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

The Christmas Present (WTF!)

The night I returned from Utah after my disastrous experience with Kenzie, I invited Nancy, 28, over for a “hang out.” I’d been seeing Nancy, a tall brunette with fake knockers, a couple nights a week in the three weeks before Christmas. We’d met on Match.com, and though she was sexy and mysterious at first, she introduced me to her nine-year-old son on our second date, raising 42 different red flags. I continued to see her anyway because she seemed genuine and sweet—and because she was good in bed, a sensual below-the-nutsack licker. Not to mention she had an amazingly yummy vagina—meaning it tasted like nothing. When it comes to pussy, the best flavor is no flavor. My mind can fill in the blank.

While we’re on the topic, I was curious to find out the correlation of a girl’s hotness and her vagina flavor, so I decided to input data of twenty girls (the first twenty that came to mind) I’ve gone down on. I forced myself to be as objective as possible. Please note: This graph only took into account looks, and even though I’ve hooked up with many more 4s and 5s, they don’t appear here because I was coherent enough that night to do the finger test. Or I’d already come to the understanding that I was hooking up with a beast and knew better (The “1” that appears I choose not to discuss*, and the “2” was the Mr. Rooney chick from my Euro trip when I ate the weed brownie—so the data is likely skewed for her. Because I’m such a lucky guy and things always work out for me, both 9.5s shown had average to below average tasting vaginas—lazy ass chicks couldn’t even douche their ham wallets.). Overall, there wasn’t much correlation in this sample—for you math geeks (me), the r coefficient was about 0.15. Take a look:

Nancy was all done up, wearing more eyeliner than on our first date, as she walked through my door. I noticed she had some sort of mini duffel bag strapped over her shoulder.

“What’s in the bag?” I asked.

“Your Christmas present.”

“Oh really?”

Great. It was obviously lingerie, which I haven’t found sexy since the Pamela Anderson/Jenny McCarthy era. Maybe if I’d never seen Nancy naked, it’d be somewhat tantalizing. But an already-banged chick dressed in lingerie excites me about as much as MTV did when they constantly aired “The Grind” in the summer of ‘94—a show that will forever tarnish MTV’s past the same way slavery scars America. When it comes to undergarments, a new G-string is the extent of my arousal.

I went down on Nancy for a solid ten minutes. Instead of saying standard things like “That feels so good” or “Don’t stop,” she repeatedly said in a childish voice, “You rock,” every time I came up for air. Gross. On paper it may seem cool, but in the heat of passion, it almost made me go limp. Chicks saying things “rock” make me think of Harley Davidson and feathered hair. I’ve had my share of these awkward sex talkers. One said mid-fuck, “I want to swallow your babies.” Another panted, “Alan can go fuck himself.” Who’s Alan!? Another exclaimed mid-blowjob, “Fuck! I forgot to Tevo Real Housewives!” If a girl doesn’t know proper sex talk, then they should shut their damn mouths.

After we both agreed her time was up, it was my turn. She told me to lay down while she brought out her duffel bag. She removed what appeared to be an ipod and sunglasses from the bag. There had to be more. As she fiddled with the ipod, I couldn’t resist commenting, “Are we going rollerblading?”

Still fiddling, she snickered and said, “No, it’s Mind Spa.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve never heard of it?”

“Mind Spa? No,” I said, furrowing my brow. “This is my Christmas present?”

“Trust me. It’s awesome.”

Considering I was open to letting a girl lick my asshole that first time six years ago (a night I can only describe as “The Revolution”), I had to give this a shot.

Nancy put the headphones on to check something, then put them on me. She handed me the glasses, but when I put them on something wasn’t right. I was expecting some sort of three-dimensional feature like in National Treasure. Instead, the glasses were flickering light in an epileptic frenzy. “There’s something wrong with these glasses,” I told her.

“Is it too bright?” she said, ipod in hand. “I can turn the intensity down.”

“Oh. It’s fine I guess.” Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, I thought.

With my eyes now entering an intergalactic wormhole, suddenly music started blasting through my ears. I recognized the song immediately. It was that ATB song “Till I come,” one of the pioneering techno songs from the late nineties, where the only lyrics are “Till I come” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RY81QFir2sw).

I felt my pants being unbuckled and removed. Then kisses on my lower abdomen, finally landing on my dick. I cheated several times on the blowjob, removing the glasses to catch a glimpse of the lips-on-dick image. Then I put the glasses back on, pretended I wasn’t at a rave, and soaked in the new experience—like Sylvester Stallone had to do when he fucked Sandra Bullock via headset in Demolition Man.

            Just before I was about to bust—and have a brain seizure—Nancy stopped sucking, reached into her bag, and took out a condom (I didn’t see it, but I could sense it). Then she rolled the condom on, got on top of me, and started riding. I peeked out through the glasses and saw her smiling at me. “You can take off the glasses now,” she told me. I was still wondering why she hadn’t worn the glasses when I went down on her. What a hypocrite.  

            Having arrived back in Newport Beach, I began screwing Nancy fast and hard. Not surpringly, while on top with her back facing me, she stopped, turned to me and said, “I have an IUD in. It’s not hurting you, is it?” Limp dick.

I’ve seen Nancy—headset free—a couple more times after that night, mostly for good company, dirty sex, and because I’d forgotten the term “Mind Spa,” which was imperative info in order to write this blog. Nancy explained that the purpose of Mind Spa is to rejuvenate the mind—either in the bath, during a workout, or for a deep relaxation session before bed. And also during blowjobs. Frighteningly, this stuff might be the future of sex and even porn. Would I do it again? Yes, but only with a clearance slip from a doctor. Either way, Judgment Day is nearing.

*The “1” from the graph was a whale I hooked up with back in college. I haven’t told many people about it because I don’t remember much from that night, and because I was disgusted with myself. It was late after a fraternity party; I was four 40s deep; and she was…there. She refused to give me a blowjob unless I ate her out first. I accepted her proposition but only stayed down there for thirty seconds until I realized there were chewable particles in my mouth. She had pussy chips. The end.

  • Nariso

    wow. thanks for that last bit. I won’t be able to eat for like a week now.

  • JRH

    Fucking Brilliant!
    Haven’t laughed so hard in ages. btw, have you read any Anthony Bourdain?… maybe you should switch to teaching English instead of Math!!!

    – 52, and new again to the “dating game”

  • dustin

    I needed this. thank you for making my laugh my ass off.

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