Channel Your Inner “Ugly American”

I considered just re-posting my Memorial Day Weekend blog for this 4th of July, but then I thought “What kind of example would that set?”  This is the birthday of our great nation.  Writing something blatantly offensive and nationalistic is the very least I can to honor my country.

So, in that spirit, I’ve made just a small list of ways that you too can honor the greatest country on earth.  I would suggest you make a drinking game out of it with your friends; whoever checks each of these off your list first gets a free drink from the rest of the group.

Here’s the list:

–Find a Canadian person and complete at least two of the following: 1) Refer to Canada as “America’s hat.”  2) Talk mad shit about the Vancouver Canucks losing the Stanley Cup, thus extending Canada’s Cup-less streak to 18 years.  Make sure to tell them that Canada’s prized goalie, Roberto Luongo, was the third best goalie in a two team finals.  And 3) ask them if the western Canadian provinces will really try to join the United States after those pesky French Canadians secede in Quebec.

–Start a “U S A!  U S A!” chant for no reason whatsoever in a wildly inappropriate place, like church or the grocery store.

–Wear a blatantly patriotic and offensive T-shirt.  Here are a few suggestions, courtesy of

–Watch A Few Good Men and tell everyone around you how Jack Nicholson is the real hero of the movie.  If anyone tries to argue shout them down with one line: “You can’t handle the truth!”

–Make fun of soccer.  Mercilessly.  The only exception: It’s ok to watch the women’s World Cup under the pretense that you’re cheering for America, even though we both know you’re just hoping some chick will rip her shirt off again.

–Include the word “fucking” when mentioning any other nationality.  Fucking Russians, fucking British, fucking Chinese, fucking Mexicans (although you should be careful with this one in most parts of America).  Fucking Irish, fucking Germans, fucking Brazilians, fucking Egyptians.  Try it, I think you’ll find it’s a lot of fun.  Fucking French, fucking Nepalese…

–Drink American.  No imported beers, no Polish vodkas, no Caribbean rums.  For one weekend you can consume American booze.  I recommend Tito’s Vodka or Budweiser’s new patriotic cans.

–Have sex with an American girl.  I know a lot of people bag on Americans, call us fat and lazy and all kinds of other shit, but I still say American girls are better than any other nation’s females. Australia isn’t far behind, but at least on this one day you can do the right thing and bang an American chick.

–If for some reason you absolutely must have sex with a non-American girl (like if you’re married to a foreigner, if you’re a gigolo, or if it’s last call and you’ve struck out with all the American girls), make sure they know you’re only “planting your flag” as conquest and in honor of the greatest nation on earth.  Be sure to tell them this before, during and after sex.

–Go to a Civil War reenactment and treat it like a sporting event, cheering madly for the guys in Blue.  Mock and taunt anyone with a Confederate flag like you would your worst sports rival.

–Spend an obscene amount of money on fireworks.  Then start blowing shit up.

–If anyone dares to criticize any of your showings of patriotism accuse them of being a communist.  If you’re sober enough to form coherent sentences you can use the proper wording: “Are you, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?”  If you’re not sober enough to sound erudite and sophisticated (and I’m hoping you’re not), simply screaming “COMMIE!  COMMIE PINKO SCUM!” will be more than sufficient.

–Ladies, wear a patriotic bikini to make us all stand at attention.

–Order a pizza with extra bacon and have it delivered to your local mosque.  (Disclaimer: this could be a hate crime where you live.  I do NOT advocate breaking any laws.)

–Play poker with your friends.  Poker is the ultimate American card game.  It was invented here, perfected here, and is as much a staple of the Wild West culture as cowboys, guns and hookers.

–Put flags on everything.  Fly them from your porch, your car, your boat, your dog.  Use tablecloths, napkins and plates with flags on them.  Paint your face, slap on fake tattoos.  Put flag stickers on everything, whether it belongs to you or not.

–Enter an eating contest.  There are few things more American than wanton gluttony.  But, if you do, you must beat any and all foreigners in the contest.  Even if you’re up against the great Kobayashi.  So be careful with this one.

–Start a fight with a foreigner.  Any foreigner.

–Ladies, give a serviceman and/or veteran a blow job.  Double points if he’s a complete stranger.  Quadruple points if he’s been wounded or disabled.  This one isn’t even a joke.  It’s the right thing to do.

–Go out of your way to be the very essence of the “Ugly American.”  Be loud, rude, abrasive and, above all, drunk!

God Bless America.


