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

The Most Amazing Thing You'll Ever See.

FRIENDS!  Great news.

As you know, we've held off on self-publishing The Penis Chronicles because our aim has been to land a literary agent and go that route; and this is still our goal.

You also know by now, however, that this is a rather lengthy process, a great majority of which is spent waiting to hear back from agencies.  And then waiting some more.  And then having a snack.  And then waiting after that.

SO, in addition to querying our asses off (literally, our asses are gone), we're venturing into a smaller side project that will tie in very nicely: I Dated the Zodiac.

With our interest in astrology, we can't resist.

This will be a very short read and self-published.  In the name of marketing the shit out of ourselves (which is hard to do when you have no asses left), we've created a new blog, Twitter, Facebook, and StumbleUpon page for I Dated the Zodiac.  Things are a little nekkid right now, but pop a Xanax and relax.  We're getting to it.   

In case you missed them, here are the links to The Penis Chronicles' Twitter, Facebook, and StumbleUpon pages.

Our hopes are to use this new piece to get our foot in the door with a literary agency for The Penis Chronicles, and then make our first appearance on The Ellen DeGeneres Show.

Stay tuned for updates and social networking galore.

Love,
Megan and Dani

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.

An Update on Our Endeavors...

Hey friends,

First off, thank you again for continuing to encourage us and show your support.  These two politically incorrect, incredibly inappropriate, and oftentimes unladylike writers are very grateful for all of you.

We aim to stay active on our networking pages and keep you all up to date.  As you have read in our recent posts, the book is (and has been) done and we've been querying agents.  Not everyone is familiar with the process, so we just wanted to briefly explain what we're doing.

Most of the time, this is done electronically.  Sometimes, it's snail mail.  Agents ask for a query letter, and sometimes--albeit very infrequently--a sample.  Each time we contact an agent, we adjust our query letter, since it's supposed to be personalized for that specific agent.  We do our research on who we're writing to, find the agents that we think might be the most interested in our genre and topic, and spend a great deal of time begging them to represent us telling them why we're qualified, what our book is about, and why we're a good addition to their agency.

Then, we wait approximately 400 years a couple weeks (sometimes less, sometimes more) to hear from these agencies.  This is an INCREDIBLY competitive business, so even though we're hilarious, innovative, and disgustingly witty very hard workers, we haven't found the agent yet.  However, as our query letters improve, the responses from these agents are actually getting noticeably better.  They're a lot more willing to talk to us, and have even provided some very promising feedback.

This business is very subjective, so while part of the battle is convincing a literary agent that you're not a complete asshole a strong and marketable writer, another part of it is getting them to love your story and stand behind your characters.

SO, you can probably see that it's a rather lengthy process, a great deal of which is spent querying and then waiting, and while you wait, you query again, and then wait again, but keep querying, and while you're waiting for the response to the last query, query again.***

It's super important for us to keep up this great momentum.  So keep reading, sharing, commenting, and telling us how much you love us.  Mention our book to your friends and direct them to our Facebook/Twitter/blog.  We'll always keep you in the loop, and we're so thrilled for the day when we can finally share the news that we've taken the next huge step and gotten an amazing literary agent!

And it WILL happen.  Megan has already picked out her dress for the book launch party.

Just kidding.

But not really.

Much love,
Megan and Dani

***Stab yourself in the eyeballs

I Fell In Love with My Fuck Buddy-Part DUECES!

So here I am, lying next to this gorgeous, smart, gorgeous, exotic looking, sweet talking, gorgeous man. I've been SURE for at least a week that I'm madly in love with him even though I know I shouldn't be. Even though he's stated that this is all he wants and all we'll ever be, even though I loved another man just two weeks ago....

As I look lovingly into his eyes, pretty positive that he felt the same way. I knew I had to say something. We couldn't go on like this. Pretending to not feel the way we feel (IN LOVE). I didn't want to jinx anything this time so I only told five or six or ten of my closest girlfriends. Ok, 12. And my mother..Anyway, they all thought the same thing. He was definitely in love with me, too.
But every time I tried to say something words would escape me or he'd have this look on his face like he was constipated or trying to figure out if the color of my thong was black or navy blue-that's really a crap shoot for guys, they're all color blind. You can't tell a guy you love him when he looks constipated. Not sexy.

I decided I would start seeing him more; I would make myself more available. If three-seven nights a week wasn't enough, surely....well, whatever more than seven nights a week was, that's what I would be! Morning, noon and night baby, all yours! I texted him after I left that night and said we should spend a night in cooking together, watching movies, making LOVE...the thought gave me tingles already! He said he was in, obvi.!

I hadn't heard from him the rest of the week. I figured he was obviously playing hard-to-get and why would he be as eager as I was? He didn't know I was in love with him, yet. So Saturday night rolls around, I call. No answer. No text. Nothing. Sad, depressed and thirsty, my girlfriend Susan and I went to a bar downtown to get a drink. And by 'a drink' I mean get wasted, then get high on our way to Denny's at 2am.

