Submitted by Lucky Prescott
Before I found Slut Rehab, I tried to shake my slutty ways on my own. I hadn’t slept with anyone in a while, so when Al Waxman asked me on a date, I figured I’d keep up the abstinence streak.
Our first drinks date went well. He was cute with a good, muscular build. As he gave me a kiss at the entrance to my building, I was happy and excited to go out with him again.
Now, he lives on Staten Island, and since I’ve only ridden the SI Ferry for tourist reasons, I don’t know what getting to the Upper East Side entails, but he’s an hour late for our next date. We head downtown with no specific dinner destination in mind, simply going to an area that he claims “has a lot of restaurants.” Negative. We walk around until my stiletto-ed feet get tired and we go into the next place we see. The highlight of dinner comes when he apologizes for his skin being so blotchy and red—his sister helped him wax his arms, back, and chest earlier in the day and she didn’t do a good job. VOMIT!!!
When dinner ends, my date says that it’s too late for him to go home. I feel bad, so I say, “You can stay at my place, but just so you know, you’re not getting any.” He says that’s fine, and we hop into a cab to head back uptown. When we get there, I immediately jump on top of my bed, jeans and slinky shirt still on, and face the wall, hoping to instantly fall asleep. He lays next to me and wraps his arm around me, kissing my shoulder. Then he starts to hump my leg. I remind him about what I told him before. The humping continues.
I don’t know what about the situation says that I want to hook up with him, and I tell him this, trying to wiggle my way closer and closer to the wall, hoping that I’ll fall down into the crack in between the mattress and the bed. After more humping and no reciprocating, he asks if I’m serious.
Ummm….
Finally, the humping stops and I fall asleep. We go out for breakfast the next morning, after which I assume he’ll go home since, you know, we’re already outside and all. But no, he walks back up the five flights of stairs to my apartment and watches TV all day. Once he starts talking about dinner, I tell him that I have plans and that he’d better go.
Thankfully, I never heard from him again.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
Why I Hate Lower Greenville In Dallas
SUBMITTED BY Red Meowmouth
I kept waking up on my friend's futon one night after a disastrous night at a bar; a loud kinky-haired guy from the bar had crashed in the hallway.
The light from downtown came through the blinds. Like a spotlight, I followed it to a fast moving noise - his hand moving swiftly up and down.
The kinky-haired freak was on his back. The hallway wall blocked his face. He couldn’t see that he had woken me up. He just kept on yankin’ it.
I often have to force myself to sleep after waking up from nightmares, so I was used to blocking bad thoughts. Screw this night in Lower Greenville.
I kept waking up on my friend's futon one night after a disastrous night at a bar; a loud kinky-haired guy from the bar had crashed in the hallway.
The light from downtown came through the blinds. Like a spotlight, I followed it to a fast moving noise - his hand moving swiftly up and down.
The kinky-haired freak was on his back. The hallway wall blocked his face. He couldn’t see that he had woken me up. He just kept on yankin’ it.
I often have to force myself to sleep after waking up from nightmares, so I was used to blocking bad thoughts. Screw this night in Lower Greenville.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Skinny on Getting a Cab
Submitted by Lucky Prescott
I’m ready to go home. My friend’s birthday party, with its crazily-priced drinks, people stumbling into me on the way-too-packed dance floor, and acrobats swinging from the ceiling, has lost its New York City charm. But I spent all of my cash at the bar and it’s too late to take the subway. I could hit up an ATM, but it would be so much easier to just make out with that kid sitting on the couch who I studied abroad with in hopes that he’ll suggest we get out of here. Fine, his waist is smaller than mine, he has terrible acne, and he’s cocky for no reason, but he has money and probably hasn’t gotten ass in a while. I saunter my way over to “say goodbye” to him, but end up sitting on his lap. Within minutes, his tongue is down my throat. We continue this through Usher’s “Yeah,” Britney’s “Toxic,” and a remix of Snoop’s “Drop It Like It’s Hot.” Then, the moment I’ve been waiting for. After saying goodbye to the birthday girl, we head outside and hail a cab, making out the whole way to my dorm. When we get there, he pays the cabbie. My mission is accomplished.
