To determine a true “Body count” you must conduct a deep, honest behavioral assessment on yourself. How have you acted historically? How do you present yourself to the world? Have you done any freaky or fucked up shit? Have you conducted yourself in a soulless manner? Have you spat in the face of Your Creator?

In this article I will present all of my beliefs surrounding what behaviors add, subtract, multiply, or even divide your body count, from which you can calculate how ran through you truly are.

ADDITIONS

Having an Instagram +1 body

If you feel the need to show off pictures of yourself to the world for validation, that’s an extra body. It’s not a big deal though, most people use Instagram. I don’t fully subscribe to the trad cuckold mindset of, “If she has an instagram then she’s just inviting dudes to hit on her.” No no, you miserable fucks, some people have the cognitive capacity to be monogamous and just enjoy seeing what their friends are up to. But, it is a conscious decision to share with the world how good you’re looking these days…

Shirtless / bikini pics on Instagram +1.5 bodies

I’ve never dated a girl who doesn’t have a bikini pic on her instagram, because I date attractive women. I’ve always been ok with it, it’s just something you have to accept in The Modern Age imo. Attractive women are proud of themselves for not being disgusting hamplanets like the average American, and therefore want to show off their impressive restraint from consuming massive quantities of goy slop. It’s not rocket science, hot people are proud of being hot and want the gentler treatment that society awards The Fuckable. Hell, I even have a shirtless pic from a hike as my profile picture on here; I want Publicly Available Evidence that I am Not Fat. Sue me.

Fucking a homeless person +1.7 bodies

If you fuck a homeless woman in her stinky tent you gain control of your cities rat population for twelve hours, they will conduct any malevolent schemes that you desire.

Consistently goes to raves without gf/bf +2 bodies

I love raves because they are filled with hundreds of horny, drug addicts that want to Get High and Get Touched. Oh, and also the music. As an avid rave goer I fully acknowledge that these are slightly demonic and hedonistic events. Being crammed into a tight and sweaty room getting cranially molested by psychedelic lights, all the girls are wearing goonbait spandex outfit, bumps on the dance floor; it feels like the music is just a background for The Mating Ritual. I’ve witnessed hundreds of intimate rave floor grope-heavy makeout sessions, and even participated in a few, and I can positively say that even if someone is in a committed relationship just being in that Sweaty Sexual Environment makes you a little more ran through. Even if you don’t pounce on anyone, you’ve surely been propositioned and at least briefly considered………….

Had an abortion +2.3 bodies

Uhhhh do I really need to explain this one? I truly mean no offense to any of my beloved readers who 360 no scoped their uterus, but like come on, right? Pulling up to The Fetus Elimination Factory is, quite literally, the opposite of virgin behavior.

Studied abroad +2.7 extra bodies

We all know what these trips are really for. You aren’t studying shit; you’re on a 3 month long degeneracy voyage to penetrate / be penetrated by as many strangers that talk funny as possible. There’s something extra slutty about study abroad though, all of these foreigners ogling you as their little American trinket to play with for a moment. You’ll meet someone and drunkenly fuck each other later that night, then immediately tell all of your friends about your “crazy, totally unique experience.” You won’t stop talking about it to anyone who will listen. But eventually those foreign nether regions that you fawned over will be a whole plane ride away, and you’ll be left wondering for the rest of your life What happened to that saucy Spaniard? This is where the extra bodies come from; thinking you’re in Before Sunrise and could’ve made it work with some European rando is just delusional ran through behavior.

Pretends to be single at the bar “for free drinks” +3 bodies

I know lots of gals who do this and I find it ethically ambiguous. The sprinkle of soyboy feminist in me goes Ehh what’s the harm in talking to someone and saving money, but then the realist in me clamps the soyboy by the neck and says Stfu retard, you know it’s not really about saving twelve dollars. It’s true, girls don’t do this just to save a couple bucks, it’s because flirting is fun. They like to be pursued, and it’s a good self confidence boost to remember that you still have value in the sexual marketplace despite being tied down to some chump. By pretending to be single though you run the risk of some stranger making a move on you, which I’m sure wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world in a girl’s minds if her boyfriend is a hairy fat gamer at home chudding out on League of Legends…

Having a best friend of the opposite sex who isn’t gay +3.8 bodies

It doesn’t mean you’re gonna do it, you have restraint. You’re not an animal, right? You’ve never thought about him/her that way, well except for that one dream, but that was just a dream so it doesn’t count..?

There’s always a chance, unless the looksgap is truly canyon-esque. I personally don’t think I could date a girl who had a close guy friend that she hung out with 1:1 a lot. I would go completely insane and probably end up on The News for Something Bad

Brings up previous ex all the time +4 bodies

This is rock solid proof of a broken alpha-widowed brain, and anyone who has been alpha-widowed is far from Pure Virgin. You can ask them to stop talking about their ex, and they might even do it, but they’ll never stop thinking about their ex’s brain and/or genitals for eternity. Once you’ve been Owned, you transition from a person to property, usually forever.

Anytime a woman has mentioned an ex boyfriend twice in one month I take the closest possible exit ramp out of that relationship. Not interested in The Scraps.

Had a threesome +4.5 bodies

No matter how many people you’ve fucked, you always have the virtuous fallback card of “I was exploring a connection with someone I cared about.” Unless you’ve had a threesome. Now you’ve officially crossed the line into hedonism territory, fully accepting that You Want As Much Stimulation As Possible. Porn told me this is cool, I’ll have time for love later, let me see what both of your assholes look like. And that’s okay, we live in a free country.

I’ve never had a threesome. In my youth I got tricked by my bisexual ex girlfriend who told me she wanted to have one, to which I eagerly responded You sure? GREAT! I’m down! I crossed my fingers and hoped she would suggest her friend Olivia, eager to discover what shade of nipples she was harboring in that voluptuous rack. However when my ex mentioned she could try to proposition a guy at the gym I quickly lost enthusiasm in both the plan and the thought of her birthing my children.

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Cheated on someone +5 bodies

Listen, we’ve all made mistakes before. It happens. It shouldn’t happen all the time, but we are imperfect creatures. I don’t think that someone who has cheated before is inherently a terrible person if they learned from it. Hopefully you walked away with a guilty feeling in your stomach wondering, “What’s wrong with me, why did I think that would be worth it?” If you didn’t feel deep remorse for at least 48 hours then I am genuinely envious of your psychopathic abilities, you could probably become a great CEO or politician one day. But most people feel the weight of their sins and must venture forth with five additional bodies on their back weighing them down on their plight for repentance.

Solo trip abroad +6 bodies.

+1.5 additional bonus bodies if a girl went to Spain or a dude went to Southeast Asia.

SUBTRACTIONS

Dramatic makeover and extreme haircut -1 body

I’m sure this one will get some pushback for being retarded, which it is, but my gut says that if you look like a completely different person after you stopped fucking tons of people then maybe that’s a free pass to knock a singular body off? It’s like the tree falling in the woods thought experiment; If I see you in the streets but don’t instantly remember the color of your pussy, did we Actually Fuck? Who’s to say..

Going to church every week -2 bodies

Personally, I think it does, but maybe I’m wrong. Despite not having concrete proof of Religion = Soul Purification, the act of rigorously committing to pursuing a spiritual connection demonstrates control over the primitive Id. You could be spending that time scrolling short form video content and gooning to porn, but instead you’re putting in some effort to get closer to a higher power, which shows that your soul is at the very least slightly less ran through than the others who have fully given up and submitted to their new tech oligarch overlords trying to turn us all into retarded coomers.

Full year of chastity -3 bodies

I’ve never accomplished this since losing my virginity. This may sound like a humblebrag but it’s really not, the foids I fondle between relationships are usually nothing to write home about. I just hate being alone. I’m always impressed when someone tells me that they’ve been celibate for a long time… if they’re not fuckin ugly. To truly spend some time with yourself reflecting on what went wrong in your last relationship and taking time to introspect on what you want in your next one is probably a good thing. Again, I wouldn’t know, but I assume that restores more of your soul than my go to of meaningless drunk hook ups with people that I find mentally repugnant yet physically acceptable.

Baking cookies every week from scratch while wearing a pink apron with hearts on it -7 bodies

This one clearly needs no further explanation.

MULTIPLICATIONS

Posting gym progress pic selfies X2 bodies

This just screams “I WANT TO GET FUCKED I NEED TO GET FUCKED SOMEONE COME FUCK LOOK AT HOW GOOD I’D FUCK I NEED FUCK.” While I do enjoy seeing my acquaintances giant asses blasted into my irises on a daily basis, I also judge them for their blatant panhandling for affection on the digital streetcorners of Instagram. It reeks of desperation to Tell the world that you’re working on becoming more Fuckable rather than just shutting up and grinding in silence.

Publishing anonymous sex diaries X2.5 bodies

Nobodies perfect……. Right….. Not gonna lie I would probably kill myself if I found out my wife was doing this.

Asking for a hall pass or open relationship X3 bodies

Whenever I’ve heard of this it just feels like borderline emotional abuse where the Hotter, High Agency person in the relationship is aware of their power over their submissive partner and decides to take advantage of it. The poor little Clinger, desperate to hold on to their “catch” will agree to these fuck-ass emotional nightmares and get mentally tortured to the point of Depression, Insanity, or Homicide. I know some tards like to make the argument that if you’re both mature open relationships can be equally good for both people but that is simply False. There is always a winner and a loser, and the winner knows they’ll be the winner when they propose such a ludicrous Looney Tunes lifestyle of lust.

Has or had an onlyfans X4 bodies

Digital Prostitution. I sometimes think about the girls from my high school who eventually grew up to become solid 6s, but garnered a delusionally high ego from dating app validation and convinced themselves they were attractive enough to become rich from OnlyFans. A tragic tale as old as… 2019? Whether or not they went wide advertising their account, some gooner from my high school would find it, and then pay for the subscription for one month so they could view and distribute Plain Old Shelby’s honkers to Every Guy That Set Foot In That School. The OnlyFans account would then shut down after netting fourteen sad dollars of “hard earned” profit, but the tits live on forever in the digital ether to be viewed, discussed, and cum tributed to, pending proficient perkiness.

Is or was a prostitute X5 bodies

But if you called yourself a “sex worker” it’s only X4 bodies, obviously.

Attended the Aella birthday gangbang X6 bodies

DIVISIONS

BRAZILIAN WATER DUMPING RITUAL, divide by 2

I mean come on, I don’t think anyone believes that letting some stinky brown guy dump filthy river water on your head is gonna fully regain your chastity. But I’ll give this white woman some points, it’s the thought that counts here. This Respectable Young Lass spent thousands of dollars and dozens of hours to arrive in some third world jungle village all for the wholesome end goal of Being Less Of A Whore. To put in that much effort, time and money, while suppressing your Formerly Promiscuous Woman instincts of a posh comfortable solo trip in Spain getting railed for a month… just to do whatever the fuck this is? That shows true Commitment To The Bit, and I’ll allow your body count to be halved.

FULLY TROONING OUT, divide by 3

I think physically removing your genitals is about as close to starting from scratch as you can get. HOWEVER, I would not advise doing so simply in hopes of attaining spiritual purity as most mainstream religions do not condone this bizarre drastic act of self mutilation, I MEAN SELF EXPRESSION WHOOPS. I almost labeled this as a full factory reset to zero body count. Then I realized that even if you replace a car’s wheels and engine, the mileage doesn’t drop. While slicing off your pussy/cock is a full hardware reset, I believe the soul does still encapture sexual experiences. You can change anything about yourself physically these days if you have enough money and self hatred, but no matter how far you run you’ll never escape You.

COMA LEADING TO FULL MEMORY LOSS, divide by 4

Now don’t go running around town standing under anvils in hopes of getting clonked on the head, it’s just not worth it. But if you can’t remember all those people you fucked I do think that is the only way to physically reset the soul. When you fuck someone, realistically, it’s not like there are physical changes being made to your body unless it’s some dude with a genetic abomination horse cock or some AIDS ridden crack-whore. I think as we grow up and bone, fall in and out of love, get betrayed, become bitter, the lasting effects all linger in the mind. And no matter how much time has passed or how much you tell yourself “I’m so glad that’s over,” anyone who ever Meant Something to you will Always Mean Something to you. If you’ve been in love before you know it’s true. They may not be living rent free in the house of your mind daily anymore, but they always have a key to the place and can pop by from time to time for the rest of your life. The more people swinging by your imagination, occupying your thoughts and your dreams and your yearnings, that’s what makes you ran through. It’s deeper than just taking a bunch of dicks up the ass.

And the final way to reduce your body count…….

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Well there you have it. If you want to calculate your true body count, start with the number of people you’ve slept with, then read through and add/subtract from the actual count. If you are guilty of a multiplication factor, scale it up. And God forbid one of the divisions applies to you, knock some off your final total. There you have it; your True Body Count. If you can think of anything I missed on this list let me know and I am happy to asses it numerically. Post your math in the comments below if you’re brave soul.

Today was my first day in NYC and I met a woman who was so tightbodied and inherently sexual that after we parted ways I masturbated to her Instagram immediately upon returning to my room. I’ve never done that before, it felt both shameful and thrilling. If we get married then it’ll be an adorable story to tell our children one day.

I just moved into some shitty dorm in midtown. living in a fourteen square foot dorm room with a random chud. He wasn’t there when I jerked off. The lobby is solid gold but once you get up to my floor the walls are puke green and it smells like the third world. I wish my parents had generational wealth so I could live lavishly during my five months here, but they’re broke and retarded just like me so here I am. The cycle continues.

There’s an RA just like freshman year of college, she led us through the city on a walk so we could see the bright lights and meet the people we’re living with. I began the stroll with two boring software engineer dudes, meekly asking each other about classic normie topics; hometown, college, major. Talking to these dudes was worse than watching paint dry, at least when you huff paint fumes you get a little high. I drank vodka alone before this walk for confidence but hearing these technofucks mumble about computerjargon sobered me up. I slowly stopped conversing and became hyper fixated on a woman fifteen feet ahead of me. Her yoga pants don’t leave much to the imagination, but that didn’t stop me from Imagining Things. That ass was literally hypnotizing me out of my conversation, I hadn’t processed a single thing those scrubs said since I locked eyes on it.