Taking One For the Team

When I worked for that school in Southern California I had a small army of hot college girls who worked for me.  No shit, there were like 8-10 girls that were just smokin’ hot, and they were actually referred to in the Athletic Department as my “harem.”

Ok, maybe my Harem wasn't quite this hot, but they were pretty stellar.

The ringleader of the group was Country.  She has only acquired that name recently, since moving to Nashville after college.  But Country was a pure-bred Orange County SoCal girl.  Not one of those stuck up bitches you see on TV shows though, Country is to this day one of my closest friends and my female confidant whenever I’m struggling to understand the psychotic mind of the female species.

Country and I have never hooked up or anything like that.  It’s odd, but I’ve just never thought of her that way.  Sure, she’s hot and all, with a remarkable rack, but to me she’s always been like family; I only half-jokingly refer to her as the big-breasted younger sister I never had.

One of Country’s best friends was HeartStopper, who was one of many hotties recruited to my Harem by Country.  HeartStopper is a sexy blonde, but that’s not why she has the nickname HeartStopper.  No, she’s had heart problems her whole life and has had (at last count, I have trouble keeping track) 14 heart operations in her young life.  She has a scar down the middle of her chest that she used to be extremely self-conscious about when she first started working for me.  Not to toot my own horn too much, but I feel like I helped her get over her self-consciousness by always telling her that her scar, rather than being a turn off, really just served to draw attention directly to her cleavage; it was like an arrow pointing to the promised land!  Nowadays HeartStopper proudly wears low-cut tops to show off her very nice cleavage.

(As an aside, as a result of all her operations, HeartStopper has no pulse in one of her wrists.  I don’t know how or why but if you check that arm for a pulse you’ll feel nothing.  It’s creepy.  So one year for a birthday present I got her one of those Medic-alert bracelets, you know for Diabetics and such, and had inscrbed on it “Check other wrist.”  You know, just so some rookie EMT doesn’t pronounce her dead if she ever passes out drunk at a party.)

Alright, enough background, on to my story.  Country and HeartStopper were living together in their later college years.  HeartStopper had just gotten out of a long term relationship with a guy.  I had never been too fond of the guy, seemed kinda like a douche to me, so I wasn’t too upset when they broke up.  But he was one of HeartStoppers first real boyfriends and sexual partners, so obviously she had some trouble getting over him.  Country, good friend that she was, did everything in her power to help HeartStopper move on.  Seriously, this girl was like a dude the way she stepped up as wingman.

Country had had a brief fling the summer before with the only member of BYU’s baseball team that wasn’t Mormon.  It hadn’t lasted long but they were still friendly and I assume still hooking up whenever he made his way to Southern California.  When BYU came to town to play San Diego State in baseball Country went out of her way to help hook HeartStopper up with one of BYU Guy’s teammates.  (Mormon or not, college kids still hook up no matter where they go to school.  As for BYU’s so-called “Honor Code,” read this article if you want to know how hypocritical and racist that whole school really is.)

HeartStopper picked out a player she thought was cute and Country got her guy to bring him out, a double date of sorts.  Things went great, everyone got along, and a good time was had by all.  The next morning HeartStopper was beaming.  She wasn’t all that thrilled with her new friend’s conversational skills, or his personality.  But she was impressed with his penis.  She went on and on about how big he was, gushed enthusiastically how it was so massive she could barely fit it in her mouth.  She claimed she “wouldn’t know what to do with it” if they had tried to have sex.  When pressed for number, she estimated him to be 10 inches.

10 inches!  Jesus.  When I heard this I immediately felt inadequate.

But I was also skeptical.  I mean, come on.  I’ve seen my fair share of porn (I’ve also seen your fair share of porn too, probably the entire state of Utah’s fair share).  I know there are 10-inch cocks out there, but they’re few and far between.  And they’re even rarer on skinny-ass white baseball players.  So I called bullshit.  But HeartStopper was adamant.  He was huge.  Double her last boyfriend, at least.

Being the good friend (and good supervisor) that I am, I turned to Country and said, “We’re going to need independent confirmation of this.”

Country agreed.  A little too eagerly, perhaps.  (Again, feelings of inadequacy growing inside me.)  HeartStopper didn’t mind at all if Country gave him a throw next time he was in town.  As I mentioned, she hadn’t been terribly thrilled with him personally, and since his dick was so massive she was afraid to have sex with him, she didn’t see much future for them.

The next time Mr. 10inches came to town I don’t know who was more excited, Country or me.  It was exciting just to be a part of this whole sordid tale.  The drama, the suspense, this was better than a TNT drama.

