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RATE Samantha Willner (Cornell)'s SLUTBLOG (aforeplayonwords)

http://afowords.tumblr.com http://a-foreplay-on-words.tum...
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
any pics?
Embarrassed to the bone lay legend
http://cornellsun.com/files/pictures/picture-5542.jpg i r...
Dashing stage depressive
vibrant shitlib
keep in mind that's a self-selected and possibly photoshoppe...
Dashing stage depressive
I suppose that's tcr
vibrant shitlib
*sigh* why are these college sex columnists never good looki...
Dashing stage depressive
I wish I knew, bro :(
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
LOL... http://a-foreplay-on-words.tumblr.com/post/2898212...
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
"I remember enjoying what happened next. There were lot...
180 church knife
It. Gets. BETTER: http://a-foreplay-on-words.tumblr.com/p...
vibrant shitlib
U mad XO?
well-lubricated forum twinkling uncleanness
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
so she concedes that she'd rather be with an asshole
180 church knife
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
lol, white woman is slut, blabs it all over town news at al...
Garnet supple dopamine
lol http://encyclopediadramatica.ch/College_Sex_Bloggers
vibrant shitlib
i think every girl with a 115+ IQ who (1) isn't hideous and ...
Garnet supple dopamine
vibrant shitlib
is this really what feminism gave us? i have never heard...
transparent odious locale
Two nights getting drunk in NYC in a row! Now I just need so...
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
what the fuck is going on in this thread? Fuck this, I'm ou...
cyan persian theater
boyish karate roommate
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
burgundy property faggotry
this explains a lot
Nubile dilemma
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
i enjoy the lol women = whores meme but jfc pumos are creepy...
razzmatazz medicated corner
pumo, are you the lena chen/miriam lazewatsky spammer?
rebellious sapphire library
what compels these young women to do this? its really pretty...
rebellious sapphire library
vibrant shitlib
vibrant shitlib
Q: Thoughts on anal sex? - Anonymous Answer 1. Everyone...
vibrant shitlib
dude is this your blog? http://lenachen-enablers.blogspot.c...
rebellious sapphire library
i found her okcupid http://www.okcupid.com/profile/Ivy_In...
Umber Kink-friendly International Law Enforcement Agency
awesome http://f2bbs.com/bbs/show_topic/458409
vibrant shitlib
Religion Judaism and somewhat serious about it Hmmm....
black hell ratface
vibrant shitlib
Honestly, I've had enough of self-important bitches who thin...
beady-eyed round eye indian lodge
histrionic slimy corn cake roast beef
http://a-foreplay-on-words.tumblr.com/More_About_Samantha ...
vibrant shitlib
Why so much hate for blogging college whores on here, pumo? ...
bearded ticket booth ape
LOL, her mom is actually a member of the PREVENTION COUNCIL ...
vibrant shitlib
Cornell AND Ithaca College? Huh?
bearded ticket booth ape
vibrant shitlib
lol, doing drugs with her BROTHER? something tells me MOM ...
vibrant shitlib
oops..."NOT FOUND" looks like mommy wasn't too ...
vibrant shitlib
Contributing to the Delinquency of A Minor
shimmering office
wft? this chick is out of her fucking mind.
idiotic gaming laptop menage
http://twitter.com/#!/SamanthaWillner started a TWITTER y...
vibrant shitlib
Nubile dilemma
You people are so fucking aspie. Why do you indulge psycho q...
Excitant nursing home chad
LURK MOAR Editorial Assistant at The McGraw-Hill Companie...
black hell ratface
I don't know why people said this girl was a 5 when she's cl...
Puce Racy Gay Wizard

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Date: July 28th, 2011 1:51 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib



Email: smw276@cornell.edu

1. I’ve been receiving a slew of anonymous messages from people asking me to have sex with them/send them naked pictures. Anonymous comments hereby disabled.

2. Certain ex-boyfriends, fuck buddies, non-Tumblr users, etc. have gotten hold of my blog’s URL and are messaging me in regards to things I’ve written about them.

3. I used to have my blog linked to my Facebook account, and multiple awkward run-ins with semi-acquaintances have revealed that this was a horrible idea. For example, I recently ran into a guy I barely knew from freshman year, and he said to me, “I’ve been reading your blog.*wink* You’re like Cornell’s Carrie Bradshaw. We should hang out sometime”. NO.

Hopefully this ensures only Tumblr users who don’t actually know who I am can read about all my dirty little secrets. :)



Dick Pics

Last night, Trey sent me a picture of his dick—without any coaxing on my part.

I glanced at it for a second, then immediately deleted it. Wait, actually that’s not entirely true. I forwarded it to my friend Cait first, because she was having a bad day. She was all, “FML” and so I said, “Will it help if I send you a picture of Trey’s penis?”.

It did.

However, I didn’t zoom-in on the picture, examine every throbbing vein, or get the sudden urge to drop what I was doing and go masturbate. I just sort-of turned my head sideways, frowned a little, released an involuntary “huh,” and then shut my phone.

Why? Because penises are nasty.

They look like mutant, alien mushrooms, and I’d be perfectly happy if I never received a still-frame shot of one ever again.


Trey is such a little heart breaker.

He just posted a video of himself on Facebook playing guitar and singing an original romantic song. Five minutes later I get a text saying, “I wrote a song about you. Go check it out”.

Right. That song is about me…and every other girl you’re sexting, seeing, or making moves on.

It’s a good thing I barely have a heart anymore.

Kidding. I’m just cynical and have zero tolerance for bullshit.

Just fuck me, already.


does Samantha's mommy (Marci Willer) and daddy (Irwin Cohen) know about Sammy's cumslurping and whoring?


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 1:52 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


Awkward confession: I keep a list of all the people I’ve ever slept with in my cell phone. You know, for research purposes.

Anyway, today I brought my phone into Verizon because it kept fucking up and—in order to fix it—they had to restore it to factory settings. As a result, my precious list got deleted.

So now I’m sitting here going through old blog posts, contact lists, and even charging previously used phones in an effort to collect names and reach my magic number (not sharing. don’t ask).

Not only is this process incredibly frustrating, but it’s taking me on trips down memory lane that I’d rather not go down.

Also, I’m realizing I dedicate an embarrassing amount of time to highly insignificant activities, blogs Samantha Willner, a do-nothing summer intern at McGraw Hill

Development Intern at McGraw-Hill Higher Education


Ithaca, New York Area


Writing and Editing



Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 1:55 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


I’ve been a bad, bad girl.

Also, I think the universe is playing a game with me—and I’m losing.

Why? I had sex with my ex-boyfriend last night (it was Kory), which all women know is psychological suicide. Having ex-sex is like waking up five, ten years in the past and wondering if you have the chance to change history.

Chances are, you don’t. The only opportunity you get is to reunite with a familiar dick and wonder why you never said anything about that “special” sex move he thinks is so great.

Which is why, when I got a text from Kory at 9 pm yesterday that simply said, “DTF?”, I responded, “Not unless you take me out for drinks first”. This was a calculated move. If we went out and I was immediately reminded of all the reasons we broke up, then there was no way I was going to reopen that Pandora’s box—or my legs, for that matter.

Except, not only did he agree to take me out to drinks, but we ended up having a surprisingly awesome time. I don’t think we’ve ever had that much fun together, even while we were dating. He bought every round of drinks, made me genuinely laugh, threw a million compliments my way, and even took me dancing afterwards. This is the kid who, a month into our relationship, said “NO” when I asked him to my high school’s prom!

…which, for the record, was a bad move, because I wore this little number (made entirely of sequins) and had prom sex anyway:

In any case…

Despite this awesomeness, there were certain habits and behavior that Kory exhibited that will surely never change. For starters, he is vain and unintelligent. He kept asking if he looked alright (oh, hey man-habit that I hate) and making references to things he clearly had no idea about. He also likes to start fights, which is exactly what almost happened after two drunk guys cut in front of me in line to the bar. Luckily, I was able to smooth over the situation (read: flirted with all contenders simultaneously) before any premature punches were thrown.

Afterwards, we headed back to my place and he reminded me why I did stay with him for such a long time…because he’s fantastic in bed.

(Side note: My basement is my notorious hookup spot, and so I took Kory down there almost immediately. When he went to take the cushions off of the pullout couch, he found the headband, earrings, and thong I lost from a previous basement hookup about a month back. He didn’t say ANYTHING about it either. HI-LAR-IOUS).

However, I made him leave after it was all said and done because I wasn’t in the mood to go back that far in time, and because Kory has a bad habit of saying “I love you” at inopportune moments. We kissed goodbye, and he asked if I’d call him next time I was in town.

I said yes, but I meant no.

I’m perfectly happy remembering our fun night out rather than our messy breakup, and I’m sure he’d enjoy knowing that this is my final memory of him, rather than the time he tried to get me pregnant so I wouldn’t leave for college.

So, you might ask, if I have so much perspective on the situation, then why do I think the universe is playing a fun little game with me?

Oh, I dunno…maybe it has something to do with the textual exchange I had with Neil right before I was supposed to meet up with Kory/


This morning I had one of those movie moments, where the cosmos align and your life seems less a product of chance, and more like a meticulously planned blueprint. It was the kind of coincidence that makes you replay everything you did prior to the event that made it possible to occur—-the kind that makes you say, “Wow, small world”.

Here’s what happened:

I missed my regular train into work [at McGraw-Hill as a summer Development Intern], so I took a different route than usual. Instead of arriving at Penn Station, I ended up a few blocks away, thus forcing me to walk through the smoldering summer heat.

Just as I was contemplating cabbing the next two blocks, I heard someone yell, “Excuse me! Hey! Excuse me!”.

I decided to ignore it. Why? Because this is New York City and if you turned around every time someone yelled “excuse me” or “hey” you’d never get anywhere.

Suddenly, someone grabbed my arm.


About six months ago I hooked up with a guy named Louis*. He is a graduate student from Venezuela, and has one of the worst qualities a guy can have—he’s hot, and he knows it.

As a result, he is also one of the biggest players Cornell has every seen. Knowing full well what I was getting myself into, I slept with him.

The following semester, Louis made a few guest appearances at my parties, and we had multiple awkward run-ins in the dining hall, but nothing substantial ever happened between us again. However, every time I saw him, he was accompanied by the same sidekick—a black guy whose name I never knew, and who always smiled creepily at me whenever I had to make small talk with Louis.


I whirled around, ready to karate chop some pickpocket’s ass, but instead I was greeted by a familiar creepy smile. Guess who? Of all people, it was Louis’s sidekick.

We hugged, exchanged numbers, and vowed to get lunch sometime soon. Apparently he interns a few blocks away from my building.

I think it was the longest conversational exchange we’ve ever had. I also had no idea we were on hugging terms.

I texted him afterwards. It went as follows:

Me: “Hey, it’s Samantha. Wanted to make sure you had my number too.”

Him: Haha, how unfortunate, LOL. Sounds good.

I haven’t the slightest clue what that means.

Needless to say, I’m quite amused with the way this encounter transpired. When not hiding in Louis’s attractive shadow, he’s pretty cute. I wonder if he actually intends on holding me to lunch plans. Either way, I love coincidences.

Now I just need to figure out what his name is.


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 1:56 PM
Author: Embarrassed to the bone lay legend

any pics?


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 1:57 PM
Author: Dashing stage depressive


i rate her a 5


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:00 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


5 and a half


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:03 PM
Author: Dashing stage depressive

keep in mind that's a self-selected and possibly photoshopped photo. this girl is a 5 AT BEST


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:04 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib

I suppose that's tcr


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:04 PM
Author: Dashing stage depressive

*sigh* why are these college sex columnists never good looking :(


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:07 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib

I wish I knew, bro :(


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:26 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib



Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:39 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib



Reply Favorite

Date: August 5th, 2011 3:01 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib








Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 1:59 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


Sometimes I wonder what my doorman thinks of me.

Especially after I drunkenly stumbled into my apartment last night, sans shoes, with yet another guy. Sweet Jesus, the things this doorman has seen. Every time we encounter one another it’s either early in the morning and I’m still wearing the dress I wore out the night before, OR it’s past midnight and I’m draped over the arm of someone he’s never seen before. One day I should take him out to drinks simply to hear him relay my tales of degeneracy, vice, and corruption from his perspective. I imagine it would be incredibly entertaining.

What’s actually more entertaining is that, for someone who recently broke up with her boyfriend and ended things with her unqualified fuck buddy, I have been getting a lot of ass lately.

…and I’m not even (really) trying (I swear).

So last night’s mistake was a friend from high school named Chad*, who I’ve actually had sex with before, but this is not what makes this hook up interesting. No, the irony lies in the fact that:

A. Chad has hooked up with multiple friends of mine in the past. We sort of pass him around like the unfortunate pair of jeans in Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, except minus the Disney theme and sheer unbelievability (there is no fucking way Blake Lively and a pre-weight loss America Ferrera fit into the same pair of slacks. NO. WAY.).


