; guys just making excuses for sleeping with uggos. But I’ll be damned if it wasn’t true. After seven or eight beers even an utter wildebeest starts to look like a centerfold. I also discovered a tenant of beer goggles that my friend Rigolega regularly preaches: alcohol makes ugly girls pretty not fat girls skinny. You might end up hooking up with a creature from a H.P. Lovecraft story but at least you’re not hooking up with a hippopotamus. If you hook up with fatty it’s because deep down, you really wanted to.

3. Having a roommate. Sleeping and spending basically all your free time in the same room (a very small room) with a complete stranger is a little hard to adjust to. More importantly, with a roommate, sometimes it’s hard to pursue personal interests. Get it? I’m talking about jerking it. You either have to plan a very meticulous schedule based on your roommate’s habits or just try to finish as fast as possible, which isn’t helping anyone in the long run. On the plus side, I figured if there was a disaster or if a homicidal maniac busted into my room, I was taking someone down with me.

4. Speaking of jerking it, I finally had my own computer. At home I was forced to use an ancient desktop with a dial up connection (for some reason my parents decided they didn’t need DSL until I left for college). Not only that, but it was in a very open place, I had to share it with my brother and my parents hardly ever left the house. You had to be a ninja to crank it in my house. Finally, I didn’t have to worry about the history, cookies or autofill announcing my unsavory activities to those who would disapprove. Of course having my own computer also meant that I spent several hours a day refreshing Facebook, researching werewolves on Wikipedia and watching buzzer beater videos on Youtube when I should have been studying.

5. I guess I should have an obligatory entry about experiencing new cultures, moving outside of my comfort zone, meeting new people and blah, blah, blah. But I wasn’t a bigot before I got to college and I can, at least, tolerate most people. So I didn’t really have some smarmy epiphany about “all people being equal.” What I really learned was where and when I could make jokes in an overly PC culture.

That’s a enough of that. I moved into my dorm (which by the looks of it, was built sometime during the Eisenhower administration) and my parents said good bye. I was free at last, and I just got dropped off at Camp Naughty Bad Fun. There were literally 20 or 30 girls living down the hall from me and, if I may reiterate, there was absolutely no adult supervision. It should have been like fishing with dynamite, but it was more like fishing blindfolded with a rock in the dead of night.

My freshman year, in terms of girls, was without question a disaster. Like I said, there were plenty of girls in my dorm but just not the right kind of girls. They were either sorostitutes who probably couldn’t muster a thought more advanced than “cute shoes” or indie hipster chicks that looked sickly pale, wore scarves when it was 95 degrees and listened to obscure bands with ridiculous names like the Rainbow Unicorn Coalition. I’ve learned by now that my target demographic are girls somewhere in between the sorority girl and the hipster. There were a few girls like that in my dorm, but I sort of ran into a roadblock that I would hit several more times that year.

There were a couple cute girls in my dorm that were in my “target demographic.” I pursued them and to my surprise they were fairly receptive. However, after adding them on Facebook I saw the one thing no guys wants to to see, relationship status: in a relationship. God fucking dammit. Didn’t these girls know that the best time to be single is college? Didn’t they know they were supposed to be partaking in all sorts of raunchy, filthy dorm room sex with random dudes? Mainly, me.

There were plenty of other places on campus to meet girls: classes, the rec center, the quad, parties, etc… So I was on the lookout. As it turned out, there was a cute brunette with glasses in my English class. It was an 8 a.m. class so I usually looked like a bag of wild pig anuses, but she always looked good. After some investigating (stalking?) I found out she too had a boyfriend. What a goddamn surprise. But I thought I struck gold one day while eating lunch in the commons.

It was packed and I had managed to snag one of the last open tables. A smoking hot Latina girl was searching for a table but had no luck. She passed my table and asked if she could sit down. I said, “of course.” We started talking (well she talked, I mostly tried to sneak peeks at her ripe, ripe melons without getting caught) and I found out she was a journalism major like me, she despised sororities and she was part Colombian. She also had a nice set of gozongas (if you didn’t catch my drift earlier). I even got a few laughs out of her, even though she didn’t know me at all. When she got up to leave I got her name so I could Facebook her. As soon as my classes were over I hopped on Facebook and friended her. A couple hours later she accepted my friend request and I immediately stalked her profile.

I closed my eyes and started thinking “no boyfriend, no boyfriend, no boyfriend, no boyfriend.” Boyfriend. Shit. And not that I’m bitter but, he looked like a huge tool shed. On a douche scale of 1 to Shamwow Guy, he scored a Kanye West. If that wasn’t bad enough, it also turns out she was a rabid right wing conservative. She was actually a fan of Ann Coulter. It’s funny, she didn’t seem crazy when I talked to her. I have a couple more examples of this fuckery, but I’ll spare you. I know you have porn to download.

Besides the boyfriend bullshit, I had another problem. Most of the time I was hanging out with people older than me. My friend had an older sister at school. She happened to have a boyfriend who, along with his roommate, liked to party a lot. On the surface it doesn’t seem like a problem, especially because of the easy access to booze, but it was. Most of the girls we were around were taken or not taken for good goddamn reason. The girls that weren’t taken or uglier than sin wanted nothing to do with us. A 21-year-old girl doesn’t want a boyfriend who can’t get into bars and still lives in a dorm. However, one of these parties is where I had my first experience with beer goggles.

“Jay” and “Trent” (friend’s sister’s boyfriend and roommate) were throwing a kegger. There were mass quantities of shitty domestic light beer to be consumed, so naturally a few friends and I went. My friend convinced some skank he knew and her friends to come too. It might not seem like it, but it was a feat. Jay and Trent didn’t live in the best neighborhood. There was a crack house down the street and a homeless guy frequently wandered into their parties. My friend actually hugged him once. I’m also pretty sure they were living in section-8 housing (low income project housing); their rent was $180 for a two bedroom place. They weren’t the cleanliest guys in the world either. It’s not every sheltered girl from the suburbs that will go to a kegger in the hood thrown by two sleazes.

When we got there we did what you do at a party: drink as much as possible. After a beer or eight, the girls finally showed up. At that point the beer had kindly removed the filter between my brain and mouth. That can be either good or bad in my case because I am a sarcastic, spiteful, bitter person. But that night the gods smiled upon me. I started talking to one of the friends, “Annie.” She was blonde and a little on the skinny side, but hey so am I. Apparently she mistook my drunken banter for boyish charm because I was getting lots of lulz. We exchanged numbers, and I prayed she’d still be pretty the next day.

The next week came, and I kept looking at Annie’s number in my phone hoping that it would call for me. I was wary to call because I couldn’t remember what she looked like or anything about her other than her name. Even that was amazing considering how shitfaced I got. I finally got around to calling her and we agreed to meet for lunch at one of the dining halls. I know, romantic right?

On the appointed day, I walked down to the dining hall. Annie said that she’d meet me outside. When I got there I started looking around and then I saw her, but it was not a welcome sight. “No that that can’t be her. No fucking way,” I thought. She did not look like the same girl I met at the party. She looked more like my boner’s worst nightmare. She was whiter than Casper, her teeth were yellower than her hair, as well as bucked and she was skinnier than an Ethiopian. She looked like the result of a skeleton fucking a rabbit. She already saw me, so I missed my opportunity to make a run for it. I reluctantly trudged into the dining hall.

Annie informed me that some of her friends would be joining us. Shortly after they arrived, she also informed me that she had a boyfriend. Well, if that wasn’t a kick in the dick. If I’m being honest, even if she was single or if I wanted to be (well I don’t think there’s a male equivalent of a mistress; I think there just called “guys”) the other guy, my penis would have been more flaccid than a garden hose in the Sahara. If you’re thinking, “Chesterfield you’re so mean and shallow; maybe she was really nice,” leave my site because fuck you. It’s true that looks aren’t everything but if you think they don’t matter at all you’re probably ugly or you’re living in fantasy world where every girl finds her prince charming and magic fairies fly around distributing blow jobs.

When her friends arrived it was a non-stop gab fest. I couldn’t get a goddamn word in. Not even a short one like shut or the or fuck or up. It was mind numbing. I was amazed that four days ago I wanted to play hide the hot dog with this girl and now I couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with her. Since I’m a man of integrity, I wolfed down my food, got the fuck out of dodge, deleted her number and never spoke to her again. Can you believe I’m still single? Ladies please form a line to the left.

It would be an understatement to say I was fed up. So I entered one of my periodic “why bother?” stages and stopped pursuing girls. Instead, I got outrageously drunk and slung one-liners at parties. That behavior pretty much persisted the rest of the year (actually it still persists). Then May came and I went home for a too-short summer.

My sophomore year, my junior year and the summer before my senior year pretty much all run together. During this period I learned something about myself: I have an extraordinary ability to open but a catastrophic ability to close. I can attract the attention of girl, entertain her, trick her (let’s be honest that’s what is) into hanging out with me but after that I’m sunk. For me, trying to move from being a friend to a boyfriend is like trying to build, well anything, from fucking Ikea. Those meatball loving assholes. All the essential parts and tools are there but it never comes out right, and I end up throwing a screwdriver through the wall.

Here’s a run through of my misadventures during that period:

At the very beginning of sophomore year I was hanging out with a girl down the hall from me in the dorm. I took her and some of her friends to a couple parties one weekend. She ended up drinking way more than she could handle (fucking amateur). She wasn’t looking too hot, so I went over to ask if she was alright. She then proceeded to throw up on my brand new Nikes. Then I proceeded to take care of her drunk ass the entire night. A couple weeks later she was boning my suite mate. Yep, sounds about right.

After that train-wreck I became interested in another girl in my dorm. One weekend all the girls decided to go to a frat party and ditch all the guys. That was when I decided to make my move. I started off by drinking half a bottle of rum because I’m smart. When she returned I decided to go upstairs and charm her because I’m smart. I went up to her room and hopped in her bed because I’m smart. But I couldn’t make a move because her roommate was still up, and she was stone-cold sober and not drunker than an Irish pirate like me. Not knowing what to do, I just passed the fuck out in her bed because I’m smart. The next day I woke up, still drunk, and went back to room to get ready for the football game that day. Undressing to take a shower, I discovered I was wearing a pink sparkly girl’s belt. At least I had booze to blame this time. I then had to go back upstairs and return it. Needless to say, weeks of awkwardness followed. Later that year she ended up dating my friend. Somewhere up in heaven, Don Juan and Casa Nova were looking down and calling me pussy. Yeah I know they’re not real people.

Toward the end of the year I became interested in a girl in my news writing class. Surprisingly, she didn’t have a boyfriend. In another stroke of luck, we were put in the same group for the final project, which took up a good portion of the semester. She had to spend time with me whether she liked it or not (and I’m aware how rapist-y that makes me sound). Eventually, we started hanging out in addition to working on the project. I was feeling good about this one. This girl could seriously party and had an awesome sense of humor. And I don’t mean she was smart enough to tell when I was being sarcastic or laughed at my jokes. She was actually funny, which is a rarity because researchers and scientists have proven time and again that women aren’t funny. Unfortunately, the school year ended and summer came. However, we picked up where we left off my junior year.

After a couple months of hanging out and talking, I took her on two dates that turned out not to be dates (a coffee place with live music and a sushi bar). Shortly after that she told me that she just started seeing someone. I kind of saw that coming because I took too long to close the gap between just friends and having dirty chimpanzee sex in the back of my Camero. But because I saw it coming I had been on the lookout for other girls.

