Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Some people think it’s pathetic that I have a lower call-back rate after just kissing a guy post-date, than doing the infamous no pants dance. Whatever.
Let me tell you something… all the magazine articles (in Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire, etc.) you’ve read like: “How to Please Your Man” or “100 Ways to Make Your Dude Cum Like a Fire Hydrant” are all, 100% BULLSHIT.
I once read an advice column that said, “when you are going down on a guy, he will like it if you tickle his asshole with your finger. “
If your man is into that, my apologies… but I just think that’s fucking sick. And to be honest, I really don’t want to ruin my manicure with dried feces. OPI and manure is not a particularly winning combo.
Magazines WANT you to FAIL at pleasing your man, and WANT you to humiliate yourself so you’ll buy their shiesty magazine the next month when you are dejected and single. I REPEAT: Inserting your fist, finger, dog biscuit, etc. inside their anus, is CROCK advice.
For starters… you don’t have to be a pro at pleasing your man from the get go. However, we will cover the first step to keeping your man, and keeping him beaming like a San Francisco gay pride parade… THE BLOWJOB.
Personally, I hate giving blowjobs. I hate choking on their shaft, my neck hurts after 5 minutes, and the taste of semen isn’t exactly a strawberry milkshake.
However, I’m fantastic at giving them (I’m a good actress), and I know how to get a BJ done QUICK (which is what we all want, right ladies?).
(You might roll your eyes at how simple these rules are, however, it’s necessary I need to reinforce).
- I find it easier to blow a dude when he’s standing up and I’m on my knees. If he’s lying down, be aggressive and tell him to stand the fuck up! You are performing the job here, not his ass.
- You don’t have to do jumping jacks and cartwheels before giving head, but act as if you really want to go down on him. A frown will surely make his dick go south.
NOW THE GOOD STUFF:
1) Always keep their dick wet. Spit on it, lick it, put some edible lube on it… dip it in butterscotch… I don’t give a shit, ALWAYS keep it wet and comfortable! Use that tongue!
2) No guy wants to stick his penis in a hallway, that’s why you keep it wet, but use your lips to suction the cock at all times.
3) When you are not keeping your lips glued to his dick, just lick the head , and stroke his shaft gently while staring at him. I know it’s a little uncomfortable looking into his eyes when you have a cock in your mouth… but men love, LOVE, LoVe this.
- This move is also clutch when you neck begins to tire from the bobbing action.
- Warning: Do not do this move for more than 90 seconds, otherwise he’ll get bored and probably stuff his bratwurst or minidog into your throat.
4) ABSOLUTELY DO NOT USE YOUR TEETH!!! We are not cutting, shaving, or chewing carrots here.
5) HANDS ARE KEY in this maneuver. By NO means should your hands not be apart of this process. Stroke the shaft (not in a death grip, and not too loosey goosey). If your hands start to cramp, and/or you’re bored, lightly touch his balls or graze your fingernails in his inner thighs, while he’s still going to town in your mouth.
6) Still bored? Take his dick out your mouth, use one hand to stroke, and start playing with your clit. If his dipstick goes limp, he’s a homo.
7) SWITCH it UP! If he usually cums in your mouth, tell him you want him to cum on your tits, neck, or all over your face. If you decide on the latter, make sure a) you close your eyes and b) it’s the end of the night so your makeup isn’t fucked.
8) When he is shooting a load, play with his sack gently.
9) When the job is done, lick the tip of his cock while still grazing his inner thighs/sack. This is when he is the MOST sensitive, and when he most appreciates a (blow)job well done.
This information may be a tad overwhelming, but have no fear… this is a science. I’ve proved this hypothesis with many experiments.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
In order to determine whether or not I should move to Venice Beach, my friend since 13 years-young, Alexandria, invited me down to Los Angeles for the weekend. I deemed this an opportune time to not only check out a few places to live, but for the drinking/smoking shenangians, and the debauchery that usually ensues.
It was July 3rd. Within 24 hours, I locked down a garage turned bedroom to rent for $1100 per month. Sweet. I was going to live with three other dudes, and share a grungy bathroom sans bathtub.
“The hell with it,” I thought. “I’ve lived in a dorm, I’m 22. I can deal.”
This was going to be one hell of a ride.
Now, July 4th was something else. Alexandria, two of her friends and I were fucking around at a block party on Catamaran Street. Five blocks full of booze, grinding, people in costumes, deejay booths setup in driveways, coke draped porta-potties… it was an utter clusterfuck.
