huge, incredibly good-looking erect penis i have never met before in my email. from a dude i know but NOT LIKE THAT. consider my night made.
let's start with something fun and amazing. i have to get a gallon of blood taken every five seconds to make sure these chemicals i'm on aren't murdering my liver. i would like you to ignore all the times you've read about my being drunk since january, when i started them. so i forgot to call the doctor for the results (for cereal, i was in the hospital a week and a half ago) because i'm busy thinking about more important things. like pmail.
so i called dr. gorgeous and he was preoccupied with someone else's asshole at the time and i had to leave a message. the nerve. really, is there any asshole more important than mine? i really do sometimes think that dude rises and shines every single day just to deal with ME. and why would he? my insurance isn't even that good. anyway, i missed his call because he called, like, SEVEN hours after i'd called him and my bloodwork is not even the point of this post the POINT is that i didn't answer the phone and for the first time in our five-year relationship HE GOT MY VOICEMAIL.
if you've never heard my voicemail you should consider killing yourself. it is hilarious. and amazing. inspirational, even. and at least three people a day call JUST TO LISTEN TO IT. you know i never answer my phone, right? but 99% of the bitches who call me don't even give a shit, because they're too busy being all happy that they got my outgoing message. the doctor is super serious (which in a hot dude is extra sexxxy), but i'm the type of person that everyone just loosens up around. even him. because i need to be laughing, especially when you're about to resect my bowel.
i saw that i missed a call from the hospital and kicked myself because when you miss a doctor's call, it's pretty much over for you. especially a smokin' dude like him. he treats me like a fucking one night stand. calls me from the car, barks out orders, then rushes me off the phone. i sat through EIGHTEEN MESSAGES (for serious, don't call me i will not answer i will not listen to the message i will not call you back) until i got to his. and all i heard was...laughter. this dude never laughs. even when i'm testing my best material on him. he liked my message! and was LAUGHING! this is a breakthrough of epic proportions. i'm sure my message caught him off guard, and it took a second for him to compose himself, during which he said, "you're one of a kind. i love you."
it took goddamned long enough. five years of pretending to have crippling stomachaches and putting $150,000 on my humana card (i keed, i keed my stomach fucking hurts for reals!) just to be near him. during that time he has: moved out, not asked me out, separated from his wife, not asked me out, gotten divorced, not asked me out, started dating again, and NOT ASKED ME OUT. i'm just fucking around. no one wants to eat dinner across from you when he knows what your cilia look like and has chopped up your colon. it's nice to know that he loves me, though. especially since right after he said it he started yelling at me about fucking up my drugs.
because deep down he knows i likes it rough.
okay then. this post is about letting a hot dude fuck on you. let's hop to it. every tuesday night (although i think we're moving this pussy party to mondays starting next week), rachel, amanda, and i all get together at rachel's house (except this one time we went to an actual restaurant, which we vowed to do more of) to drink wine, eat delicious food, talk about books, and snatch about dudes. rachel's place is so grownup and cute. man, i need to get it together. my apartment looks like a college dorm my little brother furnished with his allowance. i get the crate and barrel catalog, and i always look through it and think about how rad my apartment would be if i had the decorating-notlazy gene. my kitchen is full of outrageously expensive shit, le creuset and calphalon and cuisinart, but i don't have a table. or a couch. and i should get a new bed. i have the world's tiniest television, and there are booksbooksbooks everywhere. i have a desk, but it's piled with math books and shit. (ps, i sort of miss school.) all that nice kitchen shit is stacked on a decidedly unsexy 18/8 stainless steel rack i got at home depot. anyway, rachel's apartment just reminds me that i am an adult in years on earth ONLY.
back to these hoes. in the picture above, amanda is the hot ginger and rachel is the spicy brunette. it is worth noting that it took ninety-seven tries to get the picture above. one that we were all relatively pleased with. there's a better one on my facebook, and by "better" i mean "MY BOOBS LOOK AMAZING." except for that stupid tattoo. damn you, carmen. that one was YOUR FAULT. so we were sitting around talking about fucking (what else?) when rachel decided it was booty call time.
now in my sexy imaginary life she would have summoned three strapping, lion-hearted (laugh if you get that) adonises and we would have all gotten it on right there. but no, this is my real life where dudes like (not that) hot weekend don't call anymore. well...does it count that he texted me the other night? after not calling for, like, two weeks? no, it doesn't. besides, the text asked "what are you wearing?" icky poo, right? that embarrasses the SHIT out of me.
