Samuel Fuckett has been out of commission for a while. We aren't really sorry that we treated you badly, dear readers, but we are sorry that we missed out on the opportunity to be that guy at the party that everyone crowds around so that they can be exposed to the best stories, the best insights, and the best moustache. To restore the balance, I now bring you a Fuck Up with a happy ending that's totally worth the forty minute wait in line at that extra special Koreatown spa.
...
Face it, we all move to New York because we want to be fucking awesome. We want to go back home to our high school reunions, look around with contempt, and feel all the self-satisfaction we never obtained in our adolescences. It's not just some cool facade we are trying to obtain, though. We truly believe that this city is home to the best and the baddest; if we can make it here, we can make it anywhere.
Now, why--when we live in lead-paint apartments run by known slum lords, spend our days smelling urine everywhere we walk, and occasionally have to pick mystery fish scales off our backpacks on the subway platform--would we believe something so unabashedly stupid? The answer is really simple: Sex and the City. It started when we were in elementary school, and thus completely perverted our worldviews, making us believe that we can, and in fact do, live in the most enriched, erotic, esoteric pop-reality ever projected onto the city of New York.
Even as the sorta-kinda-adults we are now, we still wake up every morning, look at ourselves in the mirror, and think, "This day, goddamnit. This is going to be the day that I leave the house as Samuel Fuckett and return as Carrie Bradshaw. This is going to be the day that I have my Sex and the City moment."
For one lucky friend of Samuel Fuckett's, however, that Sex and the City delusion has just become a sex-in-his-city phenomenon.
A works for one of those megalithic publishing companies that one can definitely imagine held board meetings at coke-dusted gentlemen's clubs in the eighties. Today, the ship is a little more tightly run and a lot more woman-friendly, but they still occupy multiple buildings throughout the city and millions of bookshelves around the world. Rather than buying lap dances for book buyers, A's employer now hosts optional lunchtime seminars on how to streamline shipping costs. (A really missed out on the golden days of marketing. Que será, será.)
A is the kind of guy who knows well enough that picking up a free sandwich in exchange for an hour of texting in the back of a sparsely populated presentation room while somebody yammers about FedEx means that he can buy two extra tequila shots at happy hour, so A skipped the line at Hale & Hearty in favor of the seminar.
The presentation was as boring as anticipated, but between texts of "Le sigh," to his galpals, A noticed a cute face across the room. A cute face with a familiar moustache. "Did this man solicit me for sex in the bathroom at Splash," A thought to himself, "or did I maybe give him a handjob in the sauna when I was on my third free trial at that gym in Chelsea?" Alas, no. After forty-five minutes of instructions about the difference between a DHL label and a courier label, A still could not identify the mysterious Moustache Man.
Disappointed and sorely in need of caffeine before his return to his cubicle, A abandoned the final five minutes of the shipping cost seminar and made a break for Starbucks.
Not a minute into his wait on line, someone said to A, "How about those statistics on how many employees make typos in the addressee's zip code?" A jerked his head up to look at the speaker. Moustache Man. In the flesh. And flirting.
"I know, right?" A said, and the men's feeble attempts at coy witticisms continued until both of their cappuccinos were hot and frothy.
Here, I could end the tale and let you think, "Ah, the beginning of a beautiful office romance." But alas, it was not to be. A and Moustache Man walked out of the Starbucks together, and each started walking in different directions only to realize that their big-ass employer occupies two buildings across the street from one another. Like the Romeo and Juliet of mass market paperback, they said, "See you around, I guess," and went their separate ways.
A returned home that night, put on a mud mask, looked in the mirror and thought to himself, "Tomorrow maybe. Tomorrow I will meet my Mr. Big." Ten minutes later, he crawled into bed with his laptop, cruised his favorite New-York-centric intellectual queer porn blog, read a few revolting messages on Manhunt, jerked off, and fell asleep.
A went back to Starbucks at the same time every day for the next week, looking around sheepishly for Moustache Man. After a while, the combination of coffee and consternation was giving him stomach pains, so he called it quits. Moustache Man was just another missed connection in the big city, and A was going to have to get the fuck over it. He spent the weekend binge drinking at straight bars and eating tacos with his girls. It worked moderately well.
The following Monday, A came home from work, put on a face mask, and curled up with his laptop for yet another night in alone. He opened up his favorite New-York-centric intellectual queer porn blog again, and clicked on a video interview with a gay performance artist so he could have something to talk about if he was ever fucking asked on a date.
