Toenails, Pubes in the Soap, and How to Handle Your Filthy Boyfriend.

Men are, by nature, incredibly lazy beings.  So to say that you're in a relationship with a "lazy man" simply means that he must be really, really fucking lazy.

I was once in a relationship with a "lazy man."

Matthew and I lived in a beautiful apartment together that he insisted on trashing.  He left his dishes piling up on the counter, his socks on the floor, and toothpaste in the sink.  I tried every possible approach to get him to pull his weight:

"Matthew, if you do the dishes, I'll wash the floor."

"Matthew, if you walk the dog, I'll cook your favorite dinner tonight."

"Matthew, if you dust in the living room, I'll let you go up my ass."

Nothing worked.  And then one day, things hit a breaking point.

I woke up from a blissful night of sleep and slowly rolled over in bed, rubbing my eyes.  I was immediately confronted by the longest toenail clipping I had ever seen.  I knew for damn certain it wasn't mine.  It was big and brown and had Matthew's name written all over it.

"MATTHEW????  Why is one of your toenail clippings in our bed???"

"I'm soooo, so, so sorry baby.  I clipped my toenails in bed while you were still sleeping."  Precious.  "I think one got in your hair, too.  So you might want to check."

After fishing my boyfriend's toenail chunk out of my hair, I walked into the bathroom.  While I was washing my hands, I noticed what looked like little ants taking over the counter and sink.  "Damnit, Matthew.  If you hid your Taco Bell in the bathroom again instead of throwing it out..." I thought.

But upon closer inspection, I realized that they weren't ants at all.  They were hairs.  Tiny, black hairs.  "MATTHEW!" I screamed.  "Why is our bathroom counter sprouting hairs???"

"I'm sooooo, so, so sorry baby.  I cut my ear hairs this morning."  Did I hear him correctly?  "And I borrowed you trimmer too."

I cleaned his hairs out of the sink and turned on the shower.  I was going to get at least ten minutes of uninterrupted alone time without Matthew's ear hairs and toenail clippings.  I was determined.

So I stepped into the shower and grabbed the bar of soap.  MY bar of soap.  I knew better at this point than to share one with my inadequate boyfriend, so we each had our own.

I was busying cleansing and caressing every inch of my smooth and flawless body.  I ran it up and down my toned legs and gently glided it over my perfect, flat stomach.  I closed my eyes, brought it up to my face, and breathed in the heavenly aroma, soaping off my forehead and cheeks.

And when I opened my eyes, I saw the biggest, blackest pube I have EVER seen stuck in the bar of soap.

Fucking MY fucking bar of fucking soap.

That was it.  The gloves were off.

I didn't even say anything to Matthew, but he was about to get a dose of his own medicine.

The next morning, Matthew rolled out of bed and went into the bathroom, per usual.  An audible "UGH!" immediately came after.

"Cori?"

"Yes Matthew."

"Why is there a dirty pad stuck to the mirror?"

"Oh my gosh, honey.  I guess I forgot to throw it away.  I'm soooo, so, so sorry!"  Of course, he left the dirty pad there, where it remains to this very day.

I heard the shower turn on and Matthew step inside.  I went about my business making the bed until I heard a shrieking scream come from the bathroom.

"Cori!"

"Yes Matthew."

"What the fuck is wrong with my razor??!?!!"

"Oh.  Nothing's wrong with it.  I just used it to shave my vagina.  It had been awhile.  Sorryyyy!"  Matthew opened the shower curtain to glare at me.  I simply shrugged my shoulders, giggled, and skipped out of the room.

Minutes later, he walked into the kitchen with a towel around his neck.  "You know, there's a reason we each have our own razor."

"I know, sweetheart.  It's just that I feel SO close to you...that I can't bare to use a different razor."  He rolled his eyes and opened the fridge.

"Do we have any yogurt left?"

"Of course, baby.  You know I'd never let you run out."  He pulled out a small container.

"This it?"

"Uh...yeah.  Pretty sure!"  Matthew washed off some strawberries and grapes, mixed them in with his yogurt, and sat at the table.

"What are your plans today?" he asked.

"I need to go to the pharmacy."

"Hm."  Matthew took a big bite of his yogurt and almost immediately spit it out.  "FUCK, man!  What the fuck is this shit?????"  I took a curious sniff and pretended I didn't know what was going on.

"Well I'll be!  There's my Vagisil!"

"What the fuck is your Vagisil doing in the refrigerator?!!?!?!"

"Well I don't know Matthew!  I guess that means your yogurt is under the sink in the bathroom..."  He looked at me unbelieving, probably unsure of whether he should laugh, cry, or kill me.

Moral of the story?  Clean up after yourselves, you fucking slobs. <3

Dave the Gorilla

Dave. Dave. Dave...When I saw him, I knew I was either going to imagine a steamy, sex-filled night full of biting and licking and touching and rubbing and cumming and breathing hard and humping and sweating and scratching and queefing and whatever else makes a steamy, sex-filled night steamy and sex-filled...or I was actually going to do these things with him in real life.

I was fine with either but I got one better. We started seeing each other after I approached him while I was high and told him that I would like permission to stalk him and fantasize about him while I masturbated. What can I say? I have charm. And he might have thought I was joking. It was his smile that got me; he had the same smile as the closeted Christian boy I lost my virginity to and while I was in a big city, he reeked of small town farm boy. Yum!

He had scruff on his face, hair poking out of a trucker hat, faded jeans and a flannel on when we met and his style didn't change much, except when he stopped wearing the sexy trucker hats and showed up one day wearing a headband. I'm sorry--are we 8-year-old girls orrr...