We were dancing to techno with homeless people, slurping down vodka infused beverages in Dasani water bottles, chatting with the has been teen idol/sexpot Andrew Keegan, smoking intense amounts of marijuana, etc., etc. The glorious combination of alcohol, pot, sunshine, and fist pumping, made my make-up sweat off in puddles. The perspiration was beyond grotesque, as my sweaty hair curled up in mini ringlets once I took a break. I looked like a disaster.
After three hours of nonsense, the sun was finally set, and a nearby restaurant was surely going to be pleased with our patronage. Munchies, yo! The four of us pranced into Gaby’s, a Greek/American Restaurant, footsteps away from the beach, with a mission. Mission Possible: Not one fry left behind.
The bimbo hostess sat us down next to the sidewalk, with only a teeny fence partitioning us from drunken passerbys. With ranch and ketchup drenching my lips, I look up from hovering over the plate to see three stooges clinging on the fence, attempting to talk to us.
“Can I help you?” I ask, still chewing on my Chicken Shwarma Pita.
“Uhhh… uhhhh…” One of the guys responded with such wit.
“If you’re lost the beach is that way.” Alexandria chimed in without making eye contact.
Suddenly, I felt someone groping my shoulders. I jerked back to find the good looking one of the crew giving me a massage. I have him a quick, manly head nod, and continued chowing down.
A fat-astic meal and a massage in one? Venice was looking up.
Five minutes went by…
After fingering the remnants of ranch off of my plate, I wiped my hands in my napkin and turned around to find the mysterious creeper still caressing my back.
“Um, hi. I’m Stess.”
“Nice to meet you. That felt good, thank you.”
I turned around to start packing up my purse.
“That’s it?” Ben retorted.
“What do you want? A tip?”
“Your number would be nice. I’d like to take you out sometime.”
Hmmm. I drunkenly thought to myself, “if this guy is willing to give me a massage without an introduction… why not?”
Alexandria and company were getting ancy, so I quickly jotted my number down on a scrap off the paper placemat, shoved it in his fist, and dodged out of Gaby’s.
10 minutes later, I received a text… “Hi! It’s Ben! Great meeting you, meet me out for a drink later tonight.”
I didn’t respond immediately. Let the games begin…
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
There was a pounding at the door. Not a typical “Hey, are ya in there?” knock. But an “open the fucking door before I break it down” knock.
“YOU MOTHERFUCKER!! WHO IS THIS MOTHERFUCKING SLUT! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR YOU PIECE OF SHIT!!” A woman’s voice shouted on the other side.
Jon’s face went white. It was as if he had seen fucking Casper.
“Cover up! Cover up!!” He yelled at me.
Without hesitation, I put on the first shirt I saw that had been thrown off less than an hour ago on his lint-covered floor, but of course, couldn’t find my God damned pants.
Jon had already put on his jeans… and looked at me, as he was about to turn the doorknob.
“Put on your fucking pants!” he loudly whispered to me.
He whispered as if the bitch on the other side of the door, was stupid enough to not know what was going on. It was dark! There wasn’t a chance I was going to find my pantalones… so what did I do? Rapidly Got under the sheets, and received a death stare from Jon. What was I supposed to do? I had never been a situation like this before.
I didn’t sign up for this shit. as I wondered how I even got into this predicament...
I had just returned from Cancun from a disastrous trip with my boyfriend at the time, Andrew, and his family. Both parents loathed me because I had popped their baby boy's proverbial virginal cherry. How I came out of Cancun alive? Astounds me.
The following day I had to drive from Chicago to Flint, Michigan (the armpit of America), for a tennis tournament with my tennis coach, Marco. Most tennis coach/tennis player relationships are incredibly dull. However, Marco and I were quite the contrary. You could say “unconventional.” We would binge on alcoholic beverages before and after tennis matches, talked an enormous amount of shit about fellow players, lunatic tennis parents, coaches, etc., chain smoked Marlboros, it was awesome.
How I received a full, 4-year scholarship to play tennis at a Division One school? It’s beyond me. Marco was the cool older brother that I never had. Would I trust him if I had kids? Not a chance.
Off to Flint we went. I hadn’t practiced one bit during my Cancun “vacation,” however, I decided to compete anyways. Thankfully enough, I ended up performing pretty fucking well… beating a higher ranked bitch that received a full scholarship to Marquette, and a few other tennis sluts that I couldn’t stand.
We were in this monstrosity of a “city” for three days, so when I got out of the tournament, Marco and I wanted to truck our asses out of Flint, stat. Sweaty and disgusting, I decided I didn’t care enough to shower in the locker room at the tennis facility, so we hopped on the road. About an hour into our ride… our tummies began to rumble.