Software guy asks, “What are your favorite television shows” and I just can’t keep doing this, I’ve spent too many years of my life as a fly on the wall who oggles these gorgeous women but doesn’t Act, watching my crushes get picked up by ugly inferior retards who simply have bigger balls then me. I’m sure these fellas can provide perfectly pleasant small talk for months to keep me somewhat socially satiated but I’ll probs never live in NYC again, I need to be That Guy instead of my usual NPC self.

I don’t watch TV, nice to meet you but I Need To Go, I lie, then fast walk up to That Sweet, Sweet, Ass. Now those two can connect over how I’m a brash asshole and develop a deeper bond, I’m so selfless and considerate. I introduce myself to the possessor of said Ass, Ashlyn, and the two others she’s walking with, Zoe and Evan. Ashlyn’s front half matches the back half spectacularly well; she’s an olive skinned Italian with a sharp jawline and tastefully proportioned C-cups. They’re all living here for internships in the fashion industry, which means Evan is Gay As Hell, so thankfully he’s not fucking Asslyn. God smiles down upon me yet again. I recycle all of the normie topics with them successfully and acquire the Instagrams and phone numbers by proposing Let’s All Go Get Margaritas Sometime!! Why is it so much easier to cosplay as a well adjusted person when you Want Fuck?

Return to The Goonlair, immediately start stroking to Asslyn’s Instagram. Is there something wrong with me? I don’t know, I don’t care, I’m probably just In Love. I stop stroking it when I see a pic with her boyfriend… FML. She’s not single, ugh… well, resume beating off to photos without him in it, I’m sorry Mr. Boyfriend but I bet you would do the same if you were me. Shoot thick ropes to a picture of her dressed as a slutty Pink Panther. It feels so good to be In Love again.

1.9

Gay Evan and Ashlyn invited me to the club with them tonight. There is one catch; I must LARP as a homosexual. Ashlyn already has a promoter of course, some slimy Israeli named Eli that she somehow met within minutes of moving to the city. I don’t know how these dirtball clout chasers somehow have a sixth sense that allows them to pounce anytime an attractive woman arrives here, but it’s getting me into some exclusive overpriced club free of charge so Yay! Eli said Asslyn can bring as many of her friends to the table with COMPLIMENTARY vodka AND cranberry juice, but no straight guys allowed. He claims it’s club rules to not have too many loud dudes at a table, but my theory is that he’s just an insecure fuck who wants to fuck Ashlyn. Just like me, #twinning. I wonder if Asslyn’s boyfriend knows about this promoter and if so, what his thoughts are. If the bf doesn’t want to murder the promoter, then he’s probably a cuck who deep down wants me to succeed in my quest to weasel my way between his girlfriend’s thighs.

1.10

These NYC clubs are insane. Overstimulation. Strippers on poles, a billion flashing lights, every fifteen seconds I see a new woman so unfathomably attractive that my lizardbrain whispers Breed her, breed her, right now in the back of the club or on the dance floor who cares just do it do it she wants Your Seed. She Needs The Seed. They all do.

When I met Eli The Promoter I did The Voice. I’m great at impressions, I can do Mexican, Chinese, African, Japanese, Indian, and last night I learned I can do Queer Bottom. Added a little lisp and even batted my eyelashes a little. Ashlyn and Evan nearly blew my cover, cackling at The New Gay Me. Luckily the Israeli is retarded and doesn’t pick up on social cues that well. He came through on his promise of a table and unlimited vodka crans. Fucking disgusting, but free. I’m too broke to turn down free, and I think gay guys are supposed to like vodka crans so I needed to power through to Maintain The Illusion of Homosexuality.

Ashlyn was shaking lots of ass which really made me want to Blow My Cover and My Load. She Facetimed her boyfriend in the club but they couldn’t hear each other since it was so loud, who could’ve seen that coming. He looked annoyed, sitting on some shitty futon with a bunch of Natty Light cases taped to the wall behind him. Saturdays Are For The Boys Flag up, of course he’s a barstool sportsfag. Ashlyn kept screaming “I CAN’T HEAR YOU, IT’S SO LOUDDD” into the phone until he hung up on her. She pouted for like seven minutes but then thankfully went back to gyrating her buttocks. Gay Evan spilled a drink on my lap and gave me apology cocaine, all my clothes are cheap so I didn’t care. He insisted on being the one to hold the scoop beneath my nose, staring directly into my eyes with a creepy smile while I snorted. Didn’t love that, maybe my LARP was a little too convincing.

1.20

Well, this is my friend group for the foreseeable future, two women and a gay guy. I desperately want to fuck Ashlyn but she has a boyfriend. Gay Evan probably wants to fuck me, so I’m gonna have to keep an eye on my drinks around him. I’m not sure if I want to fuck Zoe, she looks like a bulldog and loves black guys, so we’ll probably keep it platonic. Despite the low probability of ejaculating into any of them, they’re all heavy drinkers with high energy, which is good enough for me.

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I’ve never had a gay friend before and it is truly an eye opening experience into the transactional nature of their sexual world. People complain that chicks only want to be with dudes who make money, but it’s wild going through Evan’s Tinder messages where he sends links to jewelry and old sugar daddies immediately purchase it for him. These old pervs are sending him hundreds just to grab dinner on the off chance of getting sucked off. I asked him if he’s a prostitute and he said “No, this is just what everyone does.” So much money and cum being exchanged on a Monday night, one guy even pays Evan just to get verbally berated on Snapchat. New York City; where dreams come true and anything is possible!

1.26

I was chilling in Zoe’s room with Ashlyn when they started talking about “The Soy Sauce Challenge.” I asked what it was and learned that, allegedly, dipping your balls in a cup of soy sauce somehow allows you to taste it. They really wanted to know if it was true since the internet was divided. I told Zoe to grab me a cup that she doesn’t care about too much.

As I was dipping my balls down in Zoe’s bathroom the girls asked if they could watch. I cupped my penis in one hand and opened the door with the other. For some reason the idea of showing two girls my flaccid penis felt wrong, but revealing my balls was comedic and maybe even slightly erotic? Now I understand Louis CK and those guys who like to go to drive throughs with their junk exposed, then kill themselves upon being humiliated on the internet.

Anyways I dropped ‘em into the cup and convincingly lied that the soy sauce taste was overwhelming. They fully believed me, shouting “OH MY GAWWWWD THAT’S CRAZY!” I even shot a half-joking Hail Mary afterwards and asked if anyone wanted to help me clean off, which got some laughs but sadly no volunteers.

1.29

Ashlyn and her boyfriend were having a 70 IQ fight about “Communication Styles” all day long, so she insisted that we go shopping to cheer her up. Why not, I don’t have anything better to do. She kept asking me what stores I like, but I had no clue where to start. Idk, all my clothes are hand me downs from my wigger cousins, I guess I’ve gone to Kohls a few times?

She kept taking me into strange and expensive places, treating me like a puppy in need of a Halloween costume. “Come on, over here! Put this on, try this one, what about this, oh you have to try this! Slay!”

At the final store she came into the dressing room with me to watch me try on some shirts. This gave me an instant throbbing erection, as a man who’s consumed hours upon hours of changing room themed pornography in his youth. I think it might’ve been an erotic experience for her too, I’m pretty sure I caught her ‘mirin my chest as I pulled down some “stylish” shirt that made me look like a tranny. I kept imagining tossing her against the wall, making out while we ripped off each other’s clothes, then a clerk comes in and tries to kick us out but I blow his head off with a pistol In The Name of Romance and she doesn’t care because she loves me too, so I start licking her nipples and-

2.2

That fucking scumbag Promoter Eli is on to me. I’ve continued my Make A Wish Dream of clubbing with hot women Free Of Charge the past four weekends in a row, all under the carefully maintained illusion of homosexuality. I know it’s such a vapid and contrite activity to enjoy, but what can I say; I’m a young broke horny guy, so I enjoy staying up late and drinking for free around dozens of sexy little fucktoys shaking their tailfeathers. It’s a real Monkey’s Paw situation though, as I’m not allowed to make moves on any of them due to Da Rules.

Last night Promoter Eli came up to me to confirm, “So, bro, you’re, ahh, for real really gay, bro?”

Ughhh. Jarvis, initiate The Voice: Yaaaaas Eli, I’m gay as fuck! What do you mean?

“Ok bro, because I just need to be sure you know, because bro you know, I see you staring at the girls sometimes, bro.”

Fuck man, Eli’s IDF super soldier training makes him a tough nut to trick. He’s quite the enforcer when it comes to making sure no straights are profiting off of his weird sex trafficker nightlife connections. It’s also tough because Gay Evan is much more of a natural at being gay than me, as he’s Very Fuckin’ Gay. I’d probably seem like less of a fraud if he wasn’t around.

Eli… I’m fucking gaaaay! I don’t know what else to say!

Lol, that’s all I had. I wasn’t gonna grab his ass to prove it, I really don’t care that much about getting ear raped by EDM every night. It’s fun, but I could survive without it if this guy gives me the boot. Eli stared into my soul, surely using some secret ancient Jewish lie detection test, but this fucker simply didn’t have any evidence to disprove that I’m Here, I’m Queer, and I Love Beer.

“Alright bro, well I will let you know when the men come, okay?”

2.4

Gay Evan, Ashlyn and I were pregaming in her room before going out to get drinks and she changed in front of both of us. While part of me was thrilled to see her sculpted tan Italian asscheeks jiggle in a tight black thong, another part of me was disappointed that she’s relegated me with A Man Who Loves Penis in terms of platonic comfortability. Is everyone forgetting I’m actually straight? Sigh.

2.13

Ashlyn’s boyfriend, Logan, is in town visiting this week for Valentine’s Day. Sadly his plane didn’t crash and he arrived safely. This fucker is so boring, he keeps asking me what I think about various black guys in the NFL. Sorry to disappoint man, but I do not know nor care if Davantavius Noggleson is going to “save The Buccaneers.” I only care about fucking your girlfriend. Plain and simple. This dunce is sitting on the couch with us shamelessly scrolling Tiktok on full volume and laughing like a retarded caveman, “HUH-HUH-HUH-HUH. HUH. Yo check This One Out, bro. HUH-HUH-HUH, dis guy crazy.”

2.20

Ashlyn and Zoe asked to see my Tinder profile so I showed them. They only critiqued one of my pictures where I looked “like a little boy”, but then Zoe boldly scrolled over to the messages, which she did not have permission to do.

“...Why is it only Asian girls?” asked Zoe, “Do you like, got a fetish or something?”

Uhhh, there’s a white girl in there somewhere, I think…

“You’re kinda weird for that. I don’t know why you needed to match with so many of them, they all look the same,” Zoe replied, somewhat racistly.

But their sparkling personalities are so unique, I lied.

2.27

Gay Evan and I are becoming quite exhausted listening to Ashlyn complain about Logan. Evan just doesn’t really seem to care about their issues anymore and would rather talk about the old men he’s fleecing on “dates.” I, on the other hand, am tired of hearing how this girl that I am incredibly attracted to is brainwashed by the cock of some midwit NPC hundreds of miles away in Fucking Iowa of all places. He’s not a great communicator? What a shocker. That’s because he is Nothing, Ashlyn. Logan is a carbon copy replica of all the other frat douches at University For The Retarded, there’s a factory down by the river where they churn out dozens of these useless fucks every hour. They come out vacuum sealed in their packaging wearing jerseys with their favorite Professional Beefcake’s names on the back, backwards hats delicately placed on their noggins to desperately to maintain the illusion of being six feet tall, and trust funds that will be blown on crippling Xanax addictions.

2.29

Lol, they broke up. LFG. Ashlyn is saying it was mutual, which means he dumped her. Girls love to proudly flaunt when they dump a guy, they never miss their chance to do so. Thanks for freeing her, Logan, I think my chances of having sex with your beautiful ex-girlfriend just quadrupled from 3% to 12%.

When I called Matt back home and told him the great news he congratulated me on my incoming “Sloppy Seconds.” This fucker always knows how to rain on my parade.

3.7

I was watching Legally Blonde with Zoe, Ashlyn and Evan, since as the one straight man I’m completely outvoted on doing anything Not Gay. Ashlyn fell asleep with her head in my lap. I wasn’t sure if this was because she Wants Some Fuck, or I just happened to be the person sitting next to her. I was retardedly hoping for more evidence after the movie, but she just woke up and skipped right back to her room. Much to ponder.

3.8

I think I should’ve tried to fuck her after the movie UrghgHGHhhghh Fuck I’m Such A Stupid Pussy urRGhhgHGHHGhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

3.20

I might’ve made a huge mistake today. Went out to bottomless mimosa brunch with the usual crew. It was a Strict Ninety Minute Window, but everyone in this city wants to fuck you over so I started a timer at the first pour. I had a feeling this place wasn’t as generous as they let on and I was right. They tried cutting us off at minute 78, but this group of goyim isn’t as easy trick as the usual victims! As my friends began to whimper about how fast the time went by I pulled out the timer like a Hero, demanding those con artists get us another two rounds of mimosa poured stat.

The girls cheered and Evan patted my lower back with a soft smile. Wtf, chill man. Whatever, I was buzzing, the girls love me, the gay clearly wants to fuck me, I’m on top of the world. Everyone was beyond hammered after this brunch, stumbling home while narrowly avoiding dozens of obstacles.1 We all decided to pass out in Ashlyn’s big bed together in what the girls referred to as a “cuddle puddle.” The name made me cringe but I was too drunk and tired to protest. I made sure to defend my ass from Evan by keeping it pressed against the wall, just in case he got any crazy ideas that would irreversibly damage our friendship. We all slept together for a few hours, until I was woken up to quite the surprise…

Zoe, the pitbull looking girl who said she “only likes black guys”, was rubbing my NWC (normal white cock) through my jeans. I thought I was still in a dream at first, but alas this was a very real OTPHJ. My brain immediately began doing Pussy Calculus; while Ashlyn is much more attractive it feels like an impossibly high tree to climb, she’s too hot. Zoe isn’t not hot, and she might have even bigger cans than Ashlyn.