Even though I was feeling depressed I knew I at least looked hott so off we went into the night! Two drinks in and I spotted him. Not my fuck buddy. Someone better. Someone hotter. Someone more exotic looking than ever! Ok, he was a hipster just like all the other guys in the bar but he made his Flannel look like Channel diamonds and his scruffy face and long, tangled hair looked like the hipster version of James fucking Dean.

Maybe it was the drinks. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe I was in heat. Whatever it was, we locked eyes and I couldn't remember whats-his-fuck for the life of me. We got lost in each other and once I heard his accent it was like I was making out with Javier Bardem's younger, hotter, brother. YUM!
Needless to say, my fuck buddy can go fuck himself. I'm NOT in love with him....anymore. It's so weird how good sex can cloud a woman's thinking. Whoopsie!

I Fell in Love with My Fuck Buddy

He was intimidating from the very beginning.  He was the kind of guy who gave you the tinglies in your silly place just by looking at you.  He gave you goose pimples, sent your heart racing, and you knew immediately:

Ya had to bone him.

There was more than that, though.  It was his personality, his intelligence, his ambition and motivation and goals.  You were caught between two places: One where you were in love with his mind, and another where you couldn't stop imagining him nekkid.

On that first date, the jaws of life couldn't pry your legs apart.  You wold NOT sleep with him.  You wouldn't.  No matter how much he protested--which he did.  But you had standards.  You had morals.

You would not sleep with him until the SECOND date, and no sooner, damnit.

You were laying in bed side by side that night, and you both talked about what it would mean.  Neither one of you was in the position for a relationship.  You were friends...good friends...wonderful friends.  But if you had sex, you would merely be good friends...wonderful friends...who had sex.  It would not be a relationship.

You decided you were okay with this, because you knew you couldn't resist him any longer--no matter how hard you tried.

And that night, you banged like Kenyan gorillas.

Afterward, you both lay there a sweaty mess, and you realized just how fucked you actually were:

You were in love with him.

Ruh roh.

He was absolutely perfect in every way: smart and funny and aggressive and holy hell balls did he know how to kiss.  He looked at the world from a different perspective and had a beautiful way with words that no one could keep up with.

But as quickly as he had ripped your g-string off, it was over.  He put his pants on and went home.  And that would be it, until the next time you did the dirty dance.

Each time, you grew to love him a little more, never letting on just how not-fuck buddyish the whole situation was for you.  You could never tell him just how much you cared, so spreading your legs would need to come in a close second.

It would come to an end, though; this, you knew for sure.  No friends-with-benefits situation lasts forever.  Someone would find themselves in a relationship with another person or you would end up hating each other or both.

Regardless, you know you'll never forget the night you fell in love with your fuck buddy.

I can't think of any more ways to cleverly insert the word "penis" into these blog titles...

We're almost there, folks.

It's been a long road, but one we were happy to take.  With your encouragement and support, The Penis Chronicles of Corrine Miles is near completion.  

That was one hell of a journey.  We can remember the very birth of this book, the photo shoots, and how the title was originally, The Shriveled, Lost, and Lonely Penis Chronicles.  (Yeah right.)  We've already planned our four book release parties (LA, Vegas, Michigan, and NY) and how the instant we're published, we'll be promptly sitting down, as Danielle once said, to "garnish a few very expensive drinks and toast to the little bitches who served as inspiration."

We can remember talking about covers, deciding how we wanted the story to end, and sometimes writing until the wee hours of the morning because nothing sounded more appealing than finishing the damn thing--not even sleep.

With a couple chapters left to reread, our query letter (almost) done, and one incredible list of agencies to contact, we want to reiterate how grateful we are for your words of encouragement, for continuing to read our blogs, and for all your wonderful feedback.  To say we're excited for all of this would be a massive understatement.

Lots of love,

Dani and Megan

Me and My Thighs Had Sex Last Night

So I had a booty call come over last night. He's a regular, so I don't feel slutty about it...even though I had just gone to dinner with another guy.  There was a scare where he was taking so long to pay for the check that I thought I was going to have to.

No worries. He FINALLY shut his yap and paid so we could skedaddle and I could have Brad come over.(Brad's the recycled booty call.) I digress. So Brad came over and I already looked hot because of the date I had just been on; and when he got to my place, we didn't waste any time--which was good because it was late, I was tired, and I had to work the next day.

Brad is beautiful. He's a much older man but age is only a number; and he still had a great head of hair with just the right amount of tiny grays poking through. The hair on his chest left my hands in good company and he was tall, tanned, and a successful businessman who owned a chain of restaurants in sunny Las Vegas. He was the definition of H.O.T.T. which would explain why I couldn't stop letting him stick it to me.

So he comes over, we get in bed, start making out, dim the lights (I already lit the candles, obvi), and shut the door. It wasn't long before we were naked. God, he looked good...If he were "boyfriend material," I would have gone rogue and dated the shit out of him. But for now, I would just stick to his face making out with my lady parts. Too much?