I wasn't looking for anything serious. Then again, I'm not usually EVER looking for anything serious and he made it pretty clear he wasn't either, so we mutually agreed that while our first date consisted of a romantic day in the city, laughing and flirting and eventually making out a little bit for a couple of hours, our second date would take place in his bedroom.

Or rather, his bed. The 'bedroom' was more like a storage room since he was 'staying' (or maybe 'squatting' is more the word I'm looking for) in the 'spare room' of his buddy's basement. Guess that band he told me about that was 'getting so big' wasn't as big as he thought.

Nonetheless, I was there for one thing and one thing only. Once we were naked, he couldn't shut up about how sexy I was and I wish I could have said the same. I might have mumbled something to keep the mood going but mostly I kinda just wished he would have fucked me public style with his clothes on.

Now, I love hair on a man. I love the chest hair and the happy trail and the sexy T-shape it makes around his pecs...but this guy had carpet attached to his torso. It was like wall-to-wall shag carpeting top to bottom. I thought to myself, "Okay, whatever. He's not fat so he'll do. It'll just be a little....warmer." I could deal. So we start getting it on. He's on top and I'm a nail digger so my hands go straight to his back...more carpeting. Come on...T-shape chest hair, sexy. Happy trail, sexy. A fucking area rug covering the entire top of your body? It's called laser hair removal, friend.

And by this point I was afraid to see what was under his pants. I suppose this is what I get for telling him he had a nice HEAD of hair--which I later noticed once the hats came off that he was balding right smack dab in the middle of his head. This poor gorilla couldn't win in the hair department.

Turns out his junk was okay and he did manscape. I ended up learning that he usually kept his hairy chest trimmed and his hairy back shaved which I had to appreciate, but like any healthy lawn, there would always be stubble or peach fuzz to remind you that it's there. I wasn't impressed with his short and stout, uncircumcised penis either, so needless to say, the sexcapdes didn't last long.

Plus, he told me that he ONLY liked me for sex and that really the only thing he was interested in was my looks. Verbatim. I get that we're friends with benefits but can you at LEAST pretend you're interested in my mind, you furry twit?

Look buddy, you want me for everything I've got: my looks, my brains, my street smarts, everything. I'M the only one that can want YOU for sex. What a prick. I could tell that he thought I was falling in love with him or something and ended up giving me a long spiel about how I'm a 'sweet and caring girl' but that all he wants is a fuck buddy, to which I replied:

"I'm sorry, what's your name again?"

And that's the end of that! I need to start auditioning these clowns.

My Boyfriend Banged a Cougar

Whoever says age is just a number clearly didn't have a boyfriend who banged a cougar behind her back.

I once had this boyfriend.  This gorgeous boyfriend.  This smart, funny, witty, incredibly perverted, glorious boyfriend.  He opened me up to new and delightful things, in more than one way.  He was the man who once uttered, "Cori, ass play isn't always a bad thing."  I learned many great things from this man.

We spent many, many hours together talking about music, film, philosophy, food, art, literature, and the funny noises that you make during sex when you use too much lube.  It was an enlightening relationship full of new experiences, tons of laughter, and morning trips to the pharmacy.

This continued on without a single bump in the road for nearly a year.  It was smooth sailing and clear skies.  I had wiped from my consciousness the idea that he was "too good to be true" and accepted that I had finally gotten what I wanted and deserved: A loving, caring man who was fantastic in the sack.

But alas, I was fooled.  Silly Cori.  Nobody told me about the unwritten rule that there's always a catch.

I soon found out from a friend of a friend of this guy who knew this girl who had this neighbor who was best friends with a mutual friend of me and my man that he had stepped out on me with a woman more than twice our age.  We were in our early 20s and she had passed the 50-yard line long ago.  I would've thought that menopause would stop my boyfriend from cheating on me with someone of her advanced age, but some whores know no limits.

And she was a determined little temptress, that one.  She had fucked every man in sight and a few houseplants, too.  She had no boundaries.  No one could stop her from her marathon tournament of Hide the Salami--not her best friend, not her parents, not her husband.

I approached my boyfriend about it right away.  "Matthew?  Did you cheat on me with that 51-year-old ho bag Wendy?" I asked. Instantly, all the dirty details came out.  And I do mean dirty.  They had had every kind of sex known to humankind.  He had literally made love to the inside of her elbows.  But the most devastating part?

"Matthew?  I have one crucial question," I said.

"Yeah?"

"...Did you go up her ass?"  His face fell and there was no hiding the truth.  He had broken the most disgusting of seals and he had done it with a woman who wasn't me.  It was official: I was physically ill.  I was immediately haunted by nightmarish images of the love of my life's balls smacking against her wrinkled ass and all I could think was, "Why would he want to have sex with her crusty, worn-out vagina that's probably housed dozens of wangers in the last month alone when he had someone as gorgeous and tight and clean as me?"  It would be a question that would stump me for years.

I felt betrayed, dirty, used, and filthy from the mere thought that he had stuck his dingle in a woman with a gaping hole of a vagina and had then subsequently stuck it in me.  Do they make Clorox wipes for cooters?  They need to, and the label on the front can say, "Great for use after your boyfriend screws 51-year-old walking chlamydia." 

Or something like that...

The sting of betrayal is a sneaky little bitch.  Just when you think you've gotten over it, something pops up that reminds you, "HA HA!  I'm still here!  Your boyfriend boinked a STD-ridden fossil and you never knew about it!!!!!!!"  Permanent memory loss never sounded so appealing.

The person who inspired this blog wishes to remain anonymous, but we thank her for the hilarious story and we're sorry your boyfriend slept with someone old enough to be his mother.  xoxo  

The Man Who Sucked in All the Wrong Ways

It was Halloween two years ago. I was on my way to a huge house party with my hottest girlfriends. I was still the hottest, obviously.  Always make sure to surround yourself with people uglier than you.