There, right on screen, holding a microphone out to the artist, was Moustache Man. "Oh. My. Sonofabitch. Jesus," A thought, "I knew I recognized him from somewhere."
A thought some more: "What would Carrie Bradshaw do?"
Thirty minutes and two emails later, A had leveraged his sexy-city serendipity into a breakfast meet-up with two of his gay coworkers and one of his favorite geeky porn stars. Forty-five minutes and four emails after that, A had a date with Moustache Man that promised to end with a lot more than company-approved instructions for package weighing and envelope-licking.
When A woke up the next morning and looked at himself in the mirror, he thought, "Damn, Carrie Bradshaw, you doin' it up right today."
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Monday, July 30, 2012
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Fuck Ups: Tending the Bartender (Part 1)
My local bar is a nice Brooklyn neighborhood dive with a pool table, a back garden, and a cocaine pusher named Ken. I know every single one of the bartenders who works after nine by name. None of them seem to mind that I am underage, and they consistently buy back everyone's third round as long as the customers tip. For me, they buy back every other round until closing time, after which they buy every round until sunrise. The owner drops by and stays for a few drinks with his girlfriend every few nights, and he always buys my drink for me if I order next to him at the bar.
Needless to say, my gal pals and I have spent many a wondrous night (and morning) of binge drinking at this poet-girl haven. And over the course of those nights, some of us have gotten friendlier with the staff than others. I tend to go for the bartenders no matter where I am (notice the Part 1 attached to this article's title) because I find that chatting them up helps distract them from carding me, and once I'm chatting, I turn into Vilma Kaplan, Bundle of Lust. This Fuck Up is one of my own tales:
It all started out good. The girls and one or two of our male friends met up and gathered at our usual table in the back for a rousing night of liquored-up hijinks. We chit-chatted the night away, the group dwindling as we blurred into the wee hours, until finally, it was just me and my friend Z left. We moved up to the bar to hang out with the two bartenders and the last few hooligans trying to catch a pussycat to pet before close.
Bartender 1 was a hot Irishman with a manly platinum wedding band that somehow managed to increase his sex appeal. Around forty, he was the kind of older man I always fantasized about and was slowly working my way up to.(I'd made good clean strides from 18 year olds to 30 year olds, but not yet beyond that.) For the sake of this Fuck Up, let's call him The Fantasy.
Bartender 2 was a new guy, we all called him The Kid, even though he was 28, much older than me. I struck up a nice conversation with The Kid about college degrees and homelessness while my friend Z made her move on The Fantasy. He'd been oggling her for weeks, and the tension was driving her nuts. She knew if she could keep him interested, she could keep herself in a veritable fountain of free beer.
At four a.m., the bar officially closed and the middle-aged, male regulars got kicked to the curb to wait for their cabs. We, the cute young thangs, were invited to smoke indoors, and have our pick of drinks as long as we could keep the bartenders entertained. Quickly, however, The Fantasy got that gleam in his eye that meant he'd figured he could swing me and Z for a threesome, and he started grumbling at The Kid to clean up and get out. I made a few joked with The Kid about how I wished he could stay, but..., and he made a few jokes about what a slut The Fantasy was. We both said, "Duh!" to each other's jokes, and The Fantasy hustled The Kid out the front door and pulled down the window gate behind him.
After that, it was a lot of slinky smiles. The Fantasy went in back to put up the chairs and turn off the lights, and Z and I popped open the antique cash register to pilfer quarters for the juke box. I put on Bruce Springsteen or some other such suitable fodder for young Fucking Up. Z came up to me and said, "Watch me?"
"Huh?" I asked, very confused by her request.
Z said, "I don't want to sleep with him.
"So let's go home," I said, seeing no dilemma.
"I don't want to go yet," she said and peeked into the dark back room where The Fantasy was prowling around.
"Okay, so let's stay. If you don't want to sleep with him, don't sleep with him." It went on like this for about half a song before I got frustrated and said, "I have no idea what you want me to do."
To this, Z replied, "I'm going to go into the back. I want you to stay up here. If I don't come back up here after two songs, come back. Whatever's going on, just go with it."
"Go with it?" I asked, trying to get her to tell me whether or not we were going to fuck The Fantasy in the back of the bar.