Fuck it, time to pivot. I began to rub Zoe’s pussy through her jeans despite the fact we’re still lying in a bed with Evan and Ashlyn. The whole situation was quite unexpected and freaky, so I was quickly verging on busting in my pants. Never ideal.

I got up and stealthily tiptoed to the bathroom, Zoe looked at me confused. I beckoned her to follow, come on Fido, come get the bone! She joined me in the bathroom, unzipped my jeans, and full eye contact jerked me for twenty two seconds until I sprayed a zinc-powered load all over poor unsuspecting Ashlyn’s bathmat. I had to bite my own forearm to suppress loudly moaning like a retarded guy eating a chocolate chip cookie. Zoe just smiled, tapped my deflating dong with two fingers and exited the room. I stared down at the mess I made and it finally dawned on me that X dot com is right; NYC is the best city in the world.

3.21

I walked out of the dorm showers today and was immediately met by a smirking Gay Evan.

“You’re a naughty, naughty boy, Thailand Stripclub Reviewer,” he hissed at me through a cheeky grin. This immediately killed my shower boner, and sadly it probably gave him one. Why is that, Evan, I asked flatly.

“Well, when we all decided to take a nap after brunch yesterday, a little birdie told me that some of us weren’t sleeping. Some of us were, apparently… rubbing their good friends. Extensively.”

Evan then points in the direction of my towel covered groin. Fuck man, these Machiavellian gays can’t help themselves, they always need to get in the middle of things creating drama. Can’t we just call it what it was and move on; a Perfectly Normal Over The Pants Hand Job? Sigh.

Heh, wow. Okay. Who told you that? I asked, fully knowing and dreading the answer.

“Ashlyn. Even though she had her eyes closed, she was wide awake during that little petting zoo,” Gay Evan purred, “she thought it would be too uncomfortable to call you guys out so she just sat there and waited it out. I think you and Zoe owe her an apology.”

I didn’t know what to say to Gay Evan and I didn’t like how he was eye fucking my half naked body, so I nodded and left him to his own devices.

3.22

Ashlyn accepted my apology for getting jerked off in her room. I almost forgot that I’m The Main Character now and nothing bad ever happens to me.

I blamed it on being drunk, even though I truly wasn’t by that point. Ashlyn said she didn’t really care anymore and was just shell shocked for a day. When she asked what we did in her bathroom I lied and said we just made out, cumming on her floor felt like a deeper infraction of the social contract. I’ve probably killed my chances of sleeping with her, but when she asked me if I was going to pursue Zoe I said no no no, that was just a one time thing. Need to keep my 12% chance alive, even though it’s probably dropped to 7%. Need to see what’s under that pink panther costume that I can’t stop cum-tributing to.

3.25

Went out to the club with Zoe, Ashlyn and Gay Evan, for the millionth time. Right when I thought I was getting bored of my soulless clubbing humiliation ritual of cockmuncher cosplay, Something Happened. Something Big.

Ashlyn started grinding her ass on my crotch during Promiscuous. One of my favorite songs, and one of my favorite butts. So unexpected, and I loved all forty seconds of it before the night immediately went to shit.

Gay Evan nudged Zoe and pointed at us, and my eyes went wide like a deer in headlights. Zoe grimaced with disgust and stormed off to the bathroom. She really thought she could claim me after one OTPHJ? Come on girl, get real. Gay Evan grinned and wagged his finger in a chastising manner. What the fuck is this guy’s problem lately?

I tried to Lock Back In on the bubbly, toned ass wiggling in front of me. I barely started to caress it with my hands before Eli The Promoter stormed over with veins popping out of his forehead.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOU FUCKING LIAR, YOU’RE NOT A FAGGOT! YOU FUCKING LIE TO ME TO COME TO MY TABLE? YOU LYING FUCK!”

Ashlyn drunkenly mumbled “staaaahp, stahp it Eliiiii” while continuing to grind on me. I tried to do the gay voice in hopes that I can weasel my way out of this pickle, Nooo, Eli, we’re just having fun! She’s just joking around!

“YOU THINK I’M RETARD? YOU THINK I’M FUCKING RETARD YOU FUCK? GET THE FUCK OUT, GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE CLUB AND DON’T COME BACK. I WILL FUCKING STAB YOU, I’M NO JOKE, I WILL STAB YOU IF YOU DON’T LEAVE RIGHT NOW.”

Gay Evan walked over and said, “No Eli, he’s really gay! He can prove it!” I shot him a furrowed eyebrow look of confusion and mouthed, What the fuck?

Ashlyn stopped grinding on me, opting to stay out of whatever the hell is happening in favor of drinking another vodka cran. Eli screamed more threats of violence as his Jew spit started to form a translucent layer of filth over my face. I briefly considered arguing with him, but the ass wasn’t even on me anymore and the group was a sloppy shitfaced mess. What’s the point?

I told Eli goodbye forever and requested Gay Evan to guard the girl’s drinks. Evan asked why and I, finally free from having to do The Voice, loudly screamed, BECAUSE ELI IS A RAPIST WHO DRUGS GIRLS which caused like twenty people snap their heads in my direction. I sprinted out of the club before he could stab me and ran up the street, dodging garbage bags and crackheads with a manic grin plastered on my face. I couldn’t stop laughing at this stupid fun life I’m living, felt like The Joker.

3.26 - early am

Returned from the club and passed out, but woke up to take a piss at 3AM. When walking down the halls I hear crying and a couple of familiar voices around the corner. I peek around and see Ashlyn and Zoe having a heated conversation… about me?

I duck back around the corner, sit down, and cup my hand around my ears. Zoe is accusing Ashlyn of only trying to get with me because she’s obsessed with attention. Fuck you Zoe, maybe she’s trying to shake ass on me because I’m A Great Guy?

Ashlyn is defending herself saying she just wants to have fun. She didn’t think Zoe and I were serious. I want to scream around the corner, You’re right, we aren’t! but instead opt to continue spying. I still can’t believe I’m worth arguing over, I almost want to record it because I know some of my friends back home won’t believe me.

The two drunkenly go back and forth for like twenty minutes covering the same points over and over, Zoe accusing Ashlyn of trying to steal me, Ashlyn saying it’s not stealing and she just needs to let loose after her break up. Eventually the tensions simmer over and they start using their inside voices, so I can’t hear them from around the corner anymore. Bummer.

The Risk Taker in me briefly considers that now might be the best time to Proposition a Threesome, but ultimately I decide that “Ladies, ladies, there’s enough of my cock for the both of ya!” might not play as well as I’d hope. So I go back to my room and wait for a “you up?” text from either one of them sadly that never comes.

3.29

It finally happened. Ashlyn and I got drinks at the shitty bar down the block, just the two of us, then went back up to her room for a postgame. We talked about how Eli The Promoter genuinely wants me dead after my little exit stunt, how Logan has been fucking a girl back in Iowa that’s two points less attractive than Ashlyn, and My Boring Dating Life. She seemed pleased to hear that none of The Tinder Asians have captured my heart enough to seriously pursue. The conversation was fun and real, I kept expecting her to ruin it by saying “I was soooo drunk when I grinded on you” but she never did.

Ashlyn paused our convo to take a piss, and through the locked door I heard “NOO!” I asked what happened; this silly broad dropped her phone in the toilet. Womanmoment.jpg. I generously offered to fish it out for her like a gentleman, or a simp, or a pervert, who fuckin’ knows. She seemed both shocked yet intrigued that I’d splash my hand around in her piss just to save her a trip to Verizon.

“You don’t think my pee is gross?” she asked, staring at me as I washed off her phone and my hands. I turned to her and thought, fuck it, if not now, then when? I quickly asked myself what a guy in a romance novel would say, then mustered up the courage to be a cornball; Nothing about you is gross.

Kinda cringe, kinda gay, but I didn’t give her any time to laugh and immediately went in for the make out. She reciprocated. Three months of sexual tension finally released.

I’m grabbing her head and her ass and they both feel so good in unique ways. She’s kissing me just how I like with a modest amount of tongue and occasional playful bites. I press her up against the wall but nearly fall into the fucking shower, she’s making these little porny grunts that’s causing all the blood in my brain to take a vacation down to my shaft. I pick her up and she’s like four pounds just as I suspected, so I toss her on the bed like a stuffed animal. We keep making out and now I’m getting another OTPHJ from the bed’s rightful owner this time, not from poor Zoe, and I like how she’s petting my dick so softly like it’s a shy cat that needs to be handled delicately. I take off her pants and the skimpy cyan thong somehow makes me even harder than I was before. I start touching her bare skin in all the places that I’ve quite literally dreamt about, her thighs, that bubbly ass, the bare skin where her pubes would be if she had any. Glance at myself in the mirror and resist hitting the American Psycho flex. It all feels so good but it still doesn’t feel real, I’ve had this underdog mentality from Day 1 because she’s a 9 and I’m probably a 7 so it always felt like a Pipe Dream. What does a dog do once he finally catches the car? Well this dog is flipping on to his back per Ashlyn’s request as she pulls down my boxers to Unsheathe The Dick. Her head slowly descends as she engulfs as much of it as she can and…….

Ouch. Oooof. Urghhh. Wow… that’s a lot of teeth. Ok, maybe she’s just a little rusty and will get better… oh jeez, this straight up just hurts. Wtf, she had a boyfriend for years, why is she so bad at this? Fuck you Logan, you should’ve corrected this form, it feels like I’m getting fucking circumcised again. Yowch, ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow… Should I say something? Would that ruin The Moment that we’ve curated? I feel like I should, maybe I can do it in a way where she won’t be self conscious, I just need to OOOF, OW, holy shit, she’s going to leave fucking scars, uhh, need to figure out how to URRRGHHH uhhhhhh ow ow ow, uh gotta word it right… Fuck is this karmic punishment for jerking off to her on the first night I met her? Is it Retribution for trying to rip her away from that dull placeholder of a “man?” Was that Wrong? I don’t remember anything in The Bible that, Oh Fuck, I’m losing it, Oh No, no no no no no not now, please not yet…

“Is something wrong?” asks Ashlyn, holding my shrinking cock as it slowly rescinds into its pathetic unaroused acorn form. I try to blow it off as Too Much Booze and offer to eat her out, but she passes. I pull up my boxers and try to make out with her some more, gotta buy some time to re-stiffen, but we’re both living in our respective heads, feeling insecure about the failed blowjob. The heat and passion has evaporated from the room as quickly as it entered. Ashlyn pulls back and says she’s going to call it a night and get some sleep before work tomorrow. I ask if she wants me to sleep over, praying that we can pick up where we left off in the AM with some freshly minted Morning Wood. She’d like to sleep alone so I leave. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

4.1

I asked Ashlyn what she’s doing this weekend and she didn’t respond. I hate myself.

4.2

I asked Zoe what she’s doing this weekend and she didn’t respond. I hate myself more than I thought I could hate myself.

4.4

I asked Gay Evan if he wanted to hang and he said, “down.” When I suggested we invite Zoe and Ashlyn he replied, “already did and they said no, naughty boy 😂😂😂”

My stomach drops to my asshole. I know I shouldn’t be surprised but it still hurts, I desperately want one more chance to make things right. This isn’t just some girl I want to fuck anymore, we’ve been close friends for three months. I know that after a few drinks we could laugh off the awkwardness, just like we did about Cuddle-Puddle-Gate. Why doesn’t she think I deserve another shot? Maybe I’m not The Main Character, maybe I’m just a generic and discardable normie that spent his whole life trying to be The Shit but just ended up becoming a Piece of Shit. I briefly mourn my future unborn children from a girl who will never speak to me again for what feels like the hundredth time, then start swiping on Old Reliable to find another Korean girl to bring to Din Thai Fung.

Over the past decade of my life I’ve consumed some type of booze and/or drug(s) at least once a week without fail. I realized a few weeks ago that I accidentally completed my first sober week since high school, only because I was working such unusually long hours that I simply forgot to get drunk for a while.

This may sound like a big old glass of Copium, but I do not believe I have ever been addicted to anything. My interest in a particular drug always comes and goes with the seasons, never lingering long enough for me to develop a crippling dependence that gets me fired or sucking dick for cash. There’s been times when women who’ve seen my penis tell me to reel it in a bit, and I usually abide by their requests with relative ease. When my pals describe battling their intense nicotine withdrawals or deep yearning for The Bag, they scoff when I suggest that they simply Don’t Purchase That if they’re really trying to quit.

The revelation that I survived a whole week sober got a young wigga pondering his decade of drug (ab)use, reminiscing about all of the bizarre situations I’ve found myself in by chasing euphoria and hiding from boredom. My journey into the unknown began at the ripe age of sixteen with…

Booze

I was invited to a party for the first time ever a week before beginning junior year. I wasn’t sure if I would get the chance to Consume Alcohol in high school ever again since I didn’t have that many “cool” friends. I loved my whack pack of freaks but they didn’t have the connections to buy beer, so I needed to take advantage of this unexpected opportunity and get Shit Faced like it was my final day on Earth.

I poured myself a red solo cup one third vodka two thirds apple juice and it tasted Drinkable Enough. Immediate panic set in when the host’s gruff looking father appeared right next to me and caught me Titos-handed, but he just laughed and said, “If you’re gonna drink my booze, at least pour me one too.” I offered to make him a vodka apple juice, my newly discovered signature cocktail, but he politely declined and requested a vodka cran. Fucking normie.

I instantly loved how alcohol made me feel. I could feel my shyness burning away with each sip as the warm booze blanket of confidence and serenity embraced me. After a few drinks I shed my skin of the meek awkward kid and rose from the ashes as The Confident Dickhead Phoenix that I always hoped to become. I was making people laugh around the bonfire, shoving my friends in the pool, occasionally pulling my asscheeks out for comedic effect. I had never felt better, so I kept drinking more and more… and quickly learned that alcohol is a drug with diminishing returns.