I met another girl at the beginning of my junior year. The circumstances surrounding our meeting were strange for two reasons: one, somehow I got swindled into driving, so I wasn’t pants-shitingly drunk as usual and two, she approached me. I was wearing a t-shirt of a Chicago punk-rock band and around the band’s logo it said “Chicago, IL. Punk Rock.” She saw my shirt and asked if I was from Chicago. I told her I was and then she said, “I’ll bet you’re a Cubs fan.” I responded with mock outrage and informed her that I was not a Cubs fan (I’m a Cardinals fan, long story). It turns out she was a Brewers fan, and we discussed our mutual hatred for those north side pussies and baseball in general. And lightning struck twice because slap my ass and call me a monkey if she wasn’t funny too. Seriously, I had met another hilarious girl at college, which was two more than I had met in my life up until then. We didn’t exchange numbers and honestly, I didn’t expect to see her again.

But two weeks later I bumped into her at meeting for the student newspaper. She friended me on Facebook later that day and we started hanging out after I invited her to a Halloween party. A couple weeks after the Halloween party I got an invite to one of her parties. It was the opportunity that I needed. I was nervous and it was a party so naturally I got loaded. At the time my buddies and I were in an Everclear phase because it was relatively cheap and got you absolutely shithoused. Also, in a pinch you could use it as lighter fluid, insecticide or paint thinner. The amount of grain alcohol in my Coke that night probably could have fueled my fucking car. Needless to say, the events of that night are a little hazy.

But I managed to work my Dutch courage into Dutch charm and got her alone (or as alone as we were gonna be) in the corner of her kitchen. We were kind of holding each other, and I had one of her hands in mine and the other on her back. She was really close to me and kept whispering in my ear. I was on the verge of going in for the make out and out of goddamn nowhere, her friend literally pulled her away from me. She reached back for my hand but captain buzzkill the boner assassin wasn’t having any of that and dragged her into the next room. I thought I was still in an okay position until I did something monumentally stupid. About a month later, her favorite athlete of all-time got injured, and I made light of the situation. When I say, “I made light of the situation” I mean I absolutely torched him in a very immature way. She didn’t think it was funny. We had a little spat and eventually smoothed it out, but I knew I shot myself in the foot. I sealed my fate as a friend.

I met the next girl I became interested in while I was doing a story for the student newspaper. It was on open mic nights and she played bass in an acoustic duo. A chick that played bass? How fucking cool was that? She hung out at this one particular bar downtown that I also hung out at. Occasionally I would run into her and we would chat for a little bit. I started hanging out at that bar more often and eventually she asked for my number so we could hang out. Let me repeat that. She asked for my number. There was no doubt in my mind that I was in. We shared a lot of the same interests and she made plans to hang out with me; there was no way it could go wrong. But I forgot that I’m an idiot. Things went wrong. I was watching a band play with her, and she kept saying how hot the lead guitarist was. Admittedly, if I was a chick or a fruitcake I would probably want to fuck that dude, even as a straight dude I was getting some confusing and disturbing feelings about him. A week later she was dating the hot-shit guitarist and I, once again, was relegated to the friend zone.

After that I met a cute petite, blonde girl at a friend’s barbecue. She also had a major league set of sin pillows (are you starting to see a pattern here?). They were ridiculous for a girl her size. It was like someone attached bowling balls to a sapling. Milk wagons aside, I was pleased to learn that she would be spending her summer in town just like me. I was also pleased that she laughed at my (and my friend’s) veiled references to masturbation and inability to please a woman. She friended me on Facebook the next day, which I took as a good sign. We communicated through Facebook for the next couple weeks. I tried to make plans to hang out with her, but they never seemed to come together. And since I was too chickenshit to ask for her number, much less ask her out, I just cut my losses.

This is the last story from this period. A couple weeks before school started I was getting lit with my buddy “Dean.” We made our way to the only bar downtown that would serve his underage ass. It’s kind of an alternative/sci-fi/horror bar, so obviously there wasn’t a lot of eye candy. There were a lot of hipsters and fat chicks, though. However, it had karaoke, which I see as a push. Dean and I were getting hammered and to our surprise, some moderately attractive girls walked in, which was a welcome relief after having my eyes fucked by ugliness for over an hour. I was actually an acquaintance with one, which Dean used as an in. Eschewing the tradition of hitting on the cutest or drunkest girl in the group, he took the largest. I was fine with that. It meant I didn’t have to take the grenade; he jumped on it himself. I still had to entertain her friends and entertain I did. Not that it was hard. They were so drunk they would have laughed if I told Carlos Mencia jokes. During the course of my duty as wingman, one of the friends had her hands all over me. Meanwhile, Dean was having a classy dry-hump, make out session in the middle of the bar. Soon it was last call and we got kicked out.

While Dean was desperately trying to get his make out partner to come back to my house with us, I was getting digits. All the girls left but at least I got a number. The next day I tried to organize a shindig at my house with Dean. I called the girl from the bar. No answer. I called her again during the week. No answer. I called her again the next weekend, although I don’t remember it because I was blackout drunk. No answer. Dean informed me that I didn’t leave a voice mail because, “I didn’t want to seem too desperate.” After that I erased the bitch’s number from my phone. that was my last fail before my epic fails.

With luck like that it’s surprising I didn’t treat myself to a revolver sandwich. Little did I know things would get worse. That’s right folks, things got worse. My senior year of college is when things really started to get fucked. But you’ll have to wait until part 4 to read about it.

Chesterfield Gets Trolled; Hilarity Ensues

I got some feedback from my last story and some was positive. Some was not so positive.

Apparently someone from Women.org said I should be ashamed about the way I talk about women: “not funny you should be ashamed of the way that you talk about women.” Yeah, I probably should be a little ashamed, but I’m not. But not funny? Come the fuck on. I guarantee the broad that wrote that has hairy pits and was wearing combat boots.

Left: woman people actually want to fuck. Right: commentor

I was more intrigued by Anonymous’ comment, which as the name suggests was devoid of a website or email address. I posted this on facebook so there’s a very good chance this is someone that I know. Actually, I hope it is. There’s a very good chance someone is just trolling me, but I’ll take the chance that someone actually cared enough to comment on my shitty site. Here’s the comment:

“I know- maybe if you bitch just a tad bit more about your lack of luck with the ladies, one of them may read this and realize that you’re a great guy that’s just had a run of bad luck with girls, and you aren’t a womanizing dickhead. Try it, I bet it will work.”

Pictured: womanizing dickhead

Here are my thoughts:

I see you didn’t leave a website or e-mail address, very brave of you. I guess I’ll just have to count on your morally sensitive rage to bring you back to my site so you can read this.

Well Anonymous, maybe if you weren’t such a self righteous prick you’d see that this is clearly over the top and filled with sarcasm and hyperbole. But then again, this story was meant for people with a sense of humor, so clearly it wasn’t for you.

It may surprise an internet nerd like you to find out I actually have quite a few female friends. It may also surprise you to find out that they’ve read these stories and found them funny and insightful.

Also, I’d like to know how I became a “womanizing dickhead.” I know logic is probably not one of your strong points, but still. I was between the ages of 14 and 17, it’s hard to be womanizer when you still live with your parents (I bet you know all about that). I’m not sure how getting shot down, acting oblivious on date and a girl moving makes me a womanizing dickhead. It just makes me a clueless teenager, which is what I was. But that’s the great thing about assumptions, you don’t have to think to make them.

Anonymous, maybe you should think before you write or you know, stop being such an uptight, smug asshole. Try it, I bet it will work. I would love to write more, but I’ll be too busy having sex with your ugly mother and not calling her back (that makes me a womanizing dickhead).

P.S: I plan I “bitching” more. I still have a third part to write.

P.P.S: I hope you get raped by pack of feral dogs.

Girls, Yeah All I Really Want Is Girls (Part 2)

High School: Attention Loser, Where’s Your Girlfriend?

I was 14, had just finished middle school and was about to enter high school. So far the opposite sex was pitching a shutout against me. I was the Chicago Cubs of ass getting. I thought my luck might change once I got to high school, though. This was mostly based on raucous teenage comedies I’d seen like American Pie, Porky’s and Private School. According to these movies everyone got laid in high school, in fact you couldn’t walk out of the locker room with out getting your dick sucked. There were also raging keggers and wacky hijinks to boot. Well, at least in the movies. I didn’t really see much of that.

Before I start my tales of woe, I should explain the fucked up ways that schools operated in my town. Crystal Lake is an average sized suburb of about 45,000-50,000. For some reason the town decided it was necessary to have three middle schools and three high schools. The town I went to college in only had two high schools and its population was double that of Crystal Lake. I suppose three middle schools and three high schools wouldn’t have been a problem if they were organized in a way that made any fucking sense.

I went to an elementary school that was about three blocks from my house. A 10 minute walk at most. There was a middle school, Lundahl, right next to it. I was supposed to go there, but a new middle school, Beardsley, was built and the boundaries changed. Now you would think that I would go to Lundahl, which was a mere three blocks away, but no. The school district decided to fuck with me and send me to Beardsley, which was all the way across town. I think there were three people in my year that went to Beardsley. I lost all of my old friends and basically knew nobody.

Oh you made a lot of great friends in middle school, did you? Well now the school district is going to bend you over again. That’s right, they fucked me again. About 85 % of the people that went to Beardsley went to the newest high school, Prairie Ridge, just outside of town, 10% went to Central, the school I was to attend and an unlucky 5% went to South.

Once again I was thrown into an unfamiliar environment and lost many of my close friends. What made it worse was I just went from the newest school in town to the oldest. It was like going to a Led Zeppelin reunion concert only to be beaten and raped upon leaving and then being forced to listen to the Jonas Brothers non-stop for four years.

The main part of the school was built in the 1920s and additions were added through the years, which meant it was impossible to install central air, which meant I had to sit in ball soup for the first three months of school. Seriously, that place felt like a goddamned brick oven, smelled like a bowling alley and looked like a fucking prison. I mean it when I say it’s a miracle the entire freshman class didn’t enter a mass suicide pact after the first week of school.

That’s enough of my dramatics. On to what you really care about. But first a recap: Girls were shooting me down like I had a target on my back, my school was a shithole and I hardly knew anyone. That’s a recipe for success if I’ve ever heard one.

High school is supposed to be a time when you start to date and try to unravel the mysteries of the opposite sex. It’s also one your first chances to get laid, which is important because as Jonah Hill’s character said in Superbad, when you get to college you don’t want girls thinking “you suck dick at fucking pussy.” Despite all this, I wasn’t too bothered with girls when I entered high school.

I was taking honors classes, playing football and trying to get my video game fix all at the same time. After a day of boring ass classes it was straight to football practice until 6:00 or 6:30 depending on how many unnecessary sprints my dicklicker of a coach decided to tack on at the end of practice. By the time I got home and showered it would be around 7:00. So I would scarf down some dinner and then try to finish my homework. If there were time I would try to play some PS2 or listen to music. For the most part I was asleep by 9:30 or 10:00. Seven or so hours of class and three hours of football was a better sleep aid then a glass of warm milk, two Ambiens and jerking off put together. I don’t think anything short of death would put me out that early nowadays.

This regiment put me in a sort of haze at school. Instead of thinking about boobs and schemes to possibly get a look at a pair, I was thinking about how fucking tired I was and how much time I had before practice. Walking through Central’s corridors, I didn’t stop, or even think to stop, to objectify the girls walking by. It seems absurd now, seeing as most of my friends set aside time in their day to do just that. I swear to god I’ve seen Rigolega write “ogle cans” in his planner. But I just didn’t care.

