Just Because You’re the “Cool One” to Your Friends…

…It doesn’t mean you can lack hygiene, social skills, and wear a fedora on a date. These are the unacceptable things that Poor Hygiene had in store for me during my fun weekend.


Just Poor Hygiene being him

As with everyone that weekend, I met Poor Hygiene (PH) on tinder. We chatted it up, and after losing and getting my internet back, having a guy walk out on me, my “oh shit this is bad” sensors were a bit lower than normal. Instead of a normal hook up where we just meet at someone’s house, PH wanted to go on an actual date. You know, where you hangout and talk about things you may or may not have in common. Where was this date going to commence at?

Fucking mini golf.

Not just any mini golf. This place was indoors with backlights. I didn’t know this, so when I walked inside the place, I was super bright. Thanks off white top. I texted Poor Hygiene to let him know I was there. That’s when I saw him in his average self: PH was my height (5’8 or so), some extra weight (not fluffy, but not skinny…so dad bod), brown hair that needed attention, about 23, and brown eyes. He was wearing jeans and a button up plaid shirt. Again, average beyond average.

When we went inside, I was greeted by no one being there. At least there were no witnesses to this. I casually knew, and also forgot, that it was the basketball playoffs, and I lived in a basketball city. PH didn’t buy, nor offer to buy, my admission. Not a deal breaker, just not gentleman like.

When we did play, he was a pompous ass. Some of my favorite phrases from him:
“I can get a hole in one;” nine strokes later, his ball went in.
“Oh, you need to hit like me to do better,” even though I was doing just fine.
I’m pretty confident in my life and mini golf skills, but this date topped the cake. Again, if I wasn’t having such low self esteem, I would have just left and had no story to tell. 

When we did talk, he was more self absorbed than a drunk sorority girl. “I’m so well known at cons by my cowboy hate;” I just rolled my eyes to his back. “I convinced this super important ‘My Little Ponies’ guy to come, so I get special treatment;” and again, that’s cool if I enjoyed that fandom. But I don’t. Every time I tried to chime in, I was shut down by him bragging about himself. Also, he happily admitted to being a Brony. At this time in my life, I had no idea what a Brony was, or why I should have ran. But, this is a Brony:


Men that love My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic a tad too much

He then let me know he took friends as furries to play mini golf there the weekend before.

He was also a furry. I may have fucked a furry who wasn’t in his furry attire. Let me just reiterate that I was in a bad place.

Author’s note: a furry is someone that is interested in fictional anthropomorphic animal characters with human personalities and characteristics. So, they dress up as animals.

When we were near each other, I kept smelling something off. At first, I thought it was the actual place. But I started noticing it more right after he talked. I didn’t think anything of it until he kissed me out if the blue. That taste lingered on my poor lips from the assault of his tongue. I don’t think my face could hide my disgust from him, but he didn’t seem to notice it.

Once we finished this not completely terrible golf date, PH asked if I would like to grab a drink. I thought he meant alcohol. Nope, he meant overpriced coffee. I followed Poor Hygiene to a Starbucks where we talked more. I mentioned I should leave to go watch Game of Thrones with my cat. Before I could bolt out of there, he invited himself to come watch with me. I told him I didn’t have real furniture and my place was a mess. PH didn’t care; he decided to follow me back to my place.

We awkwardly watched Game of Thrones on my bed. No touching because you don’t fuck with GoT. After it was over, Poor Hygiene went in for a kiss again. I casually dodged that kiss. This is when he mumbled into my ear something along the line that “this is why I always have condoms.” I felt Catherine dry up a tad to that comment, which left me feeling numb. Before I could react appropriately, he started undressing me and himself. I lounged on my bed as he finished taking off his ten layers of clothes (not appropriate for summer, by the way); when he leant forward to kiss me, I dodged his lips again. To continue the dodging of bad breath, I moved down his body to his cock. It was nothing to write home about. Just like him, it was average, even a tad thinner in girth than average.

It didn’t take long before my mouth was too much for him. PH not only moaned, but gave commentary over how it felt. This wasn’t just, oh that feels great, it was more along the lines of, oh I love how the tip of your tongue touched the right underside of my cock near my balls. It was everything I could do to not laugh. Let’s be honest, I love being told I’m doing well, but his additional remarks made me laugh. A lot. When he was close, he literally tapped my head to stop. PH said it was his turn; I was excited because maybe he’d be great at oral. I laid back on the pillows and waited, and then I felt fingers. Fumbling around fingers that were hitting nothing important. I sighed, rolled my eyes, and forced a smile before asking him if he’d like to fuck me.

That was a long three minutes. He didn’t want to do doggy, he didn’t want me on top, he only wanted missionary. That was painstakingly awful. I immediately showered and dressed, hoping he’d get the hint. He did. Once he left I sat on my bed and contemplated my life decisions. They weren’t that great.