Any Halloween costume is acceptable as long as it falls under the category of "Slutty _______," so I decided to dress up as a slutty fairy. I had on a tube top dress that barely covered my ass cheeks, enormous wings that smacked every person in the back of the head as I walked by and stopped me from being able to sit in a chair, stilettos so high that my Vertigo kicked in, and glitter in so many places, I'd be shitting sparkles for a week. 

But I looked amazing/better than everyone else and that's really all that matters on a night like this.

And it was a good thing I looked that hot because as I entered the big house decorated to look spooky, I spotted him almost immediately. He was drinking a PBR so right away I knew he was classy. The best part? He was dressed as Edward Cullen. I knew I had to move fast if I was going to have any chance of scoring some vampy love from this guy before the sexy nurses and slutty maids leeched onto him.

I started the conversation off by asking if he was gay, maintained a steady job, and had a girlfriend. He smiled and said, "No, yes, and no." I don't know which order he meant but I didn't care; all three of those answers were right in some way. I asked him why on earth he would dress like Edward Cullen and then complimented him on how much he actually looked like him. I had to respect his honesty when he said, "Because chicks dig that SOB and I wanna get fuckin' laid tonight." I was in love.

I wasn't ready to tell him about my huge Edward Cullen poster that was hanging on my wall over my bed that I kissed every night but I did throw some charm on and we ended up dancing and laughing and flirting and getting drunk together all night. He even asked if I wanted to go to Denny's with my friends and his around 2am, when the crowd started to weed out and the drunks began to pick their couches and corners on the floor.

All the pillows and blankets and chairs were called for and we set out for a nice, greasy dinner at Denny's. This might not have been the best idea since halfway through our cups of coffee and nachos, my friend Susan leaned over and asked why literally all four of the guys we were with were different characters from Twilight. I was drunk and smitten with my own Edward and she was just jealous anyway because she couldn't fit into her slutty astronaut costume and nobody hit on her that night. I told her it was because chicks dig that shit, DUH, and went on with my meal.

Edward--I don't actually remember his REAL name; I literally called him Edward all night--invited me back to his place for a little after hours rendezvous and of course, I said yes. Once we got there, I noticed how odd this guy really was. His whole place was decorated really creepy and he never turned any lights on--only lit candles. I went along with it because it was Halloween and some people REALLY like Halloween. Cool? Cool.

So we have a beer and I ditch the big fairy wings and fishnet stockings and heels and we start making out on the couch. He wasn't a bad kisser but he especially liked my neck. I'm not a big fan of hickeys, especially from a one-night stand, so I kept trying to redirect his lips to mine...but he insisted on literally licking and smelling my neck. Or more like inhaling it.

I started giggling and getting a little annoyed when I finally looked at him and asked if he was gonna do anything besides make out with my throat all night. He smiled and murmured, "Shhh. I bet you taste so good." Now this got me excited. He bet my cooter tasted good? Fuck yeah, it did. I waited for him to go to town on me. I assumed he was going to go to town on me.

After another 17 minutes, I realized I was sorely mistaken.

Once again I asked, "You wanna explore any other parts of my body there, bud?" He seemed blatantly annoyed and it was then that I realized his apartment wasn't decorated for Halloween; and it was safe to say his lights probably never went on and his Edward Cullen "costume" was only a costume because it was the wrong kind of vampire...I had a feeling this guy didn't sparkle in the sunlight but probably had a nice tall glass of blood to start his mornings off.

"Are you...one of those guys people see on the news because he thinks he's really a vampire and bites people's neck because he really thinks he can suck people's blood and then he goes to jail and eventually a mental hospital where he keeps trying to suck people's blood because he still thinks he's really a vampire even though vampires don't exist?"

He giggled.

I was officially creeped out and told him I needed to use his restroom. Once I got in there, I called Susan and luckily, she didn't live far and was there in a matter of minutes. I told Edward I had explosive diarrhea and hightailed it out of there. I never spoke to the guy again but I heard a few stories about him after that. Let's just say, if you have a Smartphone and you meet someone new, GOOGLE them to find out if they went to jail for trying to suck some chick's aorta dry before you go back to their place with them for a little Show & Tell.

Happy Halloween. Watch out for those creepy little fuckers.

The Things That Happen When You Have a Really, REALLY Hairy Body, a Blog by Corrine Miles

There are certain things that come with age: wisdom, experience, and hair in places you really don't want it.

It hit me personally near the end of high school.  As if applying to colleges wasn't stressful enough, I had to worry about the fact that my eyebrows were starting to grow together.  I started taking a tweezer to them on a weekly basis but it never seemed to be enough.  And if I happened to miss a plucking, the unibrow would start to grow in even more fiercely than before.

But it didn't end there.  Not nearly.  Upon closer inspection, I noticed that my entire face was covered in tiny little hairs.  Was this normal?  I had no clue.  But what I knew for sure was that no girl as hot as me should have a hairy forehead.

The mere thought of tweezing every hair on my forehead exhausted me, so I tried waxing.  But that proved to be too painful and I couldn't even finish.  So I was left with half of a hairy forehead.  There wasn't much left I could do other than take a razor to it, but I would never be able to live with myself knowing that I shave my forehead.

So I left it.  I thought I was in the clear when I realized that God must've been especially angry with me: I had a mustache.  It wasn't the kind that you noticed right away but when the light hit it from the right angle, I looked like Tom Selleck in a wig.

Every time I tried plucking the mini pubes cultivating below my beak, my eyes would water and snot would come out of my nose.  Waxing was out of the question and I knew that shaving would only make it grow in even thicker.