But his isn’t, so we go up to my room. Now, I never realized how skinny he really was until he unbuttoned his black dress shirt and revealed a sticking-out rib cage and barely-there pecs. I start wishing I had just left him downstairs, but know that I just have to get this over with. I close my eyes and let my mind wander as we kiss some more, eventually slipping between my pink bed sheets and having sex.
I wake up the next morning to him jangling his keys as he puts them back into his pants pocket, his wallet and cell phone going in the others. I look at the clock. It’s 9am and he’s out the door. I roll over and go back to sleep, thankful that he knows the rules of the one-night-stand and that getting home last night only cost another notch on my bedpost.
I’m ready to go home. My friend’s birthday party, with its crazily-priced drinks, people stumbling into me on the way-too-packed dance floor, and acrobats swinging from the ceiling, has lost its New York City charm. But I spent all of my cash at the bar and it’s too late to take the subway. I could hit up an ATM, but it would be so much easier to just make out with that kid sitting on the couch who I studied abroad with in hopes that he’ll suggest we get out of here. Fine, his waist is smaller than mine, he has terrible acne, and he’s cocky for no reason, but he has money and probably hasn’t gotten ass in a while. I saunter my way over to “say goodbye” to him, but end up sitting on his lap. Within minutes, his tongue is down my throat. We continue this through Usher’s “Yeah,” Britney’s “Toxic,” and a remix of Snoop’s “Drop It Like It’s Hot.” Then, the moment I’ve been waiting for. After saying goodbye to the birthday girl, we head outside and hail a cab, making out the whole way to my dorm. When we get there, he pays the cabbie. My mission is accomplished.
But his isn’t, so we go up to my room. Now, I never realized how skinny he really was until he unbuttoned his black dress shirt and revealed a sticking-out rib cage and barely-there pecs. I start wishing I had just left him downstairs, but know that I just have to get this over with. I close my eyes and let my mind wander as we kiss some more, eventually slipping between my pink bed sheets and having sex.
I wake up the next morning to him jangling his keys as he puts them back into his pants pocket, his wallet and cell phone going in the others. I look at the clock. It’s 9am and he’s out the door. I roll over and go back to sleep, thankful that he knows the rules of the one-night-stand and that getting home last night only cost another notch on my bedpost.
Directions to SweatyDrunkenSexTown
Submitted by Sheck-sy Back
One night stands are like a box of chocolates--you never know if you're going to get mouthwatering milk chocolate with roasted peanuts and toffee, or unsavory and slightly sketchy nougat with rum, raspberry cream, and raisins (though, 90% of the time it seems to be the latter). But after a few drinks, I'm somehow always willing to reach into the chocolate box and try my luck again.
Case in point: One night a couple years ago, I headed to a bar in Brooklyn to celebrate the birthday of a friend. After several glasses of whiskey, as well as a couple tequila shots, I was significantly trashed enough to start making out with a stranger standing by the pool table (I was also significantly trashed enough to forget his name...four times in a row). Flash forward to closing time, and I'm one of the last folks at the bar. A couple of dudes, including one sporting a major mohawk, invite me to some after party. But after an attempt to find late-night pizza sidetracked us, I found myself back at my apartment with Mohawk Dude and a couple bottles of OE. We were clearly on a one way street to SweatyDrunkenSexTown, which as I recall wasn't so bad...except for one minor detail: Dude would not stop biting and sucking on my neck. Even after I told him time and again to stop. And it HURT LIKE HELL. The next morning I woke up feeling like I had been punched in the neck repeatedly, then run over by a semi truck, and I was sporting some major hickeys running from my shoulder up to my earlobe. Not cool. So when Mohawk Dude woke up, we exchanged pleasantries, and he left….oh wait, just kidding, he decided to stay until almost 5 in the evening, just awkardly and silently lying around my living room, not taking any of my hints that he should probably go. At one point in the afternoon, he stood up and walked out the door without saying a word...only to return half an hour later with large cheese pizza. (So, at least he was good for something.) That night as he finally left, he told me we’d “talk soon"...however this seems unlikely as I don’t remember giving him my number--which I'd say is probably the best decision I had made in the previous 24 hours.