Outlook after this incident

Two days later, Poor Hygiene texted me to let me know he was sick with strep and I should get checked. My response to him was just “okie dokie.” That’s it; that was going to be our last encounter. However, the fates hate me. I went to a convention a few months later and saw him. In his oversized cowboy hat and Brony shirt, leading a group of people to celebrity autographs. So he was a volunteer. Almost a year later I saw him again, this time I was working a booth for work and he saw me and tried so hard to run by. By this time in my life, I finally was more sad for him that he was just so bad in bed. And that he was wearing a fedora.

Lesson learned: when someone admits to being a brony, wearing a fedora, or being a furry, just run. Run away.

The Daring Vagina

It Wasn’t Birthday Sex, And It Was Pretty Crappy

I tend to email or even text a lot of the people who respond to my ads on the list of Craig in the hopes one out of the 100+ responses, or 20 replies of mine, actually pans out. Sometimes it never works out (let’s meet at 2am on a Wednesday! Or during the day while most people are at work!) or we meet in person and I just get the awkward vibes (it took me awhile to be ok with walking out…don’t send pictures of you 5 years ago and with a full head of hair when you now look like Homer Simpson.) One of these awkward stories involves someone we will call Body Odor.

BO had originally responded to an ad in January. We were going to meet up one Saturday morning to go walk or so at the park by my place. Well, the red flags went off; he didn’t have a phone to text or call from, and there was something off about him. I stood him up and said I overslept my alarm. I was fully awake, doing laundry. And then depression set in by mid February, so I just wanted nothing to do with him or anyone else.

He randomly emailed me in March after I had gotten my confidence back from Perfect Baggage. I decided why not? Bad decisions are made daily in my vagina’s name. BO came over one day while my partner was at work. So, BO didn’t smell horrible off the bat, but after sex (in which he sweat more than I currently do when I run my races) it was sooooo gross. So gross. I think his sweat stained my sheets more than his cum. He was my height or a centimeter or two shorter, very light skinned Hispanic, late 20s, was in the military before and was now in school, short hair but long for the military, glasses, “sentimental” tattoos, and scruff on his face that made him going down on me fucking terrible.

We had awkward make out time before having sex; it was just so meh. BO mentioned how much he loved to go down, and yet, it only happened for 4 minutes. What the fuck. It wasn’t terrible but it wasn’t great. It was lacking in enthusiasm. If I could give advice to anyone about giving head to your partner, just appear to be excited; pretend you’re a fat kid and it’s ice cream. Lick the fuck out of it, suck it and see how much you can put in your mouth before it hurts your mouth/teeth/throat. Just be excited to give it as much as you are to receive it.

His penis was ok-I think. It wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t pencil thin either. It was just there, and with a sloppy wet vagina, there wasn’t much stimulation going on for me. During sex, I kept my head turned to the side and my eyes closed tighter than normal; he would kiss me, and maybe he had a bohemian thing going on with the natural style, but the smell and taste of him was just…so not appealing. When we finished, he was going to dry himself off with a towel. I told him how gross that was and he should just join me in the shower. Granted, I’m self conscious when cleaning myself off after sex, but that boy needed a shower.

Shower sex was tried and unsuccessful. I did give him head, but I refused to let him cum in my mouth. I’m just sayin, you don’t wear deodorant or cologne, you probably eat terrible food and your semen is going to taste like sewage. The minute he was gone, all the sheets went into the washer.

BO left and I didn’t hear from him for a week; I was actually grateful he didn’t immediately email me (since he couldn’t text.) I kept being “busy” when he was free. However, toward the end of April I was going to Vegas for my 25 birthday. I had time before my plane left to get together. When we were talking, he said he just wanted to give me oral before I left. I figured it couldn’t be that bad. Never had I been so wrong…

BO came over while I still had my suitcase open on my bed; you don’t need space to get oral. He went down on me for maybe 4 minutes and then BAM!–penis in the vagina. What. The. Fuck. I was shocked that he had such little memory; he didn’t remember that I only agreed to oral not more than an hour before. I basically said fuck it, and laid there like a fish. You ever want to make a man confused, make no emotion come across your face but content during sex. I might have even sighed…maybe. When he finished I almost pushed him off me, took the rest of my clothes off and got in the shower to wash off. He asked if everything was ok. I was like, well, I didn’t want to take ANOTHER shower and you promised me oral…less than 5 minutes of oral is a joke.

BO looked like a wounded puppy; he apologized for what he did. I snapped back, you should be. Worst close enough to my birthday sex ever. Ugh. So much ugh. I just kicked him out and finished packing and cleaning up. I was so done with men and just wanted to go to Vegas. To date, I have NEVER had birthday sex (sex more than 2 days out doesn’t count.)