B. A few nights ago Chad and I got into a screaming argument where I was called a cunt/bitch. The fight erupted because he arrived three hours late to our mutual friend’s birthday party (who he has also fucked), already drunk, with another girl on his arm that our friend hardly knew. After the cocky asshole sauntered into the room without so much as an apology, I involuntarily released my feminine wrath on him. Oops.

Basically, Chad is a stereotypical fratboy whose arrogance and cockiness outshine the fact that he is actually a nice guy. A nice guy who is hot. And incredibly rough in the bedroom. Like a rabbit on steroids, in heat, riding a jackhammer. That rough.

So last night we found ourselves at another mutual friend’s party in Brooklyn, and Chad somehow convinced me to be his wing girl. I was all like, whatevz…if you really can’t get a girl to talk to you through your own efforts, then I’ll guide your incompetent cock. So I was going around introducing myself to random bimbos and then letting Chad cut-in before sneaking away to spit some game of my own on the bartender.

Next thing I knew, however, I was piss-ass-drunk. And so was Chad.

Long story short, we ended up sharing a cab ride home, except the cabbie only made one stop: My apartment.

I remember enjoying what happened next. There were lots of different positions, definitely some hardcore dirty talking, a little choking and spanking, and a lot of pussy pounding. Like the kind that makes that skin-on-skin clapping noise. So, in general, it was good, but probably because we’re both still harboring resentment toward the other for our little tiff the other day, so it was sort of like hate sex.

Oh, wait. (drunken flashback).

Everything was good, that is, until he asked if he could fuck me in the ass. I later confirmed with several friends that Chad has never once asked to enter butt territory during their hook-ups, which I find incredibly strange. Is it me? Do I just have that “fuck me in the butt” look? I don’t get it. I also think there’s something inappropriate about butt fucking someone you’re not dating. It’s just one of those things that you need to have a sit-down-chat about before diving in, balls deep. Am I right?

Good news is that I wasted no time getting over Neil. Not like there was much to get over, though, besides the painful memories of our awkward, horrible sex.

In other news, Britney Spears’ new song “I Wanna Go” is my new anthem.

Random thoughts over.

Seacrest, out.


A few days ago, I did something I’ve never done before.

My friend Brian*, whom I’ve known for many years, came over for a much-needed hangout sesh. Between going off to school, working a part-time job, and managing his psychotic ex-girlfriend, Brian had only visited me sporadically over the last few months. He is a consistently reliable friend, and often helps me to decipher the perplexing promulgations of the male species when I find myself lost and confused. In turn, I have done the same for him, or at least tried, for the women he chooses to date are usually bat-shit crazy.

Since the beginning of our friendship, we always maintained a strictly platonic relationship. Although both of us admitted (under the influence of alcohol) to finding one another attractive, that’s as far as we ever ventured into the land of sexual tension and drunken mistakes. Truth be told, I never held any desire to sleep with him, mainly because I thought of him like a brother. During the first crucial months post-acquaintanceship, wherein which a friendship has the potential to become something more, we were both in committed relationships and, therefore, relegated each other to the proverbial friend zone. He was one of the only guys I’d been able to maintain a nonphysical connection with and I intended to keep it that way.

As Brian and I planted ourselves on my couch and cracked open a few beers, he began complaining about his aforementioned lunatic ex, who had been stalking his every move since their break-up. According to him, she had blacklisted his name on the dating market by threatening any girl who showed him the slightest interest with a slow, painful death. It was a depressing tale, and I tried to assure him that her jealous rampage would eventually pass and he would be back on the dating scene in no time.

“I honestly don’t think I can make it much longer,” lamented Brian, “it’s been nearly two months since I’ve had sex.”

“Ouch,” I thought. Brian, like most men, needed regular sex in order to not rip the heads off small animals and children. I could tell by the desperation in his voice that he was nearing his breaking point.

I offered up my condolences and shared with him that, I too was suffering from a gratuitous dry spell. He didn’t respond, but merely nodded, nonverbally indicating he understood my situation all too well. We stared off into space, shaking our heads, then simultaneously took another swig of our beers. We sat in silence, granting one another a moment to lapse into reverie, fondly remembering our last great lay or perhaps just pondering the meaning of life without sex.

“Do you wanna just…fuck?”

I heard the words, but could not figure out who had just said them. Surely, Brian could not have asked such a ludicrous question. He was my friend. Like a brother. Fuck? That would be like incest! Oh, no, no, no! But as I stared at him, my mouth hanging open and my internal shock reflected on my face, I could tell he was completely serious.

“Um…what?” I managed, after I regained the ability to speak.

“Seriously, Sam. I mean, we’ve known each other forever. You and I both need to get laid, and since we’re both consenting, adults, why the hell not?” he said pragmatically.

“But…what about…I mean…,” I stammered.

“Listen. It will mean nothing. We’ll just do it and go right back to being friends. Just once, and I promise I’ll never mention it again,” he said.

I found myself stuck in limbo between logic and animal instinct. Here was an attractive guy, offering me his penis for a one-time-use, no pressure, straight-forward roll in the hay. At the same time, he was my friend. He’d seen me cry over heartbreak, held my hair as I puked in the toilet after one too many tequila shots, and once told me that, from behind, I kind of resembled his Aunt Beth. Then again, I had slept with men before without feeling anything for them. However, I had never had sex with a guy that I cared about, but was not sexually attracted to. My mind was spinning trying to resolve this conundrum.

“Sam. Come on. I’m practically begging you,” Brian said, a little more forcefully.

His words reminded me of the time we were in high school and he had bought an ounce of weed with his entire paycheck, despite having owed his parents and several other people a lot of money. He returned home that night to find his mom had smashed his bong and was strip-searching his room on the hunt for more drugs and paraphernalia. He frantically called me and pleaded that I come over and take the weed for safekeeping until his mom’s rampage was over. I reluctantly agreed, despite all my better judgment. And now, Brian had yet again placed me in an equally precarious position.

I looked into his eyes, now gleaming hopefully, shook my head, took a deep breath and said…


Brian laughed, as if he had always expected me to agree in the end. I resented this.

He put down his beer, and cautiously put his hand under my chin and drew it towards him. As he got nearer, I realized that I had never been this close to his face before. I could see the stubble of his five o’clock shadow forming and smell the faint scent of Axe lingering on his shirt. I wondered if he was also observing things about me he had never noticed before. And then, quite perfunctory, I was full on making-out with my best guy-friend.

I was surprised at how natural it felt to be kissing him. I half expected both of us to turn away after a few seconds with disgusted looks on our faces, like we were six years old and still believed members of the opposite sex had cooties. Despite the ease with which we fell into our new, one-time role as fuck buddies, I felt absolutely nothing. I was not quite turned on, but not quite turned off by him either. I wasn’t nervous, but I wasn’t relaxed either. It reminded me of snacking out of sheer boredom. You’re not hungry, but there’s really nothing else to do, so you eat.

And so we ate. Or something like that. I had accidentally seen Brian naked a dozen times, so I was not really shocked at seeing him bare it all, but I had also never viewed his body in a sexual way before. Experiencing him as a carnal being was similar to the feeling you get upon discovering someone you mildly respect voted to re-elect Bush in the ‘04 elections. Although you still like them, you can’t help but view all their subsequent actions, words, and decisions in a slightly different light. This was what it was like fucking Brian.

Just as I was starting to enjoy myself, it was over. Unlike most guys, Brian didn’t apologize for not lasting longer. I wondered if it was just because it was me or if he was this shameless with all his conquests. We slowly got up and gathered our scattered items of clothing, courteously looking away as the other dressed (I always find this post-sex ritual the oddest. If two people can bump uglies, why can’t they comfortably redress in front of each other?). Once clothed, Brian extended his clenched hand for a congratulatory fist bump, complete with explosions, as if we had just won a game of beer pong. I laughed and went along with it, taking it as proof of Brian’s promise that things between us would go back to normal post-romp.

And then, rather naturally, we were right back where we started. We sat on the couch, drinking beers, talking about school, and exes, and complaining about classes starting again, until we realized it was snowing and he should probably head home before the weather got any worse. We hugged goodbye, vowing to get together again soon, and then he was gone.

I returned to the couch and watched the snow fall quietly outside. I wondered if what I had just experienced was the modern version of a unisex friendship. Like asking your friend to pick you up from the airport, or house-sit your dog, is asking for meaningless sex the new friendly favor? I suppose the consequences of our decision have yet to fully unfold, so we’ll just have to wait and see. But I think Brian and I just might be on to something…


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:02 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


Support Our Troops

About a week ago, I met a 23-year-old guy named Jason at a party. He was fairly good looking, with a prominent roman nose and baby blue eyes. He was a little too short for my taste, but he was a Marine who was leaving for Afghanistan that upcoming weekend. We talked as we partnered up in beer pong, and shortly after we beat our opponents, he asked for my number. There’s nothing like beer pong and underage drinking to bring two people together.

We made plans to get together and watch a movie the next day—three days before he was scheduled to go overseas. Now, we all know that “watching a movie” is the universal code for doing the nasty, which I had no objections towards. It had been close to a month since my last sexual encounter, so I was hoping the movie watching would end in us naked. Furthermore, if he was a terrible lay or things became awkward, it would be of no consequence since he was scheduled to be outside the U.S. in a matter of days.

This is what I like to call a travel tryst— AKA a sexual encounter that is inconsequential since one or more parties involved will be traveling outside the realm of face-to-face contact within a few days post-romp. Travel trysts usually occur on vacations, cruises, or close to end-of-semester breaks. If the sex is good, then fuck yeah. You will be left with the fond memories forever. If it’s bad, both parties never have to see each other again (or at least will be far enough apart geographically to get over the awkwardness in peace). Essentially, it’s win-win.

I was further convinced that this rendezvous would end in the no-pants-dance because Jason had been teasing me (via text message) all day about who had drank more beer the night before. Being he is a man in the armed forces, I knew he had probably out-drank me. Alas, I am eternally competitive and also very proud of my drinking skills, so I played his little game and challenged him to a drink-off. Thus, our “movie date” had just turned into a sloshfest, meaning it was mathematically impossible for me not to get laid.

According to plan, my fuck buddy arrived at around 10:30 p.m. (yet another cue that he was not merely interested in watching bad romantic comedies and making pleasant conversation) with a 24-rack of beer in hand. I lead him into the basement, as this is where I usually take my sexual conquests if I want to get-it-on in peace. Actually, there is a specific room I like to use, which was originally built to be my stepfather’s office when our basement was first being finished. However, the room never underwent the transformation he foresaw, and now it merely houses a large flat-screen TV and a pull-out couch (which I have been having sex on for the last four years). Even better, the room has no windows, thus when the lights are turned off it’s hard to see almost anything (which, let’s be honest, is sometimes a good thing depending on who you’re sleeping with). Finally, the door has a double lock (not sure why) so it is impossible for unwanted company to walk in unexpectedly. Thus, it is perfectly conducive for engaging in naughty behavior right under my parents’ noses.

As I lead him into the room, Jason seemed a bit nervous watching me double bolt the doors. I paid no attention and began flipping through Netflix to find a free movie I didn’t care to see. I made casual conversation, decided on Fight Club without asking for his input, grabbed a beer and plopped myself on the couch next to him.

I’m not much of a romantic.

As the movie progressed, jokes and small talk were made, and empty beer cans began to pile up at our feet. Around the time Brad Pitt’s shirtless scene came on, I realized we were still sitting about two feet apart and no progress had been made in the hook-up department. I assumed he was either nervous or too much of a gentleman to make the first move. Sigh. Alright, fine. I’ll make the first move, I thought.

I slowly inched closer to him until he put his arm around me. Okay, cool. Progress. A few minutes later, however, he grabbed my hand and, instead of putting it down his pants, he just held it. And not a cute, intertwining/finger-locking hand-hold, either. It was a literal child-like grasping of my first three fingers. For complete strangers who had been signaling to each other all night that they were both DTF, hand holding seemed a bit juvenile and counterintuitive. But alas, I went along with it because I didn’t want to come on too strongly.

Just as my hand was getting too sweaty to be cute anymore, Jason began to tilt his head closer to mine. What’s this? Is this a signal? He did this move several more times, but would abruptly stop as if there was an invisible wall preventing him from moving his neck more than 60 degrees. After a few more failed attempts, he simply gave up and rested his head on my shoulder. WHAT?!

On what planet was this going to lead to sex? I’d been in some confusing sexual situations before, but this one was mystifying. I knew I would have to make an obvious move soon or else the movie would be over and we would be left doing the awkward “should-we-watch-another-movie-or-should-I-leave?” back and forth. For the record, I do not enjoy making the first move or being aggressive when it comes to men. I get off on being the submissive type, so I knew this was already heading in the wrong direction. However, desperate times called for desperate measures.

