Making sense of my adventures with women, one disaster at a time.

Another Disaster

The night began badly. 

 

Dane had idiotically invited three gross chicks to party and stay at his pad. He had hooked up with one of them weeks ago while intoxicated in Vegas. Since we were going to Sutra, I could ditch the girls there, but it wasn’t that simple. These three imbeciles had come from L.A. and hadn’t even put on their clothes and make-up. The result: An hour and a half of waiting for them to get ready. My patience runs thin when it comes to waiting for girls to get ready when we could be otherwise beating the long lines, hitting on chicks, and partying with friends already at the club. To make matters worse, Dane admitted that his girl looked worse than he recalled, his interest was dashed. As it was, we didn’t leave his house until just after eleven. 

Luckily, Vince was already at Sutra, and Vince knows everyone. We skipped the line, and Vince got us in for free. I double-fisted beers immediately.

My game started off horrifically. Somewhere between 0 for 5 and 0 for 10, I approached two girls who had been standing in the same spot for forty-five minutes. “Match.com or eHarmony?” I asked. They looked at each other, one grabbed the other’s arm, and they walked away. At least I made them move.

An hour later, I approached an attractive brunette with large knockers, but her eyes seemed cynical, like a cat’s. Wearing black leggings and a loose silver top, she leaned against a post at the edge of the dance floor.

Me: Why are you standing here trying to act all mysterious?

Her: I’m not. Why?

Me: Well, you’re holding your drink suspiciously and staring intently at something. Do you smoke too?

Her: No. Why would you think I smoke?

Me: Usually smokers use their cigarettes as a way of looking mysterious. At least you’re not a poser, like them. 

Her: [Laughing] Who are you here with?

Five minutes later Lilly and I were making out. Her kissing technique was worse than the chick from last week, her tongue probed fast and hard. But I went with it. Five minutes later, she asked where I lived. I always embellish my answer to this question. If I live down the street, I’ll say, “Like right over there.” If I live five minutes away, I’ll say, “Like right down the street.” If I live fifteen to thirty minutes away, I’ll say, “Like three minutes from here.” Since I lived a good twenty minutes away, I said, “Like two minutes from here. We’ll take a cab.” Most girls feel comfortable, like they’re “being safe,” if they leave with a guy who lives nearby.  

She was reluctant at first—some excuse about “my friends and the limo”—but I grabbed her hand and led her outside. She followed. We hopped in a cab and left.
As we made out in the backseat of the car, her braless top kept falling down, her breasts flopping out. At first I covered her up, but her boobs continued to flop out, so I left her exposed the rest of the way. The driver noticed as well, occasionally glancing back to sneak a peak. I didn’t blame him. They were nice. My truck was in Dane’s apartment parking structure, so I had the cab take us there. When we got in my truck, we immediately went at it again. Moments like these must be embraced. Had I just pursued things there, we probably would have had a nice car fuck. But as usual, I got greedy. I wanted to fuck in my bed. I started the engine mid-passion, and we left. Lunacy loomed ahead.
 
Thirty seconds into the drive, Lilly’s meltdown began.          

“Wait, where are you taking me?” she asked, a whiney tone in her voice.           

“My house. I live like right down the street. You can meet my roommate’s dog,” I said.  

 “But you can’t. I have to go back. Can you take me back to Sutra?”           

 “No. That’s way too far, and I just paid twenty-five bucks for that cab. I can take you back in the morning.” 

            “But whyeeee?”

            “No. I’ll call you a cab if you want, but I’m not going back there.”

             “But whyeeeeeee?”

             “Nope.”

             “But you’re a math teacher. You’re supposed to be nice.”

             “I help them with homework. I don’t drive them around town.”

             “But whyeeeeeeeeee?”

             “Okay listen. I’m not going back there. I’m going home. You don’t even have to come inside. I’ll call you a cab as soon as we get there if you want.”

             “But I’m engaged, and I have a son.”

             “What!?”

She put her ring finger in front of my face—I could have sworn that wasn’t there before—and said, “See.” Then she took out her cell phone and showed me a picture of her son. “Aren’t you going to take care of this little boy’s mommy?”

             “Yep. I’m calling her a cab.”

She spent the final minutes of the car ride texting and pleading. I ignored her and focused on driving.

She was still fidgeting with her cell phone when we arrived at my place. I told her he she had to be quiet if she came upstairs.

She wasn’t quiet. Her heels clanked louder than a gong. While she was in the bathroom, Kaygee opened his bedroom door and asked if I had brought home a rhinoceros. “No, she’s a NUT,” I affirmed.

She entered my room, lay in bed with me, and fidgeted with her phone some more. At the moment, I despised this girl. But then her top came down, exposing her boobs again. As I stared, thoughts entered my head.

Five seconds: She is crazy. Why do I always end up with these psychos?

Twenty seconds: Decent rack. Too bad she is a pile of shit.

Forty seconds: Nice rack. We should have just stayed in Dane’s parking garage. Then I wouldn’t have had to deal with her insanity.

One minute: Awesome rack. I am horny.

I got on top of her, and we hooked up again. I took off her pants, expecting resistance. None. She actually lifted her pelvis and helped me take them off. Once she was completely naked, she said, “Well, there’s another thing…I’m on my period.”

            “That’s fine. You like it up the butt don’t you?” As I said this, I saw a sneaky grin materialize on her face.

            “Yeah.”
I flipped her over and took out my condom. Two things happened: 1) The smell. There was no pussy in the stench this time. Just shit; and 2) She said, “Wait, you know what…we need to be good. We can’t do this. I need to call my fiancé.”
 