When I saw Country the next day the look of disappointment on her face told me everything I needed to know before she even opened her mouth.  “Average,” she said.  “At best.”

“Come on,” I said, “he’s gotta be better than average for HeartStopper to go on and on about it.  Maybe not ten inches but better than average.”

Maybe five and a half inches,” she answered.  “Probably less than five.  I was so disappointed I couldn’t even fuck him.”

Suddenly my inadequacy was disappearing.  “Wow, that sucks.  So… you didn’t fuck him, what’d you do?  Just laugh at him and tell him to put it back in his pants?”

“I felt bad for him,” she said.  “So I gave him a hand job.  But seriously, it was so small the head barely popped out when I put my hand around it.  I couldn’t even jerk him off properly.”

I was laughing so hard I could barely talk.  “Well, you do have big hands.”

“Yeah, for a girl, but still!  It was tiny!”

After I finished laughing for a good five minutes straight a new thought entered my mind (I have to admit, I was probably thinking about penises more than any straight man should be): “So if HeartStopper thought this barely average guy was huge, what does that say about her last boyfriend?”

Country thought for a moment.  Then she held up her pinky finger.  Combined with her look of disappointment, the picture was priceless.  I started laughing all over again.  “Yeah,” I agreed.  “He’s gotta be hung like an angry toddler.  Poor bastard.  No wonder he was always in such a bad mood.”

Love is a Battlefield: Sex Injuries

I travelled cross country this weekend to see my girlfriend and accompany her to a family wedding.  It was one of those moments everyone dreads in a relationship, meeting the family for the first time.  Only in this case there was no easing into it, meeting the parents one time and siblings another and so forth.  Nope, this was trial by fire, cramming as much family into four days as humanly possible; aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces, brothers and sisters, in-laws, you name it.  And no support or backup for me, no friendly faces besides the girlfriend.  It was a thoroughly stressful experience.

But at least I got to have sex.  A lot.  I mean like a dozen times in 80-some hours.  So that was nice.

But it was not without its price.  I took a beating this weekend.  For starters, one of our favorite positions is with me standing at the edge of the bed, her legs draped over my shoulders.

Normally this is a great position for both of us.  It’s a nice break from one of us being on top and having to support ourselves with our arms for extended time.  By holding her legs it makes her extra tight, and somehow I seem to hit her spots just right, so it’s a win-win for both of us.

The problem, though, is that the bed in her sister’s guestroom was somewhat shorter than either mine or hers.  I didn’t realize it until I went for insertion and had to squat lower than usual.  But I didn’t really think about it too much and just went with it.

The first time was fine.  Better than fine, in fact, it was fucking spectacular, and I was cumming way sooner than I would have liked.  But as the days went on and we repeated the position, I found myself tiring and having to change up positions quicker than usual.  And Sunday morning when I woke up my back was sore as hell and my hamstrings were so tight I could barely bend over.

I never use drugs, I’ve never even bought Tylenol or Advil in my life, but the first flight of my trip home was so miserable I had to pay eighty-seven bucks or however much it was for a tiny bottle of Advil at the Atlanta airport.  I popped triple the recommended dosage and was finally able to sit without pain for the 4-hour flight to Salt Lake City.  I’m still hurting today, but some more drugs and hopefully a trip to the gym for some serious stretching tonight will get me back on the mend.

I suffered another sex injury this weekend.  Saturday night my girlfriend was in a particularly giving mood.  (I guess I had met with the approval of her 30+ relatives at the wedding.)  She has always been hesitant to try 69ing for some reason, but she offered it up without my even asking, and it was pretty damn stellar.  We started off laying side by side but soon she half-twisted so my ass was flat on the bed and she was basically diving straight down on my cock.  She was drunk enough to relax her gag reflex and it was nothing short of amazing.

But then, somewhere along the way she decided to roll me over on top of her.  As soon as her head hit the bed and my cock started to sink into her mouth her jaw closed and her teeth clamped around me.  I yelped like a kicked puppy dog and pulled out as quick as I could without losing skin on her scraping teeth.

I’m still not sure exactly what happened, if she panicked when I started to slide towards her throat or what, but Holy Jesus it was terrifying!  She felt terrible about it too.  After checking to make sure I wasn’t bleeding, and waiting a moment for my heart to stop pounding from the near-death experience, we gave up the 69 for the night and went back to straight sex.  Which was still pretty fucking awesome if I do say so myself.