I would like to think that my schedule and workload were the only reasons for my disinterest, but deep down I know that’s not true. I think I was disappointed that I had to part ways from the female friends I made in middle school. I didn’t want to start the long, agonizing process over again. The fact that I had crashed and burned with every girl I’d been interested in was also in the back of my mind. I thought, why bother?

As the end of October approached the school readied itself for homecoming. For some reason it was a big deal even though Central’s football program was a joke. Before I entered high school, Central had averaged two wins a season for the past 10 years. And I’m pretty sure some of those wins were against a school for the blind and deaf. That particular year it was even more hyped because we were playing Prairie Ridge, an in-town rival. Of course there was a dance after the football games as well. I intended to go but hadn’t intended on asking anyone for obvious reasons, but sometimes plans change.

One October day I was running the track and talking to my friend “Bri” in gym class. She was one of the few people that I knew from Beardsley. Somehow the subject got to homecoming. I mentioned that I wasn’t going with anyone. Bri got really excited and then said, “You should go with Terry!” It wasn’t so much a suggestion as an order. “Yeah I guess I could do that.” The bell rang and I walked to the locker room wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into.

Terry was mutual friend of Bri’s who went to middle school with us. She, like the majority of the people from our middle school, went to Prairie Ridge. She was about my height with shoulder-length brown hair and an awesome sense of humor. Oh, and she had gigantic knockers, can’t forget those. I always joked around with her in the class and we talked frequently. I realize now that Terry probably liked me but at the time my perception was clouded by my crush on Kate.

My first clue should have been that she actually wanted to hang out with me outside of school. Not many people, much less girls, are willing to do that. During the summer I was hanging out with her at Bri’s house when I should have seen clue number two. I mean, I think it was a sign, but then again I’ve only had eight years to think about it. Anyway, I was sitting on the couch and Terry was sitting to my right. She pulled the legs over lap move or the ole’ L&L as I call it. It’s an innocent way to get close and be intimate with out looking like a skank. I didn’t realize what was going on because I’m what scientists call a “fucking idiot.” And if you’ve read The Kohl’s Incident, Terry was one of the girls Mac and I were supposed to meet at the movies. Of course we were arrested before we made it the movie theater because my life is often the punch line to god’s jokes. I bet JC and Moses were laughing their balls off up there while I was sitting in a squad car instead of chasing tail.

Now I had had to ask Terry to homecoming. The only problem was that I didn’t see her very often on account of her going to a different high school. So I did what any reasonable person would have done, which is to say, I asked her online via AIM like a nerd. I typed out my message but hesitated slightly before hitting enter. I was a bit hesitant because of my previous experiences but after a couple of seconds I hit the enter key. I figured what’s one more rejection and even if I did get rejected it wasn’t face to face. But to my surprise she replied almost immediately. “Yes, Chesterfield. Of course I’ll go.” Holy dicks she said yes! I was the fucking man.

The end of October rolled around and homecoming came with it. After my football game I prepared for the dance. A couple hours later I was on my way to pick up Terry. When I say I was on my way, I mean my mom was driving me to pick her up because I didn’t have a license, and I was that cool. The risk of stealing my mom’s car and driving across town with out a license almost outweighed the embarrassment of my mom driving me around on my date. But I didn’t really feel like getting arrested again so I held off on the grand theft auto.

I walked up to the door with my little gay ass corsage and knocked. Terry’s dad answered and said, “Oh hello, you must be Chesterfield.” But he said it in an Austrian accent. I knew her parents were from Austria, but I was still surprised and a little unsettled. His accent combined with his glasses, meticulously parted hair and sweater vest made him seem more like a Bond villain or a WWII era Nazi scientist than suburban father. I stepped inside the house and took a look around for trap doors, booby traps or any ties to SPECTRE; cursing the fact that I left my garotte wire and laser watch at home.

Her parents talked to my mom, we exchange flowers, and we took pictures. You know, all that happy horseshit. On the way out, Terry’s dad looked at me and said, “Okay, you two have a good time.” But because of the accent all I heard was, “Fuck with my daughter and an Arnold Schwarzenegar looking motherfucker will hunt you down and beat the strudel out of you.”

We got in the car and headed to the restaurant. On the way I realized that I forgot the tickets to the dance. I told my mom and asked her to grab them when she came back to pick us up. It wasn’t a big deal, but it did foreshadow a series of blunders on my part that eventually ruined the night. Goddammit I suck.

We got to the restaurant, I think it was Applebee’s, and sat down. I know that we ate with four or five other people but color me fucked if I can remember who they were. But that’s not the important part about the dinner. The important part is that for some reason my brain just turned off, and I turned into Homer fucking Simpson for a period of time.

We were sitting close to the bar and there were several TVs above it, all of which were playing sports. They were strategically placed to draw your attention and also to screw you on your date by diverting your gaze from her to football. Well, mission accomplished Applebee’s, you assholes. My attention was naturally drawn, like any red blooded American male. When I glanced over to the bar it reminded me that there was a football game on that I wanted to watch. This is where it turned into a fucking farce.

Brain: Oh man, the Illinois game is on and I’m missing it.
Me: “Oh man, the Illinois game is on, and I’m missing it.”
Brain: Are you shitting me? Did you just say that out loud?
Me: Oh shit, I think I did. Maybe she didn’t hear me.
Brain: Look at her! Of course she heard you, you retard!
Me: Uh-oh, yeah she did.
Brain: Quick cover it up. No don’t look at her boobs, you idiot! Fuck this I’m out of here. You’re on your own.

Terry looked at me with a cold stare and said, “Oh you’re missing a football game? Sorry to be such an inconvenience.” At first I thought she was joking around but when I looked at her it was obvious that she wasn’t. Clearly, I’m not good with girls but to let slip something that stupid is unbelievable. At that point I might as well have grabbed her hooters shouted, “Honk!” and then slapped the waitress in the face with my schlong. But don’t worry; I wasn’t content to leave it at that. Somehow it got worse.

I got through the rest of dinner without incident and then the check came. I had plenty of money and fully intended on paying the whole bill myself. I know it’s probably a little outdated and chauvinistic but that’s just the way I was raised. Ladies, all we really want is an offer to split the bill. We’ll refuse your offer but the gesture is what’s important. Usually we’ll go to pay, you’ll offer, we’ll refuse and then you’ll say, “Are you sure?” That should be it, but Terry wouldn’t leave it at that. “God, this is so stupid. I have money just let me pay for my dinner,” she said with a determined look. “No, I have more than enough. I’m paying,” I replied. That’s right, I got in a fight with my date over the bill. Finally, I ended up winning and paid. Soon after my chauffer (Mom) showed up to take us to the dance.

I was relieved that she remembered to bring the tickets. It saved me from looking like more of a buffoon, at least for the time being (obvious foreshadowing). She dropped us off at the entrance of the field house and we went into the gym. It was set up like a typical high school dance: crappy decorations, music so loud you can barely hear the person next to you, lights so dim you can barely see the person next to you and 500 dancing, sweaty teenagers.

I’m not usually one for dancing, unless I’m about six beers in. I wasn’t drinking then, you know, because I was 14, so it’s shocking that I actually danced. And I had fun doing it. I soon learned that: dancing your white ass off + 500 people doing the same thing + cramped gym + dress clothes = swamp crotch and pit stains that would put a fat guy in the desert to shame. I made the mistake of wearing flannel boxers too. My weasel was seriously getting heat stroke. Right as I was contemplating finding a bucket of water and dumping it down my pants, Terry came over and said she was going to go catch up with some friends from middle school. I was cool with that because it gave me a chance to rest.

I went to talk to some of the guys from the football team. After about 15 minutes I started to wonder where Terry was. I wandered around the gym like an asshole looking for her, but with so many people and the lights being so dim it wasn’t exactly easy to find her. After wandering some more I still hadn’t found her. I lost my fucking date, which I’m told is not a good sign. Really, how the fuck do you do that? It’s right up there with forgetting your wallet and playing with your wiener at the dinner table. After a couple more circles around the gym I gave up because, as my Dad constantly likes to remind me, I am a quitter.

Right as I gave up the search, some guys from the football team said they were going outside to chill for a bit. I decided to join them. It felt about 20 degrees cooler outside, and I was happy to get some cool October air on my sweat-covered body. We sat on the steps outside the field house, loosened our ties and bullshitted. To be honest, I was having as good a time outside as I was inside the dance. I must have lost track of time between talking about that day’s game and telling dick jokes because I was probably outside for a good half hour. I didn’t even think about going back inside. But apparently Terry was wondering where the fuck I was. I know this because I saw her storm out of the field house door, and she did not look happy.

I turned around from my spot on the stairs and saw Terry on mission. She had two friends behind her, probably so they could yell at me too if I gave any sass. She marched up to me and said, “Where the hell have you been?” I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, and I wanted to point out that she was the one who ditched me first. But I didn’t voice either thought because I learned my lesson from arguing over the check. Instead, I stuttered like Porky The Pig and said something lame about going outside to cool off. “Uggghh, we missed a slow song,” she said with hurt look on her face. She grabbed my hand before I could respond and dragged me inside.

I wasn’t too bothered about missing a slow song. To me, it was just one less opportunity for her to awkwardly bump into my raging hard-on and get weirded out. Obviously I couldn’t say that, but I still couldn’t comprehend why she was so mad. It was only a fucking dance and we were going as friends. And it wasn’t even my fucking idea; it was Bri’s. Besides that, I went to look for her but I didn’t exactly have fucking night vision. Trying to find a girl of average height, with brown hair in a dark dress in that gym was like trying to find a needle in a goddamn stack of needles. I guess thinking like that makes me an asshole.

You would think that I couldn’t screw up the night any further and you’d be right. Some one else screwed it up. However, I still looked like an asshole. The final slow song played and then the lights went on, which meant it was time to get the fuck out of dodge. I told my mom what time the dance ended and told her to pick us up outside the field house.

It got rather chilly outside by the time the dance ended, so I said I’d sit outside and look for my mom while Terry stayed inside. I sat on a step and waited and waited and waited. All the juniors and seniors left right away and most of the under classmen had disappeared as well. I looked around and there were only a handful of people left outside. Where the hell was my ride? After about 20 minutes Terry came outside and told me she was going to get a ride home with her friend “Liza.” I said that was fine, gave her an awkward ass-out hug and continued to wait. My lovely mother showed up about 40 minutes after the dance ended.

“Where’s Terry? Does she need a ride home?” I looked at my mom pissed off and said, “Well not anymore. The dance ended at 11 and 11:30, Mom.” I told her Terry got a ride home and then she apologized for not listening to me about when the dance ended. I leaned my head against the window and thought that any way I sliced it; I came off looking like a chump that night.

I should have called Terry the next week and apologized for being such a craptacular date. But I didn’t, which isn’t all that surprising because I dropped my moral compass in a sea of sin long before that. I took the easy way out (some would call it the
“cowardly way,” but fuck them): I cut contact with her. Guess what? She didn’t call me either. It’s as if we both agreed never to relive that horrible date. Although, I think we may have taken it to the extreme by never seeing each other again.

You know how you kind of idealize the person you like? Well I’m sure I shattered her idealized image that night. Sometimes I wonder what could have been if I hadn’t acted like such a jackass or realized that she liked me. If a few things went differently I probably could have had a girlfriend. In which case, I probably would have figured out a lot of stuff I’m still figuring out right now. But it’s not all bad. If that happened then I probably wouldn’t be writing these stories, which means I wouldn’t be entertaining you. You should be glad I’m such a fuck up with girls. Ungrateful bastards.