I transformed from the life of the party into a pathetic, lethargic mess on the couch. The world was spinning and I could barely string together a sentence. My ex walked up with a look of concern and asked, “Are you ok?”

OF COURSE I’M *belches loudly* OK, DUH. ARE YOU OKAY? WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM, I retorted, as everyone in earshot collectively cringed. My ex rolled her eyes and walked away, sitting in some other guy’s lap at the bonfire. That quickly soured my mood, so when the host’s dad walked by again and asked me to fix him another vodka cran I rudely snapped at him:

HOW ‘BOUT YOU POUR IT YOUR SELF OLD MAN, I’M NOT YOUR SLAVE!

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The father stared at me with a look of disgust, then threatened to shut the party down unless someone dragged me out his sight to the edge of the backyard. My pals quickly obliged and tossed me near the hedges, rightfully banishing me to vomit and sleep alone. I woke up the next day to the father tossing a plastic baseball bat at me, demanding that I beat my vomit puddle into the ground to the point of it becoming invisible. I felt physically horrible and quite embarrassed about some of my behavior, so the next time I got fucked up I decided to try…

Weed

I really enjoyed smoking weed as a teenager, it made my friend’s jokes so damn funny and allowed me to appreciate Cartoon Network on such a deeper level. Weed was so much easier to get than booze, despite it being illegal back then. This used to confuse me but now it makes sense - If you’re a drug dealer you’re committing a crime regardless of selling to a kid or an adult, so who cares. Plus, kids actually make great customers if they’re retarded like I was, willing to pay twenty bucks for a gram of mid.

My mom would find my stash all the time in high school no matter where I hid it. Once I buried the ganj in tons of plastic bags inside a Webkinz carrying case deep under my bed, and this foid-tective still somehow cracked the case. She would always cry and say she Failed as a mother, a tad dramatic. I’d just roll my eyes. I have a job, I’m going to college next year, I have friends, who fucking cares, I’d say in attempt to placate her. My dad just laughed and said he already had a hunch I’d started smoking pot, since I “finally stopped being such a whiny little prick all the time.”

My favorite day of weed that quickly evolved into my least favorite day of weed occurred at a music festival. On day one I had one third of a pot brownie of unknown strength which was a blast, so for day two of the fest I munched down the rest of it1 so I could have Twice The Fun.

The high felt electric, I couldn’t stop grinning and thinking I LOVE MUSIC AND BEING OUTSIDE. Things got even better when a girl from the swim team decided to grind on me during AWOLNATION’s performance of Sail, she generously moved my hands up from her waist so that I could feel My First Pair of Tits Ever. When the singer would scream “SAIL” I’d give the honkers a perfectly timed squeeze, which she found hilarious. The tits themselves were nothing special, but the fact that They Were Tits… Stupendous. My friends couldn’t stop laughing at how I looked absolutely geeked out of my mind with a psychotically wide smile, awkwardly cupping the cans with my elbows tilted up uncomfortably high.

Well, the elbows weren’t the only thing that became uncomfortably high - that edible started kicking harder than a donkey getting molested. Throughout the years I’ve tweaked out from weed, classic paranoia that I’m saying stupid shit or just getting stuck in thought loops, but this was different. My fingers started tingling, then it felt like they were expanding, as if they were being exposed to radiation and doubling in size… I couldn’t stop thinking of them as Hotdogs In A Microwave. I fucking hated it. My big grin quickly faded and was replaced by the look of a man who’s witnessed horrors beyond mortal comprehension.

To make matters worse, I felt my nipples being chaffed on my shirt from grinding on the swimmer… I would try to pull my body backwards but she kept backin’ dat shit up on me to close the gap. The chaffing sensation evolved into the paranoia that my pecs were expanding outwardly. This was the point where I became temporarily insane, one of my last human thoughts was that my nips were Pointy Traffic Cone Tits That Were Gonna Poke People.

It was too much to handle, my heart was beating out my chest and my mind racing with fear. I bolted away from the swimmer without saying goodbye, shoving through the crowd like a wild animal lost from his pack. I mentally apologized to all of the people that my newfound pointy nipples poked and truly felt terrible about causing anyone harm2. Fuckin’ weird, I know.

My friends found me lying on my back next to a vending machine hours later. They asked what happened and I did my best to explain Hot Dog Hands Cone Nipples Psychosis, asking if anyone else who had one of those dastardly edibles could relate. Shockingly, no one related and I was simply deemed Very Retarded. It took me a few years after this incident to work up the courage to go deeper down the rabbit hole with…

Psychedelics

Mushrooms were so much different than I expected. The media I consumed growing up made it seem like they turbofry your brain into a stew of tye-dye pudding, your vision becoming full of rainbows and imaginary creatures. That’s simply not true, you can never trust Hollywood. In my experience colors just look slightly more vivid, and typically inanimate objects can develop a slight breathing sensation, appearing to inhale and exhale. I’ve seen rocks, pillows, and even a pair of Yeezys do this. The only thing that sucks about doing mushrooms is the brutal vomit marathons at the start, and the risk of becoming one of those annoying chumps at parties that doesn’t shut the fuck up about doing mushrooms.

I’ve only done acid once and wrote about it here. !!! SPOILER ALERT !!! Long-ish story short, this Asian dude locked me out of my own room at 3AM and he/him loudly received oral sex from a they/them while I suffered in agony. Needless to say, I’ve been much luckier with shrooms.

One time in college my group of pals was in complete disarray. Trent was dating the girl that Mike just stopped fucking, Cody owed Justin four hundred dollars, Thomas was… just generally being more fucking annoying then usual. It was months of constant petty squabbling that nearly tore us all apart. Everyone was behaving like the one thing we all feared most; women. So we decided to man up and do drugs together.

Our plan was to take the shrooms in a way that would make psychonaut warrior Joe Rogan proud; a hike to McDonalds. Our school had a beautiful nature area on the far end of campus, and if you walked all the way through it you’re greeted by the even more beautiful golden arches. I know this sounds retarded, but at least we went outside.

Walking through the forest was relaxing, sometimes. There was infighting when Cody started blasting Travis Scott on his bluetooth speaker, I demanded that he turn off his Low Credit Score Music and put on Literally Anything Else. We arrived at the fabled McDonalds and everything about it disgusted me on a profound level. The artificial fluorescent lights, the soulless corporate architecture that replaced the zany playplaces of my youth, and especially the hamplanet customers wobbling up to the counter to demand more suicidegoop to cram in their obstructed arteries. I took one bit into a chicken nuggie and stared into the “meat” and it stared back at me with judgement. I spit it out and gave the untouched nugs to a very gracious yet incredibly stinky homeless guy outside.

The real gem of the trip took place on the walk home when Trent received an unexpected call from his doctor. We tried to warn him not to answer, medical information is already scary enough without drugs factored in. He didn’t listen, but boy did he wish he did. The doctor informed him of his Gonorrhea diagnosis, leaving the poor kid bug-eyed with shock. Trent turned to Mike, the last guy to fuck Trent’s lady before they became exclusive, and screamed, “YOU GAVE ME GONORRHEA!! YOU DIRTY FUCK!!! I HAVE YOUR GONORRHEA!!”

Everyone couldn’t stop laughing3 as Mike stumbled over his words defending himself, trying to place the blame on some random unknown guy that could’ve also maybe fucked and infected Trent’s girlfriend. It was hilarious how instead of denying that he had gonorrhea, Mike defended himself by essentially suggesting “maybe your girl is just a mega whore?” By the end of the walk tensions had simmered down, and even Trent was somehow in good spirits about the whole ordeal after learning he only needed a week on antibiotics without fucking his beloved skank to heal. Peace and order was restored to the friend group through the magic of drugs and laughing at the dirty-dong dumbass duo.

An unexpected win after this experience was I finally stopped being a picky eater. Maybe it’s because the McDonalds was so disturbing that my subconscious finally demanded Real Food, maybe it was a total coincidence. Whether it was the shrooms’ doing or not I was thrilled about this development, at the time I was having very little success getting pussy after ordering Buttered Noodles on dates.

Things became a little rocky for us when I learned he loves to cheat on my mom in the gayest way possible besides literal gay sex; emotional affairs. It was quite a strange concept to me, he just wants to… talk to more women? If you’re not ejaculating in or near them, what the hell is the point?

He’s been doing it my entire life apparently, messaging random hoes from his past on Facebook and sneaking off on hikes with girls from work that he’s crushing on. I couldn’t comprehend how he could spend decades being morally bankrupt and living under the crushing weight of these secrets without getting any pussy out of it. Doing all the cute little dates and sending love letters, the grunt work, yet not receiving the satisfaction of a rewarding bust seems… a bit homosexual!

It is possible that he was getting pussy and lied to preserve some morsels of respect from his family. If my father was masculine I’d highly doubt things stayed solely emotional, but his nonexistent reserves of testosterone sadly make his pathetic claim of zero play believable. He’s an incredibly frail 130lbs uber-liberal with nine different self-diagnosed mental disorders, far from an irresistible playboy.

The situation has constantly been turning upside down on a week-to-week basis for years, one day Mom is ranting about how He’s Such a Self-Absorbed, Lying, Mentally Unstable Asshole, but by the weekend they’re flying to NYC together to do a bunch of bullshit that The New York Times told them was cool. It’s been an absolute circus that has made my brother and I question, “How the fuck did these bozos raise us to be functioning members of society?” This is the full story of how Thailand Stripclub Senior consistently found new ways to spike everyone’s cortisol, enjoy the shit show.

6.6.2023

I’m high as fuck on my roof and my father is Facetiming me. Perfect timing, I love talking to my parents when I’m high. They’re both such funny freaks, and it’s easier to be nice when I’m on drugs.

I answer and my dad immediately delivers a polished, clearly rehearsed address to deliver the news of his infidelity to me. He speaks in a stoic, press conference tone, listing off routine operational business updates.

“Hello, Thailand Strip Club Reviewer. I want to make you aware that I have been involved in an emotional affair with another woman for months now. Your mother has discovered this, and I feel deep shame for how she has been impacted. I also feel shame having to tell you. We are going to separate, with me moving out of the house, and most likely working towards a divorce. I am very sorry for letting you all down due to my shameful actions and whatever negative emotions they may bring.”

Props for efficiency, but fuck you man. This HR speak doesn’t feel very sincere. Plus mom is barely ever a bitch, this does not feel like a fair reward for her dealing with three decades of your whiny tantrums. I suppose the grass is always greener, they say.

I being my diatribe covering a wide variety of opinions, You’re fucking retarded, This is going to make everything so much worse, You’re a selfish piece of shit, Good luck trying to get new young pussy you old bald fuck… How long has this been going on for, anyways?

“This time, or the entire duration?”

… Dude, what?

“It originally began a year and a half ago. Your mother caught me after six months, so I ceased communication with Jessica… for three months. I reached out to Jessica again about nine months ago… I just…” This wigga beings to sob, “I don’t know, we’ve never done anything sexual, but I really think we have a connection and-”

Jesus fucking Christ man, alright, just shut the fuck up. You’re making a huge mistake and ruining your own life, but good luck I guess. I hope you, fuck, I don’t know man, find happiness or something. Please don’t talk to me for a few months.

I hang up the phone and chimp out, chucking plastic chairs against the door and screaming FUCKING RETARD over and over again until someone in a neighboring apartment yells “Shut the fuck up, man!” Fair enough, it is a Tuesday after all. I’m sorry sir, I’m just not used to having emotions.

I head downstairs to my apartment and call my mother and my brother. Pretty standard reactions. She’s crying a lot, he’s furious, I try to make them feel better. It probably doesn’t work. What a mess.

6.25.2023

Telling all of my close friends The News has been a repetitive, unfulfilling process. They all give me sad puppy eyes and act like I was just diagnosed with cancer. The sympathy comes from a nice place which I can appreciate, but this wounded animal treatment is frustrating. Having the same conversation with dozens of people is growing tiresome, I’m not getting anything out of it anymore. Everyone’s prying for more information about My Feelings whenever I get drunk and that happens to be my least favorite thing to discuss when I’m drunk. Thanks, guys I know you’re “always here to talk,” but can we just go back to doing Chinese accents?

“You should go to therapy!” recites the longhouse in unison. NO, for a variety of reasons.

1. I‘ll never pay someone to talk to me.

2. I don’t think this is a good topic to ponder every week.

3. I know which of my friends aren’t retarded and can advise if needed.

4. My father is a therapist, which makes me question the entire profession’s qualifications.

I’m an uneducated, unmedicated, untherapized free thinker and that will never change.

7.22.2023

My father just completed his move out of the hotel room and into a one-bedroom apartment. I’m on Facetime with him getting the grand tour. Mattress on the floor, dudes rock… but why is it twin-sized?

It’s my first time talking with him since The News was revealed and we are both avoiding it, excluding one comment.

“Don’t you like how this painting goes well with this one? And check this one over here, I got such a great frame for it. It’s seriously the perfect setup, I found the perfect spot.” says Dad as he neurotically bounces around the depressing one-bedroom apartment.

Haha, yeah, I’m sure all your chicks are gonna dig it.

“I’m not interacting with any ‘chicks.’ Your mother is the only woman I care about right now, I’m focused on her and only her.”

He pans the camera to a different wall, revealing a massive four foot tall printed photograph of my mom’s smiling face.

“See?”

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8.2.2023

My mother has begun therapy for the first time in her life, and my father has just fired his eighth therapist in the past five years. He’s meeting with the ninth one next month, I’m sure it’ll be a match made in heaven and Dad will finally get the answers he needs to become normal.

The two continue to meet with one another so that my mom can continuously Win The Argument, as she loves to do. I tried to tell her that she should probably stop wasting her time with him and start cooking up that divorce. Nope, she wants to keep on putting him in his place for the next year and then decide on their future. They’re both too mentally ill, it would be best to skip couples counseling and go straight to dual lobotomies.

10.7.2023

“I think your father is trying to sleep with his silver therapy nurse,” says my mother.