Thanks to my undeniable sexual seduction skills (me turning toward him, grabbing his face, and forcing him to kiss me) I was able to ensure we were on top of each other just as Edward Norton took a bullet to the head (once again, romantic). But as we swapped spit, I noticed that Jason seemed rather nervous. As he attempted to slip a hand down my shirt, I became aware of his shaking hands and racing heart.

“Um…are you okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, yeah…fine. I’m fine,” he responded, now trying unsuccessfully to undo my bra.

As the minutes dragged onward and the shaking turned into sweating, I began to wonder just how experienced my marine was in the art of seduction. Suddenly, a thought came to my mind—perhaps he had not been with that many women before.

“Jason, can I ask you a question?”

The sound of our lips parting was like that of a plunger being lifted off a drain. I wiped the saliva off my mouth, trying not to seem obviously disgusted.


“Um, how many women have you been with?” I asked cautiously.

He paused and looked at me as if I had just slapped him across the face. His mouth was slightly open and glistening with fresh make-out juices and he pushed himself up off of me, as if I was a bed of nails and he was trying his best not to make contact. Again, I tried not to make it apparent that he was turning me off more and more by the second.

“You probably won’t believe me if I tell you.”

Now, when it comes to men in the armed forces, I’ve found the answer to my query can either go one of two ways. Either the soldier in question is a complete man whore who screws anything with a hole, or he’s a victim of perpetual deployment, resulting in limited contact with females. The latter is usually applicable to men who, like my prospect, had enlisted right out of high school.

Either way, I was ready for the answer and assured him I would withhold disbelief.


The FUCK????

Suddenly, I felt as if I was the one who had been slapped. Zero? As in, a virgin? Despite his obvious lack of sexual prowess, I assumed he had at least been with a couple women, but no women at all? I stared blankly at him and the atmosphere was suddenly tense.

Now, I want to clarify that there is nothing wrong with being a virgin, especially if you have some sort of religious conviction against sex (i.e.; waiting for marriage). However, if you are over the age of 21 and, despite all your attempts, have not had sex, there has to be something else going on. My mind was running through every possible explanation. He was gay. He was too small. He was too big. He was a premature ejaculator. He had a rare disease that caused him to have a seizure every time someone touched his penis (…seemed reasonable at the time).

As I sat there trying to understand how a good-looking marine avoided losing his v-card for all these years, Jason decided that the conversation was over and that we should pretend as if none of it had ever happened. So, following his cue, I grabbed another beer and stared at the T.V. in silence.

My thoughts, however, could not be quieted. They continued to race through illogical explanations until the only thing I felt for him was pity. Maybe he was just a nice guy who had no clue what he was doing in the bedroom. Perhaps other girls, like myself, had turned him away after discovering his secret. Truth be told, I find nothing sexy or exciting about having sex with a virgin. I figure I’ve paid my dues, made my mistakes, and now I should reap the benefits by getting it on with people who have been through the same. Then again, the poor guy was about to leave for Afghanistan for the next nine months where his chances of getting his dick wet were slim to none. My guilt at thwarting his chances and my pity for his lack of experience became overwhelming, so I decided I’d show my support for our troops in the best way I knew how.

A bon voyage BJ.

Here’s the kicker: 24 hours later, Jason informed me he was not actually a virgin and had been with three other women previous to me. According to him, by gauging my reaction to his claim that he was a virgin, he was able to tell whether I was genuinely interested in him or not.


I’m still not sure whether I passed that test.



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Date: July 28th, 2011 2:03 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib



True Life: I Lead A Secret Life On the Internet

Does anyone remember that MTV True Life episode that chronicled the lives of people with secret Internet identities? If I remember correctly, the show featured a wannabe singer with stage fright who only felt comfortable performing via avatar on the website secondlife.com. Then there was the woman who hosted naked webcam sessions for paying users, but was petrified of going on dates with men in the real world. It was truly topnotch, exploitative, life-ruining television. I remember wondering, how exactly do people get involved with this kind of stuff? Webcam Girl was a mousy, shy bookworm-type with thick glasses and red hair, but somehow she felt comfortable taking her clothes off for strange men on the Internet. What motivated her to continue doing this? Was it the money? The secret rush of doing something so taboo? Or maybe it was the control factor. If she didn’t like where things were going or felt uncomfortable, she could end her sessions with the click of a mouse and go back to leading a normal life (or however normal a life you can lead if you’re secretly an Internet porn star). In the real world we don’t get that luxury, and I secretly wish we did, considering the number of horrible dates I’ve been on. But, whatever the reason, it started the cogs in my ‘ole noggin’-a-churnin’.

I suppose what surprised me the most is that, had I met Webcam Girl out at a party or been introduced to her by a mutual friend, I would not automatically think, “Oh, you must masturbate on camera in your free time!” I think when we hear of people engaging in unmentionable or unusual behavior we usually assume they’re distinctly fucked up in some way. Kind of like when you watch one of those ridiculous documentaries on TLC or E! that are titled, “100 Most Heinous Homicides of the 21st Century” or “Strange Stories: I’m Addicted to Cats”. The people on these shows just exude crazy. They have hair growing out of places it shouldn’t, they’re cross-eyed, their teeth are missing, or they keep swatting at the air as if a million tsetse flies are attacking their face as they’re trying to do their interviews. And then there’s always the family member or “friend from high school” that give personal testimonies, claiming the aforementioned crazy person had given early warning signs that they were completely mental. “Oh yeah, George collected knives when he was younger and he was always talking to trees. We had math class together and he would stare at me and lick his lips, in this sick, sadistic way. I’m really not surprised that he started his own brothel and then murdered all the prostitutes one night with an icicle. Really, not surprised at all”.

I mentally catalogued my thoughts about Webcam Girl, however, since I knew there was no real way of truly understanding her motives, and I secretly hoped that one day I’d be able to revisit the topic in the event I started my own sex blog (tee hee). That is, until one day last December when my friend Dan* decided to confide a scandalous secret in me.

Like most scandalous secrets, this one was shared in a state of total inebriation. It was the kind of drunken stupor that awakens ancient monsters inside your soul and disintegrates your mental filter; the kind of debauched daze that breaks down boundaries and makes it seem acceptable to take your pants off in public. Unsurprisingly, we began swapping tales of misbehavior and corruption (while we still had the ability to form coherent sentences) until Dan topped all my previous admissions with one unforgettable statement:

“I have clients…who pay me to….do stuff…on camera.”

Holy shit balls, Batman.

Okay, let me rewind (if this was a reality TV show, we’d be having a hazy, black-and-white flashback right now, complete with baby pictures of Dan like they do on Intervention). Like Webcam Girl, Dan is not the type of person you would assume engages in this type of activity. He’s well-spoken, intelligent, has plenty of friends and is, by no means, socially awkward. I don’t think he talked to trees or collected knives as a child either. When I originally met him, I pegged him for the overly studious-type who only left his dorm room to get more coffee or sharpen a pencil. As I got to know him on a more personal level, however, it became apparent that he has a definite wild side and questionable morals, but still, I would never have thought his side job borderlined on prostitution.

Despite my shock, I vowed to withhold judgment until I had heard the whole story. In fact, I try and take this stance in most situations because I often find that my life experiences elicit criticism from more scrupulous individuals. Additionally, I had shared deep, dark secrets with Dan before and he had afforded me a nonjudgmental ear to bend, so I granted him the same. To be honest, I was actually quite fascinated and overflowing with questions. What kind of stuff did his clients ask him to do? How much did he get paid? Most importantly, why was he doing this at all?

Dan explained that his webcam sessions stemmed from a need for money. Between the cost of tuition, books, food, and housing, he needed a job that would pay well and not interfere with his schoolwork. The idea for his new part-time position came after he stumbled upon a website that let users with a webcam set up an account and “perform” for other members. Instead of creating an account on the site, however, Dan simply went into chat rooms and solicited potential clients who seemed interested in his “services”. Then, he would initiate a payment exchange (I’m assuming via some sort of PayPal-esque online utility), find out exactly what it was the client wanted him to do, and then set up a Skype session where it would all go down. On average, he made a few hundred dollars every weekend.

Dan’s general rule is no face shots (aka he will only show himself below the neck) and no penetration. Other than that, it is all up to the client to decide what he will do. He told me he has received all kind of requests; one voyeur insisted on being referred to as “daddy,” another wanted to see Dan masturbate in the shower, another even asked him to ejaculate onto a banana (an obvious analogy for…). He admitted that, although he sometimes found it thrilling, he was often embarrassed and ashamed of the things he had done on camera for money.

In my opinion, Dan’s actions illuminate many unsettling things about our society. The first is that the cost of attending college can force students to do desperate things for extra cash. Granted, Dan’s “no face” rule ensures that his actions won’t come back to haunt him some day (like if he were to actually make a porno), but I’m sure there are still psychological repercussions that stem from the taboo nature of his exploitations. Since hosting nude webcam sessions is generally frowned upon by the average person, there’s no doubt that Dan, and others engaging in this behavior, would feel inadequate, guilty, or disturbed by their own actions. On the one hand, Dan is being told that, in order to be a contributing member of society, he has to go to college and get a degree. But in order to pay for that education, he has to resort to activities that are deemed deplorable. How does somebody resolve this dilemma without sacrificing their sanity?

Frankly, I don’t think there is anything wrong with what Dan is doing. First, it’s economics: he’s providing a service for money and, so long as there are people out there willing to pay, there is going to be a necessity (albeit a small necessity) for people like Dan to perform his services. Second, how different is it from having a sex Skype session with your boyfriend or girlfriend? Granted, there’s money involved in Dan’s activities, but ethically it falls into the same category. No actual sexual encounters are taking place, so it’s the perfect balance of dangerous and safe. You can’t get herpes from Skype sex, so it can’t be all that bad, right? Truthfully, I don’t think I would have a problem doing the same thing if I really needed the money. But then again, my concept of moral righteousness is a bit more pliable than the average girl next-door’s.

Sure, it would be easier to tell friends that he gets his extra dough by serving venti nonfat no-foam caramel machiattos to yuppy frat boys at the Collegetown Starbucks, but, in the end, Dan’s not doing anything wrong. And I would venture to guess that, true life, he’s probably not alone out there.


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Date: July 28th, 2011 2:04 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


The Elusive “O”

Recently, I’ve been sleeping with a man I thought only existed in movies and fairy tales. Let me describe his kind: Besides having the sexual prowess of a lion in heat, these men are the world’s most selfless lovers. They will spend hours eating pussy, and fucking a woman just the way she needs to be fucked in order to reach the elusive “O”. They never orgasm first; rather, their top priority is getting their partner off. These men are goal-oriented, highly motivated, and won’t stop working until their girlfriend/wife/fuck-buddy has creamed their pants. Twice.

Ladies and gentleman, I have been lucky enough to snag myself an “eager-to-pleaser”. Please hold your applause and questions until the end.

Now, when I first realized the guy I’m screwing is a member of this rare breed, I was ecstatic. Although he is already quite skilled in the bedroom, he insisted on learning exactly what I like and how I like it. At first, I enjoyed our post-sex recaps because it gave me an excuse to relive the ecstasy, give him positive feedback, and fine tune my sexting skills. Yet, as is what happens with all things purely self-indulgent, we were doomed to hit a road block. A few days ago, eager-to-pleaser and I were reviewing another phenomenal roll in the hay, when he confessed he found it difficult to hold out until I came first, since it “just seemed to take so long”.

I should have seen this moment coming, but like telling a child the tooth fairy doesn’t exist, I didn’t want to break it to him so bluntly. You see, I, erm…well…okay, perhaps I need a bit of a disclaimer. Readers, I’m about to share some personal information, so if you still want to view me in a professional manner, I suggest you fill your time reading another blog.

Ok. Here it is. Wait….waaaaitttt….alright. Fine.

True Life: I can’t have a vaginal orgasm.

GASP! The horror! Desecration! Hide ya kids, hid ya wife, because I just said something no female is ever supposed to admit publicly.

Unfortunately, it’s the God-awful truth, but let me be clear about what I mean. I am perfectly capable of having an O-moment. I can come from vaginal and clitoral stimulation simultaneously, being eaten out, (etc.), but if a man merely relies on the girth of his member to do the job…it ain’t happenin’. Trust me, I’ve tried every position, vibrator, and dildo, but I can’t orgasm from the old-heave-ho by itself. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if the feeling is uncomfortable or painful. Quite the contrary, everything feels great, but the finale just isn’t going to end in fireworks. It’s not the way I’m built, and I’m perfectly fine with that.