So today I’m hobbling around like an old man.  My dick feels like it did when I was a teenager who had just discovered porn and whacked off like five times in a day without any lube (those were the days).

Totally worth it though.

P.S.   She wore the Buffalo Sabres bikini this weekend, the one from my last post.  It was fucking awesome.


I took this off a Mormon discussion board:

“…Mormons have different ways of stimulating their genitals.  The first… is called floating.  Rather than actually engaging in back-and-forth penetration, a Mormon male will leave his penis in a Mormon female’s vagina and just let it float there for an extended period of time.”

See, this is the kind of shit I have to deal with here in End Of The World, Utah.  Floating –also known as Soaking– is apparently all the rage with Mormon kids these days.  You gotta admire the ingenuity of these people to get around their own beliefs.  But it does raise an interesting debate: Is this really just a way to justify breaking the fundamental tenets of their faith, kind of like deluding yourself that oral or anal sex doesn’t really count?  Or, my personal belief, is this just another scheme by horny teenage boys to trick naïve girls into bed?  Kind of like playing “Just the tip?”  Because, let’s face it, like “Just the tip,” once you breach that barrier all bets are off!

When you have to wear underwear like this, I guess it's no wonder Mormons have to come up with sneaky ways to get laid.

I’ve heard that some of these kids will even try to recite scripture while Floating, as if quoting a few lines from the Book of Mormon will somehow dampen the severity of their sin.  Personally, I think this is just a way to keep themselves from cumming too fast, like thinking about baseball or long division.  They may think they’re better than the rest of us, but we’re all really the same perverts at heart.

But, in the spirit of this new non-sex sex act invented by our Mormon friends, I think we should play along and see how we can make Floating as much fun as possible.  If the idea is that it’s ok to stick your dick in a girl but not ok to actually thrust away, there’s got to be ways to heighten the experience.  Just a few ideas we’ve come up with so far:

— What if you sneeze?  That’s an involuntary action, so surely that won’t send you to hell, right?  Damn, I never envied people with allergies so much in my life.  Quick, grab the pepper shaker, I’m gonna sneeze my way to climax!

— Do they still have vibrating beds in cheap motel rooms?  That could be the best quarter ever spent.  Or a water bed?  That’d be like a slow, sensual fuck, literally “riding” the wave.

— What if you go Floating on top of the washing machine?  It’s not MY fault the machine was on spin cycle!

Who else has ideas?  I want to turn this into a national fad!  Maybe Vince Vaughn will even make it a rule in Wedding Crashers 2

Random Thoughts

No story this time, just some random thoughts that have been buzzing around in my head.

The Godfather is the greatest movie ever made.  It’s not even close, nothing else is even in the same league.  They should make a new name for what kind of art The Godfather is, because trying to compare it to other movies is like comparing Michael Jordan’s basketball skills to my rec league’s talent pool.  Part II is also in the top 5, and Part III, for all the criticism it receives, is still top 10.  Too bad Mario Puzo died before they could complete the story for Part IV.  Puzo said in an interview that it would have been similar to Part II, with two storylines, one a continuation of Vincent’s story and the other a flashback to Don Vito’s ascension to power during Prohibition.  Who wouldn’t watch that?

–Why are Indian mascots the only ones that are considered offensive?  What about Vikings, Spartans and Trojans?

–Ray Lewis killed a man and still gets TV endorsements.  Maybe Old Spice should change their marketing slogan to, “We can even get the smell of blood off you.”

–No woman has ever been able to make me climax from just a blow job.  And yet, I consider the BJ to be the most important skill a woman can possess in the bedroom.

–I am the Cleveland Browns of fantasy football.  I’ve won a championship but it was so long ago no one remembers it.

Yeah it looks like a shithole, but it's a great place to drink at 3am.

–It’s an insult to call Reno a poor man’s Las Vegas.  An insult to Vegas, that is.  Las Vegas is paradise on earth, a bastion of sin and depravity and debauchery.  Reno is a mid-sized city with a couple casinos.  But if you ever find yourself in Reno, I suggest a bar called Tonic.  It’s an easy cab ride from the casinos and it’s open long past when the casino bars shut down.  One night in Tonic I was witness to an amazing trifecta.  My boss was making out with a guy who wasn’t her boyfriend.  Another co-worker was making out with a guy who wasn’t her fiancee.  And my lesbian friend Shane was making out with a guy who wasn’t a girl.  I’ll let you figure out which of those three lucky guys I was…

–Why are Indian mascots the only ones that are considered offensive?  What about Cowboys, Miners and Lumberjacks?