Here we come.
There is nothing I despise more than tacky chain restaurants where they force employees to wear unnecessary pins and knickknacks on their vests or suspenders. But when ya gotta eat, ya gotta eat.
We were chowing down at Applebee’s, and everything was completely ordinary. It was about noon, Marco was hitting on the waitress, we were slurping on margaritas, making fun of the stupid, annoying cunt that I played earlier that morning… when all of a sudden, I see a stunner. I nearly choked on my Fajita wrap.
Absolutely gorgeous, just my type… tall, dark, handsome, and resembled Joaquin Phoenix at his peak… before he got all creepy and homeless looking. The downfall?
He’s a waiter.
Winner, winner, chicken dinner.
When you look like this guy, I have tendencies to look past occupation, creed, political affiliation, even the Fonz pins.
Once I finished unclogging my throat, I leaned over to Marco, and pointed the hot piece of ass out. Marco, being the instigating charmer he is, called the teeny waitress over and requested the Jaoquin-look-a-like waiter’s presence.
Dehydrated from my tennis match, and already drunk from half of an Applebee’s signature margarita, I thought this was the best idea since vibrators. The waitress entered the kitchen…
A few moments later, I could see “Jaoquin” peaking through the streaky, poorly Windexed peephole from the kitchen door.
The door flung open… that was a good sign.
As he started to approach, Marco was giggling like a schoolgirl at this pathetic chain of events.
He was in front of me. I stared, and stuck out my balmy hand. He was even better looking up-close.
Before I knew it,
“Hi. I’m Stess.” Courageously escaped my lips.
He returned with a handshake and a smile, all while staring into my eyes. One of those handshakes, that you know, lasted a little too long…
“Hi… I’m Jon. Did you need anything?”
“Your number.” I responded.
Where I mustered up this confidence at 16 years old? God only knows. Blame it on the alcohol. Jon laughed, as he threw his head back and took his thumb to pull one of his suspenders. Hot at the time…. Now that I look at it? More like a Steve Erkel move.
We chitchatted about the usual bullshit. Jon was born and raised in Grand Rapids, 24, going to some shit community college close by… blah, blah, blah.
Of course, I lied. I told him I was 21… and single.
But, what’s new? Not Single, not a problem.
Steve Erkel, I mean…Jon ended up turning the tables, asking me for my number. Without thinking twice, I dutifully inked my digits on an Applebee’s paper drink napkin, stained with my chipotle ranch sauce from my wrap.
He tucked the crusty napkin in his polyester pocket and had to return to attend to his actual customers. Marco and I finished our meal, I gave Jon a little wave while heading out the door, and Marco and I went on our way, back to Chicago.
A few hours after arriving home, speaking to my boring boyfriend Andrew, and showering without the chance of getting a staph infection from a Flint hotel, I received a call from an Unknown number on my cell.
“Hmm.” I thought. “I wonder who this could be.”
Sure enough, it was Jon. He wanted to come to Chicago the following weekend.
Balls. Can’t deal with this shit. A 24-year-old, Applebee’s employee, from Grand Rapids, Michigan? My parents wouldn’t exactly be pleased housing this degenerate pedophile for a weekend. Especially, because my mom loved Andrew more than I did, or really even more than she loved me.
Naturally, I lied. I told him I had a tournament in Indianapolis, but I could drive back to good ol’ Grand Rapids, the following weekend. I needed time to plan the rendezvous out.
Jon said that seemed like a good idea… and that was that.
About two weeks rolled around, as I had meticulously planned how I was going to swing this lil weekend getaway, all the while keeping this under my parents’ and Andrew’s radar.
That Friday after school and tennis practice, I packed my bags, and told my parent’s I was staying at my friend Ariel’s house. I also purposely picked a fight with Andrew so I wouldn’t have to speak to him the rest of the night. I gave myself a pat on the back, while exiting my driveway.
So there I was, starting my first semi-long distance trip by myself, with a fresh license from the DMV…Four hours later, after sitting in nightmare-ish traffic, and managing to avoid any accidents, I pulled into an murky apartment complex in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
I suddenly became very nervous, I looked under my armpits to find pit stains. Fuck. Before I could rush to reapply my deodorant, Jon walked out of his apartment. Balls. He was lookin’ fine without the ever-exclusive Applebee’s wardrobe. He wore an Abercrombie t-hirt and slightly faded jeans. Everything was status quo, we hugged and chatted, he invited me into his place, we drank a few beers, and then Jon offered to take me to dinner. Hmm, I wondered what kind of delish places were nearby.