The reason for my casual acceptance is simple: I know I’m not alone. In fact, I am in the majority. According to a 2009 study at Emory University, 75 percent of all women cannot orgasm from intercourse by itself, and 10-15 percent can never climax under any circumstances. It’s completely shocking, but totally true and several other studies conducted over the past decade have supported this claim. Kim Wallen, the professor who led the Emory experiment, gives a simple explanation for the results of the study. She says, “just as there are physical attributes that would prevent some people from ever becoming a concert violinist, or run the 100 meters in 10 seconds, there are attributes that make it unlikely that some women will ever experience orgasm from intercourse alone”.

If this really is the case, then why does it seem so surprising? I would argue that there are two sexual “norms” at play here, preventing women from getting what they want and men from knowing how to give it to us. The first is the expectation that sex ought to end with both partners orgasming. Perhaps this notion is a direct result of watching too much porn, or seeing sex on TV. With both mediums, there needs to be a tidy way to wrap things up, change scenes, or move forward, and the fastest way to do that is to have one of the characters blow a load. In real life, though, things don’t run so smoothly, but we still put the same performance pressure on ourselves and our partners. The point of sex might be physical pleasure, but if we focus too much on what we think should be happening to us, rather than what is happening, then the whole act is pointless. AKA It’s the journey, not the destination, man.

This leads me to the second issue; FAKING. There’s nothing I hate more than fake people, except fake people who fake orgasms. Maybe the real problem here is that women are too embarrassed to say exactly what pleases them, and as a result, men learn that banging their dicks in our vagina’s is the ultimate orgasm equation. So if you’re the kind of woman that continually pseudo-climaxes, please STOP NOW. You’re promulgating a lie that will affect the subsequent women your current man sleeps with, which isn’t fair to the rest of us. It’s the epitome of girl code. Not to mention, why would someone want to fake it for the rest of their life when, after a little explaining, they could be jizzing their pants every night? To be clear, I firmly believe that extenuating circumstances exist under which a “fauxgasm” is necessary, but if it’s happening on the reg, shit’s totally wack.

Like all men who hear my orgasmic revelation, my eager-to-pleaser insisted that he would be the one to break the cycle and thrust me, vagina first, into the land of climactic euphoria. Although I thoroughly enjoyed his enthusiasm, I had to be honest with both myself and him. Why should I try and mold myself into a stereotype about female sex that doesn’t apply to me? Why waste the time trying to fit a square-peg into a circular hole, when I know exactly where the peg does fit? Contrary to popular believe, there isn’t “normal” way to have sex. It’s all about what’s normal and feels good for you. If your partner isn’t willing to do things your way, then it’s time to move on. Except I might be keeping mine for awhile, so all of you ladies will just have to wait your turn. :)


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:04 PM
Author: 180 church knife

"I remember enjoying what happened next. There were lots of different positions, definitely some hardcore dirty talking, a little choking and spanking, and a lot of pussy pounding. Like the kind that makes that skin-on-skin clapping noise. So, in general, it was good, but probably because we’re both still harboring resentment toward the other for our little tiff the other day, so it was sort of like hate sex.

Oh, wait. (drunken flashback).

Everything was good, that is, until he asked if he could fuck me in the ass. I later confirmed with several friends that Chad has never once asked to enter butt territory during their hook-ups, which I find incredibly strange. Is it me? Do I just have that “fuck me in the butt” look? I don’t get it. I also think there’s something inappropriate about butt fucking someone you’re not dating. It’s just one of those things that you need to have a sit-down-chat about before diving in, balls deep. Am I right? "

holy shit. also, I love how she pretends to be some feminist but she really just wants alpha cock


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:06 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib

It. Gets. BETTER:


My Big Black Problem

Ever since I can remember, I’ve had a thing for black guys.

When I was in fifth grade, my teacher had the girls in the class draw pictures of our future husbands (we won’t get into how hetero-normative this was) and I was the only one who didn’t use the peach-colored crayon to shade the skin of my betrothed. To this day, I’ll randomly watch basketball/football games (regardless of what team is playing) simply to pinpoint cute black players, and then compulsively Google their names to discover their marital status. I also once joined an interracial dating website, but that’s a story for another time.

Anyway, a few months ago I was dating a guy named Will* who happened to be black, and also happened to be really into me. Things started out slowly, much slower than I usually take things with someone I’m attracted to. A month of movie watching and party hopping passed before our first kiss, but it was clear we had natural chemistry. He was surprisingly respectful, and let me decide how far things would go between us. Since I actually liked him, I held out. It’s interesting how we women can fuck a guy on a first date if we think he’s hot, but if we like his looks and personality we suddenly play hard to get. Thus, I abstained. After nearly two months of waiting, though, I cracked and finally let Will take things to the next level.

Now, before I tell you what happened, I want to make it clear that I am totally against perpetuating racial stereotypes. All Asians don’t have to be good at math and not all Jews are cheap. Will, however, fit the stereotype of black men to a tee, and it quickly became apparent we had a big, black problem.

Will was too (ahem) big for me.

We tried different positions, slowing things down, me on top, him on top, but all to no avail. After about five minutes, the pleasure would turn to pain and I’d have to ask him to stop. As a woman who prides herself on her dick-taking abilities (Superbad, anyone?), this was a huge blow to my ego. I imagine the feeling would be similar to a guy who can’t keep his dick hard. After several weeks of trying, we settled into a strange pattern where he would come over, we would try having sex, it wouldn’t work, and then he’d eat me out and leave. Not a bad situation overall, but I was becoming increasingly insecure with my inability to please him.

Then, one fateful Friday night, I drunkenly returned home from the bars and decided I needed Will in my bed ASAP. Perhaps I believed the alcohol would somehow make him smaller or easier to handle. To my dismay, we soon found ourselves in the same predicament. Will kindly stopped per my request, but instead of moving forward, I did the worst thing a girl can do mid-coitus: I started to cry.

In my defense, I am not a crier; I usually prefer to suffer in silence. In this drunken stupor, however, all reasoned action went out the window. Will tried to comfort me, but it was no use. As my mascara ran down my face, I felt somehow less than a woman. What’s the point of dating a guy with a huge penis if you can’t fuck him?!

Unsurprisingly, Will and I ended things shortly after this incident (although it was not entirely related to our problems in the bedroom). The whole situation got me wondering how many other women have experienced similar problems, and if anything can be done to fix it. After doing some extensive research on the subject (read: Googling), I found some interesting information on the topic that may have saved me some frustration and self-esteem loss had I discovered it sooner.

Here’s what I learned: Apparently, only the first five-to-seven inches of a woman’s vagina contains feel-good nerve receptors. If a guy’s penis moves beyond this point, it starts entering cervix territory, which does not contain these pleasure axons. Thus, men that are in the “eight-inch-plus” category might be banging your literal baby maker which is painful, to say the least. Positions that make these non-pleasurable regions more accessible, like doggy-style which angles the pelvis downward, might be out of the question for well-endowed partners. Even more interestingly, seeing a man with a large penis pre-fuck might make women’s vaginas less likely to be, for lack of a better term, compliant. According to an article in Cosmopolitan, anticipating discomfort causes our muscles to tense up. In other words, women may clench their kegels after seeing an exceptionally large penis because they expect that it’s going to hurt them, and as a result, it does. If we assume that this is true, then the pain is just a self-fulfilling prophecy and perhaps we can “think” our way toward good sex.

Given the large number of websites, advice columns, and chat rooms devoted to discussing the topic of men who are too big, it’s clear that this is an issue many women grapple with. Fortunately, there are a variety of ways to deal with a guy whose dick makes you want to crawl up into the fetal position and never have sex again. The general rules I picked up from surveying these websites are, briefly, lots of lube, shallow positions, and foreplay. To elaborate, if a woman is not wet enough, sex with anybody is going to increase friction and potentially cause pain. Next, and as I mentioned before, positions that allow a man to penetrate deeply are probably going to be the most painful for a woman. So sticking with girl-on-top, or missionary with the woman’s legs down can help reduce the likelihood of passing the pleasure point. Finally, foreplay can not only help make things nice and wet, it can keep a man’s member at bay. If he’s ready to burst before he penetrates, the woman is going to get the full brunt of his manhood. Thus, if the man comes once before the sex begins, things might not be so bad (although, I should mention this info is coming from Cosmo, which has a tendency to over-emphasize women’s duty to please men, despite its feminist agenda, but the advice sounds good in theory).

I suppose I could have handled my situation with Will much differently, but alas, I am too stubborn (and dramatic) for my own good. For the rest of you out there, I wouldn’t dismiss a guy simply because his dick is too big. The idea that “bigger is better” permeates every aspect of our society (i.e.; McDonald’s Supersize meals), but it obviously doesn’t apply to everything, especially sex. If you are willing to try different alternatives, though, bigger can be made better. Keep in mind, however, that sex is all about feeling good, so if things still aren’t working out after several attempts, you might have to throw in the towel. The good news is, you can still do like I do and fantasize about Kobe Bryant to pass the time. :)


Reply Favorite

Date: August 9th, 2011 11:28 AM
Author: well-lubricated forum twinkling uncleanness

U mad XO?


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Date: July 28th, 2011 2:07 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


The College Students’ All Inclusive Guide to Muff Diving

Warning: This post contains vulgar and/or offensive commentary related to oral sex. If you are easily offended, excited, nauseated, or turned on please read with caution.

It’s currently 9 p.m., which means that someone, somewhere, is having their pussy licked (and it’s not me). There is a 25 percent chance that this person is about to jizz their pants. Thus, there is a 75 percent chance that the man licking said pussy is sadly misinformed about the location of the clitoris, and is likely flicking some non-pleasurable body part unrelated to female orgasm with his inexperienced tongue. I now request a moment of silence for the aforementioned female’s unreachable orgasm. May she find it one day in the hands of a more able lover.

Moving on.

Readers, I am going to appoint myself as your cunnilingus connoisseur for the next few paragraphs, in the hopes that I can help improve your misguided attempts at muff diving. Now, don’t get all offended and whatnot. I’m sure some of you constitute the 25 percent of people who know how to munch carpet properly.

According to my statistics, however, you probably don’t.

So boo hoo. Let’s pick up the pieces of your shattered egos so we can start the re-learning process. Because I’m half gay (the more amusing way of saying bisexual), I have eaten and been eaten and thus, have wisdom that trumps the average hetero. Therefore, I now present my main tips for twat tickling that will leave your partner’s thighs shaking and clits quivering.

1. That’s my pee-hole, not my clitoris, you fool.

Apparently half the male population was asleep during high school human anatomy. For those of you that conveniently skipped this class or mooched off a nerdy Asian kid for tests and assignments, let me clarify; a man might be able to cum and piss out of the same hole, but that’s not true for women. The clit, about the size of a pea, is located about two or three inches above the vaginal opening. If you find yourself remarkably close to vag-territory, then chances are you’re not in the right area.

2. Pleasure, not pressure.

If I wanted a vacuum to suck the life out of my vag, I wouldn’t have booty texted you at 2 am. Most men don’t realize a woman’s clitoris is much more sensitive than the heads of their penises (and their normal heads too). This means that a little pressure goes a long way. Sucking on someone’s clit like you’re trying to finagle the last few sips of a cherry Slushy is comparable to a girl continuing a blow job after a man has already cum; It feels so good it actually hurts (a lot). The best way to gauge what feels good for your partner is to start out slowly, gently, and build up the pressure until she indicates (verbally or not) that she’s enjoying herself.

3. Keep your hands occupied.

They call it oral sex for a reason, but this doesn’t mean your hands can fall idly to your sides. The best poon-jobs involve digital stimulation as well as titillating tongue action. This doesn’t mean using a woman’s thighs as support beams (aka pushing downward on the girl’s thighs to spread her legs open further, but instead pushing them past their flexibility point causing general pain and suffering). Inserting a finger or two into the vagina while licking the clit is the fastest way to have your partner screaming your name. However, be careful not to overdo it. Forceful finger banging can take away from the other sensations, and too many fingers can be unpleasant. Each woman differs in her preferences, though, so start out with one finger and work up from there.

4. Back door action: a risky maneuver.

I don’t want to rule out ass licking completely just because it’s not my cup of tea. Therefore, I believe those in the mood to toss salad whilst out to dinner should give their partner fair warning beforehand. Even sticking a finger in the back door can be risky, since some women don’t find this act pleasurable. If you don’t feel comfortable asking aloud whether your girlfriend would enjoy a rim job (in addition to the finger fucking and clit licking), you can always test the waters through some non-penetrative ass play. For example, placing your hands underneath your girl’s butt or running your fingers over the area are safe ways to non-verbally broach the subject. If she appears to like it-most women will position themselves to make it easier for you to access that area -then go for it. Otherwise, it’s best to stick to the basics.

5. Don’t do like Weezy

Lil’ Wayne may have instructed us all to “lick it like a lollipop”, but the proper procedure for oral pleasure is nowhere near the simplicity of eating candy (unless, of course, you’re eating a Tootsie Pop and find yourself struggling to reach the inner Tootsie-roll goodness). Our poontang slang may be to blame for generations of orally inept men. “Licking pussy” or “eating out” are poor indications of the actual tongue techniques that are required to please your woman. For example, if your version of eating pussy resembles a dog lapping water out of a toilet bowl, then you’re not doing it right. Although each man develops their own oral sex style, there are three general rules to consider before spontaneously diving into any muffs.