She scrunched up her face, through her hands in the air and huffed, "Go with it," as she walked into the The Fantasy's lair.
I sat at the bar, toyed with the idea of pocketing a few bucks from the till, poured myself another Jack rocks, squirted some club soda in the sink out of the nifty beverage hose, changed the lineup on the juke box, blah,blah, blah. Then, it was time. Two songs were up, and I made my way into the back, ready to play dumb.
"Oh, oops," I said, rather sarcastically, as I approached The Fantasy, who was pretty involved in grabbing Z's ass while she jerked him off with a nonplussed expression on her face.
He leered over at me and said, "Come here."
"Would your wife like this?" I asked because I'm a bitch and wanted him to be sure I knew exactly how base the whole situation was (but I was damn well going to enjoy myself anyway). The Fantasy ignored me and grabbed me by the front of my shirt to kiss me when I obeyed. As far as kisses go, I'd rate it a ten out of ten for pornographic fantasy and a three out of ten for real life fun. But I was not deterred. I am a girl who likes sex, especially sloppy, fairly anonymous sex, and I take on the task of hooking up with a lot of enthusiasm. I kissed The Fantasy with willful abandon, and even started to warm up a little as his hands wandered over to my body from Z's.
Z was still fairly expressionless as she cupped The Fantasy's balls. She said, "Yeah, grab her tits. She has epic tits," to which we all responded with murmurs of agreement.
The Fantasy was clearly overwhelmed by the two women in front of him, though and as he fumbled, I was starting to understand the unexcited look on Z's face. He kept pushing on the top of my head and whispering, "Get on your knees, baby."
I said, "No, stop pushing on my head," so he started begging, which really annoyed me. But I was all about making the best of the situation, so I kissed him to shut him up, and he got over the fact that I wasn't going to suck him off. (Sorry I'm not a better feminist. I aspire to be one.)
Z frowned at me and pointed at The Fantasy's cock with her free hand while he was busy eyes-closed groaning. First, I sighed with disappointment, then I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. "Let me," I said, taking over the manual activity while Z went to work making out. I thought he was just having a hard time getting it up. He was an older guy, and he'd had his fair share to drink. But when I got his dick in my hand, I had to admit that there just wasn't anything there. The Fantasy was no fantasy at all. He wasn't even a reality. He was barely a thumb. And a flaccid, bumbling thumb at that.
(A side note for fairness: Size is not everything. I have had satisfying encounters with many men with any number of penis sizes. But there is small, and then there is, "Oh, my God, I cannot believe I have been fantasizing about fucking this man against a wall only to realize that his dick is not a dick at all." And if he'd been a better guy, not a cheating scuzzball, I would have had inventive, pleasurable, non-penetrative sex with him for hours. There is so much more to fucking than pentration, I know, and it can be so much more fun. All of that is beside the point. It is situational irony. The Fantasy had the Least Fantastic Cock Ever.)
By this time, Z's dress was on the floor and my shirt was around my waist. Z made a frustrated, disgusted face, and I that was it. I made an executive decision. I dropped The Fantasy's dick to pick up Z's dress and pull it over her head. "We have to go," I said. The Fantasy looked dumbfounded. I took Z's hand, and dragged her up front.
We grabbed our purses just as The Fantasy emerged from the back. "You don't even want another drink?" he asked.
I said, "No," very sternly while Z fixed her hair. I looked at the clock on the wall, which read 7:42 AM, and cringed, "We have class in less than two hours." The Fantasy sighed and let us out the front. As we crawled out of the dark bar into the morning sun, I caught my shirt on the security gate and ripped a hole in it. Once on the sidewalk, we ducked our heads as we walked past shiny moms and dads drinking their morning coffee at the shop next door.
As soon as we were a block away, Z and I both started cracking up. "What the fuck did we just do?" I asked.
"Nothing," Z said, "There was nothing there to do."
Two hours later, I sat in class, still pleasantly drunk, and argued about and obscene Arthur Miller story that somehow paled in comparison to the morning I'd had so far. The Fantasy was ruined for Z and I forever, but he still pitches our free drinks over the bar like a trooper. Even though it was a completely dissatisfying encounter for all three of us, there is something to be said for the simplicity of post-hook up interactions with an older, sluttier, married man.