Nothing significant, as far as the opposite sex was concerned, happened until my junior year. Then something happened that hadn’t happened in a long time. I was interested in a girl. Her name was “Dina.” I started to notice her in my gym class toward the end of sophomore year. Goddamn, a pair of shorts looked good on her ass. Dina was extremely athletic (great basketball player and runner) and intelligent. Remember when I said Kate was exotic? Well, next to Dina she was Sarah Plain and Tall. Dina was part Middle Eastern, Lebanese I think, which was a rarity in my mostly white, country club of a town. She had dark reddish, brownish hair, blue eyes (yeah I don’t know how that works either, being part Middle Eastern) and an olive complexion. Her personality, if possible, was more attractive. She was on the most down to earth girls I had ever met. She wasn’t like the stuck up, spoiled princesses that were a dime a dozen in my school. She was so easy to talk to that I wasn’t nervous around her. I started to think: By George, old boy you just might have a shot at this! (My inner monologue adopts a British accent when I’m confident).

God decided to throw me a bone junior year in the form of Dina and me being in the same commons (upperclassmen study hall) and gym class. At least I thought he was throwing me a bone. Turns out that he threw it to me so he could shove it up my ass a couple months later. I was talking to her a lot and I decided sometime in October that I would ask her out. I figured that if we went out once before homecoming and then went to homecoming together I’d be on the fast track to hot girlfriend city. Apparently the powers that be had other plans.

Around the second week of October I committed to asking Dina out on the upcoming Friday. I counted down the days. When the day came I counted down the hours until our commons together. I was so nervous it took all the will power I had not to shit myself every time I saw her in the halls. I noticed something peculiar, though. On that particular day, there were a lot of people stopping to talk to Dina. She was well liked and fairly popular but not that goddamn popular. When commons came around I noticed the same phenomenon. I saw someone teasing her, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to know what the fuck was going on. I got up from my table and walked over to her.

“What was that about?” I asked. “Oh he was just teasing me about the mascot for my new school.” New school? What the fuck was she talking about? Dina obviously saw the confused look on my face and started to explain. “Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t tell you? Today is my last day at Central. My dad got a new job and we’re moving to Hinsdale.” Well, fuck a duck. I know it’s cliché to say, but I was speechless. It was like getting punched in the stomach. I didn’t know what to do or say. I saw my whole plan crash into a fiery mess right before my eyes. It was like the fucking Hindenberg.

Since I didn’t know what to do, I just let her talk about her new school. After a couple of minutes I went to seek counsel from my friend “Topher.” He was surprised about the news as well and assured me that I had the worst luck in the world. I think he was right. Her last day at Central was the day I was going to ask her out? What the fuck? That’s straight out of a motherfucking John Hughes movie not real life.

Topher and our friend “Milly” advised me to ask her to homecoming. They reasoned that she would probably come back anyway, so I might as well ask her. The words were barely out of their mouths when I motioned Dina over. “What’s up?” she said. “Hey, do want to go to homecoming? If you can make it back, that is.” “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to make it back yet, but if I can that’d be great!” Then we got a picture together on the little disposable camera she was carrying around to document her last day.

There was some hope left, but in reality coming back one night for a dance was a pretty shitty consolation prize. If she came back it would be like winning 100-meter dash because the guy in first’s shorts fell down, and he tripped and scraped his dick up. Sure you win, but is that how you want to do it? I don’t know if the metaphor really works, but I thought it was a funny image.

A week later I got confirmation that god did indeed hate me. Dina’s friend “Krista” came up to me and gave me an envelope and said, “Dina wanted me to give you this.” Somehow I knew it wasn’t going to be good news. I opened the envelope and there was a little note and a copy of the picture we took together. I glanced at the picture and then read the note (which I still have somewhere). It informed me that Dina would not be able to make it to the dance. Although she had pretty legit reasons to miss homecoming, I was still dejected. Apparently she had to take the ACT that Saturday and after that she had to work a youth basketball camp for the girl’s basketball team. Of course for all I knew those could have been bullshit. She could have been taking the ACT on Monday like me, and it’s very possible there was no basketball camp. Knowing Dina, she was telling the truth, but I’ll never know for sure.

After reading and rereading the note during the following days I became even more crestfallen. For once I really thought I had a shot, but out of nowhere it just fell apart. It wasn’t even my fault, or Dina’s for that matter. It was just miserable luck. I think that’s what made it worse. I had no control of the situation. There’s nothing I could have done differently to salvage it.

Needless to say, I was pretty fed up with my bad luck and girls. I just gave up. When homecoming rolled around I did the noble thing and skipped the dance to go egg cars and houses in the rich neighborhoods with my brother and two of our friends. We were going to drive by the field house and egg people going to the dance but when we pulled into the circle drive we saw a cop. So we pulled a U-turn in the middle of the drive, in front of about 50 people and looked like complete douches.

The rest of the year didn’t go much better. I basically just ignored girls, not that my friends and I hung out with many (any?). At the end of the year I didn’t even bother asking anyone to prom. Senior year I got a little better. I had a crush on a girl the whole year but I didn’t so anything about it because I didn’t want to find out what new and inventive way I would get screwed (not literally of course). I didn’t ask her to prom because she went with one of her good friends (who was a huge fuckstick by the way). I thought I should at least ask someone.

I asked three girls: one already had a date and the other two weren’t even going. After that my penis became sort of like bunting or streamers; it was only useful for decorative purposes. Prom night actually turned out to be pretty fun. Instead of wasting $50 on two tickets, dinner and another $50 on a tux rental with no guarantee of a return (sex) on my investment, my friends and I drank beer, went fishing and hit up the local late night diner.

There was hope yet, though. And it was called college. According to everything I’d seen and heard college was basically just one big, drunken orgy. However, I had similar expectations about high school based on what I heard. But in this case there was too much evidence for it not to be true (older friends lying about how much poon they got).

I was pumped to go to college but I failed to take into account my amazing bad luck. Earlier I said I was the Chicago Cubs of ass getting, but upon further review, I think I’m more like the Wile E. Coyote of ass getting. A relationship/date in my hands is like an ACME product in the hands of the Coyote; it’s bound to blow up in my face. Time to strap on the rocket skates and see what happens…

Stay tuned for part 3, College: Pretty Girls Make Graves

Girls, Yeah All I Really Want Is Girls (Part 1)

A couple of my recent articles have dealt with women. Specifically, why women are crazy. This is also a frequent topic of conversation at work, which has led some of my female co-workers to believe that I hate women.

This isn’t exactly true. It’s not that I hate the person per se; it’s more that I hate particular actions or beliefs. Some of my friends weren’t so bold as to say I hate women, but they had no problem pointing out that I’m at least a little bitter. I can’t really argue with that because, well, it’s true.

I have good reason to be bitter, though. Up until this point in my life, my experiences with women haven’t been exactly what you would call “good.” In fact, you’d probably call them “bad.” I’ve compiled a few anecdotes that, I think, partially explain my behavior. What follows are stories of stupidity (on my part), insanity and good ole’ fashioned bad luck.

Elementary School/Middle School: Tripping Out Of The Starting Blocks

I was a pretty normal kid in elementary school. I liked sports, video games and comic books. However, I still hadn’t discovered girls. As far as I was concerned, they still had cooties and just got in the way during recess when we tried to play basketball (those whores).

Now I don’t know what the deal was with my elementary school, but no one “went out.” We heard tell of fifth graders doing this strange thing called “dating” at other schools, but to us it was just a legend. Kind of like the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot. I guess that’s not entirely accurate. There was one kid, who I’ll call JVM, who was dating in fifth grade. JVM was the exception to the rule, though. By fifth grad he was already about 5’8”, wore Pantera shirts and got suspended from school for setting a bathroom garbage can on fire; in other words he was a badass. Oh, and did I mention the girl he was dating was in seventh grade? Seventh grade! And somehow he got her to pay for their “dates.” Even if I was into girls at that age, how the fuck was I supposed to compete with that? I think I was still wearing tighty whiteys for Christ’s sake.

It’s curious the difference a year’s time makes. When I entered middle school I started to notice girls and interestingly enough, I thought of them as something other than annoyances. I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure this new interest happened to coincide with me sprouting a veritable forest in my underpants. I also discovered one of the greatest things an adolescent boy can discover: porn. You mean there are videos and pictures of women taking off their clothes and having sex? Fucking sign me up for that! I didn’t know why, but after sneaking downstairs to watch a few dirty movies, I realized that boobs were awesome and there was little I wouldn’t do to see them. Although it would be couple of years before I discovered possibly the single greatest thing an adolescent boy can discover: masturbation. But that’s neither here nor there, so I digress.

It wasn’t all sunshine, rainbows and skin-a-max, though. There was a downside to puberty. Mainly, the exponential increase of daily boners. Who the fuck am I kidding? The exponential increase of hourly boners. They came out of nowhere without out warning, like ninjas. Very erect, uncomfortable, embarrassing ninjas. As long as you were sitting at your desk it was fine, but as soon as the bell rang you were in no man’s land, with little protection from potential embarrassment. The one thing I did have was a trapper keeper. I kept that thing glued to my crotch like it was lead and Superman was down the hall molesting me with his x-ray vision.

Keeping these facts in mind, it was apparent that I was interested in girls and thankfully it wasn’t “totally gay” anymore. My friends became interested in girls too and I even saw the, until then, mythical practice of “dating.”

In my homeroom class, I found myself sitting across the room from a girl, who we’ll call Cassie. I spent a good portion of my time discretely (or maybe not so discretely, fuck if I know) staring at her when I should have been learning about nouns and verbs or memorizing state capitals or whatever the hell you do in sixth grade; I don’t really remember. I also found myself going out of my way to talk to her, which would have been unthinkable a year prior. It was obvious that I liked I her. I didn’t dare do anything about it or tell anyone, though.

For most of the year I kept my secret crush quiet but inevitably, the cat got out of the bag. My middle school used to host “dances” every couple of months after school on Friday. I use the word “dance,” lightly because there was very little dancing actually going on. Mostly, groups of guys and groups of girls stood around in circles on the dance floor trying to get up enough courage to ask someone to dance. Even if some guy had the cajones to ask a middle school honey to dance, they both stood as far apart as possible while still technically touching each other. Anyway, these dances were usually restricted to seventh and eighth graders but there was one dance a year that sixth graders were allowed to go to.

A couple weeks before the dance some guys started asking girls to go with them. It occurred to me that it could possibly be a good idea to ask Cassie. It seems, at the time I confused the word “good,” with “horrible” for reasons you’ll soon see.

In passing at lunch one day, I mentioned that Cassie was, “You know not that bad and kind of cool and shit. I guess…” I thought I was being smooth, but my friends saw through my subterfuge, and by subterfuge I mean horseshit. I was immediately surrounded by people saying, “Dude, you should totally do it,” and “Come on, ask her out.” There were also a lot of elbow nudges, winks and smart-ass grins.

I was 12; I didn’t even know what the fuck “going out” was, but I did know that I didn’t want to look like a pussy. So I decided that I would ask Cassie out because I’m easily swayed by peer pressure. Our school spent an incredible amount of time and money on DARE to get us to resist peer pressure when it came to drugs and alcohol, which failed miserably. It just taught me about drugs I had no idea existed before the DARE program and where to possibly get them. What the school should have been spending money on was a program that helped me resist peer pressure when it came to my idiot friends giving me advice on girls. I was about to receive my first lesson in Don’t Take Advice From Someone Who Is Getting Less Pussy Than You (You Retard).