First, keep your tongue fairly relaxed. A stiff tongue can direct too much pressure to one area of the clit and make it harder to orgasm, or worse, cause pain. Second, don’t rely solely on your tongue muscles to maintain constant stimulation. Since our tongues don’t receive regular workouts, they can become tired easily, causing our rhythm and pace to be thrown off. If you’ve ever wondered why women can usually cum faster using a vibrator than when eaten out, it’s due to the constancy of the vibrations. When we’re getting close to the big O, we don’t have to worry about our coin-operated-boys slowing down or getting tired. Therefore, when you feel a tongue cramp coming on, you can use your neck to move around instead. Lastly, you can ensure you’re getting the most out of each lick by making direct contact with the clit. Pulling upward on the surrounding skin or pulling apart the lips of the vagina can ensure your lady partner feels all the effort you’re putting in to pleasing her.

So there you have it: the college students’ all inclusive guide to muff diving and much more. If some of you are still confused about the tips I’ve offered, I’ll be happy to provide some free, private lessons. Space is limited. ;)


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Date: July 28th, 2011 2:08 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


Hot For Teacher

For my “Desire” class this semester we’re reading The Symposium: Plato’s infamous play about the complex, sexual nature of learning. In the play, the leading philosophers of the time (Socrates, Aristophanes, Alcibiades, etc.) gather to praise Eros and discuss the true meaning of love. As each man delivers his speech, it becomes clear that the Greek method of learning was much different than our methods today. In Plato’s time, it was commonplace for older male philosophers to offer their knowledge to young males in exchange for sexual gratification. Thus, learning became inextricably linked to love and sexual desire. This dynamic obviously would not work well today, since most sexual relationships between students and teachers end badly for both parties (think Mary Kay Letourneau). The strict guidelines of our sexual harassment clauses, the gray areas of each state’s statutory rape laws, and the taboo nature of such relationships means that there will be no quickies during office hours for your U.S. History teacher (however, most history teachers are about as ancient as the subject they teach, so I don’t imagine they get much action from anybody, really).

The fact remains, though, that some damn fine teachers exist in the world. I’m sure many of you can think of at least two professors you’ve pictured naked. Therefore, I couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to bed some of my favorite professors after reading The Symposium, despite the forbidden nature of having a steamy pedagogical relationship (Fun Fact: “pedagogy” is rooted in the Greek word “pederasty,” which means sexual activity between a man and a boy). For example, my journalism professor at Ithaca College was so incredibly sexy that I often found myself fantasizing about him mid-lecture. I would stare up at him dreamily, biting my lower lip, keeping my legs firmly crossed for fear that he might somehow sense I was thinking naughty things about him. The epitome of a silver fox, he wore faded Wrangler jeans, held up by pure-leather belts with intricate, vintage buckles. He often stood at the front of the class with one leg posted up on a chair, making his crotch the focal point of his presentation. He had a boyish way of playing with his full head of white-gray hair (think Anderson Cooper, but less tidy), and often messed it up in a purposeful way so that it looked like he had just gotten out of bed. When he got excited about a particular subject, I could barely contain myself. He would speak so passionately that I would lose myself in his words; my classmates would dissolve from the room, as if he was reading me, and only me, a love poem. On several occasions I debated lingering back after class to ask a pointless question in the hopes that it might end with the papers being thrown off his desk in a fit of passion. Needless to say, I did horribly in his course since I spent most of my time considering the most efficient way to remove his belt buckle with my teeth.

When I look back now, I realize it was not only my prof’s good looks that had me hot for teacher. His worldliness, extensive knowledge of journalism, and beautiful writing skills transcended mere sexual desire and connected with my dreams, goals and hopes for the future. Essentially, I wanted to be him. I wanted to live his life, travel to the places he’d traveled, and know the things he knows. I felt that, if I could only spend time alone with him, inhabit his space, and pick his brain, then his experiences and ideas could become my own. For just a second, I might be able to touch and feel the version of myself I saw in him. Given the impossibility of all these desires, the only feeling I was left with was the impulse to have him inside me. That being said, I can’t blame Alcibiades whatsoever for wanting to bang Socrates. “Come and lie down beside me Socrates, so that, by contact with you, I can share the piece of wisdom that came to you on the porch”. The feeling was there in Greek times, and it obviously persists today.

So what exactly is the problem with doing the dirty with your D-SOC professor? Well, Cornell has an explicit policy when it comes to teacher-student liaisons; and that is, don’t do it. However, if we take a look at the sexual harassment discourse within the policy, there’s a few obvious loopholes:

Unwelcome sexual advances, requests for sexual favors, or other verbal or physical conduct of a sexual nature that either explicitly or implicitly are made (1) as a term or condition of an individual’s employment or academic status, or (2) as a basis for an employment or academic decision affecting that person. The following types of sexual harassment are referenced in this policy: Sexual acts that are demanded in exchange for maintaining or enhancing employment or academic benefits or status Unwelcome sexual behavior toward another employee or student that is (1) persistent, pervasive, or severe, and (2) has the purpose or effect of interfering with the work or educational environment in a way that a reasonable person would find hostile or offensive.

Thus, as long as the sex is welcome and doesn’t affect my grades, I can theoretically jump the bones of my advisor. Right? Well, the stipulation is that students are also capable of sexually harassing professors, and I imagine most of them wouldn’t be too thrilled to have you saunter into their office to try and S their D’s. That isn’t the only gray area in the policy, though. What is this nonsense about a “reasonable person” finding the sexual advances hostile or offensive? I like to think I’m a reasonable person, and I wouldn’t be offended by sexual advances from my teacher any more than I’m offended by Asians wearing anime critter hats in the winter.

Ergo, the same question remains: should we be able to fuck our teachers? I think that most of the laws and regulations regarding student-teacher relationships are meant to protect minors from sexual abuse. If you’re 10 and your science teacher is touching you inappropriately, that’s not okay. But I’m 20 years old. If I find myself sexually attracted to my professor, and we both consent to a physical relationship, then why the fuck is the school, the government, and the world trying to involve themselves in my business? I understand that problems of bias and undeserved grade inflation come into the picture, but what right does anyone have to tell another person they can’t love or desire whoever they want? Maybe if more professors got laid on the regular, they wouldn’t be so uptight about deadlines and APA format. As much as we want to deny our dirty thoughts for fear of sounding perverted (I no longer have this fear) there is desire in learning. And there is beauty in teaching. So if desire is the attraction to beauty, then it seems that sex has a rightful place in the classroom.

Personally, I think Plato had it right. Unfortunately, there’s no way to bypass the system and destroy the social norms preventing us from running train with the entire COMM department. A girl can dream though. So the next time you see me wearing something skanky to office hours, you’ll know what’s up. ;)


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Date: July 28th, 2011 2:08 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


Let’s Have A Toast For The Assholes…

Question: Are there any decent straight men at Cornell?

In my two years at school here, I’ve had the most abysmal experiences dating, fucking, and partying with Ivy League men. I’ve been tooted ‘n booted, harassed, stood up, called names, and played hot and cold. You name it, it has probably happened to me or someone I know. To illustrate, I was once kicked out of a frat house with my friend Steph for beating two of the brothers at beer pong (pussies…). I also once dated a guy who conveniently forgot to tell me he has a child—the truth was only discovered after some surreptitious phone snooping. As a result, I have gained an insight into the male psyche that is simultaneously enviable, disturbing, and downright depressing.

After my first semester, I developed a categorization system for the men at CU, ranging in degrees of “un-dateability”. Generally, the guys I encountered fell into one of four groups: the ugly-nice guys, the cute-socially-awkward guys, the fathead frat boys, or the cute-nice-taken guys (aka the men you WANT to date, however, they have already been claimed by the stereotypical bimbo sororstitutes). As I’ve gotten older, attended more Greek events, and learned where my fake ID is and isn’t accepted, my list has extended to include a much wider spectrum of un-dateables.

Take, for example, a group of men I like to call “undercover assholes”. Generally, UA’s are undeniably charming, sickeningly sweet, and overbearingly complimentary the first time they meet you. These are the guys that will hold the door, compliment your new hair-do, and make corny jokes that are so cliché, you can’t help but laugh. Just as you begin to wonder whether the kids will get your nose or his, he does something completely inappropriate. It’s as if he senses your guard is down, and suddenly, it’s okay to stick his hand down your shirt or ask if you’ll blow him in the bathroom. Things only get worse, though, once their sexual advances have been denied. Upon realizing they’re not getting in your pants tonight, the UA’s start cracking low-blows. Did he say he liked your hair? Actually, it kind of makes you look like Adam Lambert on crack. What? You thought he was going to buy you a drink? Lazy bitch, get your own Long Island because you just got owned by one of Cornell’s finest: the undercover asshole.

If your self-esteem is still intact, then let’s hope you don’t run into the next kind of un-dateable, appropriately called the ”two-timer”. Usually, TT’s strike at crowded venues where, due to the chaos and clusters of people, their actions go relatively unnoticed. They’ll approach their victims like any other dude would, maybe asking to grab you another beer or, more likely, grinding up behind you on the dance floor without warning. After some time, heavy kissing and petting will transpire, and before you know it, you’re face down, ass up (or some variation on a 2 Live Crew song). When you wake up the next morning (the taste of dick still lingering in your mouth), you’ll inevitably notice the picture on his dresser. It’s always some version of your hook-up and a blonde with big boobs, planting a posed kiss on the same mouth you were tongue-fucking only hours ago. As you realize what you’ve done, your two-timing fling is peacefully sleeping, probably giving himself a congratulatory fist-bump in whatever chauvinistic dream he’s having. As if things could get any worse, on Monday, you’ll realize that his girlfriend is the same annoying bitch that sits beside you in psyche class, always chewing her Bubble-Yum so loudly you can hardly hear yourself think.

If you’ve somehow fallen victim to both the UA and the TT, then perhaps it’s time you took your dating life in a new direction. For many women at CU, there comes a point when we’ve had enough of the arrogant assholes, and thus, turn to the final group of un-dateables, known colloquially as the “virginal nerds”. VN’s constitute about 80 percent of the undergrad population, and therefore are easy to find. The thing about VN’s is that, unlike other college men, they makes us feel safe. Sure, they’re dorky and spend more time in the library than we do sleeping, but they won’t try to cop-a-feel during a Jeopardy commerical break. For a week or so you’ll enjoy the VN’s company, consciously ignoring that all his pants are high-waters, and engage in PG-13 behavior that your mama would be proud of. The time will come, though, when playing Apples-to-Apples and lamenting about your homework loads won’t suffice, and you’ll begin to wonder exactly what the VN is hiding under his high-waters. Nature will soon take over and you’ll convince yourself that he must be good in bed since he can take apart and reassemble a computer hard drive in under an hour.

Unfortunately, you are wrong. Your VN can’t unhook a bra, let alone figure out where your clitoris is. His open-mouthed fish kisses leave your face dripping with saliva, and eventually, you must fake the big O in order to get him to stop humping you like a jackrabbit. As he leaves your room post-deflowering feeling like a champ, you’re thinking of the best way to have the “maybe-we-should-just-be-friends” talk. I hate to say it, but it’s not going to go well. He either won’t talk to you again or go on a sex rampage in the hopes of showing you up. Regardless, you’ll have created a monster, and yet again, become the victim of another un-dateable.

In the end, the only lesson we can glean from these experiences is that men between the ages of 18 and 21 are pure scum. Is it too much to ask that a guy be sweet, good-looking, faithful, and rockin’ between the sheets? Apparently so. The good news is that, as graduation and the threat of living a life of singledom approaches, the boundaries between the un-dateable categories dissolve, and these aforementioned assholes start to mature a little bit. Until that time comes, the best we can do is cross our fingers, and perhaps consider a life of lesbianism to pass the time. All I can say is, thank god I go both ways.


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Date: July 28th, 2011 2:19 PM
Author: 180 church knife

so she concedes that she'd rather be with an asshole


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Date: July 28th, 2011 2:09 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


Playing Doctor

There’s something undeniably beautiful and empowering about a one-night-stand (ONS). Besides being an integral part of college life, ONS’s are the impetus behind frat parties, TFLN.com, thirsty Thursdays, and most importantly, my sex blog (KIDDING…sorta). The ONS is undiscriminating, unexpected, and relatively anonymous, which makes it one of the most thrilling past times for men and women alike. In contrast to hooking-up with a friend or crush, the ONS allows us to emotionally detach from the other person, let down our guards, and enjoy pure, animalistic sex in all its glory.

That is, unless you are a type I diabetic.