My friend told me about a laser hair removal center so I went and checked that out.  But the instant I walked in for my free consultation, I could hear the screams of a woman either in labor or on fire.  I turned around and immediately left.

This was when I discovered cream remover.  It was supposed to gently and effectively fry the hair off your face.  They forgot to add on the box that it not only fries the hair off, but it'll remove the first several layers of skin as well.

Good news was my mustache was gone but in it's place, I had a giant patch of dry, peeling skin.  I wasn't going to be making out with anyone for the next week.  Or going out in public, for that matter.

So at this point, I had half a hairy forehead and a scab mustache.  H.O.T.

While I was at it, I figured I'd do something about my coochie hairs.  There is an entire industry dedicated to the maintenance and removal of pubic hair, so I figured this one would be easy.

I was wrong.

I started shaving but quickly discovered that doing this too often would set my cooter on fire.  We're talking unsightly razor burn and if I was really lucky, I'd even make myself bleed.

So I had half a hairy forehead, a mustache scab, and a bleeding virginia.

There was no way in hell I was going to take that cream remover to my coochie coochie and I was clearly too busy burning the skin off my face and tweezing my unibrow to pluck each individual pube from it's home follicle.  Waxing it myself was a no-go; there weren't enough pain killers in the world.  My last resort?  Paying someone else to wax it for me.

I made my first trip to the salon and put it bluntly to the innocent bystander working the front desk: "I need my vagina hairs waxed," I said.

Ten minutes later, I was laying on a table spread eagle while a total stranger named Helga ripped the hairs from my body, one strip at a time.  If you think the pain subsides after the first few minutes, you're horribly wrong.  I screamed the entire time but somehow endured it long enough to achieve a totally bald virginia.  Helga then tried to talk me into anal bleaching.  That's when I left.

I was sitting at home twirling the hairs on my forehead and admiring my smooth cooter when I realized I was absolutely disgusted with my armhair.  Um, Chewbacca?  Party of one?  You table is ready.

I had seen an informercial for this magic buffer that would painlessly whisk the hair away when you rubbed it over your skin.  A week later, mine arrived in the mail.  I couldn't help but notice that the buffer felt a lot like sandpaper.  The directions said that overuse could cause irritation on the skin, but rules never apply to me.

So for the next 45 minutes, I sandpapered all the hair off my left arm.  It didn't work nearly as quickly as the assholes in the infomercial claimed, but I eventually saw results.  "Irritation, my ass," I mumbled.

The next morning, I woke up with the most painful rash on my arm that I had ever had.  Looking back, I'm not sure it was a rash so much as I had burned my arm skin off.  Who knew you couldn't rub sandpaper over your body for almost an hour without it causing damage?!?!

So after all the fucking plucking, tweezing, waxing, ripping, burning, frying, and sandpapering experiences, I only managed complete and successful hair removal without damage from my lady bits.  I considered buying a body suit that left only my virginia exposed just to prove to people that I DID remove hair from somewhere on my body.

But I hear that's kind of a no-no in our culture.

My Worst Booty Call & What It Means To Have a 'Half'

So you know those 'in-between' times when you're not newly single but you're not officially an old maid? You're just kinda having fun, hooking up, being wild and going out with your girlfriends a lot. Well, a few years ago I was in this very spot and I had been talking to this chick I met at a bar a few weeks prior (hey, any girl is lying when they say they don't enjoy girls sometimessss) and we were planning on meeting up.

My roommate and I invited her over to our house and she made the hour drive out to go to this hole-in-wall gay bar down the street called Pumps. Right? Anyway, so when I first met this girl--beer goggles and all--she seemed legit enough. She had short dark hair, a lip ring, and tattoos, which I loved! She was younger than me, which meant she wasn't legal to drink but we didn't mind because that meant a DD for the night. AND she had a fake ID, so we were golden.

So this chick comes over and she seems cool but a little nervous. Obviously, my roommate and I were hott as hell and we weren't exactly in our PJs when she got there. We were dolled up and looking slutty for the other lez-bos, duh! Her name was Lauren and she got to our house as my roomie was finishing up her make-up in the bathroom and I was filling up on McDonalds. (I was high as a kite and hungry, plus I'd be drinking--I needed sustenance.) 

Before we left for the bar, we chit-chatted with Lauren. Obviously I told her she could spend the night. I didn't invite the girl out to paint our nails and braid our hair...and I was sure she didn't drive an hour out to do that either. This was clearly a booty-call and nothing less, nothing more.

At one point, we got on the topic of how many people we had all been with while passing around a joint and getting giggly. She asked me how many. I told her my slightly above average number and asked what hers was. This girl seemed like she got a lot of ass but sometimes those girls are full of shit and this girl was so full of shit I'm pretty sure her eyes went from blue to brown in her short 19 years of life.

She said her number was exactly '12 and a half.' Maddie (my roommate) and I laughed. “What the fuck was the 'half,' a midget?” Maddie said. 

Lauren proceeded to answer with “Ha, no..like..it wasn't REALLY sex but pretty much?” I couldn't help myself. 

“Ok, so…12.” 

After we double teamed the poor young lesbian, Lauren and I somehow got on the topic of having sex with each other. She sounded cool and collected and acted like she had 'swagga' by saying “Oh, we're fucking tonight.” Alright...this girl was blunt and straight forward; I could dig that. She went on to tell us all of her stories about how she usually only had sex with straight girls because all the straight girls wanted her. Please.

So after we listened to this girl's bullshit, we went to the bar and all of us got rip roaring drunk, completely ignoring Lauren pretty much the entire time until we were ready to leave. We stumbled into the house around 2:30am after hitting the Taco Bell drive thru.

