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. 

The Night I Didn't Get Engaged

Why is everybody getting married and having babies?  And by "everybody," I clearly mean, "not me."

Judy Dumbfuck was dating a guy for five minutes before he got down on one hairy, ugly, fat knee and proposed with a ring that no doubt came from the bottom of a cereal box.  She said, "Yes!  Yes!  Yes!"  I bet my mom $5 they'd be divorced within a year.  At least they won't need a prenup.  They're broke and don't own shit.  There's nothing to nup.  You can't split nothing in half.

Melanie Shithead got engaged, too.  Melanie's been dating the guy for the last 800 years.  Melanie's now-fiance is perfect: handsome, rich, tall, ripped, intelligent, honest, loyal, and devoted.  Melanie's ring is so heavy, she walks with a limp.  Melanie is a lucky little fuck nugget.

Crystal Shit-My-Pants is on Baby #3.  She and her husband hate each other.  But it doesn't matter, because they had cute Christmas cards and write sweet messages on each other's Facebooks and act like he isn't actually porking that waitress from Denny's.  Crystal gives her children eccentric and unique names.  Literally.  She named them Eccentric and Unique.  #3 is going to be Individual.  All three will be ridiculed endlessly by their peers.  I'll continue to point out how fat Crystal is going to get and the fact that when she laughs a little too hard, she might pee herself.

Meanwhile, my boyfriend treats me with the utmost respect.  He buys me flowers regularly and takes me on exotic trips.  He tells me he loves me every single day and pampers me like the princess I am.  He loves taking me to his family's house and introducing me to all of his friends.  I'm his #1 priority, and my happiness means the world to him doesn't exist.

Every single night, I fall asleep to some boring documentary on Netflix.  I'm pale and fat, and my neighbor checks in once a week to make sure I'm not dead.  I once finished an entire box of Twinkies in one sitting and I think I'm growing a mustache. My mom tried to pay her coworker to take me on a date, but he said there wasn't enough money in the world.

Enjoy your marriages, you dolts.  I hope your babies look like Jabba the Hutt.

Love,
Corrine
xoxo

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

I Haven't Been Laid in Eight Months

I can't believe it.  I can't believe it's over.  I was serious about him.  I loved him.  I wanted to marry him.  I dated him for two whole weeks.  But then I realized he was dumber than a tack hammer and pulled the plug.  I can't stand the sight of him naked anymore and I keep forgetting to replace the batteries in my vibrator.  Before I know it, eight months have passed, and I've almost forgotten what a dick even looks like.

Eight months is a long time to go without sex.  Too long.  I start to fantasize about everything.  Inanimate objects make my vagina squeal.  I want to hump the mailman, the creepy neighbor that never puts a shirt on, the Asian chick doing my nails.  Oh yes.  Women start to look delicious.  Everything starts to look delicious.  The couch looks humpable, the chair, the edge of the bed.  Dogs that still have their balls make me blush.  I'm taking three showers a day just so that I can be close to a naked body--even if it's only my own.

I walk into Walmart and I'm immediately turned on by the plethora of shoppers with missing teeth, unibrows, and back boobs.  I start to imagine how sexy it could be to play with the rolls on their stomachs while they seductively lick the sauce off their lips from the family-size tray of lasagna they just bought for $2.

A man that smells nice and looks groomed bumps into me at the grocery store, and I cum in the produce aisle.  I practically have to handcuff myself to a watermelon so that I don't tackle the poor guy as he approaches the pretty blonde.  She's probably a slut in the sack.

Lucky bitch.

I'm walking through the park one day and spot a guy itching his balls.  I'm immediately turned on.  Five minutes later, I'm stopped by a cop.  I worry that maybe I parked in a handicap spot by accident, until I realize that I'm humping a bench.

Maybe I can get some strange through online dating.  ChristianMingle.com is starting to sound like a miracle; or I could always join Plenty of Fish, where all of the fish have 13 kids with five different women and have to use coupons at Taco Bell.

I'd totes sleep with my boss, who I definitely caught looking down my shirt.  People say you shouldn't shit where you eat, but I don't care anymore.  I'll shit where I please, and I'll like it.

Except he's actually gay.

....But I still tried anyway.......






                                                                                                                                  He said no.

NINE MONTHS, holy hell.

I'm foaming at the mouth.  I know that if I don't get some ass soon, I'm going to do something horrible--start drinking too much, pop some pills, add Rebecca Black to my YouTube playlist.

My ex isn't sounding so bad after all.  Sure, I caught him spelling his own name wrong.  Sure, he drives with the parking brake on.  Sure, he tried to pay for my dinner with Monopoly money.  But if I put a paper bag over his head while we do it...

Maybe I'll commit myself to a nunnery instead.

It's too much.  I can't handle it.  I could hump a tree.  I'm so horny that even TV Guide is masturbating material.  My legs are about to permanently seal shut, condemning me to a lonely, boner-less life.

And that's when my phone vibrates.

I immediately stick it down my pants, then decide that I might actually care about who's calling.  It's him.  It's the ex.  He wants to watch a movie.

We all know what that means.

I shave my legs for the first time in weeks, stun myself senseless with Xanax and half a bottle of Boone's Farm, and 20 minutes later, he's standing at my front door.

Slump's over!  God speed.

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?