What the fuck are you talking about?

“Oh, he hasn’t mentioned that to you? Ugh, always hiding things, that guy,” she says with a laugh.

It turns out my father has been eating small amounts of silver to supercharge his immune system. This gullible fuck believes eating fruit is overrated so it’s time to start gobbling up the periodic table. And get this, he’s not even Jewish, so there’s really no excuse to be consuming valuable precious metals.

Is he turning blue yet? I just watched a documentary about a cult leader who ate a lot of silver, turned blue and died1

“Wow, can you please send that to him? I’ve tried sending him articles, there’s so many dangerous effects but you know how he doesn’t like to read.”

Sure… I feel like you should just let him eat it though, it might be easier for all of us if he… ya know…

“Don’t talk like that. He’s still your father, and I think he might be getting better. He’s been doing lots of self reflection lately.”

11.29.2023

Awkward moment during my Thai massage today. The middle-aged imported masseuse sex slave lady with kind eyes tried to take advantage of me, surprise surprise! However as she was teasing my gooch area, my mind started wandering to how my dad used to get massages all the time when I was growing up… and so many massage parlors in my hometown have been shut down for illegal wankage over the years…

Was my dad paying for handjobs throughout my entire childhood? Maybe they shut down his favorite spot and that’s why he started cruising for a second lady? Fuck, am I just going to become him one day? Here I am, sitting on a massage table about to get jerked even though I’m casually dating two different girls who both fuck me frequently. I need to get my shit together.

Sorry lady but I’m going to take my business and boner elsewhere, I cannot allow you to caress my musty old spring roll today. Thinking about my father has deflated my dong and I must go down a different, more righteous path than him.

1.17.2024

I requested a one-month break from communication with my dad today. We were talking on the phone about the usually mind-numbingly boring topics; his injuries, a new salmon recipe, how silly our cats are. It’s the exact same junk every time, there’s no substance to our conversation and it’s just reciting a bunch of bullshit to dance around the obvious fact that he nuked his life and our family for some hoe he isn’t even on speaking terms with anymore. Allegedly.

Do you want to talk about anything real for once, I asked. Like, are you trying to get back with Mom, or just stringing her along for a few more months till you find some new chick?

He retreated into his sad snail shell of silence, pausing 40+ seconds before every sentence. When he speaks he does so in a whiny whimper, complaining about how he has too much guilt to know what to do. It’s an incredibly effective defensive maneuver, becoming too pathetic to stay mad at.

6.29.2024

My dad has been visiting me for the past four days. It’s been about a year since The News broke, no progress towards divorce sadly. There are a lot of differences from the last time he came out here.

I used to let him crash on my couch but that’s switched to a hotel. Instead of the all day hang, I offer him a two-hour-long activity for us to do together and he has to occupy himself for the remainder of the day. I can suppress my disgust for a little, but eventually it gets hard to look at him. It doesn’t help that he’s become such a poor conversationalist, I’m just sort of monologuing and doing dumb bits the entire time while he chuckles and solemnly stares at me. I feel like a bombing stand up comedian.

It’s the final day of the visitation and I ask what he got up to yesterday.

“Well, I went to the bakery to get some pastries for your mother, and then I went out to a bar that night.”

A bar? Wow, I thought you aren’t drinking these days?

“Correct. I wasn’t drinking, I was just dancing. There were some friendly women there that I danced with.”

I’d kept it cool all week but this got to me. Buying a strudel for my mom in the daylight and hoe hunting a few hours later. We silently sat on the beach for ten minutes before my rage uncontrollably spewed out. I truly didn’t mean to spazz on him since it’s always in vain.

It wasn’t anything that he hasn’t heard before, he’s a selfish unstable prick who’s one foot in and one foot out with my mom, it’s turning her into a mentally-unstable mess, can you just make your mind up and either commit or get divorced, yada yada yada.

“....... Thank you for sharing that. But I don’t see why you and your mother are so upset that I danced with other women.”

…You told her about the dancing too?

“Yes. She reacted similarly to you.”

You seriously can’t understand why this upsets everyone?

“...Not really.”

Okay.

We sit in silence for a lot longer and he starts to cry. I roll my eyes. I walk him back to his car and he hands me the strudel, “Your mom said she doesn’t want it anymore.” He hugs me while sobbing like a toddler. I wish him luck with everything and then drive home, relieved that he will be on a plane shortly.

9.12.2024

Talking to my dad again for the first time in a while. Mind-numbingly dull as usual, he’s just spamming me with inquiries like it’s a job interview. It’s like those scenes from Love on the Spectrum, “What is your favorite color and favorite animal and favorite food and favorite games and favorite tv show”

The only interesting part of the conversation is when my dad mentions he’s giving a knock-off TED Talk at the library about how to maintain a healthy marriage. Comedy gold.

Are you doing it to pick up some bored housewives, I ask.

“No, I am doing it so I can reach the next stage of my professional career.”

… Are ya sure?

“Yes, and trust me, I understand the irony of the situation. Just because my marriage isn’t perfect, doesn’t mean I don’t know how to help other people.”

Gotcha. Are you going to add a little disclaimer at the end that you’ve been kicked out of your house and only on speaking terms with one of your children?

“... I’ll consider that, thank you for the feedback and sharing how you feel. If you would like a Zoom link to watch at home, I can send one.”

I’m tempted to say I view you as a complete retard and I’m shocked that you’ve somehow bamboozled these poor librarians into bringing your schizophrenic ramblings to their establishment, but instead I settle on I have a meeting at that time, good luck though.

10.2.2024

The talk did not go well and my father has started a nuclear war with the librarians.

He thought it was a smashing success, so a month later he asked for another speaking opportunity. The library notified him that there were audience complaints that he overshared what was supposed to be privileged client details and confidential personal information, which is both frowned upon and illegal.

Rather than accept his fate my dad DEMANDED to know who complained so he could interrogate them. The librarian said that information is privileged and confidential.

Dad crashed out on them via phone, email, and handwritten letter. The library MUST share the names of the conspiratorial complainers who did not understand his creative genius, as they are most likely running around town and disparaging his name to everyone, tarnishing his professional reputation. He really thinks the whole world revolves around him to a hilarious degree.

I told him it’s probably fine to drop it and I doubt the audience members are trying to get him cancelled, but that is a risk he’s not willing to take. He’s worried they’re going to protest his next talk, scheduled at my mom’s place of business. So fucking weird, I hope someone calls in a bomb threat.

2.7.2025

“It really seems like your father is a whole new person,” says Mom

Hmm, I’ve heard that before… What makes you say that?

“Well, he’s cooking food for me and helping out with your grandmother, and you know how much he despises your grandmother. I think his new therapist is really helping him become less selfish for once.”

Sigh. Time to dust off the old ribbon…

4.4.2025

I’m sitting in my bed on Facetime with my mother, brother, and father. They’re all cramped on a couch and we’re having our first virtual family meeting. I hope it’s our last virtual family meeting.

The announcement is that my dad is finally ready to commit to my mom for good and is moving back into our childhood home. Thank God, it only took them two years of driving my entire extended family insane.

Mom does a little speech about how Dad has earned another chance, Dad performs a humiliation ritual apologizing for his actions. My brother and I are just nodding with pursed lips doing the Jim from The Office face.

“So, what are your thoughts guys,” asks Mom.

I want you two to be happy, I hope this works out, Dad don’t fuck it up again because this is your last chance, I rattle off. I just want this to be over so I can start day drinking.

My brother is silent. Mom continues to pester him for thoughts. Eventually she got what she asked for.

“Dad you’ve pretty much just jerked us all around for two years and acted on all of your gut impulses without considering how anyone else may feel or react. You’ve been lying to everyone for decades and it doesn’t feel like you’re going to stop any time soon. I feel disgusted whenever I think of you. If you betray Mom again I’m never going to want to have a relationship with you, so if you move back in don’t fuck things up like you always do.”

Well, you got what you asked for Mom. The boomers thank my brother for sharing his thoughts. Family meeting adjourned.

4.29.2025

My father pulled the old switcheroo and has decided to stay in the bachelor pad and start cruising the dating apps for other women. The family meeting made him have a mental breakdown and reconsider everything.

He doesn’t want “one more chance” to make things right if he moves back in. That’s too much pressure, he doesn’t trust himself to not fuck things up again. Why risk making another massive fuck up when you can just continue to mildly disappoint everyone? He’s becoming self aware and realizing he can’t trust himself.

6.7.2025

My mom told me that she’s starting a podcast with my dad, and she’s upset that my brother called the idea Retarded. I think his analysis was spot on.

I told her that I think it’s a very bizarre project, but sadly we live in a free country that allows anyone to start a podcast so good luck. I can tell her not to but what’s the point, she never listens.

My dad texted me after asking if I would assist them with editing and distribution. I gave him seven reasons why I have no interest in spending my time on this project.

7.1.2025

Today was my dad’s last day in town. At our final dinner I asked him if he wanted to talk about anything real for a change.

He got teary eyed and said, “I just know our relationship will never be the same.”

It won’t be if we continue to avoid the elephant in the room every time we talk to each other. I’m always going to be on and off pissed at you if you keep up this on and off relationship with Mom.

“.............. I just don’t know what to do. I love your mother, but I’m not in love with your mother.”

You should leave her alone then.

“But she pressures me into seeing her all the time, and I feel too guilty to say no.”

I think it’ll hurt her a bit in the moment if you start pulling back but it will hurt her less in the long run. You just need to make a decision, no one is going to love you again until you do.

“Thank you for sharing how you feel.”

2.12.2026

I wonder if my mother and father are going to be trapped in a permanent washing machine spin cycle of topsy-turvy on and off again dating. It’s been nearly three years of therapy, vacations, failed no-contact periods, and everyone who knows about it just feels so frustrated that the divorce is nowhere in sight. My mom has tried to cut him off but came crawling back around seven times. It’s getting hard to feel bad for her when all she does is ignore everyone’s advice.

I wonder how their retardation will impact my future. Eventually I’ll marry a broad and my parents will attend the wedding in emotional limbo crying about each other on the dance floor, then I’ll have two point five children who grow up and ask why Grandma and Grandpa sometimes live together but sometimes don’t and I’ll go Long story, kiddo, and then my marriage will fall apart because I get caught cheating on my wife since it’s hardwired in my DNA and I can’t fight these urges forever, and my mom says, “You’re a disappointment but I love you anyways” and my dad says “I always told you we’re the same person, let’s go to Thailand” so we fly off and fuck prostitutes until one of us dies of AIDS. Which we both deserve.

Luckily for me there are apps for this exact situation. Everyone loves to weigh in on online dating discourse, any retard can churn out a well written thinkpiece that either blackpills, “Dating is cooked, can’t beat hoeflation” or inspires, “You can get more pussy, if you Act Like Me.” I don’t know which is true and honestly couldn’t care less.

My one brief opinion on the matter is that meeting up with a girl from the internet is quite the gamble since people often present themselves completely differently over text compared to real life.

When I meet someone in person I can assess if there’s any Fuck potential based on how we meet eachother’s gaze and if there’s any banter in our initial back and forth. It takes fifteen seconds to confidently know if someone enjoys sucking on balls for pure love of the game.

With an app you spend all this precious time assessin…

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Me too, happens all the time actually.

My life was fucking terrible in the spring of 2020 so I was feeling more impulsive than usual. Forced out of NYC due to the viral cough that killed a couple of fatties, I was living at my parents’ house and had spent months cooped up against my will scrolling Twitter, sending solicited dick pics to a girl with pierced nipples thousands of miles away, and generally Being Pathetic.

With no work or school to keep me occupied, I was overjoyed when my friend Cody offered to sneak me back to my college town for a night of poker and boozing. Finally, some face to face time with people under the age of sixty who don’t want to erode in front of CNN all day memorizing the latest Fun Fauci Facts Of The Week! More importantly, Cody is guara…

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I love numbered lists. Everything can be ranked, if you’re autistic enough.

This is not just a simple review of size, shape and smell of the various pussies I’ve been privileged to enter over the last few years, that would be too low brow for a scholar like myself.

This analytical deep dive will factor in both pussy quality AND context surrounding the sexual activity when determining each woman’s ranking. To put it in layman’s terms, an uglier person can rank higher than a hottie if they’re doing tricks on it.

All names have been changed of course, and I’m leaving most one night stands off of here since they’re often pretty mediocre and uninteresting despite that being an entire multibillion dollar industry in the world of female podcasting.

Disclaimer: I have absolutely no hatred in my heart for any of the lovely foids listed

9. Katie

This girl was by far the most boring fuck of my life, but I’m going to give her a pass; her dad died of cancer two months before.

I met Katie while studying abroad in Europe, traveling around the continent in a group of friends. Our fucks were few and far between, and all quite underwhelming. Despite having a gorgeous swimmer bubble butt, she was taking more pills than a lab rat… the poor girl had her dopamine fried harder than a dog in a Chinese restaurant. I think I only saw her smile three times over a few weeks. Despite her initiating sex, it felt like her mind was elsewhere when we did it. Katie solemnly starfished with a distant gaze, mentally doing a crossword or thinking of her deceased father, while I desperately attempted to evoke some sort of reaction, inserting from every single angle on the protractor.

The first time we fucked, a drunk German walked into our unlocked hostel room, confused about where his bed was. As the door opened we both whipped our heads over as I lay mid-thrust inside her in missionary. The German went, “Oh mein Gott! Vow! So zorry!” She did not let me continue penetration after he closed the door.

The second time there was no private room, so we ascended a ladder onto a roof. She hated laying on the rough surface, I kept banging my knee, and we called it quits pretty quickly. Once again, I did not cum. Despite our sexual incompatibility I enjoyed talking about death with her and wish her the best, she’s totally loaded so she’ll be fine.

8. Liz

I met Liz through my college roommate, who called dibs on her, which didn’t matter to me since I had no chance in hell of seeing her naked. It only took one glance to see how much hotter she was than me, so I quietly placed her in the pipe dream category. No pun intended.