Like me.

I know, it’s shocking, especially because I’m so normal otherwise (HA). Truth is, I’ve been a diabetic for almost twenty years and, as a result, I must wear an insulin pump all day ‘err day. The pump is a small, beeper-like device that is attached to my stomach through a catheter. It keeps me alive and it looks exactly like this:

As you can see, it is completely unsexy and impossible to disguise. The device and the tubing can be removed for showering, sexing, (etc.) but the catheter (the white sticker-like patch) always remains. Thus, my one-night-stands come with a disclaimer; a nice, sit-down chat with the guy whose name I can’t remember, breaking down the basics of modern medical technology. Trust me, nothing kills the mood faster than having a chronic, incurable disease. Although being a diabetic is completely natural and normal for me, it isn’t to the randoms who suddenly find themselves buck-naked between my legs. As a woman who thoroughly enjoys casual sex, I’ve had to experiment with different ways of broaching the subject to my conquests, some of which work better than others.

For example, during my first year of college (a time when everyone’s ONS frequency undergoes a natural increase) I tried pretending my pump didn’t exist in the hopes that my sex partners would do the same. This didn’t work so well. Most men have seen enough naked female bodies to know that 18 inches of tubing protruding from someone’s belly isn’t exactly typical. Some guys have been kind enough to ignore this oddity mid-thrust and ask about it later (“Hey so what was that thing on UR stomach last night…R U sick or something?”). Others have outwardly admitted to being weirded out (“YO WTF IS THAT?”). Either way, I end up embarrassed and the guy ends up with a softy. Thus, denial or surprise as a strategy has proven to be an ineffective way of smoothly integrating my diabetes into my sex life.

Then came the second strategy; I decided the best way to avoid awkward ONS questions was to remove the catheter entirely. As I sexily slipped off my panties, I would also rip out the catheter, throw it to the side, and hope my conquest was none-the-wiser. For those of you dry heaving into your mouths right now, I assure you, there is nothing painful about this process (it’s like removing a Band-Aid). The only problem is that, post-sex, I can’t put the pump back on and, therefore, run the risk of getting sick. Thus, staying the night is completely out of the question and I’m SOL if I’m too drunk to stumble back to my dorm to insert a new catheter. After using this strategy a few times, I decided it probably wasn’t the smartest, not-to-mention a few guys found the catheter afterwards and questioned me about it. In the end, I decided the sloppy sex was not worth the possible health implications or trips to the hospital.

Eventually, I realized only one option remained: I had to be honest with myself and the other nameless humans I have fucked and will fuck. When I stumble into my room at 3 a.m., tearing off clothes and sucking face with another nameless, I make sure I press pause on the heated moment for just long enough to say, “I’m a diabetic. That’s what this is,” before discarding the pump and getting back to business. Usually, my ONS buddies are too drunk and horny to care. And so am I.

Here’s the whole point of my riveting tale about diabetes and drunken debauchery: I know I’m not the only person who has let an insecurity, perceived flaw, or handicap of some sort prevent them from embracing the impulsive, wild, uncontrollable nature of the ONS. Just because you have an awkward birthmark shaped like Italy on your back doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to get fucked by a rand-o any day of the week. Who gives a shit about the scar you still have on your thigh from that tricycle accident when you were three? Hell, I’ll fuck you anyway. You don’t need to lose ten pounds or get the hair on your arms lasered off to get laid. You don’t need to hide who you are or make excuses for why someone wants to sleep with you. “He/She’s too drunk/desperate to realize I’m actually __________”. We are exactly as we are, and the ONS respects this. When an ONS opportunity falls into our laps, we have a right to ourselves, nature, and the rest of humanity to indulge.

So whether you’re a diabetic, a leper, a paraplegic (not funny. stop laughing.), or just insecure about how you look naked, you should know you’re entitled to have random, hot, drunk, sweaty, anonymous sex with anyone you want, whenever you want. As Lady GaGa would say, “just put your paws up. Because you were born this way, baby”.

Or as I like to say…go onward and fuck.



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Date: July 28th, 2011 2:11 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib



Yesterday, at exactly 12:23 p.m., I orgasmed in the middle of my biology class.

No noises were made. No heads turned. Nobody gasped, screamed, pointed, or skipped a beat in their frantic attempt to copy intricate definitions from a dated Powerpoint. Instead, my wrinkled, balding professor continued to pontificate on the evolution of Homo sapiens, unawares that one of his students had just exploded in her pants. It was, perhaps, the most subtle orgasm to ever escape my body. But how did it happen?

Simple: Classturbation.

For those readers unfamiliar with the term, classturbation refers to the act of inconspicuously masturbating during a class, course, lesson, or seminar. Classturbators can be either male or female, and typically employ their surreptitious self-touching in creative, non-threatening ways. For example, one might place a jacket or book-bag over their lap while wearing a dress, skirt, or sweat pants in order to maintain an air of casualness. Feigning a nap is also a nice touch, since onlookers will assume slight twitching or odd facial expressions are simply the result of a particularly vivid daydream. Common classroom objects (pens, pencils, rulers, etc.) can also be utilized inventively in a pinch, but this is only recommended for more skilled classturbators. Whatever the method, these sneaky students are able to wank one out faster than you can write the word “paleoanthropology” onto your college-ruled notebook paper. In fact, I’m willing to bet that all of us have been in the presence of a classturbator at some point during our college careers and had absolutely no idea.

I realize the concept is both shocking and perhaps revolting to some people. Why would someone feel the need to beat their meat in the middle of class time? Why risk being caught when, in a few hours, said classturbator will probably be alone in the privacy of their dorm room where they can freely violate themselves without disrupting others? There are a multitude of reasons for engaging in this kind of behavior, but the most important has to do with the riskiness of the act and the nature of classroom dynamics.

You see, classturbators fall into a sub-group of sexual deviants called exhibitionists. Many of us have heard the term before when referring to people who enjoy flashing their nasty parts or having sex in public. Exhibitionism, however, is more than enjoying the act of self-exposure. It is about experiencing sexual excitement at the mere thought of being caught in a sexual, exposed, deviant, or vulnerable position. Unlike other kinds of exhibitionists, classturbators translate this “thrill of discovery” into a unique scenario: the student-teacher/classmate relationship.

Consider this: in a normal, neutral classroom scenario, the teacher/professor holds all the power and dictates all the events that transpire. Everything from speaking privileges, to one’s ability to use the bathroom are systematically managed by the teacher. We comply unquestionably with the requests of our (supposed) intellectual superiors despite what our goals, needs, or wants may be. For example, we may have no interest in the assigned subject material, but we still spend hours researching the topic in order to write an essay to be judged, eventually, by the superior who coerced us into writing it in the first place. Even after spending time reading the essays we spent days working on, our professor may still not know our names or faces. Depending on the size of the classroom, we may just be a student ID number on a class roster. Additionally, we see our classmates as being simultaneously our equals and our competition. Although we are all in the same boat, working on and learning the same things, we’re still vying for the top grade and recognition from the teacher. Thus, we have no connection to the people sitting to our left and right in an auditorium other than the threat we pose to their final grade.

That being said, it is difficult to disrupt the flow of power and the relational dynamics of a classroom, and one who does is almost always ostracized. For example, “class clowns” are often sent to the principal’s office for interrupting a teacher’s lesson with their shenanigans, but only after being publicly exposed, shamed, and reprimanded. Similarly, students who take on the “teacher’s pet” role are socially rejected by other classmates due to the threat the “pet” poses to their class standings. Classturbators, however, have discovered the ultimate way to disrupt the monotony, restrictiveness, and social norms of the classroom without being shunned. By playing a secret game of pocket-pool, these students are not only giving a big “FUCK YOU” to their professor and fellow classmates, they’re also taking back their sense of autonomy and individuality in a setting where it usually is diminished. At the same time, they are turning their classmates, originally a source of competition, into sexual objects. Because classturbators enjoy the threat of being caught, the classmates become inadvertently involved in the fantasy since they are the ones who can potentially do the catching. This is what classturbators get off on, and this is what motivates them to take the risk.

If you’ve never had an exhibitionist desire in your life, though, then it seems logical that you wouldn’t be motivated to classturbate any time soon. But before you rule it out completely, consider this: several studies have been done showing a positive relationship between masturbating and stress-reduction. According to sex therapist Martha Cornog, author of The Big Book of Masturbation, the act of jacking/jilling off ”…is all about ‘you time,’ and taking time to focus on yourself is a great way to break up the stress of a busy life. Particularly when used with sexual fantasy, masturbation can be a great escape, and a way to let off some steam…”. In other words, having a silent orgasm in the middle of class might actually help you de-stress and, subsequently, concentrate and learn more effectively. Just worth a thought.

In the end, it’s all a matter of preference. For some people, the perceived risk of being caught is so great that they could never fully enjoy a classturbation session. Thus, engaging in the behavior would be counter intuitive. For others, though, it might be the perfect way to relax, take back control in the classroom, and be a little naughty. Although yesterday was the first time I’d ever felt comfortable touching myself in public, I can see myself doing it again in the event that the urge strikes, and I encourage others to do the same. If you do nothing else with this information, at least take the time to scope out someone classturbating the next time you find yourself in a large lecture. You’re guaranteed to find someone, and you might just learn a thing or two. :)


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Date: July 28th, 2011 2:11 PM
Author: Garnet supple dopamine

lol, white woman is slut, blabs it all over town

news at always


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Date: July 28th, 2011 2:12 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib




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Date: July 28th, 2011 2:18 PM
Author: Garnet supple dopamine

i think every girl with a 115+ IQ who (1) isn't hideous and (2) self-identifies as a feminist has a sex blog these days, whether anonymous or not.

it's just not scandalous any more. for me this doesn't say anything but that the blogger is gross. that's all. in this age where everyone seems to carve out his or her own sociosexual identity more-or-less without moral consequence (and probably rightly so in most cases), all we have left to rely on anymore is taste.

but taste is a really great way to handle this. so she's a gross slut. her blog is a signal of that. she will attract men who are into, or minimally tolerate, gross sluts. cool. everyone should be required to have a google-able sex blog, even if it's just to say "i would never blog about sex" or whatever. it's really helpful.


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Date: July 28th, 2011 2:11 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


Having a Dude Moment

Right now I’m staring at a half naked picture of former Danity Kane member Aubrey O’Day, which I have conveniently set as my computer background. Aubrey is giving me her best “come-hither” eyes while erotically pouring champagne all over her tanned, perfect body. There is absolutely nothing classy about this picture. She looks like a filthy slut in a rundown crack house, and the only thing I can think about right now is what it would be like to rip off her clothes and have my way with her. Here, audience, come join me in my fantasy land:

Fuck. Me. Now. You. Nasty. Skank.

Why can’t all women be this hot and slutty? Oh, and into some girl-on-girl. I’m a simple girl with simple needs and right now I need to rail Aubrey O’Day.

That is all.


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Date: July 28th, 2011 2:12 PM
Author: transparent odious locale

is this really what feminism gave us?

i have never heard of or seen guy sex blogs. are they out there?

edit - wow i guess so. christ


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:21 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib

Two nights getting drunk in NYC in a row! Now I just need someone to flirt with me.



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Date: July 28th, 2011 2:13 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


Having an OoPs Moment…

Despite what we see on TV and in the movies, sex is often awkward, messy, and embarrassing. Real people don’t get the luxury of special lighting, scripts, re-takes, or a professional stylist to color-coordinate our bras and panties. Many times, sex in real-life is an improvisational, trial-and-error experiment. With so many variables to work with (different people, positions, places, etc.) sex has the potential to blow up in our faces (no sexual pun intended), which means that a sexy, steamy moment can quickly become so mortifyingly repugnant that both parties wish to forget it as soon as possible.

As much as I pride myself on my sexual prowess, I too have fallen victim to several awkward/embarrassing/strange/scary sexual experiences, which I like to refer to as “OoPs moments”. Although horrifying at the time, these instances have now become learning experiences and comical fodder for my everyday life. Thus, I wish to share some of the most humiliating, unusual, painful, compromising, and stomach-churning OoPs moments I’ve either heard from friends or personally faced over the years. Whether your parents walked in on you sucking your boyfriend’s weiner, or you had sex without shaving your bush for a month, know that you’re not alone. We’ve all been there…and some of us, unfortunately, have had it worse than others.

OoPs Moment #1: Penny Pinching

My ex-boyfriend used to keep a jar of spare change on a shelf above the headboard on his bed. Because his parents were always home and the walls are paper thin, we rarely had sex in his room. One day, however, his parents and siblings were out of the house and we decided to take advantage by having rough, loud sex on his bed. As my ex mercilessly pounded away at my recently de-virginized vagina, the bed inched closer and closer to the wall, until it was banging directly against it. Right as he was about to finish, the aforementioned change jar suddenly came crashing down from the shelf, hitting me hard in the face. My ex burst out laughing, and I sat there, bleeding from the nose, covered in pennies, with tears streaming down my face. After the bleeding stopped, I realized the jar had also chipped my front tooth. Try explaining THAT to your dentist.