Anyway, I was looking and feeling particularly good since I had gotten a sunburn a week ago and it had now turned into a nice golden bronze (aside from my gross tan lines that made my boobs, etc. look albino compared to the rest of me). Things were getting steamy. Finally he got to the good stuff, flipped my hot little ass over, and decided he wanted to go doggie-style...alright.

I'm feelin' good, he's feelin' good, and I know it 'cause he's telling me so. Then I look down and what's this?!? What are these dimples on the FRONT of my thighs??? Did I eat cottage cheese and drip some on my leg and now it's stuck and crusty?!? That MUST be the result of what my eyes are seeing in the now not-dim-enough light.

I can deal with a little cellulite due to the chocolate cake I had decided on a regular basis for dessert...or for dinner--whatever! But now it's on the FRONT of my thighs too?!? This is def con one in the LEAST. I have to distract him. All of a sudden, I'm not sexy. I'm fat and frumpy and all I can see are my cottage cheesy thighs jiggling around as if in slow motion.

I can't feel his glorious penis inside me anymore. I can only feel the fat on my back moving around...clapping into his waistline. Oh, the horror! I have to distract him! He canNOT see the cavernous mountains that have formed under my glorious looking stomach.

I arch my back--that'll be sexy. I moan loudly. I whip my hair back and forth like that little Smith girl told me to. I turn my head as much as I can and make that sexy "O" face. I put my fingers in my mouth. I put my fingers in his mouth. I whip my hair some more. I'm basically screaming, "LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT THE WALL! LOOK AT MY BEAUTIFUL SHOULDERS THAT GRAVITY HASN'T CURSED YET! LOOK ANYWHERE BUT MY FUCKING THIGHS!!"

I think it worked. He came. I pretended to come. And I quickly pretended that there was no sweat dripping from my upper lip and behind my knees and put as many clothes on as quickly as I possibly could because I was "cold." We snuggled, he left, and today....I only ate grapes and hot cheetos and now.....I have to go to the gym.

You Used to be Hot.

It never fails: You'll always hear your mother and grandmother talk about how they used to have a body like you.  "I was quite a dish back then!  And then...I don't know what happened."

I'll tell you what happened: Gravity happened.  Stress happened.  Sleepless nights happened.  Then they popped out a couple of kids and it was all over.

But it doesn't even take motherhood to destroy your body anymore.  You graduate high school and you're perky and tight and everything still sticks straight up and nothing jiggles when you walk.

And then college happens.  Between a lack of sleep and too much stress and horrible food and beer that's so cheap you CAN'T turn it down, your body goes from Gisele Bundchen to Roseanne Barr.

By the time you graduate and get a "real job" in the "real world" because you're an "adult" (*barfing everywhere*), your life is destroyed.  A doughnut is considered an acceptable breakfast and you've somehow convinced yourself that pizza is a vegetable.

And forget hitting the gym.  When you drag your ass into the house late at night, you have just enough time to  finish off half of the Entenmann's lemon strudel you bought yesterday and go straight to bed, allowing the cake to settle on the worst parts of your ass.

Within weeks, you notice that your boobs have gone from resting beautifully below your collarbone to hitting you in the stomach when you walk too fast.  When you raise your hand to wave to someone, you notice that the fat under your arm waves to them too.  Your thighs--once tight and lean and NEVER touching--could now start a fire with the friction between them when you're speedwalking down the hall to fax that document your boss gave you.

And forget personal hygiene.  You were once able to wash your hair once a week and it never looked dirty.  These days, you miss one shower and there's enough grease in your hair to fry an egg on your head.  With the way your schedule is now, you're lucky if you pick your eye boogers before walking into the office.

It's a sad day when you realize that you're not the hot 19-year-old you used to be.  You're just a shriveled up, pruning women in her 20s.  Get a cat.

Sharing Our Penises with the World

Hello, Penis Chroniclers!

Well, it certainly has been a long journey.  We've been working on this book for quite some time and have taken great care to make sure we're producing only the best writing we can.  Things have been a little hectic lately.  Both of us have packed schedules and like to at least pretend we have social lives, so finishing the book became a slower process.

BUT after many, many hours behind our computers, several phone conversations about the most recent dating disaster, and trips down Memory Lane where we revisited the exes we still can't stand, we finally completed the story and are about to send it off to our editor.  Everyone say, "WAHOO!!!!"  We're really happy with where the story is going and hope you can laugh at it as much as we have laughed at ourselves.

We appreciate how patient everyone has been this whole time, and we definitely still have more exciting things coming for you.  We're releasing several new photos on our Facebook page, so be sure to check them out, comment, and share, share, share!  The Penis Chronicles has something for everyone, and we promise you'll get a good chuckle out of the book.  If you don't, you must not have a sense of humor.

So sad.

We kind of disappeared for a while to finish up the writing, but we're ready to get the party started again.  Expect fun pics, new blogs, and in the near future, something resembling what is supposed to be a book.

Or something.

Love,
Dani & Megan


 

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!