This was back when I thought a dude’s looks mattered, like the retarded little teenager I was. I was shocked when Liz added me on Snapchat, and for months I cautiously maintained a Snapstreak, spending countless hours carefully planning each caption or message. We were slowly establishing a friendship while my roommate aggressively hit on her at every chance he had. I was playing The Long Game without even realizing it.

After months of being in what I thought was the friendzone, I got the invite to be her sorority formal date. This was my Super Bowl. After the dance we were making out on her couch, and my eyes bulged out of my head when I got the invite to her bedroom. What the fuck is happening- I’ve never had a shot at Prime Pristine Perfect Pussy before.

I was so nervous and hammered that I couldn’t stay hard for longer than a minute upon finally obtaining the License To Tap. I could see the look of regret slowly generating on her face. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, uhhh… maybe we can try again in the morning, I asked sheepishly. You can leave, she replied. Before I could offer one final box munching I was whisked out onto the cold winter streets, stumbling home while cursing myself for not packing a BlueChew.

My first fuck with Liz was sadly my last fuck- the unsatisfying experience draping an awkwardness over everything that I couldn’t figure out how to shake off. The Snapstreak died, the party invites dried up, and I spent a few months in a manic state trying to get another crack at the cooch, but I think my desperation to fix things made the vibes even worse. It drove me temporarily insane realizing that months of work all came crumbling down in about forty five seconds, hell we might have started dating if I had managed to get bricked up during crunch time. When my roommate found out he punched me in the stomach so hard that I pissed myself a bit, the cherry on top. Karma for neglecting the sacred rule of dibs.

7. Naomi

I enjoyed Naomi’s large breasts, with very little sag to them, but I did not enjoy her proclivity towards post-coital verbal abuse.

I met this girl on Hinge and she seemed like a super sweet hippy type, very quiet and zen. During the hookups she seemed to have a great time, but afterwards a switch would flip and she would become this dark force of nature that seemed intent on ripping me to shreds.

“You probably thought I liked that, pfft, as if,” scoffed Naomi.

Erm, well you did cum so I thought it was alright…

“That’s not true. That didn’t do anything for me. You think you’re the shit? Well you’re not. I don’t care about you at all, you don’t even deserve to fuck me.”

Copy that haha can I have a glass of water please.

This would go on and on until I’d get fed up and leave, and the next day a sugar sweet text would come in: “Had so much fun with you last night!” It was truly perplexing. I don’t recommend this to almost anyone, but I think a therapist could be useful. Maybe her ex had a thing for being dominated. Maybe she has a unique latex allergy that just turned her a bit mental upon contact. Who knows, but it was quite frightening to know I’d get bullied right after delivering the dick.

The final time Naomi and I hooked up she called me a little bitch before fully scaring me off by discussing unplanned pregnancies; ruminating on how hard it would be for her to decide between “getting to kill my baby” or “keeping it so she could ruin my life.” Dark shit. Not sure if her bark was worse than the bite but I sure as fuck didn’t want to find out. Ranking her higher than Liz because I was able to jizz a few times before the emotional lashings began.

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6. Lilly

Lilly had some serious problems with her bladder.

I met her at my college desk job; she was a freshman when I was a… sorry liberals, 22-year-old senior. I invited her tiny 4’10” frame to a party and shockingly managed to find her in the swarm of warm bodies. We made out on a couch upstairs until my ex’s friends broke in and bitched me out in front of her. “You piece of shit, seriously? ONE week ago you were fucking [EX]! Who the fuck is this?” The freshman was not dissuaded by their theatrics. She’d come over to fuck me quite often for the next 6 months.

Two things about this broad led to recurring sexual problems: she liked to get me stoned, and she pissed way too much. Not on me, you perverted freaks, don’t jump to conclusions. We’d be making out and she’d get up to pee every five minutes. Since I was high as giraffe pussy I’d start tweaking out. Why is she pissing so much? Is she doing drugs on the sly? Is she stealing from me? There’s gonna be piss driblets on her underwear… on my hand… on my dick…that’s yucky………….

The constant interruptions killed my erection about 25% of the time. She’d become enraged, demanding I regain hardness, which only made it worse. As we learned with Naomi, I don’t find anger to be arousing.

“Why can’t you just fuck me?” I plead the fifth, let’s just try again next week. You’re more than welcome to continue watching Planet Earth with me, but I’m locking in on these hermit crabs instead of your breasts. This little turtle dick just ain’t leaving the shell tonight to splash around in your pissy puss.

Lilly and I ended amicably when I graduated. My younger brother ended up in a class with her three years later and attempted to hit, allegedly.

5. Amber

I ungayed my first girlfriend temporarily, then regayed her since I’m that annoying, apparently. She dated a girl before me and is engaged to one now.

We met in high school when I was a midget. We became close friends, hanging out daily. When we’d play Call of Duty Zombies at her house I would excuse myself to the basement bathroom and explore the dryer to look at her underwear. What the fuck is wrong with you, man. After eight months of pursuing her, she rejected my confession of love- sorry shortcel! We reconnected later once I grew and was Tall Enough To Ride the rollercoaster of an unstable latina.

Amber statutorily raped my seventeen-year-old ass and I loved every minute of it. I was retardedly horny and would accidentally leave condoms in my room which my parents would find, lecturing me with disgust. I wonder if my dad got jealous of all the action I was getting and cheated on my mom that year. He likes to do that sometimes.

My mom would holler at me in the kitchen while holding the condom wrapper: “You know, there are other ways to show your love!!” Girl, can you chill the fuck out and just be happy I’m not a school shooter? I even got caught by my friend’s mom one time after prom while hammered in a basement off of Burnetts cherry flavored vodka. She walked in and stared at me kneeling on the floor mid doggy style, chuckled, then just turned around and left.

Amber gave horrible blowjobs, but that’s not her fault since she only had lesbian experience clam slamming at that point and the Jews snatched my foreskin. After twenty minutes of painfully unsuccessful slobbering I would lie to her and say I came a microscopic amount, to which she would proudly pat herself on the back while I seethed with quiet rage about my inability to speak the truth due to fear of confrontation. Ahhh, youth.

When we got to college she became a political science major, we started fighting every night about Issue of The Week. We were at each other’s throats about Israel and Palestine before it was trendy1. Amber ended up dumping me after cheating on me with random guys in Mexico, twice, about six months apart. I took her back the first time because I thought I could save her from the streets like the hopeless romantic I am. Now she’s engaged to the butchiest of butch lesbians- might just straight up be a tranny at this point? My friends occasionally send me pictures of Amber’s new “girl”friend, joking that she’s slowly evolving into me due to her new manly haircuts and attire. I wonder if one of them has punched the other one yet, since apparently that’s how it always goes when two women shack up.

4. Shelly

Shelly was conventionally supermodel-hot: six feet tall with hefty milk cannons and a fat pilates ass, but god did she start to annoy me.

We met at a bar and I thought she was one of the funniest women I’d ever encountered, so many goofy anecdotes and hot takes! As the relationship developed I slowly realized that she wasn’t witty at all. She was a toy with a pullable string on the back that recites one of fifteen preprogrammed longwinded stories. In group conversations she would stare vapidly until there was an opening to recite some monologue about her aunt in Canada that was tangentially related to the topic at hand. No one has ever told her “Shut up, no one cares” because her parents are pussies and she is tall like an intimidating man.

Being a former theatre kid she would put on quite the performance in the bedroom with pornographic noises and many requests while I got my fuck on. I loved it at first; it’s just like Da Pornhub Bro!!!! but after a while my neurotic mind started questioning how much of it was an act. These moans are cranked up to 95% while I’m thrusting at 35%… the math just doesn’t check out. What really ground my gears was the constant spam of “Don’t cum yet” until the eventual “Ok cum for me!”, which made me feel like a circus animal being trained. It’s my penis and I decide when it jizzes, thank you very much, Ms. Bossypants.

One night I asked her if she ever had a plan to get off her SSRIs, which she had been on since she was eight years old due to the trauma of growing up in a generationally wealthy family. Nope, she was content being a pharmacy for the rest of her life.

Shelly would get annoyed that I refused to send “Good morning, beautiful!” texts. I accused her of making up pointless problems since her life was so perfect, she would stop fucking me for weeks at a time, and the dimly lit Thai massage parlors started screaming my name like the Green Goblin mask. It was a vicious cycle of decay that I didn’t really care to fix. Shelly wanted me to turn into a completely different “person”, AKA a cheeseball simp who’s content being half gay bestie and half therapist to a sexy yet narcissistic brat.

I tried breaking up with her during a massive four-hour fight at dinner, but she convinced me that we shouldn’t give up just yet. Then she spent a week ignoring most of my texts and broke up with me instead; the most based thing she ever did.

3. Bella

Bella gave me the worst blue balling of my entire life, and it wasn’t her fault.

I met Bella in The Bronx. Within two minutes of meeting me she asked me on a date. This is not because I’m a looksmaxxed gigachad, I just had The New Guy aura. One of my fellow interns brought me to a small private college party of all upperclassmen who had known each other for years. I was just in NYC for a few months on a job. Bella swooped in on the unrecognizable midwestern twink like a hawk, and I was just as enticed by her pierced nipples and proud use of the word “retarded.”

Weeks later, when we had a date planned in Manhattan at a Chinese restaurant, I gave my himbo in-room roommate Chase the heads up that I was going to be bringing a girl back later that night. Since I was only there for a semester and that city is expensive as fuck, I resigned myself to sleeping with some random chud three feet away from me in a college dorm style room. After chowing down some wok-fried rottweiler I brought Bella back up to my twin bed, introduced her to Chase, and began fondling her under the blanket while watching The Mule2.

I don’t know if Chase was socially retarded, a shameless pervert, or secretly despised me, but this guy would not leave the room. For one hour and fifty-seven minutes, the full runtime of The Mule, my dick was thrashing against my jeans begging for escape like an undocumented child in a kennel. By the third act I became desperate and whispered a plea for a subtle over-the-pants hand job. But Bella would not get freaky in front of this freak, and I was too much of a pussy to tell him to go read his book in the community lounge. As I walked her to the subway she giggled about how weird Chase was and promised to blow me next weekend.

The head was significantly delayed since her school sent everybody home due to COVID hysteria a few days later; I wish we knew that it only kills the obese and elderly earlier, thanks Dr. Faucgoy. But I’ve learned that Pussy is a dish best served cold... after texting each other pictures of various body parts on and off for eighteen months I finally flew back to NYC one weekend and stayed up with Bella for nearly forty-eight hours snorting cocaine, blasting zinc-powered loads, and watching every Fast and the Furious movie. A real cinephile, that girl. I thought I was going to have a heart attack and die around 5am when we were nearing the end of the bag and franchise, but it was one of the best weekends of my life.

She’s a therapist now.

2. Current Girlfriend

Can’t write about her because that feels just too perverse of a line to cross. She isn’t doing anything crazy like eating my ass but we always have a swell time.

1. Megan

Now this girl had no fear when it came to munching butt. But after a while it just wasn’t worth it anymore.

Megan was a severely mentally unstable woman, and I admire her for successfully hiding this through dental school. The woman who is afraid of balloons and jealous of her sister’s fake tits3 can now give you a root canal. We met in a basement as a party was winding down, chatting in a big group until one guy started having a seizure after smoking weed. Once he was done convulsing, everyone worked together to help get him upstairs; everyone except Megan, who whispered in my ear to stay downstairs with her while they left. This was the only time I’ve ever ejaculated ten minutes after wondering if someone was going to die.

Our tumultuous on-again, off-again relationship had two rather explosive endings. The first time was because she told me about her crush on a friend’s brother that she had been Snapchatting. Megan randomly revealed this postcoitally, fully on her own volition, and it felt like someone took a tire iron to my gut. I asked her, “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this information besides break up with you?” to which she cried, “I’m sorry, I promise I’ll stop going to the gym with him!”

The fact that she was working out with a dude was also news to me, which made it even easier to say sayonara.

However, in a weak-willed, cucklike state many months later, I was lured back in by a weekend of High Noons, jet skiing, and unprotected sex on her parents’ boat. How the fuck is a twenty-one-year-old wigga supposed to say no to that? I met her parents for the first time and they paid for all of my meals and activities, it is the closest I’ve ever felt to being a sugar baby.

Things were good for a whole semester until she felt I neglected her at a party and invited a male friend to sleep in her bed. She “didn’t fuck him” and just “cuddled,” overconfidently assuming her pussy pass would get her out of trouble. Wrong. Dumped Megan on the spot, despite her attempts to prevent me from leaving the room using an onslaught of shoves, slaps, and punches. She was beating my ass like the black guy in Wii Sports boxing, but nothing left a bruise so I can’t be mad at her for just getting a little too passionate.

When I came by to get my shit back she handed me a shaker of chicken seasoning as a parting gift. My roommates were convinced it was mixed with period blood or rat poison, but I wasn’t that opposed to dying at the time so I gave it a try later that week. Despite my attempted shakes nothing was coming out, so when I unscrewed the top I discovered a folded piece of paper. Upon further inspection it was a mini hand-written manifesto about how I shouldn’t try to hide from our love and that we were meant to be together. This Hail Mary was creative and unintentionally hilarious, but ultimately I remained unpersuaded and never dated Megan again.

However, two months later in a state of weakness I fucked her once more and she gave me genital warts. Pandora’s box, literally. Despite all the mental and physical damage I took from Megan, she gave me many of the best nuts of my life and I thank her for her service and cervix. If you can find a loyal woman who will suck you from the front and back, never let her go.

I surf because it’s the only activity that forces my dopamine-fried peanut brain to stop scrolling Twitter long enough to remember I don’t actually want to kill myself. It’s a much needed break from my daily consumption of FBI crime statistics, dashcam footage of vehicular carnage, and reminders that I will never own a home because of the boomers or the Chinese or the Jews etc etc

I slip into my hog compressing wetsuit and scrub my board up and down with wax. The barely legal beachside teens are glancing at me, probably drooling at such a sexual sight. I value commitment unlike my father, and even though my relationship is on the verge of imploding, I leave them to enjoy their High Noons in peace.