I made up my mind to ask Cassie out and while, I succeeded in not looking like a pussy, I failed at not looking like an asshole. I thought the best time to ask her out would be at lunch. Most people would go outside to hangout for a while after they finished eating and that’s where I decided to make my move. I should pause the story for a second to explain a few oversights on my part.

First, being a newcomer to the world of girls and gossip, I failed to realize that news spreads fast, particularly in middle school. By the time I actually got balls to ask her, everyone fucking knew. But I didn’t know everyone fucking knew. I think I was the only one that didn’t fucking know. Second, my choice of location was less than ideal. It would have been better to pull her aside in the hall before or after class. I on the other hand, chose a very open, visible place where everyone in the grade was congregated. This hair-brained scheme was doomed from the start.

One day, I finished eating whatever the cafeteria was passing off as a meal and went outside. I kind of stood around for a while with my friends because in all honesty I was scared, like pants-shittingly scared. I had never done this before and all these thoughts kept popping into my head. What if she says no? Fuck, what if she says yes? What do I do then? I wonder if she knows I like her? What if I embarrass myself?

Finally, I pulled myself together and walked across the blacktop. Before I reached her, a friend of Cassie’s spied me walking over and immediately fucked everything up (not that I wouldn’t have done it myself, but it’s the principle of the thing). I was about ten feet away from Cassie and her friend comes out of nowhere and fucking screams, “Oh my god, are you going to ask her out?” Everyone in the surrounding area (which turned out be almost everyone in the goddamned grade) turned around and looked at me. There have been very few times in my life that I have felt that uncomfortable. And those times usually involved a combination of the words “wet” and “underpants.” Every one of my peer’s eyes were trained on me, practically burning holes in me, just waiting for me to look a horse’s ass.

I kind of felt violated. This was supposed to be a private moment for me and a step into manhood and they were just watching like it was goddamn sideshow. And then I realized she was watching like it was a goddamn sideshow. I hastily mumbled, “Do wannagotothedancewithme?” I don’t remember if she even responded but she didn’t have to. The look on her face said it better than any variation or inflection on the word “no” could have.

Defeated, I walked away with my tail between my legs, knowing everyone that I knew just saw me crash and burn. I felt horrible. I just wanted to crawl into a cave to live out my remaining days away from the judging stares of my peers. Walking away, I distinctly remember thinking for the first time “girls suck.”

Now, I deal with rejection as god intended: getting blackout drunk. But I was 12, so I didn’t really have that option. I just had to keep replaying the scene in my head while trying to suppress a combination of rage and embarrassment and pray that people would forget. It took a couple of weeks but people did.

Eventually I became pretty good friends with Cassie by the end of eighth grade. I even took her to my senior homecoming in high school. So in the end it wasn’t too bad, but thank god no one ever brings up that horribly embarrassing event from my past.

My horrible luck with girls didn’t rear its ugly head again until eighth grade. I don’t know what the fuck I was doing in seventh grade (probably playing video games and downloading porn on Kazaa) but it wasn’t talking to girls. The only event that really stands out in my mind from seventh grade was at one of the aforementioned dances. I asked a girl to dance, who also happened to be a friend, because her friends were dancing and no one had asked her. I thought it was chivalrous; I was just trying to be nice and maybe start to act like I actually had a pair of nads. But I guess I couldn’t even act like a gentleman with out god pantsing me and kicking me in the dick.

I was dancing with her and out of the corner of my eye I could see two of her friends camped out at the edge of the dance floor, looking at us. I’m pretty sure they were pointing too. I stole a quick glance to the side and it appeared that they were giggling as well. I would like to think that they were pointing at “Winny,” because she was actually dancing with a guy. She was kind of bookish, a bit shy and guys weren’t exactly lining up for her, but she was cute. It’s more likely that they were just pointing at the schmuck she was dancing with. We made it about a minute into the slow song (probably “Crash” by the Dave Matthews Band or some similar shitty song) and out of nowhere she says, “I’m sorry I can’t do this.” Goddammit, if I had a nickel for every time a girl said that to me I’d have heavy metal poisoning.

I was taken off guard because I was putting all my mental fortitude and concentration into not getting a boner. I was concentrating so fucking hard I probably could have pulled off the Jedi mind trick. Apparently the only force that a Jedi can’t control is that of his own dong because I pitched a tent that would’ve made an Eagle Scout blush (Star Wars joke and Boy Scouts joke in one sentence; score one for me). Anyway, I was taken off guard and just mumbled, “Yeah, okay…” and proceeded to stand there by myself for a while like a jackass. Little did I know at the time that, that was the first of many times a girl would change her mind for no goddamn reason and leave me confused as shit.

That was seventh grade, but a funny thing happened in eighth grade. I was, dare I say, cool. Well, I was cooler than the fucking Melvins that went to my middle school at least. I started on a championship football team, I got good grades, I listened to punk rock, I skateboarded, I made and edited Jackass videos with my friends, I was a smartass in class and most importantly, I made people laugh. Those things might seem trivial now, but in eighth grade they were the tits.

Girls were actually talking to me on their own accord, which I’m told, is a good a sign. There was one particular girl that I hung out with (in the few classes we had together) that caught my eye. We’ll call her “Kate.” To me, Kate was exotic and I don’t mean she was foreign. She was just different than most of the girls I went to school with. She was Italian or Greek or something Mediterranean, I’m not exactly sure. She was tall and slender with dark wavy hair and an olive complexion, completely different from my Northern European light-haired, light-eyed Wonderbread ass (seriously, my brother looks like a Nazi SS goon). That’s not even the best part. She was smart, like gifted classes smart. She was way more intelligent than I could’ve hoped to be and she had a sense of humor. She responded to my off color comments with laughter instead of disgust and was happy to listen to stories about my (and my friends’) depravity outside school.

I certainly liked her and I was under the impression, or rather the delusion, that Kate might like me too. Of course, at that point I hadn’t kissed a girl or had my penis touched (by someone else that is), so what the fuck did I know? What I took for flirting and clear indications that she liked me were really clear indications that I was a hallucinating loser in the friend zone. Although, I didn’t know it.

I remember being in gym class about half way through the year; we were currently in the “dance unit.” The class was being taught stupid, outdated dances like the square dance and the waltz. You know, just incase we happened across a time machine and got invited to box social or hootenanny. It would have been more useful if they taught us the ass-to-crotch skankery that passes for dancing nowadays. But once we learned those horseshit dances, we got to try swing dancing. Admittedly, my interest was piqued. Swing dancing was actually cool and as I understand it, girls love that shit. The best part was we got to choose our own partners. No more rotating or being paired off by the teachers.

Imagine my simultaneous surprise and excitement when Kate rushed over to me, grabbed my hands and literally pulled me on to the dance floor. It was like I showed up to an ass-kicking contest to find out my only competition was a paraplegic. I did my best Jon Favreau impression from the end of Swingers and tried not to screw anything up. I think I did alright but I was just happy to be close enough to Kate to touch her (shut the fuck up, that’s not as weird as it sounds).

A couple of weeks after that I began my art class (classes like art, music, cooking and sewing rotated each quarter). As luck would have it I was in the class with Kate as well as my buddies “Chuck,” “Cal,” “Les,” and “Dane.” Our teacher, Mrs. M, was pretty cool and let us pick our group tables. Naturally, Chuck, Cal, Les, Dane and I grabbed a table together. However, there was very little art going on. Mostly, we just shot the shit and made fun of the dorks in our class. After a couple of weeks Mrs. M got tired of our assholery and decided to do something.

We came in one day and found our table covered in art supplies and paintings. “Oh, I’m sorry boys I need your table for a bit; I’m doing a demonstration,” said Mrs. M. The old bat wasn’t fooling anyone. We knew she just wanted to break up our little black hole of unproductivity. This left us all without a table, though. “Go ahead and find somewhere else to sit.” The words were hardly out of her mouth when Kate literally got out of her seat and started begging, “Chesterfield over here; we’ll take Chesterfield.” Fuckin’ A. I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I strolled over and sat down with her and her friends.

Mrs. M must have had long-ass demonstrations in every single one of her classes because we didn’t get our table back for about two months. I wasn’t complaining, though. The more time I got to spend with Kate away from my asshole friends, the better. I told jokes, I complimented her and I flirted. I thought I was fucking in. I was sure she liked me at least a little bit. Nope.

The end of the year was approaching, which meant the eighth grade dance was coming up. It was kind of like prom for middle school. Everyone dressed up and the girls got their hair and make up done. I’m not a huge fan of dances, I didn’t even go to prom in high school, but I thought this was my chance because all the chicks at school were freaking out about it. I’m not exactly sure why I thought it was my chance. My two previous experiences with dances went horribly. I guess I thought third time’s a charm or she might take pity on me, either one was fine with me. Then I made a mistake that made the situation 10 times more awkward than it needed to be.

You see, I kept trying to ask Kate out but every time I tried, I felt like I had to hurl. I kept doubting myself and almost called the whole thing off. Clearly I needed help. This is where I took a turn down you just screwed yourself road. I thought, “I need help with a girl, who better to ask than another girl?” Right? Wrong.

There are two things that I’ve learned about girls and relationships. One, never under any circumstances give your significant other naked pictures of yourself. Eventually you will break up and eventually they will end up on the Internet. It’s blackmail waiting to happen. Two, as a guy don’t ask your female friends for advice on girls you’re interested in. In general, I’ve found that girls don’t know what they want. So how is asking a girl who doesn’t know what she wants for advice on another girl who doesn’t know what she wants supposed to help? It’s like going to the guidance counselor in school. You probably shouldn’t take career advice from someone who ended up as a guidance counselor. Besides that, romantic comedies and other garbage like the Notebook have warped girls’ brains, so sometimes they forget how the real world actually works.

Not knowing this at the time, I told my neighbor, “Kate 2” about Kate. She thought asking her to the eighth grade dance was a swell idea. Well that was fucking great. Anyone can say it’s a good idea. A threesome is a great idea but it’s a bit tricky trying to get people to actually agree to it. I was more worried about whether or not she would say yes. Kate 2 assured me that she would be happy to go with me. I still wasn’t sure, so I asked my friend “Kristy” about the situation. She took the same line as Kate 2. “I think she’d go with you, I mean everyone should have someone to go with.”

They thought I had a shot so I decided to go through with it. Except, I put off asking her for a week or two because, if you’ll recall, I’m a pussy. Kate 2 started bugging me and kept asking when I was going to do it. One day I got so sick of it I just told her I was going to do it that day. Now, I assumed that Kate 2 would keep something like that to herself, but I, as usual, was mistaken.

I got to the cafeteria for lunch and noticed that Kate 2 was a huddled at a table with a bunch of girls. This did not bode well. When I got up from the table I was sitting at with Chuck, Les, Cal and Dane I ran into Kate 2. She told me that she was just, “Trying to help me out.” I gathered that what this really meant was she had told a bunch of girls, Kate included, that I liked her and was going to ask her out. Great, no pressure or anything.

A whole table of girls whispering and craning their heads in my direction didn’t escape the notice of my friends. I knew I couldn’t bullshit my way out of it, so I gave in and told them what was up. Surprisingly, they didn’t bust my balls too much. Meals finished, we ventured outside.