OoPs Moment #2: Bloody Hell

When I was sixteen, I started hooking up with a twenty-two year old named Dan* who didn’t have his license (…I really knew how to pick ‘em then). As a result, we often made plans to hang-out weeks in advance, since it required going behind my parents’ backs, sneaking out of the house, and taking a 30-minute cab ride to his place. One month we scheduled a secret rendezvous on a weekend that I knew my parents would be out of town. As the date approached, however, I discovered I had severely miscalculated the timing of my period. Determined to see Dan, I decided not to cancel, but instead try to wait it out. Luckily, on the morning of our date, it appeared my period had disappeared.

A few hours later, and all according to plan, I found myself naked on Dan’s bed. After some casual foreplay, he slipped his penis inside me, and started talking dirty.

“Fuck…you’re so wet.”

As he thrusted in and out, he slipped a hand beneath me and started rubbing my clit.

“Fuck…Samantha…you’re really, really wet,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Is that what you like?” I asked in my sexy voice.

“Yeah, but, like….you’re REALLY wet. Wait a second…”

Dan reached over and turned on his beside lamp, and we immediately gasped in shock. We were both covered in period blood, as if we had just murdered a small animal with our bare hands. It was on our stomachs, fingers, and ALL over my vag and his penis. I was mortified. Attempting to make the situation less disgusting, I laughed nervously and suggested we go take a shower. Dan’s eyes, however, became wide and glossy and his skin turned ghostly pale.

“Are you ok? Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear this never happens.”

“Yeah…yeah…I just…don’t like…blood,” he answered, his voice shaking.

“I know, me either. Hold on I’m gunna get us a towel.”

I walked into the bathroom and started cleaning myself up. Suddenly, I heard a loud banging on the door.

“One sec, babe, I’m washing up.”


“Huh?” I said, unhooking the latch.

Pushing me aside, Dan burst through the door, still covered in blood, hands over his mouth, and ran to the toilet. Rather than getting laid, I spent the rest of the night cleaning up my blood and his vomit.

OoPs Moment #3: Rocket Power

During shower sex, my ex-boyfriend asked to do me from behind. Due to the angle of my body, the frequency with which he was humping me, and the water streaming down from above, I accidentally queefed. Really loudly. When my ex was finally done laughing, he informed me that he actually witnessed water spew out of me “like a rocket” when it happened. FML.

OoPs Moment #4: THAT’S What It Looks Like?

A friend of mine told me that the first penis she ever saw was owned by the same guy who took her virginity. It was only when they broke up and she started seeing other people that she realized the first guy was actually uncircumcised.

OoPs Moment #5: My Get Lucky Undies

I used to have a pair of panties I called my “get lucky” undies. They were pink and lacy and whenever I wore them, I somehow ended up getting laid. One night, I wore them out to a bar and, surprise-surprise, ended up taking a rando home. Once back at my place, I climbed on top of him and begin sexily taking off my clothes. It soon became clear, however, that the position I was in made it quite difficult to get any clothing off past my ankles. In an effort to help me out, the rando tried scooting his body further onto the bed to make room for my knees. During this transition, however, one of my legs accidentally slipped off the bed, causing my favorite pair of underwear, which was tangled around my calves, to rip in half.

OoPs Moment #6: Did You Do Something To Your Hair?

A few weeks ago, my boyfriend came over on a school night and I ended up sucking his dick. Forgetting the cardinal rule of blow-jobbing, I forgot to pull my hair back, and it repeatedly got in the way of my technique. Not wanting to stop, however, I tried pushing it behind my ears, but a few stray strands managed to escape. Luckily, he came quickly, and I was able to fit some cuddling time in before kicking him out so I could get to bed.

The next morning, my alarm went off and I jumped out of bed, only to realize I had set my clock wrong and was running late. Frantically, I pulled on a sweatshirt, threw my hair into a messy bun, and ran to class. It was only after I stopped in the bathroom at the end of the day that I realized there was visible dried-cum in my hair.

OoPs Moment #7: Deep Throat

A friend of mine has a very sensitive gag-reflex. One time, a guy she was hooking up with asked her to deep throat his dick. In a futile attempt to defy nature and be sexy, she pushed his dick as far down her throat as she could take it, until, suddenly, she gagged and accidentally puked all over the guy’s dick.

OoPs Moment #8: She Likes It Rough

Another friend of mine really enjoys rough sex. One time, she decided it would be sexy to slap her sex partner around a bit. She got a bit carried away, however, and ended up punching him in the face, leading to a very unsexy bloody nose.

OoPs Moment #9: Basement Booty

When I was in high school, I decided to sneak a boy into my house for a booty call. The problem was, however, that my room is right next to my parents’ room, and I was afraid they would hear us. I decided my best bet was to take him into my unfinished basement, which was under construction at the time. I quickly discovered that there was actually no space for us to lay down, since all the furniture had been moved for the construction. Desperate to have sex with one another, we ended up fucking on the cold, cement floor. We kept having to stop and change positions, however, so one person wasn’t on the bottom the entire time. Despite all our efforts, we still ended up covered in cuts and bruises. The next morning at breakfast, after my conquest had successfully snuck out the back door, my mother warned me to stay out of the basement that day because the people she hired were coming to put the new carpet down.

OoPs Moment #10: Choking Hazard

A few months after I got my nipples pierced, I decided to change the original barbell to a hoop. When I tried to screw the end-pieces on, however, I found myself unable to do so because they were so tiny. After about an hour of trying, I decided to just leave the hoop in by itself and hope it didn’t fall out.

That night, however, I ended up taking a guy home from a party. After discovering my piercings, he decided to give my nipples extra attention. Unfortunately, I completely forgot about my precarious nipple ring, and he ended up accidentally swallowing it.

OoPs Moment #11: He Can’t Tell The Difference

A friend of mine used to date a guy who thought queefing was sexy. Fortunately for him, my friend knows how to queef on command. One time, he asked her to queef while he fucked her on her side. The position, however, was not conducive for queefing, and in her struggle to make it happen, she accidentally farted. Good thing he couldn’t tell the difference.

If you would like to share your own crazy/awkward OoPs moment, please feel free to comment on this post. :)


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:15 PM
Author: cyan persian theater

what the fuck is going on in this thread? Fuck this, I'm outy 5000.


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:16 PM
Author: boyish karate roommate


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:19 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


What’s Your Fantasy?

Over the past few years, I’ve developed an obsessive, pathological fantasizing pattern involving the most obscure, sexually deviant behaviors. For example, while others might fantasize about being tied-up or handcuffed, my inner sexual-being might wake up one morning and decide it’s really into the idea of a rape fantasy (my inner feminist cringes). Or perhaps, while others wonder if their toe-fetish is normal (it is), I’ll be sitting in the library Googling incest laws in New York state to find out if my surprisingly attractive fourth cousin is truly off limits (he’s not).

I know. I’m a complete freak. This is not a secret.

The catch22 is that I would never act on any (read: most) of these perverted and outlandish sexual thoughts because they would lead to social exile, ridicule, and maybe even some unwanted itching down below. But let’s be real here: sometimes we can’t control the odd things that pop into the ‘ole noggin’, especially when they inexplicably get our (metaphorical) dicks hard. So unless your hottest fantasy involves heterosexual sex in the missionary position, I know you know what Imma-talkin’-‘bout.

When it comes to my own sexual abominations, I’ll usually spend a week or so compulsively thinking about one act in particular, possibly illegally dowloading a buttload of pornography related to the aforementioned abomination, and then, without warning, I’ll realize how disgusting the act really is, and disregard it completely. It is a mind-boggling process, one that any psychoanalyst would have a field day trying to interpret. For me, the psychology behind the process is inconsequential, mainly because I’m too inherently immoral, unreligious, and innately psychotic to care. My only real concern is the time and effort that goes into mentally playing out these desires. It’s exceptionally difficult to be a functioning member of society when all you can think about is the plasuability of installing a sex swing in your basement without your parents noticing. This is my life.

As of recently, though, I’ve become obsessed with a single deviant sexual act that has permeated my imagination much more so than any fantasy I’ve had before. I’m not entirely sure when or how the idea was planted in my head, but I have not been able to eat, sleep, or look at a member of the opposite sex without thinking about this particular act. I’ve watched videos, asked Jeeves, Googled, Yahooed, and almost posted a premature Craigslist ad before I remembered the website is full of creepers. I’ve even mentally catalogued particular songs or artists that I would like to listen to while engaging in the act (Pitbull, Ludacris, and David Banner fall on said list). Three weeks have gone by and the fantasy is still alive and well. Thus, I am forced to relinquish my soul to the dark side and admit that, yes, I would go through with the vaguely aforementioned act if given the opportunity (I love the word ‘aforementioned’).

So what is it that has me turning into a sex-crazed lunatic? It’s bigger than a threesome and more homogenous than an orgy. It’s degrading, hierarchical, compromising, and requires stamina, skill, and strategy. Can you guess? Do you know? Maybe you’ve thought about it too. Alright, I’ll stop with the literary suspense….

It’s a GANG BANG. (Click the link. I dare you).


Predictably, I have a few ideas. The first is that my conceptualization of what a gang bang entails is probably much different than the reality. Fantasies are always much hotter, smoother, and more pleasurable than in actuality, simply because there’s no mess, no pain, and no awkward transitions. In my mind, a gang bang is just a group of dudes pleasuring me in every way possible. There’s simply more people to do more things simultaneously, and nobody is going to get too tired and need to take a break. There’s the appeal, plain and simple. Of course, this is me looking at gang bangs through rose-colored glasses (wow, there’s a sentence you’ll never read anywhere else). The truth is that there are several possible snafus that could arise in the process of turning this fantasy into reality.

The main one is, who is going to fuck me?! If I were to ask any of my male friends, I could never look them in the face again. Friendships would end, people would get angry, and if they actually agreed to go through with it, there’s no way I could let loose and be myself around them. Therefore, my only other option is to assemble a motley crew of randoms to gang fuck my brains out (which was the impetus behind my almost-Craigslist ad). I’d be getting the anonymity that would afford me freedom of sexual expression, however, I’d also be taking some very substantial risks. What if these men decide to take advantage of me? It would be difficult to fend off 4+ guys with boners. Not to mention, I would have no idea where those boners have been, and I’m not too keen on having my ultimate fantasy turn into a temporary or permanent STD (this is also a risk I’d be taking with my guy friends, just sayin’). Secondly, what happens after it’s all said and done? Does everybody simply clean themselves off and head home? Do we all stay and cuddle naked? Do we take turns taking showers? I have no idea what proper gang bang etiquette is, and how the hell is one supposed to find out?!

Despite my awareness of these risks and obstacles, I’m still bent on making it happen. Besides the plethora of dicks, hands, and mouths, there’s one thing you can do during a gang bang that you can’t (really) do during plain old one-on-one sex. And that, my friends, is DOUBLE PENETRATION DUN DUN DUNNN (Once again, click at your own risk). That’s right, two dicks, two holes, double the pleasure, double the fun. This is something I’ve never done before, and I have no idea how it feels, but it looks insane and did I mention it involves two, hard, throbbing cocks? In my opinion, any penis-loving female would be crazy NOT to want this. However, my inexperience and naivite might be pushing my fantasy past the boundaries of plausibility. What might look pleasurable on camera might actually be quite painful, and pain has no place in my gang bang fantasy.

I realize that it’s strange for a woman, especially one with feminist values, to endorse behavior that is integrally related to male-dominance and female degradation. I’ve struggled with the cognitive dissonance induced by this seemingly irreconcileable contradiction of ideas and behavior, fruitlessly trying to disregard the fantasy or wish it away, but alas, it resists all my efforts. As a human animal, I am simultaneously gifted and cursed with the capacity for desire and logical thought. It just so happens that desire has seriously trumped logic in this case, which is why I am allowing myself to mentally exist in a state of paradoxical reverie. Put more plainly, I’m in deep, deep, denial and I need to get gang banged or find a new fantasy before my head (and other conflicted body parts) explode.


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:22 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


Alright [sic], Now I Feel Like a Bitch

Okay, after reading that last post again I feel kind-of bad. Will does have redeeming qualities, I swear.

In the spirit of lists:

1. He is a fireball in the bedroom. Seriously, the best lay I’ve had in a long time.

2. He brings out my playful side and never lets me take myself or life too seriously. One time when I was (SERIOUSLY) stressing out before finals he came into the library at 4 a.m. and stole the only pen I had. He then proceeded to make me chase him around furiously for 20 minutes until I finally tackled him to the ground and wrestled it from his grip. Before I could erupt in fury, however, I realized exactly what he was trying to do. He was trying to get my mind off my work, focus on something else, and relieve some pent up energy. After realizing this, the only thing I could do was burst out laughing.