Needless to say, my gal pals and I have spent many a wondrous night (and morning) of binge drinking at this poet-girl haven. And over the course of those nights, some of us have gotten friendlier with the staff than others. I tend to go for the bartenders no matter where I am (notice the Part 1 attached to this article's title) because I find that chatting them up helps distract them from carding me, and once I'm chatting, I turn into Vilma Kaplan, Bundle of Lust. This Fuck Up is one of my own tales:
It all started out good. The girls and one or two of our male friends met up and gathered at our usual table in the back for a rousing night of liquored-up hijinks. We chit-chatted the night away, the group dwindling as we blurred into the wee hours, until finally, it was just me and my friend Z left. We moved up to the bar to hang out with the two bartenders and the last few hooligans trying to catch a pussycat to pet before close.
Bartender 1 was a hot Irishman with a manly platinum wedding band that somehow managed to increase his sex appeal. Around forty, he was the kind of older man I always fantasized about and was slowly working my way up to.(I'd made good clean strides from 18 year olds to 30 year olds, but not yet beyond that.) For the sake of this Fuck Up, let's call him The Fantasy.
Bartender 2 was a new guy, we all called him The Kid, even though he was 28, much older than me. I struck up a nice conversation with The Kid about college degrees and homelessness while my friend Z made her move on The Fantasy. He'd been oggling her for weeks, and the tension was driving her nuts. She knew if she could keep him interested, she could keep herself in a veritable fountain of free beer.
At four a.m., the bar officially closed and the middle-aged, male regulars got kicked to the curb to wait for their cabs. We, the cute young thangs, were invited to smoke indoors, and have our pick of drinks as long as we could keep the bartenders entertained. Quickly, however, The Fantasy got that gleam in his eye that meant he'd figured he could swing me and Z for a threesome, and he started grumbling at The Kid to clean up and get out. I made a few joked with The Kid about how I wished he could stay, but..., and he made a few jokes about what a slut The Fantasy was. We both said, "Duh!" to each other's jokes, and The Fantasy hustled The Kid out the front door and pulled down the window gate behind him.
After that, it was a lot of slinky smiles. The Fantasy went in back to put up the chairs and turn off the lights, and Z and I popped open the antique cash register to pilfer quarters for the juke box. I put on Bruce Springsteen or some other such suitable fodder for young Fucking Up. Z came up to me and said, "Watch me?"
"Huh?" I asked, very confused by her request.
Z said, "I don't want to sleep with him.
"So let's go home," I said, seeing no dilemma.
"I don't want to go yet," she said and peeked into the dark back room where The Fantasy was prowling around.
"Okay, so let's stay. If you don't want to sleep with him, don't sleep with him." It went on like this for about half a song before I got frustrated and said, "I have no idea what you want me to do."
To this, Z replied, "I'm going to go into the back. I want you to stay up here. If I don't come back up here after two songs, come back. Whatever's going on, just go with it."
"Go with it?" I asked, trying to get her to tell me whether or not we were going to fuck The Fantasy in the back of the bar.
She scrunched up her face, through her hands in the air and huffed, "Go with it," as she walked into the The Fantasy's lair.
I sat at the bar, toyed with the idea of pocketing a few bucks from the till, poured myself another Jack rocks, squirted some club soda in the sink out of the nifty beverage hose, changed the lineup on the juke box, blah,blah, blah. Then, it was time. Two songs were up, and I made my way into the back, ready to play dumb.
"Oh, oops," I said, rather sarcastically, as I approached The Fantasy, who was pretty involved in grabbing Z's ass while she jerked him off with a nonplussed expression on her face.
He leered over at me and said, "Come here."
"Would your wife like this?" I asked because I'm a bitch and wanted him to be sure I knew exactly how base the whole situation was (but I was damn well going to enjoy myself anyway). The Fantasy ignored me and grabbed me by the front of my shirt to kiss me when I obeyed. As far as kisses go, I'd rate it a ten out of ten for pornographic fantasy and a three out of ten for real life fun. But I was not deterred. I am a girl who likes sex, especially sloppy, fairly anonymous sex, and I take on the task of hooking up with a lot of enthusiasm. I kissed The Fantasy with willful abandon, and even started to warm up a little as his hands wandered over to my body from Z's.
Z was still fairly expressionless as she cupped The Fantasy's balls. She said, "Yeah, grab her tits. She has epic tits," to which we all responded with murmurs of agreement.