I found myself in the same spot that I had been in two years previous, standing outside on the blacktop trying to work up the nerve to ask a girl out. At least this time I was aware that everyone knew what I was up to. I stood in a circle with my friends, and maybe 75 feet away, Kate stood in a circle with her friends. My friends were encouraging in their own way. “Come on, just go over and ask her already, you pussy.” After a couple of suggestions like that my buddy “TC” grabbed me by the arm and pushed me toward Kate’s circle of friends. I responded as any middle school boy would, “Stop it you fucking assholes! Fuck you guys.” I looked over and caught Kate and her friends looking at my friends and me. The look she gave was not one of nervous anticipation or excitement; rather it was one of embarrassment and dread. This did not instill confidence in me. It’s funny how one look from a girl can turn your stomach, whether it’s for better or worse. In my case it was the latter.

Before I knew it the bell rang and it was time to head inside for eighth period. I still hadn’t asked Kate out. In fact, I hadn’t gotten close enough to ask her out. I was starting to wonder whether or not I would actually go through with it. In my mind I wanted to but it was like my body wouldn’t let me. It was brains vs. guts and so far guts was laying a beat down on brains.

I could see Kate walking ahead of me as we were being herded back inside the school like cattle. When I got into the main hallway of the school I could still see her ahead of me. It was now or never. I quickened my pace and tapped her on the shoulder. She whirled around. My stomach lurched and I felt like I was going to shit my pants, but I tightened my sphincter and took a deep breath. I managed to stammer, “Kate would you like to go the eighth grade dance with me?” Looking a bit sheepish she said, “Uhhh… let me think about.” Fuck. Even at 14 I knew that wasn’t good. It was the nice way of saying no.

Kate 2 and Kristy kept telling me that it wasn’t a definite no. They said she probably was really thinking about it. Yeah right, she was thinking about the best way to say no and what an asshole I was. I had my answer a week later but not from Kate. Before first period Winny found me in the hallway and pulled me aside. “Kate’s answer is no.” It wasn’t a big shock. Honestly, it’s what I expected. What bothered me was that Kate handled it. First, I waited a week. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect an answer with in a couple days, especially when the answer is either yes or no. Second, she couldn’t even tell me herself, which in my opinion is just cowardly. I had worked up the nerve to ask her; the least she could’ve done was shatter my dreams in person. Now, I should mention a part of the story that I’ve neglected so far. Kate used to go out with my friend Cal and he broke up with her sometime around the start of the year. I suspect that she wasn’t completely over him and that’s why she said no. But I’m just guessing; an explanation from her would have been nice, though.

I was down but not out. Not wanting to look like a dateless dick, I started exploring my other options. I was thinking about whether to ask someone else or just give up, when I remembered the conversation I had with Kristy. “I mean everyone should have someone to go with.” That was it! Ask Kristy. She was my friend and she was fun. Plus she thought everyone should have a date. It seemed perfect. And besides, two girls couldn’t say no, right?

One day I found Kristy and approached her. I wasn’t nearly as nervous because I wasn’t interested in her, and I was almost certain she would say yes. “Hey Kristy, you wanna go to the dance with me?” Oh man, it looked like she might say yes. “I’m sorry I decided not to go with anyone.” What!?!?! Decided not to go with anyone? What was this fuckery? Two weeks ago she said everyone should go with someone and now she didn’t want to go with anyone. “Oh okay, that’s cool.” I said it but I didn’t really mean. I didn’t understand how someone could say one thing and then completely contradict it so soon. I think it was at that moment that I stopped trying to understand girls.

I struck out again, but I wasn’t too down. Kate saying no had really taken the sting out of Kristy blowing me off. It was like rejection anesthesia. I ended up going to the dance like a dateless dick but so did most of my friends. I had fun at the dance but what little confidence I had with girls was shaken.

Things were a little awkward with Kate for the remainder of school. I basically avoided her because I’m petty and kind of a prick. It didn’t really matter because in a few months we would be going to different high schools. I remember thinking “I’ll probably never see her again.” And I was right. We’re friends on Facebook now, but I haven’t seen her in person since I was 14. I had more important things to worry about, though. I was about to enter high school and if all the movies I had seen about it were accurate, it would fucking rule. Holy shit was I about to be disappointed.

Stay tuned for part 2, High School: Attention Loser, Where’s Your Girlfriend?

The 11 Millionth Nice Guy Article On The Internet

I got a lot more feedback than I was expecting from my nice guy article. I even got several women to read it despite the tremendous amount of sexism (which I like to call “truth”) in it. Some of the women who read it even agreed with my arguments. But as expected, some did not. I soon realized that the hope I expressed at the end of the article was in vain. Even in the face of sound reasoning, some women refuse to even consider nice guys. So even though by this point I’m (what comes after beating and raping a dead horse? Eating a dead horse?) eating a dead horse, I have more to say on the subject.

Although several women conceded points in my article, they ended up shitting all over it as a whole by saying, “Well, assholes are just my type.” That statement is astounding to me. I don’t understand the idea of having a set “type,” especially if said type is douche bag.

As I went over the girls that I’ve been interested in, in my head, I realized that very few of them were similar to one another, physically or otherwise. I’ve been attracted to brunettes, blondes and even one redhead. I’ve been attracted to taller girls and shorter girls. I’ve been attracted to skinny girls and not so skinny girls (but not any wildebeests). I’ve been attracted to extremely outgoing girls, shy girls and girls that were a mix of the two. I’ve been attracted to girly girls and not so girly girls. I’ve been attracted to the girl next door and the high maintenance girl. I’ve been attracted to the artsy type and the bookworm. It’s not that I have no standards or I’m just interested in anything with a vagina; I’m just willing to try new things. I’m not going to automatically ignore or exclude a girl just because she’s not what I’m used to. Different combinations of these attributes leads to an unique experience each time, which is what I’m attracted to. Really, the only trait they’ve all had in common is a sense of humor, which is probably a necessity because no one is going to put up with my shit unless they have a sense of humor.

People are so diverse; I don’t understand why someone would limit himself or herself to a certain type. Personally, I’d like to have as many different experiences as possible. Having a type or “usual” is for a fast food restaurant, not people. When I go to McDonald’s I know I’m either getting a Big Mac or a Quarter Pounder because I have limited choices, that and I think my arteries are a little too clear.

A friend told me that assholes are her type because she knows what she’s getting with them but she doesn’t know what she’s getting with nice guys. Our friend (also a girl) agreed with that and said that most women know what they’re getting into when they get involved with an asshole. After hearing garbage like this, logic may as well be like a credit limit to women; it’s like it doesn’t fucking exist.

Just because you expect to be treated like shit doesn’t make it okay. Plus, that statement is bullshit to begin with. You do know what you’re getting with a nice guy: you’ll be treated decently. When I tried to explain this perfectly logical point to my friends they just dismissed and said, “But you’re more likely to get a creeper or weirdo.” That’s also bullshit, as I pointed out in my last article. If you have any sense of perception you’ll be able to discern that fact before you get involved with a goddamn creeper. But logic be damned, I guess.

Let me put it like this: Say I go to buy a car and the salesman (yeah that’s right, salesman not salesperson) says, “This car is actually a piece of shit. It’ll probably break down in a little while and it will cause you a lot of grief and trouble.” Now what do I do? I don’t buy that fucking car because I’m not a mouth-breathing ignoramus. In fact it’s the last thing I would do, which falls behind sticking my dick in a fire ant mound and watching soccer on TV. I would go and find a reliable car. My friend Mike put a different way. He said it’s like women would rather go to a casino, gamble and most assuredly lose than accept a check for a guaranteed sum of money. But that analogy really isn’t fair because I’m pretty sure women can’t do cool things (like gamble), and I’m also pretty sure there’s some sort of law against women handling their own finances.

It goes back to a point I mentioned in my last article. For some reason girls want the challenge or excitement of getting an asshole. One of the friends above, mentioned that her roommate doesn’t like dating nice guys because it’s too easy for her, which is just shithouse rat insane. Basically it comes down to: is the thrill of chase at the beginning worth the pain or mistreatment at the end? I don’t think so, but apparently lots of women disagree with me.

The disappointing part is that a lot of women keep dating jerks and keep making the same mistakes. It’s just incomprehensible to me. Once when I was kid my Dad was grilling out back, and he had the cover on the grill. I went to lean on it and my Dad said, “don’t do that it’s hot.” Well, I leaned on it any way because like most little kids I was a fucking retard. I ended up burning my hand and hurting my self pretty bad. You know what I didn’t do after that? TOUCH A BLAZING HOT GRILL. I learned my lesson. After that, I never once thought, “Hmmm, that was an unpleasant experience I better do that again.” But that’s exactly what women do. They keep making the same mistake and refuse to change their behavior. I think expecting different results but continuing the same behavior is a mark of more than one mental disorder.

I think there’s another explanation for this behavior, though. For some women, liking assholes or saying they like the challenge of getting an asshole is really just a way of saying they’re horny or they want a hot guy. But will a woman ever admit that? Fuck no. If they did their whole, “men are pigs” argument goes out the window. That and they don’t want to be perceived as a slut. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that women always want the moral higher ground. But they lose that advantage if they admit to being a little bit shallow.

On the other hand, it might be a good thing that women don’t admit to being as horny as we are. Really, in this society, one of the few things women control is sex. Men get paid more, hold higher positions and face less discrimination. It’s a patriarchal society. If women admitted they wanted sex just as much as us, society would fall the fuck apart. Everyone would just be screwing like wild baboons. It would be like Escape From New York or the Road Warrior, only with more boning.

Well I can’t write anymore about this subject at the moment or else I’m going to go into a blind rage and wake up in a holding cell. So I’m going to end this with lyrics from a song by the Descendents who made a career out of songs bitching about girls.

I’m The One:

I’m the one
I’ve been here for you all along
I’m the one
who’s shoulder you’ve been cryin on
nice guys finish last
no one knows as good as me
we’re just good friends
and you come to me for sympathy
you tell me that I’m not your type
still you call me late at night
every time he picks a fight
after all he’s said and all he’s done
I’m the one
I’ve been here for you all along
I’m the one
who’s shoulder you’ve been cryin on
he’s a total dick
that’s the truth and you know I’m right
from everything you say
there’s no way he’ll ever do you right
you love a man who treats you wrong
you think you’ll change him
but you’re wrong
he’ll use you he’ll say so long
after all he’s said and all he’s done
I’m the one
I’ve been here for you all along
I’m the one
who’s shoulder you’ve been cryin on
I’m the one who wants you more than anything
you don’t feel the same way you made it clear to me
but I’ll stand my ground and maybe
you’ll hear what I’ve been sayin
after all I’ve said and all I’ve done
I’m the one
I’ve been here for you all along
I’m the one
who’s shoulder you’ve been cryin on
I’m the one
I’ve been here for you all along
I’m the one
who’s shoulder you’ve been cryin on
I’m the one

Just A Thought: The Most Overated Things In The World

So I had this thought today and I really feel like people need to hear it. I think this sort of thing is what Twitter is for I but I’m not really sold on Twitter. Sounds kind of fruity to me.

Anyway, here it is: the two most overrated things in the world are hand jobs and the Beatles and don’t even get me started on getting a handy while listening to the Beatles. I bet you never thought you’d read hand job and the Beatles in the same sentence, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.

HJs are so overrated. Women are terrible at them. They have no rhythm and because of that it takes forever to release your man juice. If I wanted a chaffed sore penis I’d just have sex with a mail box. They just don’t get the subtleties of dick whacking.

So, I don’t know why you’d have someone do something that you could do much better yourself. I mean, by this point I’ve had almost a decade of practice. If jerking off was an Olympic event I would win a gold medal. Wait, why isn’t it an Olympic event?