Like before, sheets went into the washer. I lied and told my partner that the cat was sick on the bed. My poor cat, blamed for BO’s body odor and cum stain of nasty.

I made a post in July, it snagged my greatest bed buddy to date, and BO replied to it; saying that if it was me, he was sorry and wished me luck in finding what I want. I didn’t feel nice enough to even respond to it. I’m a queen bitch when you make me clean so much AFTER bad sex.

Lessons learned: I need to clarify that I need men that smell like laundry and masculinity, not dirt and smashed worms.


The Daring Vagina

I Like Fat Chicks


I was still depressed. So depressed with the state Perfect Baggage had left me in that I needed something. Something to cheer me up, fill that void. I even tried to get my partner to have sex with me. That failed. When I came home after that dreaded night, I made up a lie. My partner was so used to me “hanging out” with Perfect Baggage that I felt if it suddenly stopped, he would be confused. I told my partner that Perfect Baggage’s girlfriend didn’t like me hanging out with him so much and alone, and we had to stop. My partner was sad for me because I looked sad.  I was hoping all those words about never seeing Perfect Baggage weren’t true; finding someone that gives you stupid nicknames, fucks for hours (and I mean hours), and is really keen on listening to me talk is incredibly difficult.


I was in the mindset that no one wanted me. There must be something wrong with me, Catherine the Great (best damn name for a vagina, I know), or maybe even my personality. I come off strong, super shy the first time I meet someone, and then I’m so much talk in texts…sex normally winds up being only missionary and I have no one to blame but myself. In my depression, I couldn’t sleep. It had been only a little over a week since my vagina got dumped and I knew I wanted to find someone new.

Searching craigslist for keywords usually helps eliminate any instant rejection or insults (I’ve had some mean things said, and that’s always fun); I started to just browse through in general. One ad I found was titled: I like fat chicks. He had pictures of his dick and himself, said he was basically a giant for where I live (6’8), and he needed a fat chick. So, I know I’m fat. I can call myself fat (though I adore being called fluffy like the cuddly person I am.) No one else can call me fat. Period. You do and I’m like instant, fuck you. I cringed at the idea of meeting him; what if he wanted to call me fat or something during sex? I already felt like a dented can of beans and needed a boost emotionally. I passed on it from responding.


I searched “bbw” to see if I could find any hits that were my type. I saw one from a tall guy (he didn’t put his height), said he loved giving bbws oral for hours (awesome stimulation for my me time with a vibrator later), and could host. He even had a picture of his torso (nerdy guy style with just being thin with no muscles) and his hard penis (if he was tall, it was going to be HUGE for me.) I decided to respond to his ad; it was fairly late (my partner was already asleep and he’s a night owl) and I decided I could maybe sleep my depression off.  Almost instantly, I got a response from him. Who was it? The “I like fat chicks” guy. My luck…Ugh. He sent some better pictures of his face (he definitely was someone I would classify as a heavy metal rocker from his pics), and maybe it was the depression thinking, but I kept responding to his emails. Maybe he wasn’t going to call me fat or give me bad vibes.

We texted all day the next day. He, I Like Fat Chicks (ILFC), wanted to know everything. Not just sexually but what was my favorite color (purple), last concert I went to, three things I couldn’t live without (a cat, vibrators with unlimited batteries, and pie), and so much more. I was starting to feel good about him. He asked if I wanted to come over that evening; I told him I wasn’t ready for sex; I wanted to shave for him to give me that hour or more oral. He said he didn’t mind at all. I told him to give me a few after work so I could clean up, then I would come over.

ILFC lived on the other side of town from me; not a BIG deal, just a pain. When I got close, he told me to call. That apartment complex was huge, and he got me super lost when navigating me. When I finally got to him (I had to drive out of the complex and try again), he was waiting for me in nothing close to trying. First impressions are vital, in my opinion. He was tall (super tall), pale, wore glasses, long brown greasy hair (longer than mine and not pulled back or anything), and scruffy. I looked cute; he looked like he just got up. We walked up to his apartment and before he opened the door he warned me that it wasn’t clean. I told him it was fine…oh my god it was not.

There was maybe a path amongst trash and clutter from the front door to the kitchen and then to his bedroom. It was a clean freak’s nightmare. It was a small one bedroom apartment and his bedroom took the cake. He had to be home for an hour or so before I got there; it was just a mess with food wrappers and clothes and just things….everywhere. his twin size mattress was on the floor (I need to put in my ads- must have a full size bed with a bed frame), and a tiny tv was sitting by it with Futurama playing. I put my purse down in the one semi clean area before sitting next to him on the only piece of furniture he owned (bed on the ground, so adult like.)


Kinda like this...but less furniture.