Fine by me. The poop-only smell was frightening. And this girl was only twenty-eight-years-old, putting a serious dent in my girls-over-forty-are-the-only-ones-with-the-poop-smell theory. I seriously think there are women out there who don’t think they need to scrub their butthole during a shower; their shit particles will just magically dissolve. Besides, had I ass-fucked her, I gave it a 95% chance that poop would’ve gotten all over my bed. Fuck that. I put the condom back in my wallet, watched her get dressed, and laid back down. Dammit. If there are any girls out there that don’t smell, please email me at daveglenn@live.com and we can arrange flowery sex. You don’t even have to be hot. I’ve just had it with the smells.
    

Two minutes later, the pleading started all over again, followed by my refusals. Her phone rang and she answered:  

           “Hi…..No, I’m with some guy…..Dave, he wants to talk to you.”

           “Who is it?”

            “My fiancé.”

            “Are you kidding me? I’m not talking to him.”

            “He doesn’t want to talk to you…Dave, what’s your address?”

            “I’m not giving you my address. I’ll drop you off at the Ralphs down the street, and he can pick you up there.”

I have a sixth sense when it comes to avoiding getting my ass kicked. When I approach girls at bars/clubs I always seem to know if they came with a dude or not. Of all my partying and hitting on chicks, I have only pissed off four guys.
 
Guy 1: Out of control in Vegas, I threw an empty beer can and hit a guy in the head. Luckily, Stiffler was with me; he intercepted the guy’s anger and channeled him elsewhere.
 
Guy 2: Drunk on Catalina Island, I hit on a girl whose husband was at the bar and saw me. “If you talk to her again, I’ll rip your head off,” he told me. When he discovered I was at the bar with over ten guys, he approached me a second time and said, “Sorry about before. We cool?”
 
Guy 3: Drunk in Vegas, I locked eyes momentarily with a dude who looked like Vin Diesel. Even though I was with Kaygee and Baba, he caught up with me and said, “Hey pal, were you trying to stare me down?” Before I could tell him “no,” Kaygee pushed me ahead and said, “Just keep walking.”
 
Guy 4: Drunk at a Huntington bar, I said to a girl, “Lame headband.” She became infuriated, calling her boyfriend over. Her boyfriend got in my face before another girl pulled him away. That girl ended up lecturing my friends and me for thirty minutes on “respect.” We listened, only because she made no sense. Her three friends—headband girl, headband boyfriend, and another guy—became jealous that we were receiving attention. All of a sudden, the lecturer slapped me and ran to the bouncer, who threw us out.
 
I wasn’t about to get in any situation that could easily be avoided. Only dumbshits get their ass kicked. When I found out Lilly’s fiancé was 6’6 220 lbs, and he was coming all the way from Hollywood just to pick her up, I herded Lilly out of my house.
 
On the way to Ralph’s, Lilly’s babbling persisted.
 
             “Are you seriously dropping me off at Ralph’s?” she asked

            “Well yeah. That’s where your fiancé is picking you up, right?”

            “Yeah but still, don’t you feel bad at all?”

            “No.”

            “But you’re a teacher. Do you treat your students like this?”

            “Only the ones who talk back.”
           
 “Dave, we are upper-middle class people. We are at the top of the food chain. Why do we have to do this? Why can’t you just take me back to Sutra, so I can be with my son.”

            “What the fuck are you talking about? The food chain? And your son isn’t even at Sutra.”

            “Whatever. I can’t believe you’re dropping me off at Ralph’s.”

            “Don’t worry. There are lots of lights, and your fiancé should be here soon. I still can’t believe you answered his phone call and told him you were with a guy. Good things lie ahead in your relationship.”

            “What was I supposed to do? I can’t just ignore his call.”

            “Sure you can! Just tell him the music was loud.”

            “He won’t be mad. He’s a very understanding man.”

            “Okay.”
 
When we got to Ralph’s, she wasn’t finished berating me: “Well, I hope you can deal with your conscience tomorrow morning.” She stepped out, slammed the door and exited my life, finally.
 
In light of the events of this night among others, I officially place myself on one month’s probation. I unauthorize myself to hook up with girls who have any of the following features:
-Stinky Vagina
-Stinky Butthole

-Stinky Armpits

-Wedding rings

-Engagement rings

-Psychosis

 -Bustiers

If I break my probation, I will condemn myself to a month of celibacy—which means no masturbation. Wish me luck…
 
 
Update: I broke my probation a week later when I fucked a girl who violated the Stinky Vagina feature. Then I broke my promise to myself the next day when I masturbated furiously for over an hour. I have weaknesses.

 

  • Nothing taints ( excuse the pun) a hot chick with a smoking body like a stinky vagina/butthole uhhh…this is the problem with picking up chicks at clubs who have been dancing,sweating,peeing and not whipping, dancing and sweating some more then you take them home and pull the pants down and once the smell hits your nostrils the erection is donzo…i have learned to tell them ” hey lets fuck in the shower” or anything that is an excuse to wash the terrible smells away…sometimes i have even began to finger them and put my finger up to their nose to see their reaction…its an asshole move and can cost you a fuck but its better to make her feel like garbage for smelling like it instead of having to force myself to fuck her smelly vag…

    • Kevin040769

      Lmfao…this is hilarious stuff right here :)

  • #1: I fucking love this.
    #2: My asshole smells like a fucking petunia, but I’ve been told my vagina tastes like garlic. I guess I should bang more Italians.
    #3: If my asshole did not smell like a petunia, I’m pretty sure I would not be offering it up on a silver platter to any man and I am very sorry you can’t seem to meet girls of a similar mindset.
    #4: I can’t remember the last time my face was in any crotch that smelled like heaven.
    Men can’t scrub their assholes well either and ball sweat is never a treat either.
    #5: I still fucking love this. Keep fucking psychos and stinky pussies. I’ll keep reading about it.

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