The Beatles. Completely overrated. When everyone talks about what geniuses they were they only mention their later albums. Everyone just fucking skips over the part where they started of doing teenage pop love songs. And their mythology only grew after Lennon died because after that they couldn’t stick around and start releasing horseshit albums in the 80s and 90s.

I’m not saying they’re bad. They’re a great band, just not as great as everyone thinks. But can you say that to anyone? No, because they’ll have a fucking seizure, which pisses me off because those kind of people probably never heard a Beatles song until they got to college and they usually know next to nothing about music.

Fuck the Beatles, I’ll take the Rolling Stones or The Kinks over them any day.

The Best Journalist In The World

Once again I found myself sitting in Jeff’s office. Jeff was my editor at the shitty mid-circulation community newspaper I worked at. I hadn’t worked there long, but I was already making a name for myself.

Suddenly, the door slammed, and Jeff walked in. He looked happy, or maybe he looked angry. I’ve never really been good at reading people. Happy people mutter “goddammit” and “fucking retard” under their breath right? If that’s the case, then I make lots of people happy.

“What’s up chief,” I said with a smug smile. I knew he called me into his office to congratulate me on my latest article.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that,” he said happily.

“Okeydokey, sillynuts.” Sillynuts was my little nickname for Jeff. He fucking loved it.

“God-fucking-dammit, don’t call me sillynuts!” For a supposedly religious person, Jeff took the lord’s name in vain a lot. Especially when he was around me. I guess that’s okay now.

Note to self: say “goddammit,” around religious people from now on, but stop masturbating in churches.

Jeff started talking again but I wasn’t really paying attention. I just assumed he was praising my brilliant article on the new sales tax in town. However, I was paying attention to the pictures that adorned his desk and bookcase. This was some hardcore smut. I mean, kinky shit. There were kids and animals. And I was into to it.

I interrupted Jeff, “Say Jeff, I didn’t know you were into to kinky porno.”

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Come on man you can be straight with me. Look at all these pictures,” I said motioning to his desk and bookcase. “But if you think this stuff is good you should see my hard drive; I’ve got a video of this girl and a llama that….” Jeff stopped me.

“These are pictures of my family and our pets, not smut you pervert.”

“Oh right, gotcha,” I said winking. “Have to keep it on the down low because of all the squares in the office.” I winked again for emphasis and also because I’m not really sure how winks are supposed to work.

“No really, these are just pictures of my family,” Jeff insisted. Regardless of what they were, I knew I would be masturbating to them later.

“Look, I need you to do something for me,” Jeff said in a serious tone. I knew exactly what he wanted me to do. My belt was unbuckled and my pants were unzipped before he could say “Rudolph red pecker.”

“Of course I’ll bang the bejesus out of your wife,” I said with enthusiasm. “She won’t be able to see straight when I’m done with her!” Jeff was so excited that I accepted his offer he couldn’t talk. He just kept mumbling under his breath and his face turned a deep shade of crimson. The vein in his forehead became engorged with blood, just like the wiener in my underpants.

“ARRRGGHHH! NO! I don’t want you to have sex with my wife,” Jeff said, well actually he kind of screamed it. “If you keep making sexual advances on my wife, we’re going to have to press charges.” Jeff complained a lot. It was always something with him, quit making sexual advances on my wife; you have to work with pants on; quit libeling the mayor.

“I need you t– no, goddammit we just went over this, put your pants back on–to rewrite your article on the sales tax.”

“Why? I thought you loved it?”

“No, quite the opposite. I hated it.” I was crushed. I thought for sure that article was gold.

“What was wrong with it?” I asked slightly hurt while giving my best “aw shucks” look.

“Well for starters, under the byline you wrote Richard Q. Gayballs….in crayon”

“And…”

“And? AND? And that’s not your fucking name!” Jeff opened his top desk drawer and took out his medicine, which was really just a pint of Congress Vodka. He took a deep gulp, “If I get another article written by ‘Richard Q. Gayballs’ or ‘Herbert M. Nerdlinger’ it’s your ass”

My ass? What did that mean? Was he going to rape me? No, I think he was coming on to me. I just played it cool and gave him the “of course I’ll fuck you and your wife eyes.”  As thoughts of Eiffel Towers and double stuffs swirled in my head, Jeff took a moment to collect his thoughts.

“I’m trying to run a newspaper,” Jeff got up and started to pace, “which is extremely difficult when my reporters don’t use facts.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m not trying to say, I am saying I don’t think there was one goddamn fact in your whole article.”

“Well I don’t think that’s entirely true I-”

“Really? Because you interviewed Dick-Fuck Jones, Jerk-Off Johnson and Whack-Off Jackson.” Jeff was now standing in front of me looking directly into my eyes. He was so close I could smell the gas station Vodka and Funions.

“Are you trying to tell me that they are real people?”

“Define real.”

“They actually fucking exist. They have social security numbers. They have addresses and contact information. They have a physical body.”

“Well then, no. But to be fair, I was really swamped and I had some stuff to deal with. You start one brawl at a drag show and the police want to ask all sorts of ‘questions.’ You know how it goes.”

“Actually I don’t, and what you do at the Ramrod is your own business. Anyway, I gave you a two day extension.”

Jeff walked back around to his desk and slumped into his chair. He took another healthy dose of his “medicine” and pulled out the draft of my article. He examined it for a minute or two and then said, “And if I’m reading this correctly, which unfortunately I believe I am, you interviewed a cat?”

“Oh yeah, Mr. Boots.” At that point I started to get nervous. Maybe I had been prejudiced. I knew that I should have interviewed a dog too. “It was hard to get him to talk but eventually he did.”

“I could see that, seeing as he’s a goddamned cat,” Jeff responded curtly. Then he started massaging his temples slowly and methodically. It hit me that Jeff was really upset about me interviewing a cat. I guess he was a dog person.

Note to self: Interview more dogs.

“So you’re saying you want me to interview more dogs?”

“No, I’m saying I want you to stop interviewing cats and dogs or any other animal because they can’t fucking talk!”

Note to self: Disregard last note to self. Stop interviewing dogs.

Jeff picked up my draft again and examined it once more. “There’s also a problem with your ending.” Jeff peered over the pages of the draft and looked at me as if to say, “Do you think there might be a problem with your ending?” But I remained silent because I knew my ending fucking ruled. “Well, I’ll take your silence as a sign that you don’t think there’s a problem or as a sign of ignorance, but probably both. Anyway the last paragraph is only one sentence and it just says, ‘Sales taxes are totally gay.’” Jeff held up a hand to stifle any further protest from me and continued, “I want you to work on this with Alex because he’s a good reporter and you seem to be functionally retarded.”

“But I hate that guy; he’s such a wiener.”

“I know you don’t like him, in fact the whole newsroom knows you don’t like him after last week. Do remember last week?” Jeff didn’t give me a chance to respond he just continued his verbal lashing. “You took a dump on Alex’s desk, wiped you exceptionally filthy ass with his latest article and started shouting ‘WHO’S THE BIG SHOT JOURNALIST NOW, HUH!?!?! MR. PULITZER.’ After that you told the fax machine to ‘quit looking at you funny,’ gave the finger to the computer monitor and passed out.”

I didn’t really recall what Jeff was talking about, but then again you forget a lot of things when you have Irish coffee, minus the coffee, for breakfast. Besides, who hasn’t taken a dump on a coworker’s desk? Some people are too sensitive. Jeff started talking again, right as I was contemplating taking an epic brontosaurus dump on his desk.

“You know, I don’t know why you weren’t fired after that. In fact, I don’t know why we hired you at all. When we asked for references you just gave us a list of women that you’ve had sex with. Ah fuck it, you know what? You’re fired! Get the fuck out of my office!”

“Really that’s how it’s going to end you’re just going to fire me? That seems like a cop out.”

“Well yeah, but like most of your articles, you didn’t really have an ending.”

“That’s true. But I mean what am I going to do? Just let perfectly good dick jokes go to waste?”

“Well if you feel guilty about it you just slap on a to be continued and come up with the rest of the story later. Even though you probably won’t.”

“Brilliant!”

TO BE CONTINUED… MAYBE… ACTUALLY PROBABLY NOT…

*Editors Note: I wrote this in pieces in varying states of consciousness. Some parts were written sober, some were written buzzed, some were written drunk and some were written sleep deprived. I don’t know if it’s awesome or problematic that I can’t tell/remember which parts were written in which state of mind. They all seem similar. Also for you mouthbreathing idiots out there who didn’t get it, the last four sentences are breaking down the 4^th wall between characters and author/audience.

The 10 Millionth Nice Guy Article On The Internet

The subject of “nice guys” and “nice guys finishing last” has been beaten to death. There are literally hundreds of articles about the subject on the Internet and I’m about to add to that number. I know I’m beating a dead horse, actually by this point it’s probably more like raping a dead horse, but I still feel like I need to voice my thoughts.

Women: The Fairer Sex And By Fairer I Mean Crazier

Are women crazy? Well, does the bear shit in the woods? Of course women are crazy. Women and crazy go together like porn and the Internet. It might not be immediately apparent in all women, but trust me, it’s there somewhere. The crazy usually manifests itself through paranoia, jealousy, insecurity, irrationality and an astounding lack of reason, and nice guys are ground zero for this crazy.

Women make so many rationalizations for dating complete asshats it makes my brain hurt. The most common reason I’ve heard is: “he’s not really like that. I can change him.”

You see nice guys are already nice. They treat pretty much everybody with decency and respect. They don’t really need to change. But this is where women’s logic gets shit-housed drunk, gets lost on the way to the party and ends up face down in a pile of vomit in a strange alley.

If a guy is nice to everyone how are you, as a women, supposed to feel special? How do you know he’s being genuine? How dare he treat everyone with same level of respect? On top of that, there’s no challenge because there’s nothing to change. But a complete A-hole, now that’s a challenge.

Women like nothing more than trying to emasculate men, and there’s no greater achievement than putting your nuts under lock and key. They get off on the idea of someone changing for them. He must love you because he acts different around you. He changed just for you; you tamed the beast with nothing but passionate love. Well, that might be case if you live in a fucking romantic comedy but that’s not how things work in the real world.

It’s more likely that an A-hole just wants to get in your pants and he knows exactly what he has to do to get there. Or he’s just using you to get your way hotter, way cooler sister. Or your mom’s hot cougar tits. But once he gets what he wants it’s back to the same old jackassery. The point is people rarely change, especially assholes. So you might feel special for a while but when he’s done using you or you’re in an abusive relationship you’ll probably feel differently.

The funny thing is, situations like this are responsible for women saying, “all men are pigs, “men are assholes” or “why can’t I find a decent guy?” However, it was women who decided they wanted a challenge or a little thrill and ignored the guy that would have treated them decently the whole time. But no one ever said women were smart. Well, no one ever said it AND meant it.

I wish that was the only stupid reason I’ve heard for women ignoring decent guys but alas, it’s not. The previous statement tried to rationalize dating assholes but most often I hear reasons that try to rationalize not dating nice guys. They’re no less ridiculous, though.

Trust me I’ve heard all the classics from the I don’t want to fuck you but I still want to say it politely play book. Some good ones include, “he’s too nice,” “I don’t want to ruin our friendship,” “you’re great boyfriend material, but you’re just not for me” and the dreaded “you’re like a brother to me.” Socrates would shit his pants if he heard statements so illogical.