Lauren and I went to my bedroom and I turned the TV on for light and as we got into bed, nothing happened. I thought since she was such a pimp earlier in the night I'd let her take action, make the first move, be the big, bad lesbian that she was. After two hours of television watching and no pants flying, I was getting sober, tired and pissed. I said bluntly, “Are you gonna make a move or what?” 

She replied with the typical, “You can make a move, too.” What a child. Now I just felt dirty.

She finally rolled on top of me and started kissing me. Bad move. It was terrible and her breath was worse than mine, which I couldn't fathom since I was the one eating fast food and doing jager bombs all night. Then she went for my panties, but when she started doing her thing, I started to get more dry by the second. I immediately regretted saying anything at all and now just wanted to go back to watching The Golden Girls.

After about 45 seconds, though, she stopped and stared at me in the dark. I said, “What?”

“I can't do this…I'm not a whore.” Gee, thanks kid. 

“No problem!” I said probably too enthusiastically and then went to pee. I returned to sleep for about an hour and a half and when I woke up, there she was. As far on the other side of my bed as she could get.

I was repulsed and got out of bed, went upstairs and climbed into bed with my roommate. She woke up and asked how 'it' was and I told her the story to which we said at the same time, “HALF!” So that's how Lauren became my 'half' and that's how I learned that she probably had a slew of halves that all rounded up to about 13.

Lesson: Get a cab and invite the legal ones over for a wild night.

Another Penis-y Update

Hi friends!!!!

We have a few more quick updates for you.  We are in MAJOR editing mode and are knocking out each chapter at lightning speed.  We are in the final edits of the first FIVE and they will hopefully be completed by tonight/tomorrow morning.

Our blogs are proving to be a success, with our hits reaching the thousands.  As we explained earlier, we want the blog to be a little book on its own.  You'll see that we previously posted our first short story.  It didn't make it into the book but we wanted to share it anyway.  Keep an eye out for when we post the link to new blogs--there's guaranteed to be something juicy in it waiting for you! ;-)

While we're on the topic, thank you SO much to those of you who have been sharing/reposting/retweeting our links and material.  We see everything you do for us and we really appreciate it.  Your continued support warms our cockles.   

Our moves to Los Angeles and Las Vegas are already helping the project; we've made some great new connections and the interest in the Penis Chronicles continues to steadily grow.  The possibilities here are endless and the opportunities are incredible.

Next week, we will be blogging another short story, as promised.  And of course, we'll keep you in the loop on our progress.  If you haven't already, be sure to 'like' our Facebook page, and don't forget to follow us on Twitter. (@PenisChronicles)

As a little treat, here are some more pics from our first promo shoot with Andrew Fang of Photasa Photography!!  Hair and make-up by Maria Kesto.

Love,
Megan and Dani
xoxo

"Just in Time"--A Story by Corrine Miles

You know when you have to go pee but you think you can hold it until you get home? You would rather sit your ass comfortably on your own toilet seat with your own germs instead of hovering over some crab-infested public bathroom or taking an hour to roll up as much toilet paper as you can in a sorry attempt to keep your ass from touching the seat, even though it almost ALWAYS does anyway.

This was me. It was a few years ago and I was dating this guy, Justin. We had been going out for a few months and things were pretty solid. He was great in bed, he made decent money that he liked to spend on me and as far as I knew, he had never been to jail. He was a winner. Until one of our dates where I had to pee but decided to wait until I got home. 

On this particular night, Justin and I went out to a small dinner at some chain restaurant. Chili's or something. Nothing fancy--just a little night out. We both lived with our parents so any time we could get out, we did. Sex happened in secluded parking lots, fitting rooms, a deserted baseball field...It was all hot and steamy and "adventurous," which was the excuse we used. But not this night. Not after Chili's.

We had our dinner, we paid the bill, and we got in the car. I noticed I had to pee by the time our dessert had arrived but I thought I could probably wait it out until we got back to his place. By the time I closed the car door, I was sure Lake Michigan had taken up residency in my bladder. We had a conversation about this and it went a little something like this:

ME: "Oh my Jesus Lord, drive fast! I have to pee so bad. If we don't get back to your place soon, I'm gonna pee on you!!"

JUSTIN: *Grins* "Okay." *Grins again* (And it wasn't a "HA-HA you're funny" grin or an "Okay I get it" grin or a "You're so cute when you have to pee" grin. No, it was an "Oh yeah, I like that" grin.)

I ignored his sexual grin and went along with his "joke":

ME: "HA! Yeah, and then afterward, I can shit on your chest!"

JUSTIN: "Well...That's a bit much, but..."

ME: "But....peeing on you would be completely appropriate?"

JUSTIN: "Well, I mean, I love you. I wanna experience everything with you."

ME: "Well then why can't I shit on your chest, dear?"

JUSTIN: "You really want to?"

ME: "NO! And I don't very well want to PISS on you either!!! Now drive so I can comfortably pee in a fucking toilet, please!"

That was the end of that. Until it was brought up again a few nights later. I still told myself that he was joking or maybe had one too many beers but let's be honest: My perfect, blonde-haired, blue-eyed hunk was just another creeper with a somehow clean record. So he spent the night at my place soon after our Chili's date and we stayed in bed until around noon fooling around and doing all sorts of inappropriate things. With my parents in the next room.  

(We had very high standards.) 


Of course now, all I could think about was if HE was thinking about my urine streaming down his leg. Needless to say, if I had a boner, it would have gone limp.

I decided that "talking about it" might help 'cause that's what Dr. Phil or Oprah would want me to do, right? So I asked flat out.

"Do you really want me to pee on you? I mean, how would that even work? I'm certainly not going to pee on you in MY bed...Do you really want pee on your sheets? I thought only dogs and toddlers peed the bed, really..."

"I mean...don't you pee in the shower?"