One night stands are like a box of chocolates--you never know if you're going to get mouthwatering milk chocolate with roasted peanuts and toffee, or unsavory and slightly sketchy nougat with rum, raspberry cream, and raisins (though, 90% of the time it seems to be the latter). But after a few drinks, I'm somehow always willing to reach into the chocolate box and try my luck again.
Case in point: One night a couple years ago, I headed to a bar in Brooklyn to celebrate the birthday of a friend. After several glasses of whiskey, as well as a couple tequila shots, I was significantly trashed enough to start making out with a stranger standing by the pool table (I was also significantly trashed enough to forget his name...four times in a row). Flash forward to closing time, and I'm one of the last folks at the bar. A couple of dudes, including one sporting a major mohawk, invite me to some after party. But after an attempt to find late-night pizza sidetracked us, I found myself back at my apartment with Mohawk Dude and a couple bottles of OE. We were clearly on a one way street to SweatyDrunkenSexTown, which as I recall wasn't so bad...except for one minor detail: Dude would not stop biting and sucking on my neck. Even after I told him time and again to stop. And it HURT LIKE HELL. The next morning I woke up feeling like I had been punched in the neck repeatedly, then run over by a semi truck, and I was sporting some major hickeys running from my shoulder up to my earlobe. Not cool. So when Mohawk Dude woke up, we exchanged pleasantries, and he left….oh wait, just kidding, he decided to stay until almost 5 in the evening, just awkardly and silently lying around my living room, not taking any of my hints that he should probably go. At one point in the afternoon, he stood up and walked out the door without saying a word...only to return half an hour later with large cheese pizza. (So, at least he was good for something.) That night as he finally left, he told me we’d “talk soon"...however this seems unlikely as I don’t remember giving him my number--which I'd say is probably the best decision I had made in the previous 24 hours.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
We Want to Hear Your Stories!!
Send your TRUE, funny stories recapping a slutty experience or sex gone wrong to slutrehab@gmail.com.
Leave your lame "OMG, got totes wasted and made out with my BFF" stories behind. Been there. Done that. We want your jaw-dropping, head-shaking tales. Nothing too erotic or graphic, just witty and scandalous.
Submissions should be no more than 300 words. We will edit for grammar and length if necessary, but your story will stay intact.
Give your guy a code name so no one gets sued, and if you'd like some anonymity too use your good old stripper name (pet's name and the street you grew up on).
There's no compensation for stories except for maybe some revenge on that guy you wish you'd never laid your eyes--or hands--on in the first place.
Leave your lame "OMG, got totes wasted and made out with my BFF" stories behind. Been there. Done that. We want your jaw-dropping, head-shaking tales. Nothing too erotic or graphic, just witty and scandalous.
Submissions should be no more than 300 words. We will edit for grammar and length if necessary, but your story will stay intact.
Give your guy a code name so no one gets sued, and if you'd like some anonymity too use your good old stripper name (pet's name and the street you grew up on).
There's no compensation for stories except for maybe some revenge on that guy you wish you'd never laid your eyes--or hands--on in the first place.
Welcome to Slut Rehab!
Don't you wish you had just said no to that lanky, pimple-faced guy instead of using him for a cab ride home and then rewarding him with sex?
How about the Pillsbury Doughboy lookalike who somehow greaseballed his way into your bed?
And whatever happened to that guy who just couldn't get it up?
If your college days were so much fun that your friends should had given you an intervention, then welcome to SLUT REHAB!
Remember: the first step in recovery is admitting you have a problem!
How about the Pillsbury Doughboy lookalike who somehow greaseballed his way into your bed?
And whatever happened to that guy who just couldn't get it up?
If your college days were so much fun that your friends should had given you an intervention, then welcome to SLUT REHAB!
Remember: the first step in recovery is admitting you have a problem!
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