I take a few steps into the water. Suddenly, I feel a slight sharp jab on my left foot right below my ankle. Did a crab just pinch me? Did I step on some glass carelessly tossed in the ocean by some subhuman _______2?

Then about 5 seconds later an intense burning sensation develops on my ankle, I involuntarily stumble forward and begin muttering naughty words to myself. The burns quickly evolve into what I imagine getting stabbed feels like, and I begin to make loud guttural autism grunts.

I pivot toward shore, but three steps later my leg gives out and now I’m crawling and straight up screaming due to the exponentially increasing pain. I’m really struggling, the water is only a few inches deep but behind me the waves thrust my massive surfboard into my gooch. I never expect to be hollering in pain while taking backshots, but I’m proud to report I don’t enjoy it.

I make it back to shore and glance at my foot which is gushing deep red blood all over the beach. I glance at the group of 19 year olds praying one of them is going to deus ex machina a menstrual pad to help contain the bleeding, but they are now revolted by my presence and packing up their picnic for a calmer spot. Fair enough. I continue my tardscreeches.

“FUCKING JESUS CHRIST GODDAMNIT FUCK WHAT THE FUUUUUCK AHHH AHH AHAHAAH JESUS FUUUUUUUUUU-”

“Hey man, can you watch your language? I’m at the beach with my kid!”

Behind me stands a stern, suburban dad glaring with his hands on his hips. His kid is a couple months out of the womb, he’s not conscious enough to walk, let alone develop PTSD from witnessing a bloody wigga’s crash out.

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“LOOK AT MY FUCKING FOOT MAN IM FUCKING BLEEDING EVERYWHERE OHHH GODD AHHHHHHHHHH FUK OWWOWWOWW”

The Father glances at my foot and his face drops. “Oh shit.” He says, before scooping up his kid and running away, hopefully in the direction of a lifeguard tower. I can’t walk to one myself, hell I can barely hold back tears and slurs. The pain occasionally dies down just long enough to give me a flash of hope that it’s ending, before returning in full force.

“What are you doing?”

I open my eyes and see a freckled blonde standing over me, blowing a bubble of gum and staring at me like a zoo animal. I try to regain my composure and not holler in her face like I did to dad of the year, despite her pretty retarded question.

“Urghhhghhh just bleeding a lot I think.”

“Damn, you really are. That looks pretty bad. What happened to you?”

“Hnnngh mmm I don’t know I was in water, something got me, grrrrughhh maybe a crab or a jellyfish”

“That sucks. Want me to piss on it?”

For a brief moment the pain subsides and my eyebrows raise with intrigue… the beach really isn’t that crowded…

She sees my expression and realizes I might just call her bluff. “Just joking. I don’t have to go.”

As I bleed out and resist the primal urge to fully indulge my spaz out, she rambles about her life, her move from Montana, her singing aspirations, her roommate is becoming fatter and meaner. I’m barely asking questions, she’s essentially just podcasting over my shriveling corpse and I really appreciate the distraction.

Two lifeguards appear out of a truck that I don’t even notice pull up and ask me about what happened with dull SSRI’d glazed-over expressions. Idk fellas I took like ten steps in the water and now it feels like Satan is raping my foot with a flamethrower. My new blonde friend gives me a little wave then says Good Luck before strolling away. Her work here is done and she better not offer that golden shower to anyone else.

One lifeguard casually mentions that it was, “Probably a stingray. We’ve had like fifty people get stung by those today.”

Oh boy that’s quite a few stings, maybe just maybe you nonchalant fuckheads could’ve stopped twiddling each other’s sandy cocks in your cozy little lifeguard huts and PUT UP A WARNING SIGN AT THIS EXTREMELY POPULAR SURFING SPOT, YOU TAN SHIT-FOR-BRAINS BEACHTARDS.

“Hrrnrrrnnn mmmhm wow that’s a lot, can you please help me Uuuughh-uh” I moan pathetically.

Chadguard starts poking around my foot as my eyes bulge out of my skull.

“From what I can tell with this much blood, I think it nicked an artery. You’re gushing too much for us to extract the venom, there’s nothing we can do until we wrap it up first and wait for the bleeding to stop.”

Not the news I want to hear. He proceeds to mummify my foot up with bandage while I resume screamgrunting (it’s just the fellas now, without piss girl to impress I have no reason not to resume my tantrum)

The chadguards pick me up and toss me into the truck bed so they can drive me off the beach. People are taking pictures and videos of me from the pier. Enjoy the show I guess. It would’ve felt so cinematic if a black guy yelled Worldstar…

I’m still unintentionally screamgrunting through my clenched jaw and my beachbum “savior” riding in the truck bed with me is mostly ignoring my outbursts while scrolling, occasionally murmuring, “You’re fine.”

Upon arrival at the parking lot, I’m unloaded from the truck bed and into an ambulance, which I only agree to under the assumption they will give me drugs. WRONG, YOU BUFFOON, THIS IS NOTHING MORE THAN AN 1800$ TAXI. I ask if I can get out and take an uber instead and just get laughed at like usual. Fuck my stupid chungus life.

I am unloaded from the ambulance and wheeled into a hospital room. I need to avoid becoming permanently crippled at all costs because this just feels too humiliating. Mad respect to all the wheelie boys who endure this daily, everyone standing is literally and figuratively looking down on you and it sucks ass. I am sharing a room with an old Mexican woman for some reason, laying on twin beds next to each other like a dorm.

The doctor slices open my makeshift bandage, releasing another geyser of blood. “Sorry, man, gotta put a new one on. We’ll extract the venom once the bleeding stops.” AKA keep suffering ya stupid goy. My abuelita roommate is cackling whenever I moan and saying a bunch of untranslatable Mexican gibberish. Why am I here? I’m paying to get ragebaited while receiving no treatment or drugs.

I ask her to stop laughing at me but she either doesn’t understand or ignores this request. I continue waiting for the doctor to return while crafting elaborate deportation fantasies in my head. Can you just call ICE and say this lady doesn’t know English, maybe y’all should swing on by? Are they allowed in hospitals- oh, the doctor is back. He removes the bandage and submerges my foot in a box of warm water. The pain vanishes in ten seconds, like it was never there at all. No procedure needed, I guess the venom breaks down when exposed to a high temperature. I could’ve just done this at home and not financially destroyed myself, that’s cool.

Time to head out, some hospital minion is helping me limp out since my foot is still very sensitive to pressure. I debate flipping off my roomie on the way out but decide to take the high road for once in my life. I have no clue why she’s in there or what she’s gone through so I guess I’m glad I could be her personal jester, there’s no point in me being a whiny little bitch the whole time if someone isn’t there to clown me. I blow her a kiss instead and she cracks up, giggling out more Spanish gobblygook.

As I’m checking out at the front desk and making sure they have my right insurance I chuckle when I notice the inside of my new wallet I just bought a week ago.

Karma’s a bitch. The ray makes me bleed out and wanna kill myself for two hours, I accidentally bought his cousin’s harvested flesh, I think we can call it even.

My girlfriend picks me up and drives me home, which sounds nice in theory. The entire time she’s cooing, “You poor baaaaaby, are you okaaaaay?”, continuing my humiliation ritual. I answer Yes I’m Fine about three dozen times. Now I miss those dickhead uninterested lifeguards who didn’t coddle me so much.

She scolds me for not being careful as I hobble through my apartment towards the shower, still not easy to walk on it. I glance down at my ankle and see it’s swollen to the size of a softball with a giant visible sting scar. I hope it doesn’t fully heal so there’s finally something Unique and Interesting about my body.

As I try to clean myself in the shower I let the “FUCK”s and “HNNRGGHHGHghHH”s fly free whenever I accidentally put pressure on the foot, until I begin to get longhoused by my lady who wants to “supervise” me:

“You sound really angry!”

“Do you have to keep screaming?”

“You need to calm down. Is there anything I can do to help?”

I pause for a second, what kind of donation does a wounded warrior deserve…

“Can you piss on it?” I ask, jokingly, of course.

“No.”

“When I get out of the shower, maybe some head?”

Silence.

“... I’m okaaay. How about I order you a GIANT cookie on UberEats?”

My friends and I were looking to kill a couple of hours in Tokyo. We had just finished exploring a notorious sex shop that sold used menstrual blood panties in the basement. Didn’t buy any, couldn’t find them in my size. One of us saw an Instagram reel advertising a capybara cafe, which seemed like a pleasant, wholesome foil to the previous soul-corrupting horrors encountered in Pervs R Us.

Turns out every white woman and her mother visiting Japan had already thought of this, because every white woman and her mother gets all of their travel suggestions from Zuckerberg’s mind-raping psychosexual digital daycare that we call Instagram, so the capybaras were even more booked and busy with the hoes than Dan Bilzerian. Dear white women, please go back to eurowhoring in Ibiza. Their dogshit economy really needs it. Asia should be reserved for the fellas1

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Pfft, whatever, let’s just try another animal cafe. An owl cafe is only a few blocks away, that could be a real... hoot…

In my imaginative and delusional mind, I pictured it like a butterfly garden with majestic owls soaring through the air, occasionally taking pit stops at customers’ tables to sneak sips of their lattes and beg for scraps of pastries.

My autistic fantasy was shattered upon arrival at the apartment building hidden in a dingy alley. This does not look like a building that houses commercial real estate. Maybe it’s all some elaborate ruse and a prankster marked his longtime nemesis’s home address as “Owl Cafe” to receive constant harassment by American tourists.

Alright, apartment number 205, let’s see if there are some owls up in this bitch. I shoved my uneaten half of 7-Eleven fried chicken in my fanny pack, since there are no garbage cans in this somehow spotless country.

Upon entering this brightly lit studio apartment, we see: a short, old, bald Japanese guy with some but not all of his teeth, a small mini fridge with a few beverages, and 14 owls chained to wooden beams. No windows. “Owl cafe” felt like somewhat false advertising, this felt much more like Owl Guantanamo Bay.

The old man grins and waves in a sleepy, potentially opioid-induced manner, and three out of four of us walk in. Josh, my favorite Midwestern groyper volcel with firm Catholic values2, takes one look around and starts losing the color in his face rapidly. Looking pale and clammy, he keeps nervously chuckling to himself, “Yeaaaaah, nope, nah. Dude, what the fuck. I’m good, this is too weird. I’m gonna go smoke outside.” He’s surveying the group to see if anyone else is as disturbed.

I almost joined him. If you have never seen over a dozen shackled owls snap their heads in your direction in perfect unison, it’s certainly unnerving. I felt the same nerves from standing up in front of the class to give a presentation in school, except all of my classmates are owls who have a stoic and diabolical gaze. Usually you see animals fidgeting or making little noises, some slight breathing at least, but these owls were completely still and silent besides their heads pivoting slightly in our direction, following our every step. It had the uncanny valley effect, blurring the lines between living creature and Chuck E. Cheese animatronic.

I’m just too intrigued to leave. It’s really hard for me to say no to unique experiences. I pay this guy $3 for a beer, since it is a cafe after all and I need something to take the edge off, and then start surveying the owls. Giant, black pupils void of any emotional tells stare back at me, their heads slowly craning with each step, questioning you and all of your life decisions that led you to this point.

Before I could overthink the ethics of this establishment too much and leave for a sanity smoke with Josh, the old man decided to begin the interactive portion of the experience, where he would unchain owls and place them on our forearms and shoulders. Without asking for consent, of course.

The claws didn’t hurt that much. Sometimes. Even when the owl is digging into your shoulder, you don’t really care. You’re more appreciative that it hasn’t gone completely rogue, pecking out your eyeballs or biting off a hunk of your ear. They are wise creatures. Eventually Mitch, David, and I all have an owl on each shoulder. Yeah, that’s right bitches, the boys got the collective power of six owls. We could conquer this city.

The possibly senile bird savant starts unchaining additional owls and placing them on top of our heads. The nervous laughter is increasing exponentially; we’re very outnumbered. The group tries to protest a bit, ”No thank you, that is enough owls! No more owls!” but with owls already on our shoulders, we can’t move away from this old drunk. This is his domain; we have become his prisoners, his large human owls that have to follow his rules.

This is not just a business for him, it’s a passion project, he’s giggling uncontrollably and just saying random shit in Japanese the entire time as we get more visibly uncomfortable and owled up. Does he love sharing his passion for owls, or does he just get off on seeing fear in a white man’s eyes?

I pull out my translator, it’s Q&A time, you decrepit old warden. I need some answers about this freak show. It feels like the barren walls are closing in on me as the amount of unchained owls multiplies. I’m going insane in the owl cafe and I need to make small talk to maintain my grip on reality.

“How did you get the owls?”

“I bought them.”

Okay, cool. I’m glad you didn’t steal them, I guess. An owl shits on my friend David, who starts crashing out and begging to be de-owled immediately. The old man takes that owl back to the banister and mutters some sort of reprimand to the leaking creature.

“Are the owls all friends? Do they get along?”

“Little owls hate big owls.”

An owl on my right shoulder starts flapping and winging me in the side of the head. Feathers temporarily blind me as fear bubbles up. Can you catch bird flu from these things? Is it going to rip off one of my appendages? Did I get vaccines for owl rabies? My mom didn’t believe in vaccines, so I might be missing a few.

“Are the owls happy?”

“They are very happy here. They don’t want to leave.”

I’m typing up my follow-up about how he knows this, but then I put my phone away and give him a polite smile and thumbs up. Who do I think I am? The less I know about these owls’ lore and lifestyle, the better. If he says good things, I’ll never truly believe him, and if he says bad things, I don’t have the means to entangle myself in the Japanese court system to fight for Owl Freedom Reform. I could help them vigilante style, but that runs the risk of me ending up in Japanese prison for decades. I don’t wanna be in a cell for years taking udon noodle up the ass.

I think I want to leave the owl cafe as soon as possible. Some of the owls are starting to freak the fuck out and try to fly to no avail. I don’t know if this is normal or not. One little owl and one big owl are lunging at each other, both barely held back as they make vicious shrieks at each other. Well, he wasn’t lying about one thing. That’s some furious flapping. The giddy smiles on everyone’s faces are gone as the old man begins to reprimand the owls in Japanese.