–How did we survive before cell phones?  I’m not even talking about the convenience of having a phone on you at all times, for emergenices or being able to make changes to your plans on the fly, yada yada yada.  Forget all that crap.  I mean how did we survive before drunk texting?  And before I call send pictures of my penis to girls?  Not to mention being able to avoid assholes at work by simply whipping out your cell phone and pretending to talk to someone?

–I love freckles but moles feak me out.  I know, it’s a fine line, and I couldn’t explain it to you if I had to.  But freckles on a girl are hot, especially on the cleavage.  Moles on the other hand… well, I swear they start talking to me when I’m drunk.

–I was a Jenn Sterger fan long before that douchebag Brett Favre made her famous.

Jenn Sterger

–The first four girls I slept with all had names that started with the letter S.  For a long time I thought I was cursed.  My game is bad enough as it is, if you cut my odds to 1/26th I might as well just give up.

–I’m not afraid of dying alone.  But drinking alone depresses me.

–The only movie I’ve ever cried at is Rocky III.  How could it not break your heart when Mick is dying in the locker room while Rocky is getting bludgeoned by Clubber Lang?  And then after the fight when Balboa, bloodied and beaten, lies to Mick in his last moments, telling him he won?  If that doesn’t get to you then you’re some kind of robot.

–Why are Indian mascots the only ones that are considered offensive?  What about Canucks, Ragin’ Cajuns and Fightin’ Irish?

–I might just be the world’s biggest Jewel fan.  Go ahead, laugh all you want. I’ve heard it all before and I don’t care.  Jewel’s music is magical.  I’ve seen her in concert seven times (and it’d be more if I hadn’t moved to End Of The World, UT), and I have approximately 250 Jewel songs on my iPod.  I know, it doesn’t exactly fit with all my stories of drinking, swearing and attempted fornicating.  What can I say, I’m a complicated man.

–Muhammed Ali is the most overrated fighter in boxing history, and possibly the most overrated athlete ever.  (And no, I’m not just saying that because I hate draft dodgers and Muslim terrorists.)  Everyone talks about how Ali beat Joe Frazier two out of three times, but they never mention that both boxers were pretty much washed up and at the end of their careers for the last two fights.  In the only fight that truly matters, the first one, when both fighters were undefeated, Frazier beat Ali soundly, nearly knocking him out in the 15th round and winning on all three scorecards.  Smokin’ Joe is the greatest fighter of that era, it’s not even up for debate.

–In the first 30 years of my life the extent of my criminal record consisted of one speeding ticket.  That’s it.  But then I moved to Utah.  Within 3 months I had been arrested for DUI (later plead down to reckless driving, thank you very much.)  Then I got a public urination.  Oh yeah, and I’ve gotten another speeding ticket.  If I stay here in Mormonland much longer I’ll have to stop making jokes about Ray Lewis.

–I’m not really into lesbian porn.  I like to see hot girls getting fucked by guys.  Some people might think that’s gay.  But my fantasy is to fuck a busty blonde pornstar, not watch her fuck another girl (not that that would be all that bad either).

–The greatest line in movie history comes from V for Vendetta: “People should not be afraid of their governments.  Governments should be afraid of their people.”

–Why are Indian mascots the only ones that are considered offensive?  What about Friars, Demon Deacons and Crusaders?

Butt Sex: It’s Not For Everyone

I have a very limited experience with anal sex.  For some people that would be a source of great regret.  But the truth is, I’m ok with it.  There are many things in life I’m still hoping to experience: a threesome, sex in a tanning booth, a girl that doesn’t speak a word of English, cumming in a girl’s ear…. ok, I made that last one up, but you get the idea.  But anal sex just isn’t a priority for me.  I’m perfectly content with a tight pussy and a wet mouth.

My only incident with anal sex came when I was dating an Asian girl, who we’ll call Sun-Yi.  Sun-Yi was a lot of fun, she had a nice little body and was an absolute freak in bed.  This girl had no limits.  She had amazing muscular control of her pussy, she could basically milk my cock without me even having to move.  And she absolutely loved giving blow jobs and had excellent deep throat skills, plus she loved gagging to get that extra inch down her throat.

But by far the best thing about Sun-Yi was that, because of her apparent lack of experience with non-Asian men, she thought my average penis was just massive.  Let me tell you, there are few things in life that are a bigger turn on than fucking a girl and having her scream at the top of her lungs how much she loves your huge cock.  It reminds me of the old joke, “Find yourself a girl with small hands, it makes your dick look bigger.”  It’s all relative, folks.