listen up, penises. DIRECT IS BETTER. at least with a bitch like me. if you want to come get some, say "bitch, i want to come get some!" and then i'll toss all my shit in the oven or the bathtub or the hall closet and pretty much spend the entire time you take getting to my house trying to pretend that a neat and tidy person lives there. (which is a shame, because i would probably be better served spending that time sanitizing the sex toys and cleaning my stinky ass up.) are there girls with whom you have to play the "no, i don't just want to bang you" game? those games are so much WORK. and i've got a job. what was i supposed to text back? anyone who has made my acquaintance for five minutes would know it was a lie if i was like, "a lace nightie and a thong." i could have said nothing but a smile, but dudes like this deserve LITERAL. so i wrote, "dirty pissy jeans." and he was like, "uh...thanks for the honesty. LOL!" i was out drinking and showed the phone to my homegirl, who shook her head sadly and said, "you should learn how to flirt."
a couple weeks ago he called at midnight while i was at maya's birthday party and i answered the phone, "hey, are you calling to fuck? i can be home in ten minutes." he just stammered for, like, a FULL MINUTE before he finally sputtered, "uh, um...i was just calling to say hi." at midnight, son? listen up, again. DON'T CALL A BITCH AT MIDNIGHT IF YOU ARE NOT TRYING TO BANG HER. i am absolutely terrible at hiding my crushing disappointment, so then i was mean to him and told him to "get the fuck off my phone" because he was "tying up the line with this platonic bullshit" and "blocking the cellular transmissions i might be getting from hotter dudes." which is wholly UNtrue. no one fucking calls me, especially not to have sex. but it sounded good and, in my defense, i was ddddrunk on prosecco. i just kept calling him a bitch or a homo or whatever until he hung up. i bet he wished he'd gotten my voicemail.
girls night. rachel was unsure of how to go about the vagina-initiated booty call. not sam, bitch! in this age of texting, all you have to do is wait until a certain time of night and text "my place, RIGHT NOW" and if he's not a fucking troid he'll get the message and deliver his hot cock in thirty minutes or less. that seems totally tame and reasonable to me. now i am a motherfucking IDIOT, so i say shit like "come holler at my dirt star" to get the pants party started. "want to fuck me in the back of the throat?" is a good one, too, but i hate to give the impression that he's just coming over to relax, which is why i generally reserve that one for hot phone sex. if you are coming to casa sam, WEAR YOUR WORK BOOTS. and a hard hat. zing!
you have to be careful that you don't text too early in the evening, though, as you don't want him to think he's coming to hang out and watch fringe or something. besides, i don't want anyone talking through my tv time. sometimes you need to watch top model alone, okay? so wait until all the good shows are off. you should also make sure it's past dinnertime, lest he think you will either 1 cook or 2 order in. fuck that noise. i gotta sit and wait for giordano's to come while you watch the laker game and ignore my nipples? NEVER. there's one thing on the menu tonight, my little pumpkin, and that is SUGAR WALLS. with syrup!
you should also make sure not to dip into the sex pot too often, especially because dudes often confuse frequent action for a bigger stake in your life than they can rightfully lay claim to. just because we get naked all the time doesn't mean you get to go in my refrigerator without permission, mister. hands off my leftover pesto!
my darling rachel's dilemma was that she wanted a booty call, but didn't want him to do the talky-talky-spend-the-nighty thing and couldn't figure out an appropriate way to say it. rachel was really stressing out about it. her poor little brow was all furrowed and she was making this adorable flushed consternation face. she's a cutie pie. she is also a nice person. i am mostly not. because i would just say, "you know you can't stay here, right?" with my head cocked and one eyebrow raised while holding the door open. "don't you have a bed at home?" works nicely, too. and if they continue not to get the picture i get helen out of the crate and throw her and her claws on top of their sensitive meat. is it clear, now? GET THE FUCK OUT SO I CAN GO TO SLEEP.
nice-girl shit like "i have to get up early" doesn't work on most obtuse assholes, because they'll just say, "it's okay, so do i! set the alarm for five-thirty." then proceed to snore in your face and fart in your mouth and clog all your mirror time breaking the last gillette venus razor in the box on their coarse-ass morning stubble. i needed that for my legs, you jerkballs. and them bitches is exxxpensive. and how am i going to wear that micro mini i ironed?! dudes are usually best dealt with directly, too. (maybe my problem is that i am a man...?) no tiptoeing around whatever you want to tell them. just spit it out, like jizz. my doormat reads, "fuck me and leave." i also have it tattooed on my mons pubis. because sometimes you have to tell a dumb bitch twice.