We got into his red Chevy sedan, with grey interior. It smelled like a fart in the bathtub. I almost gagged, so I squeezed my nostrils together, and began breathing through my mouth. After seven dreadful minutes, we pulled up to a TGI Fridays. Awesome. More Fonz pins and suspenders. Couldn’t wait.
To be honest, at this point I wasn’t feeling this guy. There weren’t any sparks or fireworks. Whatsoever. However, I was 16 and wanted a little thrill and a little strange. And I remember feeling empowered that at my age, I could attract someone that much older than I. I ordered a Vodka Tonic and Chicken Caesar Salad. Standard. Jon ordered a Captain and Coke and a quesadilla.
However, it’s nothing a little more booze can cure, right? I ordered another margarita, and slurped that shit down stat. With each sip, he looked a little more gorgeous, and became a little more interesting.
Blah, blah, blah. We returned back to his place around 11pm, and he immediately wanted to give me a tour of his room. Perfection. Things were going to heat up real quick.
And now here I was, lying pantless in an unfamiliar bed, with Jon's bitch about ram through the floodgates.
The door swung open, pushing Jon behind it… Here we go.
When the 5’3, approximately 200 pound, short-haired, blonde woman stormed into the room, I was awkwardly posed with solely a bare, white sheet covering my half naked body.
Fuck, I felt like a little girl who was staring into the soul of the Boogie Man. Once, her eyes darted at me, I thought smoke was going to blow from her ears. Thankfully, I didn’t shit my pants… or the bed for that matter.
“What da fuck Jon! We are fucking done! Ya piece o’ shit!” the tubby blonde yelped as she was tugging a ring from her chubby sausage fingers from her left hand.
Great. The Applebee’s loser is engaged. I bet they would have the crème-de-la-crème of offspring.
“Baby!! I’m fucking sorry!! Please… don’t…FUCK… baby! Please?!” Jon pleaded.
“Go fuck this little fucking slut!” Jon’s “baby” retorted as she pointed at me.
My mouth stayed shut like a steel trap. What was I supposed to say? What was I supposed to do? Defend myself? Nah. Was I supposed to get up, try to find my pants, with my huge ass in the fiancé’s face? I was frozen.
Just like a scene from a fucking soap opera, she took her engagement ring and threw it on the bed with all of her might. I think she tried to aim the ring at me, but maybe her blubbery triceps got in the way.
Shamu stormed out of the room in a fuss, yelling random obscenities like “asshole,” “piece of shit,” and “loser” on her way. Jon followed like a lost puppy behind her… and out the door the front door they went…
Footsteps lingered in the distance. I tentatively peered around the bedpost, and into the hallway… Phew…The coast was clear. I deemed this was a good time to find my pants and skedaddle out of Grand Rapids. I drove drunk and high on adrenaline, back to Chicago, and thankfully arrived safely at Ariel’s home at 3:30am.
That would be the first and last time I made a trip for dick.
I love fucking men. I really do. But, I have a perversion of sorts, because as much as I love a great romp, I enjoy fucking with their heads more. I don’t know what it is. I doubt it’s a birth defect, but I find personal pleasure in knowing that I end up on top (you can decide if the pun is or is not intended).
As far as being in competition with other women for a prized piece, I don’t play that game. I have far too much pride to participate in something so juvenile. Either a guy wants you, or he doesn’t. Case closed.
I am not a 10 or even a 9, but I have a sort of charisma and confidence that many other women simply do not covet. And many a time, I walk out of a bar, restaurant, wherever, with some sweet eye-candy, leaving the 9 and 10s scratching the foundation off their foreheads.
I’ve woken up in a plethora of beds. I’ve been tangled in Egyptian cotton, imported Indian silk, and strangely knitted cum-stained sheets. I’ve woken up next to multi-millionaires, drug dealers, supermodels, stockbrokers, pro athletes, a fugitive, and an Applebee’s employee. I’ve woken up in presidential suites, penthouse apartments, cozy lofts, and a trailer park. (I assure you, not one of my finest moments). I’ve had hours and hours of elongated romps, quickies, and pre-ejaculators. I’ve slept with great men, assholes, and those who were just there to pass the time. I would be lying if I said I haven’t regretted anyone that I have slept with. Trust me, I’ve fucked some serious losers.
Now, I am not a prostitute, nor a slut. I wasn’t raped or abused. And I sure as hell don’t have mommy or daddy issues. I have received proposals, private jets, diamond jewelry, love notes, and one too many mixed cheesy c.d.’s. I simply enjoy sex, and to be honest… I’m just fucking great at what I do in the sack.