Sun-Yi was also into anal sex, and although she was rather nervous about taking my “huge” dick up her pooper, she was absolutely hell bent on trying.

The first time we decided to give it a try she had a few drinks to relax before we got to work.  I managed to get the head in before she started having second thoughts.  Gasping and sputtering about how big I was, reaching a hand behind her to hold me back, I was already pretty certain this wasn’t going to work.  But give the girl credit, she was determined.  After taking a minute to get used to it, she told me to start pushing very very slowly.

And so I spent the next 10 minutes slowly drilling into her ass while she laid facedown on the bed, groaning and cursing and slapping the mattress like a pro wrestler caught in the figure-four leglock.  She clearly wasn’t enjoying herself despite her claims to the contrary.  And it wasn’t all that good for me either; sure, her ass was tight as a vice, but I could barely move, let alone stroke, so it was pretty much a waste.

When I had about four inches in her butthole she turned her head back towards me and asked, “Is that all of it?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Uh… about half, babe.”  She collapsed back on the bed. “Well, maybe a little more than half…”  I tried to console her, but she was deflated and defeated.

“I can’t do it,” she whimpered. “I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

I have to admit, I didn’t mind at all.  This buttfucking stuff wasn’t nearly as much fun as it looked like in porn.  And to be honest, the ego boost of having this self-proclaimed lover of anal be unable to handle me was better than any buggering could ever be.

Sun-Yi and I lived in different states so it would be about a month before we got to spend another weekend together.  And clearly in that time she had been thinking about her failure.  She was eager for a rematch with my penis.  We were making out on her couch, slowly disrobing as we prepared to go at it when she said she wanted to try anal again.  I had already started fingering her pussy when she asked me to finger her asshole.  Alright, I can do that. Getting a finger wet with her juices I slowly started penetrating her ass. No problem there, and she quickly asked for a second finger. Soon I had two fingers buried to the knuckle inside her, just pluggin’ away.  Sun-Yi was in heaven, moaning and grinding her pelvis into the couch cushions.  Her ass was slowly loosening and I was just beginning to think this could possibly work.

And then I felt something.

Yep, I was definitely touching shit way up in her asshole.  It was one of the most mortifying moments of my life.  I pulled my fingers out of her ass so quick it made a popping sound, taking her breath away.  “Uh, babe,” I said, “I don’t know exactly how to say this, but you’re kind of messy down there.”  And then I ran to the bathroom to wash my hands.  Repeatedly.

We never tried anal again.

We broke up shortly after that.  No, it had nothing to do with the anal.  The big issue was that, although she’s by far the biggest freak I’ve ever had sex with, she also was really into Jesus.  And although I am very respectful of other people’s beliefs I’m not a religious person myself.  This bothered her to no end.  I agreed to try going to church with her, but I told her not to get her hopes up and expect me to “see the light” just because I sat through a service.  It also bothered her immensely that, because I’m not passionate about any one faith, I can be annoyingly objective about all faiths.  One time she was badmouthing Catholics as “not real Christians,” to which I responded, “I don’t know much, but I’m pretty sure Catholics are the original Christians.”  That did not sit well with her, and shortly thereafter she dumped me.

But I have no animosity.  I can honestly say I hope she found herself a nice God-fearing man who could give her the butthole pleasures I never could.

The Mormon Stalker

I have a stalker.  A Mormon stalker.  How I get myself into shit like this is truly beyond me.  Back in my younger days I used to joke with friends whenever they’d talk about girls that were obsessed with them, I’d say things like, “Man, I wish I had a stalker, I’d never turn her away.  If you want to come over and fuck me that bad, who am I to turn it down?”  Man have I learned my lesson on that front.

I won’t bore you with all the details of how I met her (for the sake of this story I’ll refer to her as Momo), how she decided I would be the target of her full-on crazy, etc.  I’ll just jump right to the heart of the story.  After about two months of her throwing herself at me with reckless abandon and me making excuses why I wasn’t interested (“I’m not looking for a relationship,” “I’m still hung up on my (imaginary) ex,” “I’m an emotional cripple,” etc. etc.) I finally broke down when she texted me on my birthday and told me she wanted to give me my birthday present.

