Can’t Drink There Again

I feel the commonly used expression, ‘Don’t shit where you eat’, can also be applied to casual sex.

Don’t fuck the kitchen staff.

Long story short, Hayley got very drunk and very stoned, I was still in the middle of moving into my new place, my car was packed to the hilt with clothes, records and cleaning supplies and I decided to get really high and really drunk, eat spaghetti and go on tinder.

I had decided that as a strategic empowerment move I would only be sleeping with men who could do things for me. (Aside from giving me unsatisfactory sexual experiences.) They would have to fix something, or carry something…I hadn’t really thought this through.

So, I decided to invite said boy over and I was determined he was going to help me carry the heaviest things from my car into the house and then I might sleep with him.

He arrived, dressed in hot pink board shorts adorned with tiny flamingos…and a t-shirt with a giant cat wearing sunglasses and a gold chain. Let’s call this guy ‘Gangster Nips’, because that’s the name of his cat…

My plan worked, I got G.N to carry the heavy things from my car, I opted to show him my Juliette balcony and realized thirty seconds into making out I was way too inebriated for any kind of shenanigans. Maybe seven minutes into sex I fell asleep. He tapped my butt a few times and whined that he wasn’t done.

So, maybe World’s Smallest wasn’t the rudest I’d been, but I waved him away and said I was done.

He left…messaged me the week that he’d lost him phone charger and could he come over and get it.

Of course I was drunk…so we tried to have sex again, he couldn’t finish, couldn’t get hard, tried to blame me. I told him I couldn’t help it if his dick was depressed so he left…without his charger and with the realization that I should never let anyone inside my apartment wearing hot pink board shorts.



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