"Of course I pee in the shower...There's just not usually anybody else IN the shower when I do it. That's sort of a private act, isn't it?"

"I guess, but we could do it in there....."

I could tell this freak was getting a hard-on just talking about it so I let him follow me to the bathroom. We got in and stared at each other for a minute. I knew I had a disgusted look on my face and he knew it too.

"You don't have to do this," he said. I had to now. 

"Do you do this with all of your girlfriends?"

"No, I've never even thought about it! Like I said, I just love you and I want to experience everything with you."

"...Okay. But don't think for one second that your urine is coming anywhere near me OR that shitting on chests is an option after that comment I made last week. Unlike YOU, I was joking."

"I don't want you to shit on me, Cori."

How nice.

So the asshole knelt down and after about ten minutes of my laughing and shaking my head and mumbling things like "What the fuck am I DOING?!?" and "What kind of PERSON does this make me?!" and "I can't even look at you!" I did it. I pissed on the guy. And after that, I never called him again. Turns out, I really couldn't look at him...not without seeing my piss all over his once-hot, naked body.

He hated me for ditching him and after I heard he was talking shit to some of my friends, I wrote a nice little message on his Facebook wall:

"Hey! Remember that time I peed on you and you loooved it!? That was fucking sick. Creep."

The lesson here, people? If you gotta go, JUST HOVER!

Timelines, Sneak Peeks, and More Funnies

Hey ya'll!!!!! We could sense your panties getting dry, so here are some updates.

As most of you know if you follow us on Twitter (which OBVIOUSLY all of you DO--@PenisChronicles), we have officially hit the west coast!! Megan is now residing in fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada and Danielle is kickin' it in Los Angeles, California! Don't worry, our east coasters. We still love ya.


We're getting settled and are SUPER anxious to make some serious progress with the book. Editing is taking off with a bang and we have more pictures and more silly blogs that Corrine has in store for you, PLUS something a little more fresh we're adding into the mix. We def need your feedback on this so let us know what you think!


Starting this week, we'll have one 'short chapter' a week that we'll blog. This will give ya'll a little more insight to what the book is about. And if you like the blogs, you'll love the book!  (And DUH, you'll like the blogs, unless you have NO sense of humor or you're Jesus. Then you might wanna stay away.) So each week, you'll have a 'short chapter' with characters that didn't quite make it into the book but we thought deserved an 'honorable mention' of sorts.


And don't forget that if YOU have any ideas you can ALWAYS email us your best one-night stands, flings, long-term mistakes, and loves of your life gone wrinkled--fiction or non. If we like the concept, we'll use it and you'll get a special shout out on that short! We love when our peeps get involved!! Oh yeah!! With every short, we will deliver a new promo picture so you can have many more laughs.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


With all that said, you're probably wondering how many shorts we can pull outta our butts and how many pictures our conceited asses took and we can assure you, it's not THAT many which means......our goal is to have this book knocked out, hyped up and ready to be sent off to every publisher this side of Mars by CHRISTMAS. (Maybe even sooner!!!)


Thanks again for all your support and start watching out for more funny random rants by Cori and now our new shorts! yay!!! Xoxox

--Danielle West & Megan Grant

Authors

Send your stories, ideas, questions, remarks, etc. to: shriveledlostandlonely@gmail.com (Please no pornographic pictures, we've seen quite enough needle dicks and wrinkled vaginas, we're not interested in seeing yours!)

Losing Your Virginity & Other Shitty Memories We'd Like to Destroy--A Story by Corrine Miles

No experience is more traumatizing than the first time you get plowed.  Some people love it.  Some hate it.

But from what I've heard, MOST hate it.

You'll be hearing about my first time soon enough, but the stories circulating amongst my girlfriends of how they lost it are enough to make anyone weep.

Nine times out of ten, you have to make sure you're drunk enough so that you don't even realize some d00d is about to cram his Bratwurst into something the size of a keyhole.  Whoever says this isn't painful was either sufficiently intoxicated or unconscious.

But then you accidentally get too drunk and forget how to kiss without drooling all over yourself or accidentally licking his cheek.   He's spinning and you're spinning and the walls are spinning and everything is spinning and all you can do is try to hold still long enough to figure out if you need to barf or not.

So let's say you're one of the lucky ones who doesn't have a projectile vomiting incident the night she turns in her V card.

Next you get to stress out about what you're wearing.  You were sure not to put on underwear that's stained or has a hole in the ass cheek but failed to realize that he probably wouldn't be quite so turned on by Spongebob Square-Underpants and a pink and purple striped bra.

His boner goes down for a minute but you quickly rip your clothes off and he forgets about Spongebob as soon as he sees nipple.  Crisis averted.

Now you're starting to get really nervous and he definitely knows it.  If you're both virgins, it's cute.  If he's slept with half the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, you might just be screwed.  Figuratively.

Let's say he's more experienced, which is the likeliest possibility.  What do you do?  You basically have three options here:

Option #1: Climb on top, ignore the pain, and ride him like a Corvette.  If you go balls to the wall (no, don't cram his balls up against the wall), he might just forget that you don't have the slightest fucking clue what you're doing.

Option #2: Lay there and let him do all the work.  This was his idea anyway.

Option #3: Start crying, tell him you aren't ready, and go home to watch the episode of Golden Girls that you TiVo'd.

You decide to go with Option #2, which seems to be what most girls do.  You spread your legs, hang on to the sheets for dear life, squeeze your eyes shut, and pray to the Lord Zeus that this guy doesn't rip you in half.

A few seconds later, you comment on how amazing it feels with something original like, "This feels amazing."  Then you rejoice over the fact that it doesn't hurt at all.

That's when you hear the most awful thing you've ever heard:

"Uh, it's not even in yet."

