The 7 Stages of Orgasm

Climaxing isn't a sprint.  It's not like you flip a switch and, "Oh hay, I came."  It's like reading a novel, starting with the beginnings of, "This better be good," to, "STFUomgthatwasawesome."  You tiptoe through the process, mind traveling through a series of thoughts, starting with...

Stage 1: You Could Be Watching Netflix Right Now

It's that last minute regret.  Kind of like buyer's remorse.  You know this is probably going to take awhile, but it'd be rude to RSVP and then bail at the last minute.  So you hunker down, hope for the best, and try to stop thinking about the last episode of Dexter.

Stage 2: ...This Might Not Suck

You were trying to keep busy by attempting to count how many DVDs he had on the shelf across the room when it hit you: This is starting to vaguely resemble something that could potentially feel pleasurable.  Indeed!  This man has some semblance of knowledge of the female anatomy.  Give him a cookie.

Stage 3: NOPE NOPE NOPE Not the Back Door

Maybe he got lost.  Maybe he intentionally veered off Google Maps and took a detour.  Regardless, he is a gentleman and you are a lady, and the prison hole is a definite no-no region.

Stage 4: For the LOVE OF GOD Don't Stop What You're Doing

Like Edison and the light bulb, he's got it.  He's found the magic spot.  He knows not to touch it directly, so instead he drives around it like a cul-de-sac.  Your muscles start to pulse and contract and you pray to sweet baby Jesus that in your uncontrolled spasming, you don't accidentally fart on his face.

Stage 5: You're So Close, We're So Close, the Neighbor Down the Street is So Close

You can't remember the last time you had this much fun without a vibrator.  It's happening.  It's coming.  You can feel it rising up through your toesies.  Quick.  Arch your back.  Flip your hair.  Lick your lips.  How's your o-face?  Is it pretty?

Stage 6:

FHOUEHF UWEHYR*(Y$WQ TG$WHIBKHRbfdiu47u8tyo83qh;U AKJERBFZRgwf 489wt[g$ wiuebf qurb 3894GTR4IU Wr#r#whq3W2e#hy HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Stage 7: Jk. It Was a Wet Dream and You're Late for Work. 

6 Reasons You Want to be Single

Ahh, yes.  And so, it happens again.  Another one bites the dust.  I dated a guy for a whole week, but it wasn't meant to be.  I thought I could look past his flaws--his snaggle tooth, his bald spot, and the way he says "I seen"--but alas, I couldn't.

Now I'm back to spending every night with my cat and masturbating so much that one arm is significantly more muscular than the other.  Suddenly, the light bulb went off:

Being single is way better!

Disagree?  You're wrong.  And I will tell you why, for the following reasons:

(1) You don't have to shave--ANYTHING.  Within days, you'll look like Chewbacca, but your boyfriend won't care--because you don't have one!

(2) You can fart and burp as much as you want without having to try and blame it on the cat.  

(3) You don't have to act like a lady when you rip into that bag of Fritos.  You want to be elbow-deep in that bag of Fritos for the next four hours while you watch Jersey Shore on Netflix?  You go, girl.

(4) And what are you going to do with that chip bag once it's empty?  If Snooki and JWoww are beating the shit out of Angelina and you don't want to miss it, go ahead and throw that chip bag on the floor while you continue your JS marathon.  That chip bag can stay there all damn night.  What's your boyfriend going to do about it, besides NOT EXIST?

(5) You can sleep with whoever you want, and no one can say a damn thing.  Go ahead and fuck the Atlanta Falcons' entire defensive line.  Use a condom, and God speed to you.      

(6) You still have some of his shirts in your apartment, right?  How lucky are you?  There are multiple uses for those shirts.  Didn't you say you ran out of toilet paper?

You're welcome.

Love,

Cori

xoxo

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.