Too nice? What the fuck does that mean? I guess I could see that, if the guy was some kind of Ned Flanders churchy goody-good type (I’m looking at you Mormons) or if he was a spineless doormat, but I’ll get to that later. You know what, maybe there is something to that batshit-crazy logic. The other day I was walking downtown when I tripped and fell.  A complete stranger came up to me, offered his hand and said, “Are you alright?” Naturally, I thought he was being too nice. He clearly just wanted something from me. So I punched him in the dick, pushed him to the ground and while he was crying like a little girl, I told him I had filthy prostitute sex with his wife. That’s a perfectly reasonable assessment of the situation right? Oh, wait it’s not. It’s just insane, kind of like not dating a guy because he’s too nice.

The other reasons are just bullshit. “I don’t want to ruin our friendship.” That’s kind of a pessimistic view. How the fuck do you know it’s going to be ruined? It could go well and change your life. “You’re great boyfriend material, but you’re just not for me.” So you’re saying I have good qualities, qualities you yourself like but somehow you’re not interested in me. That makes sense, I guess? “You’re like a brother to me.” So pretty much, there’s no way I’m going to touch your lady-parts. In fact, in most states (depending on how far north you live) it’s actually illegal. Basically, these phrases are just a round about way of telling you something. Either:

1. She already has a guy with a wang of donkey-like proportions who satisfies her in ways sexually you could never know and she just wants to dump her emotional baggage on you.
2. Your dream girl is shallower than you thought.
3. You’re freakshow ugly.
4. She’s a bitch.
5. She’s a lesbian (hang in there, just keep telling yourself that).
6. And if god hates you, which is likely, all of the above (Yeah, I know 1 and 5 creates a paradox, but it’s a fucking joke).

Women Are Easily Confused

The problem with the term nice guy is that it’s pretty general. It covers a broad range of people. You might consider yourself a nice guy and it might be true. But you know who else considers himself a nice guy? The fat kid in the Battle Star Galactica shirt who spends all night downloading Japanese tentacle-rape porn considers himself a nice guy. That kid in your class with greasy hair and beady eyes who knows a suspicious amount of personal information about everyone in class considers himself a nice guy. The list goes on.

I think a lot women have the perception that “nice guys” are socially awkward, weird or stalkers and don’t get me wrong, some are. The problem is that guys like my friend, Mike, or me who are nice, at least mildly interesting and most importantly, NOT fucking weirdoes get lumped in with these dildos.

When a guy takes you to a family wedding on a first date and introduces you as “the one,” or if you find a guy on your lawn with a pair of binoculars and his pants unzipped, it’s safe to say at that point he’s more creepy weirdo than nice guy. So if that’s the case, call a spade a spade and refer to him as a weird bastard. Don’t feed into his self-deprecation and notion of being a hopeless romantic. Maybe if someone confronts these guys they’ll stop being so fucking awkward. If you’re saying, “But I didn’t know he was like that,” that’s bullshit. If you have any sense of perception you can tell if a guy is off after spending a little bit of time with him.

And just because a guy labels himself as a nice guy doesn’t mean it’s accurate and it doesn’t mean you have to label him a nice guy. Often I tell people my name is Baron Von Longdonger and that I’m the king of Luxembourg but that doesn’t make it true. A more accurate label would hack humor writer or porn fiend. You know, which ever.

Women, I know it’s tough for you but please use some common sense. If a guy is an over zealous stalker don’t refer to in any way as a nice guy. If a guy says that he is a nice guy, use some judgment and decide for yourself before throwing that term around. Please do this so I can describe myself as a nice guy with out people associating me with socially retarded loners, whiny little bitches or doofuses. However, if you do happen to come across a guy who is nice, respectful, funny and talented in some way, go ahead and call him a nice guy. And then have sex with him.

Doormats And Pussies

So far I’ve been pretty one-sided. Some people might call it being “sexist” but those people are probably women, so it doesn’t really matter. But believe it or not the blame doesn’t rest solely on women. Some men are also responsible.

There’s a certain type of nice guy that I’m sure you’re familiar with. He constantly laments the fact that he’s a nice guy. He spends hours on message boards pouring his heart out about how it “didn’t work out.” He creates self-fulfilling prophecies of defeat. He stays in on Friday nights and masturbates using his tears as lubricant. These nice guys are generally known as “fucking pussies,” which is ironic because that’s exactly what they’re not doing.

These guys use the nice guy persona as an excuse. They hide behind it and blame it for their relationship troubles instead of figuring out what went wrong. If one girl says, “no” they think it’s the end of the goddamn world. Well, it fucking isn’t. The odds are you’re going to get rejected at some point, but you can’t let that stop you from trying. But that’s exactly what these nancy boys do. They dwell on it and convince themselves that they won’t be successful with women. And guess what? They’re not. If these dorks put as much time into attracting women as they put into crying like little bitches they might end up with a girlfriend.

The “spineless doormat” is another variety of nice guy but don’t get confused, spineless doormats are still pussies. Although, they usually manage to land a chick before they fuck it up, unlike the fucking pussies. These guys are goddamn neurotic messes. They’re the type of guys that constantly say things like: “Are you mad at me?,” “What’s the matter?,” “Did I do something wrong?,” or “I don’t care, I’ll do whatever you want to.” These assholes never take charge. They couldn’t make a decision if their dicks (which are probably more important than their lives) depended on it.

These jellyfish are so worried about pleasing other people that they don’t have time to relax and be themselves or think about what they want. They’re so worried about ruining the relationship that they don’t realize that’s exactly what they’re doing. Apparently, they don’t seem to grasp the fact that constantly asking “what’s wrong?” or is “everything okay?” is annoying to women.

Some women take advantage of this to get gifts or have a personal errand boy, but a lot of women get fed up with dating a nervous little girl and dump the spineless dipshit. After getting dumped, the spineless doormat completes the circle of not-getting-puss and turns into the fucking pussy. In which case, he’ll probably never talk to another women again. It’s a sad, sad cycle.

Listen guys, confidence is the name of the game. Women like guys who are confident. They don’t like neurotic wussbags who can’t even pick where to go for dinner. It might cute for a little while like when you ask her out or on the first date but after that it’s just pathetic. Women want a guy who knows what he wants. They want a guy who can take charge. If they wanted to date someone who’s submissive and can’t make decisions they’d date a woman.

One of the reasons that some women like assholes is because they’re usually outgoing and confident (even if it’s usually unwarranted). The two don’t necessarily go together, though. If you’re on the shy side you can still be confident, just work with what you have. If you’re not so confident, fake it. Women fake it all the time, although “it” in their case is an orgasm. If you’re knowledgeable about a certain subject steer the conversation that way so you’re more comfortable. If you have some anecdotes that always make your friends laugh, try to work one into the conversation. If you make her laugh you’re in like Flynn.

But you can’t be afraid to be rejected. I know it sucks but get over it you mama’s boy. Did you ever wonder why douche bag bros get so many girls? It’s because they don’t care if they get denied. They just move on. It’s as simple as that. Sometimes you just have to take a chance.

How many times have you been at a party, bar or show and seen a cute girl you wanted to say something to but didn’t because you were scared or intimidated? Well guess what? There were probably 10 other guys thinking the same fucking thing. So while you were all fingering your vaginas, one of two things happened. One, no one went up and talked to her and she left alone because you were all pussies. Two, some cocky A-hole decided to take a shot and talk to her, and she left with him because she didn’t have any other options. You could have left with her if you just acted like you had a pair of marbles.

Manclusion

Women are crazy and I can’t change that. It would be easier for me to change the weather than to get women to think rationally. But hopefully this silly little essay will make some women reevaluate their decisions. Hopefully some women will finally see that a great guy has been right in front of their eyes the whole time. Hopefully some women will realize that dating an asshole isn’t worth it. I’m not getting my hopes up, though. Also, in the interest of making me sound less gay on account of the previous four sentences, I would also like to say: nice guys quit being such fucking pussies.

Harry Palmer and The Sorcerer’s Bone

Last weekend there was a Harry Potter marathon on TV and I watched it. As I watched the first four Harry Potter movies in succession something started to bother me. It wasn’t the fact that I just wasted a day watching four movies that are meant for kids and teens or quidditch, which is fucking ridiculous even in a magical context. What bothers me about the movies and the books is the lack of sex/sex education.

I accept that in the Harry Potter universe classes such as potions, charms, defense against the dark arts, etc… are far more useful than physics and micro economic and are needed for a careers in the magic world. But it doesn’t change the fact that Hogwarts is full of horny pubescent witches and wizards. So where’s the goddamn magical sex ed class?

Surely STDs and teen pregnancy aren’t restricted to the muggle world. Or are they? JK leaves so many questions unanswered. Is there a spell to get rid of herpes or a potion to get rid of the clap? Or do witches and wizards have to put on a hat and sunglasses and go down the free clinic to get penicillin like the rest of us? Are there magical condoms made out hippogriff intestines? Wizards seem to be fucking awkward and weird to begin with, so a trip to Diagon Alley to buy magical condoms must be a hundred times more awkward than it is in real life. It’s like that time you stopped by the convenience store to get condoms and you ran into your calculus teacher buying six bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 and the local priest buying candy to “reward” the altar boys, only worse. If that’s possible. But that’s neither here nor there.

Sure, sex ed is usually taught by a doofus who has probably never seen a vagina in his sad life and most of the kids already know the basics of sex, but it can be useful for the naïve or sheltered kids. I would go so far as to say, a sex ed class is particularly important in the magic world. Not only would the staff have to deal with sex and the questions that come with it, but it would also have to deal with guys trying to use engorgement charms on their junks. I don’t think I have to elaborate on what could go wrong there, but the term dick melting comes to mind. And that’s only one of the possible catastrophes that could happen involving the crotchal region and magic. I mean you don’t want adolescent wizard flailing their wands around with out knowing how to use them right? But if you’ve read or watched the Harry Potter series you know there’s no need for concern. Why? Because based on the books and films wizards and witches only seem to kiss or “snog.”

Sexuality in the Harry Potter universe seems to consist of little more than some canoodling here or there, and it’s usually out of scene or briefly mentioned. I’m not asking for gratuitous nudity but come on. JK has no problems depicting brutal murders but god forbid Harry touch Ginny’s blouse bunnies. Even the literary abortion that is Twilight had some banging in it. Not only that, JK basically blue balls Ron for the entire series, except for a short time when he was dating some slut named Lavender. He and Hermione kiss for the first time at the ass end of the seventh book. Are you fucking kidding me? Ron probably beat his wand raw by that point. But the wizarding community continues to proliferate so it would seem as if people are having sex. That and the Weasley family has like seven goddamn kids. Maybe I’m way off and there’s some complicated spell for pregnancy and the Weasleys aren’t banging like a screen door in a hurricane.

Seriously, we can't get more of this

Look, I can see that JK is trying to keep it somewhat tame for her younger audience, but sex can be implied with out being graphic. How about Harry walks out of Ginny’s room in the morning wearing her pink robe while Ron’s face becomes beet red and he tries not to kick Harry in his morning wood? No? Okay I’ve got this. How about Harry and Ron walk into the dorm and Neville shouts “HEY! I’m busy get out of here,” while he pulls up a blanket to cover himself and knocks a box of tissues off the bed? Okay how about…. What? Just Stop? It’s never going to happen? Well fuck you guys and your sexless Harry Potter series. I guess I’ll just keep it in my head. It’s better there anyway.

A recent survey shows that 9 out of 10 witches and wizards below the age of 20 have no idea what a hand job is.