i told rachel i would text her something DIRECT yet NICE that she could forward along to her paramour. it was like, "no talking, no television, let's just get horizontal." genius, i know. i'm pretty sure i got that from a greeting card, so feel free to use it and pretend you made it up. could you imagine if i wrote greeting cards?! sweet jesus. that would be amazing. i'm going to pitch hallmark. she didn't like that idea, so i called one of the scrotums in my phone. the vampire answered on the first ring, saying, "you KNOW it's almost booty call hour, don't you?" hilaaaaaaaarious! i like to call dudes just before the BCH, you know, just to tease 'em.
"no, dude. i don't wanna let you lick honey from between my toes. i was just wondering if you knew a good scone recipe?"
so i enlisted the vampire's help but, as he is ultimately at the core an arrogant twig+berry, he was more concerned that she might not be able to handle a booty call and refused to give me sext ideas. pffffft. you know, because she might FALL IN LOVE. "catch feelings," i believe he called it. psshaw to this! i swear to god men think there's magical fairy dust or something in their semen, that one drop is kryptonite for a sexy bitch. WRONG. he was worried that she wouldn't be able to handle a string-free sexual situation. now i love that vampire so much it hurts, but come on, man! really?! she's INITIATING it! it is my sneaking suspicion that 100% of men can't handle just being some hot mama's chew toy, but that's another topic for another day. so he couldn't even tell me what she should text because he was busy analyzing the dynamics of their relationship. because dudes are so fucking awesome that not a woman alive could walk away from sex with one and not want to bear his slack-jawed offspring and listen to the dumb shit he talks about for the rest of his life.
i fall in love with killer dudes on tv, not some regular-ass asshole who can't walk and talk at the same time. and dudebros relegated to the fuck-n-dump heap are usually DUMB. or STUPID. or LAME. or zzzzzzBORINGyawn. some fucktard you can't take to a movie because he'll talk through it or try to stick his dick in the girl scooping your popcorn with you standing right there. a bitch who doesn't read and would suck as a scrabble partner. you know, some asshole you would never introduce to your smart and fancy friends. or go out with in daylight. with whom the chances of falling in love are slim to NEVER IN A MILLION FUCKING YEARS.
i will say again that complicated-ass dudes WEAR ME THE FUCK OUT. (and i heart you, vampire, but give me a fucking break.)
so after amanda and i pelted her with a dozen different suggestions (that she scoffed at!) for tactful yet straightforward ways of saying "get out of my pussy and out of my apartment" (please believe that I would have just written THAT), she came up this gem of her own:
BRING PROTECTION, BUT NOT PAJAMAS.
sweet, but succinct. and dirty enough for me to use. as soon as she texted him she was like, "you bitches need to put your shoes on," and hustled us out the door. and into amanda's car, where we giggled about that sexy shit all the way to my house. and i told you, i live far as hell from just about everyone who matters. so that was a lot of fucking giggling. when i got upstairs i picked helen keller up and paced my apartment with her in my arms like a baby for ten minutes, which is what i do every night when i get home ifyoumustknow. sometimes she chews on my hair, which is getting so goddamned motherfucking long but i REFUSE to lose this bet i made with laura so i just have to fucking deal with it but i might crack soon and shave it off argh!, and i open the mail standing over the sink with a box of matches.
you read that right. i burn the mail. because fuck bills. and fuck nosy bitches digging through my building's trash.
after i washed my chance of raising my credit score down the sink, i mass texted (they'll never know) a handful of hot huevos in my phone "bring protection, but not pajamas" and my vagina and i sat back and waited for the offers to come pouring in. i didn't want to get laid, three and a half celibate months and counting!, i just wanted to have a chuckle. i always forget that i never have my ringer on, and an hour later when i was about to start pouting at my mass rejection (seriously, dudes, i'm hot! what the fuck?!) i found my phone in the fruit bowl where'd i'd tossed it and saw that i had some responses. glory be!
there were a couple "i'm busys" and a few "are you free tomorrows?" and even a "give me an hour and a half, i'm in indiana." but the best by far was from this dude i forgot i'd told was terrible at fucking who said, "bitch, i thought you told me i turned you lesbian?"