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Maybe Don’t Say That Anymore
“Mike” from Oklahoma City, OK
I was about two months into an off-again, on-again fling with this girl I had met through a coworker. We had hooked up a few times when we were drunk, but never had a sober sleepover. I had opened my laptop to feed the geese before turning in for the night when I decided that I was not going to JO like some pathetic loser when I had a perfectly good vagina waiting for me just five minutes from my apartment. A couple texts later, I was in my car with a quarter chub on my way to have sober sex for the first time in god knows how long.
She poured us some wine, but I didn’t want to waste time. We headed to the bedroom and tore into each other. She would finally know my prowess as a lover. I would not be drooling into her ear or drunkenly gyrating my hips or falling off the bed in an attempt to do some sort of piledriver maneuver. No. This was sober sex and we were going to enjoy it. We’re getting into it and then she starts talking and I wish she would’ve just kept her mouth shut, because everything was ruined in that moment. She was moaning and breathing really weirdly. It wasn’t hot. It sounded like distant, muffled jackhammering. And then she started talking.
“Oh, plow your dong into me!” (actual sentence)
Other nonsense that I tuned out in between.
“Make me your thrust bitch!” (also actual sentence)
Those are the only two I can remember because I started blocking her out after she told me to “plow my dong into her” and after she told me to make her my “thrust bitch” I stopped and asked her “Maybe don’t say that anymore?” “Say what?” she replied. “You just said you wanted me to be your ‘thrust bitch’?”
After that she rolled her eyes and threw on a robe and had a look on her face like “thrust bitch” and “plow your dong into me” were completely common in sexual nomenclature and had no Idea as to why it weirded me the fuck out. I threw on my clothes and that was that. I went home and JO’d like a pathetic loser.
It Takes More Than Two To Tango, Or Somethin’ Like That
“Kelly” from Miami, FL
My gay bestie and roommate (call him “Matthew”) wanted to go dancing one night, as gay men often do. Since I had recently broken up/ignoring with a guy I had been dating for no more than three weeks. It was nothing serious and he was moving way too fast. I hadn’t returned any of his calls for two weeks. He would not stop bugging me the entire night we were out. Text after text, begging me to come see him. I foolishly sent out a Snapchat story that gave away my location. Sure enough, 30 minutes later, this stalker walks through the door with a “I know I’m not supposed to be here” look on his face.
He came up to me and I was nice to him and decided to let him buy me a few drinks. He was actually very sweet and knew he was moving too fast and apologized, so I stuck around and gave him a chance. My gay friend was out on the floor dancing, but I knew it was time to go. I decided to throw my former fling a pity fuck so I invited him back to my place for a drink.
We ended up getting really drunk and I was about to bring him into my bedroom for what I explicitly told him would be a one time thing. He looked back at Matthew and said “Would your friend like to come too?” and then shot me the creepiest wink I’ve ever seen. Mortified, I stumbled to find words. He wanted to have a bi-three-way. Not a devil’s threesome, but full-blown guy-on-guy-on-girl sex. I’m not that adventurous and Matthew was not into it. So he threw a fit after Matthew let him know that he wasn’t ready to get down with a stranger. He started cursing and calling him “fairy” which got Matthew pretty upset.
We ended up throwing him out of the apartment and haven’t told the story until now. The guy moved to San Francisco a year later.
I Know A Guy…
Anonymous, Whereabouts Unknown
I know a guy whose fiancée broke up with him in the middle of sex.
Editor’s note: Great story.