The owl on my left shoulder, either inspired by the chaos or just hungry to the point of early stage cannibalism, starts lunging for the fried chicken in the fanny pack across my chest. I’m feeling quite scared and retarded for bringing that in. Left shoulder owl is really going for it, pecking at the pack strapped across my chest and accidentally nicking my nip. Doesn’t feel great but I’m just letting it happen since I don’t want to escalate things by fighting this owl. Right shoulder owl is now intrigued and starts trying to reach his head into my pack too. Owl perched on my skull is just digging in his claws deeper and hooting, probably encouraging the revolt.

David’s other owl just shit on him, poor guy has been dumped on twice now. Mitch’s owls are hollering while bashing him in the face with their wings, this shit is getting too chaotic for my liking.

I call out to Ol’ Toothless and request some assistance as he’s soothing some other owls across the room. He just turns in my direction and yells some Japanese shit that somehow completely placates my rebellious owls? He’s an expert in his field.

Eventually, the Warden takes all of the birds off of us as we look at each other with strained grins. We chug the rest of the beers, thank him for that Unique Experience, and slam the door behind us. I’m never going to forget that place, for better or for worse.

PETA, if you actually give a fuck about animals, I think you should completely defund the social media budget and use that money for a Permanent Solution for that old owl purveyor. Instead of being called Gay on the internet you could do something and set those birds free3. Or sue him, probably best to try that first. Regardless there has gotta be a better place for those owls than that “cafe.” I can’t prove it but I think he lives there, I thought I saw a mattress in the corner behind his desk. He probably jacks off in front of those birds, which can’t be legal.

“How was it?” Josh asks.

I thought about it for a moment. I felt a lot of things in that owl cafe. It was kinda fun, until it became disturbing, but now that I’m gone it feels like a dream. I both loved and hated it, and I wasn’t shocked to see the divide of binary reviews online giving it one or five stars:

There’s the idea that you never know who is walking among you. You pass by crowds every day and they could be filled with grapists, furries, people who don’t return the shopping cart to the corral, just a bunch of sick twisted fucks of all variety. Your own friends or family could have a dark secret that upon emerging, shocks everyone in their orbit.

Let’s call my childhood friend Shane, since he always had a Shane Gillis build growing up. Not grotesquely fat, but fridge-like. The dudes got some tits, or as we politely referred to them, cones. Italian family, jet black hair, and known for being a compulsive liar. This guy would lie about the most bizarre and lame shit, but we still loved him. Sure Shane, you got 75 laps on the PACER test last year, your uncle invented Legos, and you porked the substitute teacher on her lunch break. We’re all totallyyyy retarded and totallyyyy believe you.

Shane hit puberty a bit before any of us. I remember being at the public pool with this guy when we were ten and he requested that I go underwater so he could show me something… I pop the goggles on and submerge, and see this dude lifting his right arm up, and starts pointing at his hairy pits with his other hand and grinning.

This is not normal behavior, I thought to myself. I won’t say I immediately clocked him as a future sex offender, but it made me realize this guy has a very different brain than me. I sure as hell wasn’t planning on coaxing anyone to some secretive location to give them a flash of my pubes anytime soon, so I didn’t understand the motivation behind this display .

The following years brought an onslaught of odd behavior and public displays of horniness to Shane that potentially altered the trajectory of his life. A concerning level of horniness. A suspicious level of horniness.

After a sleepover one summer we decided to spam this chump’s iPod touch with hundreds of photos while he was taking a shit, and when we went through the gallery after to see our damage we found a stinky surprise; TONS of orgy porn.

Orgy porn is still a bit crass for my taste even in my twenties, but back then when I was in my “every two-ish months look up a video of a white or Latina woman1 twerking and dry hump my beanbag chair” phase I found these images to be quite vile. Why the fuck does Shane want to look at a dick? Scratch that, why does he want to look at so many dicks? You can barely see the chick underneath all dat dick! It was all just so confusing.

Shane continued to have strange minor scandals in later years; countless phone destroying porn viruses that we had to help him remove, nutting in a putrid forty year old grocery store coworker for a bottle of Fireball, revealing nudes of his girlfriend that no one asked to see, or even wanted to see. He was even quite intrigued by the town tranny, do with that information what you will.

It’s funny compiling all of these anecdotes when I talk to our mutual friends and kind of facepalming looking back at it all. This freak left a trail of clues for years.

But at the time it all was easily written off as hahaha you’re such a retarded gooner Shane. Harmless, goofy behavior, we assumed…

Years later, we’re all out of college. Shane and I live across the country, doing different things, hanging with different people, not really interacting. I pretty much only see this guy when I fly home a couple times a year. I heard through Shane’s previous roommate that he’s been going to swingers events and group sex parties pretty frequently. I can only imagine the kinds of abominable creatures attending those gatherings, but we live in a free country I guess.

Anyways I’m scrolling through Instagram stories mindlessly when I see one from some miscellaneous NPC high school classmate - a screenshot of an article with text overlaying “I always knew there was something fucked up about that guy. They got his ass😂.” I read the first paragraph of the article. Shane has been arrested for downloading and distributing images of… Cheese Pizza. Except I ain’t talking Papa John’s. I wish I was talking Dominoes. Hundreds of pics apparently, with a repulsively low age range. Talk about a Bruh Moment.

High school group chat is immediately blowing up, Shane is swiftly booted from it and the boys are buzzing with information and theories. Everyone is mainly talking about how shocking it is and how he’s one sick puppy. One guy with a kid is especially enraged since Shane offered to babysit for him a few weeks ago. There was a collective breath of relief once he clarified that he ended up soliciting the services of an abuelita instead.

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Strip Club 1: Table Tennis

Bangkok, Thailand. 1:30 AM. A group of seven dudes with an average BAC of 0.25%. Plus one Giant Pussy with a BAC of 0.00%. He went sober a month before the trip, it was sadly too late to politely give him the boot. A short, bald Asian club promoter/pimp is trying to persuade our group to hop into some tuktuks and attend a local ping pong show.

Thirteen dollars per person for the show of a lifetime. Who could say no to that?

We could, since after four days we’d learned that Thailand is a land where:

• There are no laws

• You can negotiate for anything that isn’t in a restaurant

The bald man is really trying to sell us on the quality of women at his establishment. “They sexy girls! They big boooooobs!” proceeds to hold his hands far out in front of his imaginary breasts.

However, our group of young scholars and intellectuals wouldn’t be lured in that easily by some hypothetical pair of honkers. We convinced this fucker to go down to five dollars per guy and toss each of us a free drink (value of a free drink in Thailand = 30 baht = eighty cents).

There’s something about being in a foreign country that makes negotiating prices so important to me. It’s not that I’m a total JEW, it’s just extreme patriotism wanting to make sure their monopoly money is pushed to the absolute limit and proven to be as pathetic as possible compared to Our Great American Dollar.1

Deal. Five dollars. Shake on it. We’d had dinner; now time for a show.

The group split into two tuktuks—essentially high-powered, somewhat ornately decorated golf carts—and got driven through the rainy, neon-lit streets between traffic lanes while dangling various limbs into the street to film videos we would never look at again. Tuktuks are a lot better than the dingy Toyota Camry’s operated by the uniquely scented and highly skilled foreign laborers in America.

We arrived and headed inside. These sketchy fuckers were now trying to charge fifteen dollars per head, even more than the previous pussy peddler. One negotiation is fun, but a second one back-to-back had my group of drunken travelers quite annoyed. We pulled the “Fuck this, fuck you, we’re out” card and left the club, starting to flag down more tuktuks.

Now of course this man would prefer $120, but he wasn’t going to pass up $40. That’s rent and enough food for his family of 7 transgender teenagers for three months here. We were in.

The ambiance of the strip club wasn’t what made this memorable, it was a dingy, smoke-filled dark room that blended with many other venues featuring whor- I mean, dancers. There was a short walkway to a large stage with three rows of chairs surrounding different sides. And of course, the smoking section, like all Asian bars have, is just a taped-off corner of the room where you can light anything up.

The memorable part was that every ten minutes the dancing would stop and a lady would shove a new object up her vagina and make it disappear!

The women of all shapes, sizes, and ages were shoving anything up there that they could get their lips on. Bananas, wands—they were even loading up ping pong balls and blasting them out at astonishing speeds.

One older woman who clearly had tons of experience, or simply no fear, shoved a razor blade attached to a string all the way up there, then pulled it out without any apparent injury. My group was in shock.

The vibe of the other spectators in the room seemed quite stoic for such a mesmerizing and awe-inspiring show. Most dudes seemed to be staring straight at the stage with Royal British Guard levels of stoicism and occasionally whispering to their… girlfriends???2 My group was a little more rowdy, alternating between boisterous claps and grave looks of concern/disgust.

The most impressive moment to me was the live eel that was sucked up and spit out into a bowl of water by one lady’s hoo-ha. I did feel bad for the eel though and hoped the situation wasn’t too stressful for him.

On second thought, I think it was more impressive when balloons were tied to the top of the stripper poles and a different woman loaded darts into her vagina, then positioned herself like a circus cannon and was able to pop each balloon with stunning dart velocity and accuracy.

I even got to participate in the show this time! One woman held a marker halfway out of her clam and beckoned for a member of the audience to come participate, so I joined her on stage and was handed a piece of paper. She asked me my name, then proceeded to write, “Welcome [Redacted], love you!” using her hips.

However, it wasn’t all fun and games at this establishment. The drunkest of my friends decided he wanted to participate too, but his version was a little stinkier than mine. He started letting them blast ping pong balls INTO his mouth.

This new Danger of AIDS crossed a line for some members of the group… Do you remember the Giant Pussy with a BAC of 0.00? Well, Pussy Boy was sharing a room with The Eager Participant. And he wasn’t happy about this at all.

“This is disgusting! He’s taking it way too far!!! I will NOT share a room with him tonight. What if he has some disease now??”

Dude, I wouldn’t want to share a room with an AIDs’d-up man either, but that doesn’t happen in one night. Also, you have separate beds, so unless you were planning on getting spat/jizzed on you really have nothing to be concerned about.

“Well what about the bathroom? I will NOT share a bathroom with him. I will NOT let him touch everything with his... DISGUSTING hands.”

Erm, I don’t know, what if he promises to wash his hands before we leave? I think someone has hand sanitizer too...

“LOOK! LOOK WHAT HE’S DOING NOW!”

I turned my head and The Eager Participant was reaching over for a cigarette that was currently being smoked by the woman on stage’s vagina… and then smoking the pussycig.

The Sober Baby continued whining the rest of the night, and the rest of the group eventually sobered up once the acts started cycling through repeats. I don’t really need to see that poor baby eel go BACK up into that magical barren womb so we called it a night and went home. There were no exchanges of hotel rooms, much to one man’s chagrin.

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Strip Club 2: Spanky’s

Bangkok, Thailand. 1:30 AM. A group of seven dudes with an average BAC of—yada yada yada—pretty much the exact same situation as last time. Except this time we were in Nana Plaza, a three-story strip mall of strip clubs. This is the most stereotypical Thailand spot in all of Thailand, as it’s literally just twenty-five competing strip clubs with dozens of hookers hanging outside/inside of them. It’s exactly what my grandma tried to warn me about…

This is the only place we got ID’d on the entire trip lol, and for very good reason. The shit that was happening there was truly sacrilegious… We went to many spots here in this giant fuckfest of degeneracy, and I think a few of my friends got blown or jerked off in the back rooms of many of those spots, but Spanky’s was the only place that will live forever in my mind.

I wish recording was allowed at the plaza, not because I want to retroactively goon to the strippers, but because the things I saw there were so bizarre and hilarious that I almost can’t believe them when I reminisce fondly years later.

Upon entering this neon-lit, balloon-filled, skinny watering hole, we were all handed short black pool noodles. It appears the name is quite literal, as certain employees would come up to us and request noodle spanks to the ass.

However, the spanking went both ways, patriarchy = shattered. Occasionally strippers would plead for men to either stand up in their seat or even get on the stage and get attacked by the noodles of various striphookers. There was an air of joy and respectful rambunctiousness that was quite hard to recreate in other Bangkok strip clubs. These women didn’t seem like Property of the Club which was a nice change, they were laughing and cracking jokes. But don’t take my word for it—they say a Google review is worth a thousand Substack blogs!

So just when I thought I had seen all that Spanky’s had to offer after slapping some ass and getting mine slapped right back, a dancer came up and asked me if I would like to participate in the Special Show.

“What is the special show?”

“It’s special show.”

“Okay, yes, but what do I have to do?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I won’t do it if you don’t tell me what I have to do.”

“Please? It’s good. Do the special show. It’s very good.”

Despite lots of peer pressure from my friends, I just couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a reason this had to stay a surprise before I committed. I passed, and the dancer smiled politely and moved on to the next retarded-looking white guy. Hammered, blonde golden retriever type dude gets on the stage with a grin as his group cheers him on.

Blondie is blindfolded. Whooo!

Blondie has his hands brought behind his back and is handcuffed to the stripper pole. WHOOO! The crowd goes wild!

Blondie’s pants are then... pulled down? AND his underwear...? WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! goes the crowd upon cock reveal.

The crowd goes insane as Blondie’s flaccid penis is presented to the room, and the strippers start spinning him around the pole so that everyone gets a clear view of this very special show! (Despite no intimacy coordinators on site, he had a shit-eating grin and seemed to be enjoying himself.)

Even though he was having a blast and helicopter-spinning his schlong in a hilarious manner that elicited mass appeal, I was thrilled with my decision not to participate in this madness. When not erect, my penis resembles a humble acorn, and I sincerely think that having it presented to the room would have permanently detracted from both the rest of my trip’s vibe and, even worse, Spanky’s revenue.

But Spanky’s, I promise you that if I ever have the luxury of returning, I’ll make sure to pop a BlueChew and show the world that I’m a special enough boy for the Special Show.