So I invited her over.  I sat her down on my couch and re-iterated that I was not interested in a relationship; I did not want any emotional entanglements, this would be nothing more than a booty call.  She said she understood.  “I’m going to need you to say it,” I said very firmly, and then proceeded to make her repeat after me, “This isn’t going anywhere.  It is just a booty call.”

And then I titty fucked her.

She had big sloppy D-cup breasts that weren’t much to look at (I’m a shape guy, size is completely secondary to firmness for me) but they felt pretty good wrapped around my cock, though not enough to get me off.  She refused to give me head, said she’d never done that before (damn Mormon girls), and her handjob skills were inadequate too.  The best thing about her, though, was that I could make her orgasm in about two minutes by going down on her.  Tongue, fingers, combination, whatever, she would shake and lose total control with almost zero effort on my part.  It was quite an ego boost; I felt pretty damn proud of myself turning this innocent, inexperienced Mormon girl into a quivering orgasmic mess.

Over the next couple weeks I worked hard to keep it casual, to make sure she still understood that this was not going anywhere.  I kept the frequency of our hookups low and refused to do anything that could be construed as a “date” with her.  I made up a story that I couldn’t sleep in a bed with another person, so she had to leave every night and couldn’t try to cuddle.

Eventually, I decided it was time to hit paydirt and we had sex.  Just like with the oral, she could orgasm with almost no effort, and I was feeling like quite the stud.

And that’s when it all started to unravel.

Glenn Close, the original psycho stalker

All of a sudden she claimed she was looking for a new place to live, and before I even knew what had happened she had moved into my apartment complex.  She now lived in the building directly between my apartment and my buddy Blackout’s; it had been a great situation beforehand, both Blackout and I enjoyed the benefits of living alone, but we were also less than 100 yards away whenever we wanted to get drunk.  But now she was right in the middle, and I felt like she was watching out her window to see when I was coming or going.  I started taking the long way around the complex to get drunk at Blackout’s place.

Meanwhile, she kept talking about this friend of hers who was so fun and so cute and I’d like her so much.  She wanted the three of us to all hang out.  I was confused.  Was she offering me a threesome?  It seemed almost impossible but I had to give it a shot, right?  And her friend (who you all know now as BJ, author of Wordplayforeplay) was indeed much more fun than Momo, much hotter than Momo, and she could take the wrappers off of Starbusrts with just her tongue.  Indeed, one of the biggest regrets of my life is that, after convincing the girls to play a game of strip poker, BJ (who I don’t think had ever played poker in her life) utterly destroyed us and only took her shirt off out of pity once Momo and I were down to just our unmentionables.  Needless to say, the threesome never materialized; BJ went home and I ended up banging Momo again.  In retrospect, I’m pretty sure that was her plan all along.

The next weekend she wanted to hang out on a Saturday night.  I wanted to get hammered with my friends.  Guess who won?  That’s right, alcohol and the guys.  And as I was laying in my bed Sunday morning, hung over as all hell and swearing I would never drink again, she sent me this text:

“Just thought you should know that I’m late.”

Now, the rational part of my brain new this was just a ploy.  She was on the pill (at least she claimed to be), and we used a condom anyway, so the odds were somewhere around 1 in 5000 that she could actually be pregnant.  But, of course, pregnancy isn’t something one can really think about rationally.  Especially not with a clingy Mormon girl that you’re pretty sure is mentally unbalanced.

Thus began three of the longest days of my life.  To this day I still don’t know if she was making the whole thing up, or if she really was late.  And if she was, was she really panicking, or was she fully aware that girls are occasionally late on their period and figured a dumb boy wouldn’t know the difference, so why not make the bastard sweat for standing her up on a Saturday night?

After that incident I told her we couldn’t have sex anymore.  I was a little shell-shocked by the whole ordeal, but more than anything I just thought it made a good excuse to withdraw a little bit on the relationship.

And it was just about that time, oddly enough, that she decided she wanted to try her hand at giving blow jobs.  No woman has ever been able to make me cum just from head, but I still enjoy it immensely, and she showed a great eagerness to learn to give great head and be the first to get me off.  Her enthusiasm for cocksucking, combined with the turn on of her multiple orgasms whenever I’d go down on her, and it wasn’t too long before I broke down and fucked her again.

It was a truly dysfunctional situation.  We’d hook up for awhile until she started to get too close and start pressing for more than just a booty call relationship, I’d break it off, and then in a couple weeks either she’d come crawling back with a text along the lines of “I want to come over and suck you off,” or I’d get rip-roaring hammered and drunk text her something along the lines of, “I want you to come over and suck me off.”  Wash, rinse, repeat.