The Fantasy was clearly overwhelmed by the two women in front of him, though and as he fumbled, I was starting to understand the unexcited look on Z's face. He kept pushing on the top of my head and whispering, "Get on your knees, baby."
I said, "No, stop pushing on my head," so he started begging, which really annoyed me. But I was all about making the best of the situation, so I kissed him to shut him up, and he got over the fact that I wasn't going to suck him off. (Sorry I'm not a better feminist. I aspire to be one.)
Z frowned at me and pointed at The Fantasy's cock with her free hand while he was busy eyes-closed groaning. First, I sighed with disappointment, then I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. "Let me," I said, taking over the manual activity while Z went to work making out. I thought he was just having a hard time getting it up. He was an older guy, and he'd had his fair share to drink. But when I got his dick in my hand, I had to admit that there just wasn't anything there. The Fantasy was no fantasy at all. He wasn't even a reality. He was barely a thumb. And a flaccid, bumbling thumb at that.
(A side note for fairness: Size is not everything. I have had satisfying encounters with many men with any number of penis sizes. But there is small, and then there is, "Oh, my God, I cannot believe I have been fantasizing about fucking this man against a wall only to realize that his dick is not a dick at all." And if he'd been a better guy, not a cheating scuzzball, I would have had inventive, pleasurable, non-penetrative sex with him for hours. There is so much more to fucking than pentration, I know, and it can be so much more fun. All of that is beside the point. It is situational irony. The Fantasy had the Least Fantastic Cock Ever.)
By this time, Z's dress was on the floor and my shirt was around my waist. Z made a frustrated, disgusted face, and I that was it. I made an executive decision. I dropped The Fantasy's dick to pick up Z's dress and pull it over her head. "We have to go," I said. The Fantasy looked dumbfounded. I took Z's hand, and dragged her up front.
We grabbed our purses just as The Fantasy emerged from the back. "You don't even want another drink?" he asked.
I said, "No," very sternly while Z fixed her hair. I looked at the clock on the wall, which read 7:42 AM, and cringed, "We have class in less than two hours." The Fantasy sighed and let us out the front. As we crawled out of the dark bar into the morning sun, I caught my shirt on the security gate and ripped a hole in it. Once on the sidewalk, we ducked our heads as we walked past shiny moms and dads drinking their morning coffee at the shop next door.
As soon as we were a block away, Z and I both started cracking up. "What the fuck did we just do?" I asked.
"Nothing," Z said, "There was nothing there to do."
Two hours later, I sat in class, still pleasantly drunk, and argued about and obscene Arthur Miller story that somehow paled in comparison to the morning I'd had so far. The Fantasy was ruined for Z and I forever, but he still pitches our free drinks over the bar like a trooper. Even though it was a completely dissatisfying encounter for all three of us, there is something to be said for the simplicity of post-hook up interactions with an older, sluttier, married man.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Fuck Ups: Emergency
The year my friend, Y, swore off men was long. Very long. So long that it accidentally became fifteen months.
Her first fishing trip back in the big sea of dating, she found herself set up with a friend of a friend. He was Dominican, sang in a band, felt no qualms about taking her into his bedroom for two hours of making out and abandoning their friends in the living room. All attractive qualities.
But his moves pretty much ended there, and Y was left feeling... not much.
Y, however, being an intrepid young dater, feeling rejuvenated after her love-sabbatical, did not give up. One lucky Saturday, she found yet another friend of a friend to hook on her line.
He was an Air Force Reservist with shoulders she couldn't wait to dig her fingernails into. So she did, and that was that.
Left with fine memories and a little skin under her fingernails, Y went home expecting nothing more from her one night stand. By the next night, however, Y had received numerous texts of "High five!" and "Get-it, get-it girl!" from her friends. Apparently the Air Force only teaches homosexuals not to tell.
Y kept her head up high, however, and made little grins of satisfaction whenever she thought no one was looking. One night, while on duty for work, she received an emergency page. When she dialed the number and asked, "How can I help?" the Air Force Reservist confusedly said, "Who is this?"
Y's boss had (ever-so-kindly) paged her one night stand's number to her emergency work pager. By doing her job and responding to the page, she came out looking like a cling-on. I said, "Remind your boss that you only like abuses of power in the bedroom," but I'm pretty sure she didn't tell him in those exact words.