Christ on a pogo stick.

You then endure eight minutes of the most painful sex you will ever have.  You alternate between trying to distract yourself by reading the titles of the books on his shelf and "OMG YOU'RE KILLING ME FUCKKKK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCUFKCUFUCKFUCKFK!!!!!1111one" 

Silver lining?  It can only get better from here.  Right?  Wrong.  Ten guys later and you realize that the male species just doesn't have a fucking clue how to touch women.  Sex stops feeling like giving birth but then you get to dread having some guy suck on your elbow or lick your toes because he thinks it's a turn-on.  Then you will become so frustrated and so disgusted with men all together and your wrist will be killing you from having to masturbate so much that you'll just end up writing a book on the whole thing. 

Or something like that.

Your Life in One Aisle of Wal-Mart and Why Guys Have It Easy--A Story by Corrine Miles

What is it about Wal-Mart?  Are they just trying to humiliate and degrade women?

It's the section of the store that we all hate going to: the feminine/"private" section.

Stay with me on this.

You start at the very beginning of the shelf.  They have every variety of Tampax and Kotex you could ever dream of.  Long pads, short pads, thick pads, thin pads, pads with wings, pads without wings, pads that are scented, pads that just smell like cotton...

Tampons with a braided string, tampons with a normal, boring string, tampons that smell good, tampons that just smell like tampons, tampons for heavy flows, tampons for light flows, tampons for teeny weeny vaginas, and tampons for really BIG vaginas.

But they cost a fortune and Wal-Mart knows that you might just go without, especially in your delicate and hormonal state, so next on the shelf is the generic brand of everything listed above, for those of us who aren't afraid to stick cardboard applicators in our cooches or use pads that fall apart if you fart too hard.

And they know--they KNOW--that while you're on the rag, you're probably not going to want to have sex since you feel like a giant heap of shit, so just to torture you, they stock the KY and other "intimate gels" right after.  Those gels that give you that great "tingling sensation" and make intimacy more enjoyable in all its slippery goodness?  Yeah.  You won't be needing that this week.

Thanks Wal-Mart.

But here's the silver lining: You're riding the cotton rocket because you're definitely not pregnant and you'd like to keep it that way, right?  Perfect!  Because next on the shelf are condoms for when your period is over and you're back to being the hypersexual slut nugget who wants to jump her boyfriend's bones.  Ribbed for her pleasure, ultra-sensitive, ones with an extra big tip, small condoms, average-sized condoms, big condoms, and the Magnums that you know damn well would be baggy on any asshole who claimed he needed them.

Sometimes shit happens though, right?  Maybe that condom breaks.  Maybe the moron you're dating went ahead with the Magnum anyway, which immediately slipped off and got lost in the massive cave that is your vagina.  You suddenly realize that you haven't had to tap into your assortment of pads and tampons for quite some time and upon consulting your calendar, you realize that Aunt Flo is ten days late.

Well shit.

You start to panic, but don't.  You know how you left off at the KY?  Wal-Mart must have a sixth sense about these things because next to the KY are the pregnancy tests.  Need to know if you've been sperminated?  You're in luck!  They're already within arm's reach.

So you spend $20 on a two-pack of First Response and haul ass to the Wal-Mart bathroom.  You're so nervous that you don't even care that the stall door doesn't lock and there's urine on the seat.  Five minutes later, two lines pop up on the stick and you realize that you officially have a fetus growing in your abdomen.

The next several decades of your life suddenly flash before your eyes.  You realize that you might very well have to marry the guy who knocked you up and will probably end up saddled with four more kids.  You can say good-bye to your sex life because you'll be too busy driving them to soccer and karate and clarinet lessons.  Besides, after Baby #2, you'll never lose that weight and will feel so fat and ugly that you'll probably never let your husband see you naked again.

Before you know it, you're 80 years old.  And you know what?  Wal-Mart has been keeping a close eye on you.  Because right after the pregnancy tests, at the verrrrrrrry end of that section of the store that nobody likes, are the adult diapers.  You used to be this hot young thing who was super cool with her menstrual flow and pads and tampons and KY warming gel and condoms and pregnancy tests and now you can't help but piss your pants on a daily basis.  

So basically, Wal-Mart just bitch slapped you in the genitalia and is still laughing hysterically about it.

Think it's easy being a girl?

Jiz Worthy

So as you all know since we've bombarded you all day and all over Facebook with the news, we had our second promotional photo shoot for the book today! We weren't the models this time but don't shit your pants, start sweating, or let your boner go limp yet, because we had one sexy crew working their tails off for us and boy is it gonna make your nipples hard.


What you can expect from these pictures is a little more insight into the book itself. We already let you know with our first shoot that it was vulgar, funny, and probably a little too in-depth. So now that we got your attention in the most positive of lights, we threw some of the characters from the book into this one. And when I say that Corrine is hot, I mean she's like wet-your-panties-drop-your-mouth-and-drool hot!


We also pulled some of the guys you might be reading about into the mix! And wait till you see what Cori had in store for them. Basically you can expect to laugh your ass off and get even more hyped and psyched about the book that chronicles what else? Penises. And let's not forget our token female significant other, too ;) Stay tuned for the release of the pictures and more updates and oh yeah, a BOOK! 


Take a look at our behind the scenes pics that are already posted on our Facebook page! Follow us on Twitter and obviously, read the blog. Here's a pic from our first shoot to tide you over and give you something to masturbate to until the new pictures arrive.

Special thanks again to our team: Jennifer, Meghan, Jamie, Kat, Maria, Lynn, Grady, Jamie B, Derrick, and Brenden. Ya'll rocked! 