We barely talked before he asked if I thought I could take all of his cock. I told him that I have been known to take a good pounding or two. We made out immediately after that statement. He was actually fairly good at making out, and used his hands on me almost perfectly. I will say he was very handsy on my boobs. Poor girls, but not as bad as Nipple Biter. ILFC’s cock was huge; I couldn’t go down to the base…not even close. The sex was ok. He lasted awhile, went multiple rounds with a few different positions, and cuddled. Nothing fancy. I did have to stop him when we did doggy; his bony hips hit my bones (I guess) and I wouldn’t let him slam into me. I’m just soooo mean; no slamming into bones takes all the fun out of sex, obviously.

What was the downside to ILFC? He smelt of cigarettes, didn’t have a single towel clean, and even his bathroom was horrid. I Like Fat Chicks mentioned at one point that he wanted to rent his living room out to someone, a stranger. I leveled with him that even though he isn’t using his living room, he would have to be ok with someone coming in and out of his room for the bathroom and he’d have to keep it tidy.

When I finally was going to leave (I showered and cleaned up with a semi clean towel), he walked me to my car. At the time, I felt ok with seeing him regularly; I needed a new Perfect Baggage. But no one could really replace PB. Not even a huge cock.

lLFC texted me a lot after that; almost 5 minutes after I left I had a text from him. I was flattered by it. The next morning I woke up to find I was bleeding. I had bled before because of a bigger than average cock. But this…this lasted weeks. It wasn’t my time for a period; I was confused and irate at the same time. Even my vagina didn’t want to be a part of me anymore; she wanted to bleed me to death. I kept blowing off I Like Fat Chicks enough times that he stopped texting me. I felt bad, but, I didn’t want to deal with anyone while my vagina was acting that way. The whole situation just depressed me more and more.

Lessons learned: don’t do something if you feel you might regret it. Never. Even when you’re depressed. It’s a bad idea. I still need to officially learn that one. Ugh.

The Daring Vagina

Friendly Drunks Are Disappointing in Bed

As an adult it is so hard to find friends outside of work. In college, you get new friends (or possible friends if you aren’t an asshole) every time you take a new class. But once you’re out of school, where do you find new friends? Especially if you aren’t the barsy type…or hangout with coworkers…or you move to a new city. 

I originally used craigslist for the strictly platonic section. I wanted a friend to text with (I am permanently attached to my phone) and hangout with at times. At one point in time, I had replied to someone’s ad who was looking for a friend. They had an awesome storm trooper helmet in their ad! How could I resist? He seemed normal for me; we liked the same things, and he wasn’t a gossiping bitch (no offense to the gossiping non-bitches.) I met him, let’s call him “Friendly Drunk,” for lunch once. It was actually fun for me; I don’t like people and I had fun! He mentioned he needed to do laundry, so I invited him over to use mine (little luxuries like having a washer and dryer in your apartment rock.) NOTHING HAPPENED because I just wanted a friend at the time. 

Flash forward a few weeks; we had been texting for awhile, and out of the blue FD invited me over to drink with him. He told me to pick up some beer and come over. I bought a 6 pack and headed over to his place. Physically, FD was shorter than me (5’7 or so), white, a bit over weight, dirty blonde hair, a bit of a nerd, and he was some kind of online tutor. His clothes smelt like they were old and had definitely seen better days. His place was such a mess that even the most experienced maid wouldn’t want to deal with his clutter. The living room consisted of two bean bag chairs (one with a hole) and a small tv. FD was already drunk (or very tipsy) when I finally found his place. He took my 6 pack and was sad because that was all that I brought. He begrudingly offered me one of my beers and we sat down to just talk. Before I realized it, the 6 pack was gone. Kudos to him for being a really fast drinker and slightly functional alcoholic. 

In his drunken stupor, he decided to make  a move; I wasnt expecting it, but I didn’t really resist it either. But now I know drunks can be really forward; he went to town fondling me like a high schooler, but he was experienced enough to undo my bra with just one hand while beneath my blouse. He kept trying to push on the back of my head to get me to, I guess,use my mouth to undo his pants. I have some strong muscles and easily resisted. When he stopped and eventually undid his own pants, I was more surprised than anything; he had a Prince Albert. I was intrigued enough by it to play with the piercing itself for a long time before actually going full out blow job mode.

As im sure many of you have sadly experienced in your life, drunks aren’t amazing at sex. Friendly Drunk passed out not once but twice while I was giving him head. He was also very awkward at letting me do what I was sure would actually get him off. After the first pass out, I woke him up and he magically got hard again. Me made out for a bit, he pushed my head down to his very average size penis, and passed out again after maybe 7 minutes. After the second time, I was infuriated that not only was I wasting my skills on someone who wouldn’t remember what happened, but I was getting nothing in return. After waking him up for the second time, I told him I was going to just go and he walked me out to my car. 

About a week later he texted me to hang out again. I asked if he was going to be drunk and pass out on me again. He replied with: I guess not. And that’s how I got rid of my first overall disappointing experience.

The Daring Vagina