Her first fishing trip back in the big sea of dating, she found herself set up with a friend of a friend. He was Dominican, sang in a band, felt no qualms about taking her into his bedroom for two hours of making out and abandoning their friends in the living room. All attractive qualities.
But his moves pretty much ended there, and Y was left feeling... not much.
Y, however, being an intrepid young dater, feeling rejuvenated after her love-sabbatical, did not give up. One lucky Saturday, she found yet another friend of a friend to hook on her line.
He was an Air Force Reservist with shoulders she couldn't wait to dig her fingernails into. So she did, and that was that.
Left with fine memories and a little skin under her fingernails, Y went home expecting nothing more from her one night stand. By the next night, however, Y had received numerous texts of "High five!" and "Get-it, get-it girl!" from her friends. Apparently the Air Force only teaches homosexuals not to tell.
Y kept her head up high, however, and made little grins of satisfaction whenever she thought no one was looking. One night, while on duty for work, she received an emergency page. When she dialed the number and asked, "How can I help?" the Air Force Reservist confusedly said, "Who is this?"
Y's boss had (ever-so-kindly) paged her one night stand's number to her emergency work pager. By doing her job and responding to the page, she came out looking like a cling-on. I said, "Remind your boss that you only like abuses of power in the bedroom," but I'm pretty sure she didn't tell him in those exact words.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Fuck Ups: Trophies
When my friend, X, went to Boston, she was expecting a bold, run-around weekend with an old friend, wherin they would put on some mascara, drink a lot, and see all the sights. What X found, however, was that her sharp friend had gone all pink around the edges-- sorority pink. X's friend lived in a sorority suite in her college dorm. The walls were plastered with snapshots of hungry co-eds posing in diners where Harvard MBA men (their future husbands) are known to hang out
After being loaned an expired ID from a sorority alumna, X allowed herself to be squeezed into something sequined and taken out to wait in the rain for an hour outside a"really fantastic club". This club turned out to be a glorified sports bar where Boston's lesser college girls go to make themselves available to disinterested baseball fanatics. X's friend was set on picking up a guy to show X just exactly how smooth and confident she had become since beginning her BA. She made a big show for her sisters about what a slut she was (even though X knew very well that she was a virgin with huge self-confidence issues), then started to sucker men into buying her shots of raspberry vodka. X, tired of her (soon to be ex-) friend's sad show-boating, decided the best thing would be to never have to return to the Greek girls' rookery again.
X adjusted her size 12 jeans and set across the bar to make time with a reasonably cute Red Sox fan. He was wearing a baseball cap, nursing a beer, and trying to avoid the ladies in Juicy Couture. X introduced herself, paid for her own beer, and made a joke about her tattoo (a camel on her toe... Get it?). After listening to the guy talk about baseball for at least fifteen minutes, X made her move. She said, "You're hat is really sexy" (or something to that effect), and the guy went all squiggly around the edges. X had politely seduced the man into getting her the hell out of dodge.
Back at his place, things moved along nicely. While riding him reverse cowgirl, however, X realized that she wasn't going to have an orgasm. "Fuck this," she thought, and dismounted without warning. Before the confused Bostonian could react, X had gathered her clothes, snagged his Red Sox hat from its proud peg on the wall, and aborted Mission Avoid Sorority Life.
She wore that ball cap all the way home. It almost made up for the fact that she'd lost her cellphone at the guy's apartment. A good rule of thumb from my good friend, X, "If I'm not going to have an orgasm, why should he? Especially if I don't even know his last name."
After being loaned an expired ID from a sorority alumna, X allowed herself to be squeezed into something sequined and taken out to wait in the rain for an hour outside a"really fantastic club". This club turned out to be a glorified sports bar where Boston's lesser college girls go to make themselves available to disinterested baseball fanatics. X's friend was set on picking up a guy to show X just exactly how smooth and confident she had become since beginning her BA. She made a big show for her sisters about what a slut she was (even though X knew very well that she was a virgin with huge self-confidence issues), then started to sucker men into buying her shots of raspberry vodka. X, tired of her (soon to be ex-) friend's sad show-boating, decided the best thing would be to never have to return to the Greek girls' rookery again.