An Ode to Periods--A Story by Corrine Miles

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I woke up this morning in the most disgruntled of moods and since then, it has only worsened.  I'm bloated to the point of discomfort and look like I could potentially be in my second trimester.  My body aches and it hurts to move.  I'm alternating between the most frustrating constipation and barely making it to the can before I shit my pants.  Oh, and I'm bleeding from my yoohoo.

Around this time every month, Mother Nature decides to kick in me in the genitalia with mind-numbing cramps and debilitating mood swings that leave me wanting to kill every person who looks at me.  I'm fat, ugly, have a huge ass, and there's a mountain range developing on my face.  But don't worry; you'll probably be so distracted by my massively swollen boobs that you'll never even notice.

The dumb bitches I'm friends with can't tolerate me and the myopic men in my life look at me and say, "Hah, durr, it can't be that bad."  Since they obviously don't bleed from THEIR yoohoos every month, however, they're clearly not entitled to an opinion.

And it all gets worse from there.

I'm out of tampons and no diaper will impede the fountain in between my legs, so I'm forced to drag my fat, ugly ass to the store to spend $20 on tampons.  That's right.  You might think that a compacted chunk of cotton designed specifically to be shoved up your cooter would be cheap, right?  Wrong.  And don't think one box will suffice.

I can't buy one box of regulars because as soon as my period lightens, regulars will be too much.  If you haven't tried pulling a half-dry tampon out of your oonie, just impale yourself with a screwdriver.  It'll hurt less.

Besides, in the beginning, my period is too heavy for the regulars.  Would you use a Kleenex to soak up the Atlantic?  No.  The answer is no.

So one box of regulars is out of the question.

How about one box of lites?  No.  Clearly.  And for the same reasons, the super jumbos alone won't suffice.

Now I know what you're thinking: Why don't they make boxes with assortments of tampons?  Why, they do!  You're in luck!  Sort of.  Typically, the number of each kind that they offer in the assortment boxes is disproportionate to how many lites, regulars, and super jumbos you will need throughout your cycle.

So the only option I'm left with is to buy ONE box of lites, ONE box of regulars, and ONE box of super jumbos.  Hence the $20 I'm about to spend.

Oh and let's not forget another $6 for a teensy bottle of Midol.  Or I guess my other option is to sit on the couch curled up in the fetal position for the next several days crying like a little bitch and screaming, "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD JUST STAB ME WITH A RUSTY NAIL.  IT'LL HURT LESS."

There's also the money for heating pads, panty liners, the mattress-sized pads you wear to bed, Beano to hopefully stop you from farting like a hound dog, and birth control, if you're on it.  If you're lucky, your insurance covers contraceptives.  Even if they do, you start to wonder why they aren't covering everything else.  It's not your fault that every month, you hemorrhage from your virginia.  

Think this is where it ends?  Silly rabbit.  Didn't anyone tell you?  You will never be as horny as when you're riding the cotton rocket.  You might be so lucky to be dating one of those guys who thinks it's "natural" and "beautiful," instead of "repulsive" and "filthy" like how you see it.  It doesn't matter, though.  You will never feel as unattractive as you do right now.  Sex will most likely be out of the question, and since you're too disgusted to even touch YOURSELF, you pretty much just have to suck it up and stay horny for the next 5-7 days.

By the way, no one cares that you feel like absolute dog shit.  You are still expected to get up, go to work, and act like a normal human being even though you pretty much want to crawl in a hole and die a lonely death.

So what do you do?  Nothing.  Praying that you don't get your period isn't something the average girl does every month.  In fact, depending on who you're sleeping with, it more often goes, "Oh thank GOD I finally got it!"

Alas, you're given nothing.  Aunt Flo leaves town and you're left with another three weeks until you feel like throwing yourself off a cliff again.

God bless.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Updates, Updates, Updates!

Hi friends!

I'd like to preface this blog by saying that if you're not already following us on Twitter, you're probably a troll. (@penischronicles)

As we've said, the first version of the book is done.  Any writer knows, however, that getting the words out is only half the battle, and we've been sooooper busy editing the damn thing.  We know you'll laugh your asses off when you read it.  Hell, even we do.

We've been so thrilled and so grateful for all of the positive responses you've given us, and also slightly relieved that we haven't received one penis picture, I might add.

And no, we don't need "models" for the cover.

Our second promotional photo shoot is in about a week, and we've already been blown away with what everyone's bringing to the table.  You're gonna love it. ;)

We're also happy to release another picture from our first shoot with Andrew Fang of Photasa Photography.  Enjoy.  xoxo

 Love,
Megan and Dani

The First Blog...DUN DUN DUNNNNN

Hello readers!

Welcome to our first blog post for The Penis Chronicles of Corrine Miles.  We know we said we'd get this to you sooner, but that's Hollywood.  Or...Michigan. 

In conjunction with the release of our second promotional photo, we wanted to give you some updates in our freshly-created blog.  The first photo shoot was PERFECT.  Andrew Fang of Photasa Photography was incredible and we had Maria Kesto as our wonderful make-up artist and hair stylist.  And a special thanks to Ashley Lawler for providing some of the wardrobe!

The first photo was a huge hit and we're thrilled to be giving you another.  Our second promotional shoot is already in the works.  We have a fabulous team being assembled, and if the first shoot made you wet in the panties, grab a spare because we're cumming back for more.

The first version of the book is complete; we are doing some slight tweaking and then the book will be sent out for editing.  We know that you're all SOOPER excited to read it, so we're working our buns off to get it to you as soon as possible.

Oh!  And get this little diddy: We've even been in communication with some fabbbbulous literary agents.  So stick that in your juicebox and drink it.

Anyways, love ya!  You're welcome for the masturbation material.  We want to hear stories.

No photos, please.

Love,
Dani and Megan