The final straw came the last time we had sex.  The condom broke.  Now, considering she still claimed to be on the pill I didn’t think this was that big of a deal.  But she flipped the fuck out.  Practically had a nervous breakdown right in my bed.  She was trembling and nearly in tears, rambling incoherently about having to go to Planned Parenthood the next day to get the morning-after pill.

I was leaving town the next day for a vacation, but she wanted me to go with her before I left for the airport.  Now, I’ve never been to a Planned Parenthood before, so I don’t know what they’re like in other, more civilized parts of the United States.  But in End Of The World, Utah, it’s located in the basement of a strip mall.  We sat in the waiting area watching the dregs of society pass through, the meth-heads and illegals, the pregnant teens and the toothless trailer trash.  The whole time she insisted on holding my hand like we were some old married couple.  Once again, the rational part of my brain knew full well that this was just another one of her ploys.  The pill is 99% effective, so even with a broken condom the odds of her being pregnant were miniscule.  But sitting in that house of horrors with a crazy girl clutching my hand, rational thought all but flew out the window and my stomach began to churn at the idea that I might soon be a father.  I started wondering how she felt about abortion; although she was Mormon, she clearly wasn’t very devout (after all, she was fucking a Heathen).  But considering she was in love with me, might she try to keep the kid just to keep me in her life?  I started formulating my strategy in my head.  “Look, there’s either going to be an abortion or a suicide here, because I would rather kill myself than spend the next 18 years attached to you.”

About that time I happened to glance up at the wall where the magazine rack was located.  In a moment of irony I will never forget, I noticed the latest Newsweek with a picture of Sarah Palin on the cover and the bold headline “Saint Sarah.”  Personally, I found this quite amusing.  Can you imagine if you actually were pregnant, wrestling with your conscience and emotions of whether to get an abortion, and as you sit in the waiting room you see Saint Sarah staring down unapprovingly at you?  Seems like poor planning by Planned Parenthood, don’t you think?

So, long story short, she took the morning after pill, and I bolted out of town for about a week, during which time I had to endure daily text messages from her about how nervous she was, how she wished I was there to hold her, how she needed me, etc. etc.  I kept telling her to go take a home pregnancy test but she refused, said she was too scared.  At that point I knew 100% she was just trying to latch onto me, that it was all just so much crazy bullshit.

When I got back to Utah I drug her to the store, bought a home pregnancy test and made her take it.  Negative.  Of course.  We had now had sex five times total and had managed two “pregnancy scares.”  This girl was crazy as a shithouse rat.  It was time to extricate myself from the situation.  But that was easier said than done.  She lived practically next door to me, and she had made it clear before that she was fully capable of wandering outside my apartment to see if my lights were on.  And although we didn’t exactly work together, we were on the same campus and she worked with people I worked with, so she constantly seemed to be lurking in the shadows.

I went to a wedding in Nashville over Labor Day and when I came back I told her I had met a girl and we were going to try a long distance relationship.  (Thanks, Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress, for being my imaginary girlfriend!)  She tried to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal, she even said she had started going back to church and so couldn’t hook up anymore anyways.  But even that didn’t stop her completely.  She would text occasionally, saying she missed me and asking how things were going with my new girlfriend.  Depending on my mood (or how drunk I was), I would make something up, building my cover story with highs and lows, good times and fights.

Meanwhile, her friend BJ had moved across country to New York, and we were texting on a semi-regular basis.  As I promised in an earlier post, someday I will tell you the story of how I taught her to deepthroat when she came home for the holidays.  It’s a story with a much happier ending than this one!  But BJ, whose friendship with Momo has more or less faded away, informed me that Momo is a certified sex addict; she’s been in counseling for it!  So all that shit about never having given a blow job, not being experienced?  Yeah, all bullshit.  The girl is fucking Looney Tunes!

I had one final relapse sometime around November or December.  I hadn’t had any action in awhile, and it gets fucking cold here in Utah, so when she texted me one night I said I had broken up with my imaginary girlfriend and asked if she wanted to come over.  She was at my door instantly and within minutes was naked on my bed giving me a blow job.  But by now I knew it was a huge mistake, and after she failed to make me cum again I sent her home and started ignoring her texts.

Now that I have a real-life girlfriend I donn’t even have to lie.  I told her I had moved on and she needed to as well.  The messages still haven’t stopped, but they are becoming less frequent, and I think as long as I don’t wake the bear she will eventually move on.

Or maybe she’ll cut off my penis in my sleep…