X adjusted her size 12 jeans and set across the bar to make time with a reasonably cute Red Sox fan. He was wearing a baseball cap, nursing a beer, and trying to avoid the ladies in Juicy Couture. X introduced herself, paid for her own beer, and made a joke about her tattoo (a camel on her toe... Get it?). After listening to the guy talk about baseball for at least fifteen minutes, X made her move. She said, "You're hat is really sexy" (or something to that effect), and the guy went all squiggly around the edges. X had politely seduced the man into getting her the hell out of dodge.
Back at his place, things moved along nicely. While riding him reverse cowgirl, however, X realized that she wasn't going to have an orgasm. "Fuck this," she thought, and dismounted without warning. Before the confused Bostonian could react, X had gathered her clothes, snagged his Red Sox hat from its proud peg on the wall, and aborted Mission Avoid Sorority Life.
She wore that ball cap all the way home. It almost made up for the fact that she'd lost her cellphone at the guy's apartment. A good rule of thumb from my good friend, X, "If I'm not going to have an orgasm, why should he? Especially if I don't even know his last name."
Monday, July 13, 2009
One Wet Sentence
The other day while enjoying sushi with a dear friend and Samuel Fuckett staff writer, she mentioned that she and another friend had been perusing the singles pages on craigslist. She described to me how half of the ads they read contained one lewd sentence and then at the bottom: "If that got you wet, send me an email."
My friend was upset. "How is one sentence going to get me wet? I need more than that!"
I thought for a second, and agreed. When it comes to a craigslist ad I need more than one sentence to get me wet. Things like "want 2 suck ur dick" might be intriuging, but certainly not pant ruining. When I thought about it more, I then realized that there was a single sentence that could get me wet. It isn't particularily lewd, but if I were to stumble upon a craigslist ad that read:
"His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
The Dead by James Joyce"
I would email that person right away to tell them that their ad required me to mop my chair.
So, dear readership (if you are out there), what one sentence, literary or pornographic (or both), gets you wet?
My friend was upset. "How is one sentence going to get me wet? I need more than that!"
I thought for a second, and agreed. When it comes to a craigslist ad I need more than one sentence to get me wet. Things like "want 2 suck ur dick" might be intriuging, but certainly not pant ruining. When I thought about it more, I then realized that there was a single sentence that could get me wet. It isn't particularily lewd, but if I were to stumble upon a craigslist ad that read:
"His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
The Dead by James Joyce"
I would email that person right away to tell them that their ad required me to mop my chair.
So, dear readership (if you are out there), what one sentence, literary or pornographic (or both), gets you wet?
Friday, July 3, 2009
Fuck Ups: Cherry Poppin'
To warm things up here at Fuck Ups, I offer you this sacrificial virgin:
After three months of dating her TA, my friend had decided: she was as horny as hell and ready to be rid of her social anxiety-inducing V-card. Her TA was great: loved it when she showed up on their first date wearing antique flight goggles, enjoyed going down on her, and never got pushy about penetration.
The TA was not just a man she was ready to have sex with, he was a man she wanted to fuck. And he was about to leave for a semester abroad, so her window was narrowing.
When he asked to stay over one night, she excitedly rushed home to meet him. With the TA due to arrive at any moment, she put on her pink teddy and a sexy pout. Then, she unlocked her front door and lay down in bed to wait. There she was, waiting to uncage her virginity... and waiting and waiting and waiting.
But the TA never showed. His excuse was, "Uh, sorry, I got drunk with my friends instead."
Well, if he wasn't going to give it to her lying down, she wasn't going to take it lying down. She did like Dan Savage and Dumped the Motherfucker Already.
After three months of dating her TA, my friend had decided: she was as horny as hell and ready to be rid of her social anxiety-inducing V-card. Her TA was great: loved it when she showed up on their first date wearing antique flight goggles, enjoyed going down on her, and never got pushy about penetration.
The TA was not just a man she was ready to have sex with, he was a man she wanted to fuck. And he was about to leave for a semester abroad, so her window was narrowing.
When he asked to stay over one night, she excitedly rushed home to meet him. With the TA due to arrive at any moment, she put on her pink teddy and a sexy pout. Then, she unlocked her front door and lay down in bed to wait. There she was, waiting to uncage her virginity... and waiting and waiting and waiting.
But the TA never showed. His excuse was, "Uh, sorry, I got drunk with my friends instead."
Well, if he wasn't going to give it to her lying down, she wasn't going to take it lying down. She did like Dan Savage and Dumped the Motherfucker Already.
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