3. He never fights back. Okay, I know I just said in my last post that this is something that irritates me, but in reality, I’ve never had a boyfriend who didn’t use a fight as an opportunity to cut me down. Will never calls me names, and even if he storms out, he will ALWAYS call within the next hour with an apology.

4. He makes me feel safe. Not just physically, but emotionally. I’ve never trusted a boyfriend more. He has never given me a reason to think he’s lying, cheating, or being dishonest in any way. Once again, this feeling of security is something I’ve NEVER had with a boyfriend before.

5. He is amazingly talented, but rarely shows off. It seems that every sport, game, or activity he picks up, he’s instantly good at. He surprises me almost every week with something new I didn’t know he could do. Bowling, basketball, football, chess, juggling, dog breeding (WTF? Who does this recreationally??)…you name it.

6. He has meaningful tattoos. Literally, none of them are generic, stupid, or confusing.

7. He tells me he loves me multiple times everyday. :)

8. He doesn’t have a Facebook on principle. The man loves his privacy, what can I say.

9. He gets along well with all my girlfriends and never complains about being the only guy.

10. He loves passionately and deeply.

There. Okay. I love him. I told you. This makes me feel a lot better, actually.


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:23 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


Why I Hate Women (sometimes)

* I work in a pod at McGraw-Hill Higher Education with two older men and two younger female interns, Jane and Erin. Earlier today, Erin turns to Jane and says: 

* Erin:  Hey, are you 21?

* Jane:  Yeah! I actually just had my birthday a few days ago.

* Erin:  Oh my god, that's great because I was thinking all the interns should get together for a drink after work sometime next week.

* Jane:  Wow, that'd be great! Sounds so fun!

* Erin:  Awesome, yeah I'll let you know the details once I figure it out.

* Jane:  Sweet!

* *Silence, as both go back to work*

* Um, I'm an intern too. Turning 21 next week. Cool. Thanks for having that conversation right in front of me, loudly, and not offering an invite.


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:24 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


Today is my 21st birthday. In theory, I should be getting hammered tonight with my best friends and having copious amounts of drunken sex. However, I spent the greater part of last night arguing with my boyfriend who unceremoniously announced (a mere 24 hours before my birthday) that he would be unable to make it to the city to celebrate with me. My anger was only amplified after my best friends sheepishly admitted they would also be unable to attend the drunken festivities due to a myriad of excuses including (but not limited to): “too busy at work”, “not enough money,” and “I have plans this weekend with my boyfriend”. Oh, it’s no problem, guys. I only sent out the Facebook group invite for my birthday, like, A MONTH AGO. Hey, remember that time I went all out for YOUR twenty-first birthdays, spent a bunch of money, and HOSTED the god damn parties? NO BIG.

Truth is, I’m not remotely surprised. All my major birthday milestones have been cursed by a series of unfortunate events (omfg remember that book series? LOVE) that usually leave me in tears. In honor of my bad luck, let’s take a look back in time at the misfortunes that have plagued my birthdays throughout the years.

Birthday Milestone: 10

Every kid wants to be ten, because, duh…it’s your first two-digit age. A week before my birthday my mother asked where I wanted to have dinner for my big day. Of course, I gave her the name of my absolute favorite restaurant at the time….PONDEROSA!!! Um, buffet style? YES. As much soft serve ice cream as I want at the end of the meal? UM, DOUBLE YES. Turns out, mom and the rest of the family weren’t really into the idea of eating at Ponderosa, and so they got me dressed and in the car without telling me they were about to crush all my birthday dreams. We ended up at some high-end steakhouse, and I spent an hour crying in the bathroom until a waitress came in and offered me a free slice of birthday cake.

Birthday Milestone: 13

For every little Jewish girl blossoming into a young adult (read: awkward), thirteen is a big year because it symbolizes the transition into womanhood. As part of this transition, we’re supposed to have Bat Mitzvahs on the day of our birthday. Too bad my Rabbi decided to go on vacation for the whole month of June, and I had to have my Bat Mitzvah TWO MONTHS after my real thirteenth birthday.

Birthday Milestone: 16

Ah, the sweet sixteen. I remember girls my age renting out night clubs or limousines for their sixteenth birthdays….some of them even got cars. Mine wasn’t quite as glamorous, and actually ended with me being disowned by my entire group of friends at the time. To start, the only source of income for me and my three brothers at the time was coming from my single mother, a social worker. The angel that she is, though, she offered to send me and four of my friends to the spa for facials and massages (even with a “birthday” discount, it still cost upwards of $500). Although the reservations were made two months in advance, THREE of the four friends called and cancelled the day of. My very bestest friend at the time, Kelsey, was the only one who still agreed to come and she promised me it would be worth it.

The spa was okay, and even though I was upset, Kelsey and I made the best of it (AND the manager was kind enough to remove the charges for my three no-show “friends”).

Afterwards, we made plans to go see a Dave Matthews concert, where I somehow ended up buying Kelsey’s ticket. Halfway through the concert, her crazy boyfriend started calling incessantly, begging her to leave the concert and come to a party with him. She gave me her puppy dog eyes, and I reluctantly agreed, even though her boyfriend and I HATE HATE HATED one another. We left the concert, walked to a deserted parking lot, and got into the boyfriend’s waiting car.

Turns out, boyfriend wasn’t too pleased to see me accompanying Kelsey, and told me to get out of the car. I laughed, and told him that if I left then Kelsey was leaving too. I got out of the car expecting to see my best friend right behind me, but she stayed in the car and the boyfriend peeled off leaving me alone in the parking lot.

Kelsey had both our concert tickets in her bag, and so I couldn’t get back into the concert. Did I mention her mom was my ride home too?

Birthday Milestone: 18

Fuck, I thought my eighteenth birthday was going to be the shit. Here’s why: I happened to be dating TWO guys at the same time. I know, I know. CRAZY. One of them actually knew about the other too. Anyway, I figured this meant DOUBLE the presents and birthday sex. What actually happened was that I got too high and let the beans spill to none-the-wiser boyfriend, who threatened to kick in-the-loop boyfriend’s ass. The result? I ended up getting dumped by BOTH of them by the end of the night.

Birthday Milestone: 20

Entering non-teenage territory. No excuses, officially an adult. In a strange twist of events, one of the aforementioned boyfriends and I ended up dating on and off for about two or three years after my two-timing game was discovered. At midnight on my twentieth birthday I had a weird epiphany: WTF I’m in college and I’m still dating the same guy I was dating in high school? Shouldn’t I be all mature and shit, dating some Ivy League bro and not a criminal justice major at a community college (let’s be honest, 90% of dudes in community college are CJ majors). So…without rhyme or reason…I dumped him.

The next day him and all his friends harassed me all day for the break-up, and even his mom texted me telling me I was a “heartless bitch”.

So here we are, 21 years young, and this unfortunate shit is still happening to me on my birthday. The good thing is, now I can legally get drunk to numb the pain.



Reply Favorite

Date: October 28th, 2011 3:53 PM
Author: burgundy property faggotry


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Date: November 8th, 2011 1:40 PM
Author: Nubile dilemma

this explains a lot


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:33 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


If You Cheat, Make It Count

Last night was so full of life lessons that I’m not sure where to begin.

As many of you are aware, yesternight was supposed to be my first run-in with Ok Cupid Guy. Since he’s been mentioned in the blog twice now, I suppose I have to give him a name. Let’s call him Neil. See, I had full intentions of honoring my plans with Neil, however, I totally forgot that I don’t go out of my way for men. Oops. How silly of me.

I imagine, though, that many of you would have done the same thing given the circumstances.

First, my friend Jacki drove in from New Jersey for a belated birthday extravaganza and she refuses to drink anywhere that doesn’t have bottle service or a rave review from New York Magazine. She also doesn’t like to stay at one bar for more than an hour because it’s bad for our image. I don’t know what that means other than we have to pay multiple cover charges and I shouldn’t of worn heels.

Last night was especially important, though, because gay marriage was made legal in New York!!!!

I don’t care who the fuck you are or what your sexuality is, you can’t deny that this decision is monumental. Of course, every gay man, woman, and trans was out celebrating last night, and how could we resist going to a dozen bars and cheersing to being out and proud with everyone we came in contact with? Not to mention my openly gay friend Stephan was with us as well, and he happens to be in a great eight-month relationship with my friend Dan. I assume they’ll be married by the end of the month.

So there I am, enjoying the company of my friends, getting hit on by strangers, sippin’ drank, and Neil is texting me the ENTIRE time. He’s saying things like, “you better be coming home with me tonight,” and “I can’t wait to see you so we can kiss and cuddle all night long,” and I’m all like, kissy face, demure, demure. It’s hard to play it coy, though, because I find his persistence to be so hot. Especially when he says things like, “get that sexy ass over here right now”.

….especially because I’ve literally given him nothing to work with and blown him off about eighty million times. Oh, you mean like I did last night?

Like I said, I don’t go out of my way for men. I decided that if he didn’t come find me in the bar I was in then it wasn’t happening. By the end of the night, though, I was drunk, horny, and he was still texting me suggestive things. GAH. So I decided I’d make an exception and take a cab to his place for our supposed cuddlesesh once my friends went home. Jacki was too busy trying to convince two guys in a Lambo to buy us a table at Tenjune to care what I did after bars close. I figured I could just drop her and my other friends off at their car, say goodbye, and then sneak off to Neil’s unquestioned.

Except Stephan, bless his soul, was onto me and my silly games. After an hour-long heart-to-heart and several ignored texts from Neil, he eventually talked me out of it.

Let me share his words of wisdom:

“If you’re going to cheat, make it count. It seems like you’re sexually satisfied with Will, but what’s missing is that intellectual stimulation. If you go over to Neil’s tonight you guys are going to fuck and then go to bed. He’s not going to give you anything that you’re seeking. It’s 4 am, there’s going to be no time to have a deep, meaningful conversation. So go to bed, sleep it off, and then if tomorrow you want to have dinner with him, have an intellectually stimulating discussion, and THEN fuck him, so be it.”

Oh the gays. They are so wise.

So sexy, Jewish, Neil…you will just have to wait. I’m still having a moral/mental wrestling match and it’s not clear who the winner will be. In the meantime, keep sending me evocative texts.

On a related side note, I drunkenly told our Bangladeshi cab driver, Ahmed, all about my cheating dilemma. His advice was, “You’re only young once. But if you do it, don’t tell the other guy”.

Thanks Stephan and Ahmed. Advice taken.


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:34 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


They Like Me! They Really Like Me!

Woah, where did this onslaught of new followers come from? Did a Tumblr celebrity reblog me and I didn’t realize it? OMG WAS I FEATURED ON THE TUMBLR SPOTLIGHT?!?!??!?!

Ok, probably not. But I’m flattered, nonetheless!

Anyway, if you’re new to the blog and curious about names, places, events, feel free to check out my “characters” and “about me“pages. Oh, and also to ask questions! I lurve questions. :)

Curious about how to eat out a girl or how to handle a bi-curious hook-up between you and your besty? Ever had a crazy fantasy, but you were too afraid to share it? Can’t orgasm and you’re wondering why???

I can help!

For all other queries, check out the archives ;)


Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2011 2:36 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


The Impulsive Itch

Oh dear. Here we go again.

I’ve recently caught a bad case of the impulsive itch.

When I get the itch, man oh man—the world and anyone within a ten mile radius better watch out. It’s like I’m a werewolf and there’s been a full moon for the last two weeks. I’m beginning to think that this compulsion is less a symptom of boredom and more a permanent part of my personality. I just can’t handle when things are the same for too long. Patterns, monotony, schedules….it all makes me feel trapped and scared.

The last time I had the itch this badly I got my nipples pierced. Before that I dyed my hair pink. Last summer I went vegan. During less intense outbreaks I’ve been known to hook up with friends (ya know, just to fuck with our dynamic a bit), pretend I’m an interior decorator and completely rearrange my room, or go on a shopping spree I can’t afford because I’ve suddenly decided my style is too “blah”.

That being said, multiple ideas have been marinating in my head over the last few weeks, jumping and nipping at my conscience like a litter of puppies vying for the attention of a potential owner.

Here is the tentative list of activities that will cure my itch, or at least help my symptoms subside long enough for me regain my role as a contributing member of society.

1. Get a tattoo.

2. Get my clit pierced.

3. Break up with my boyfriend.

4. Marry my boyfriend.

5. Blow off work [as an editorial intern at McGraw-Hill in New York http://www.linkedin.com/pub/samantha-willner/29/248/b99 ] for a week and go on a random road trip.

6. Devote all my sexual energies toward being a lesbian.

7. Workout like crazy for the next few weeks. Lose 10 lbs.

8. Re-establish my faith in the Jewish religion.

9. Try a hard drug (harder than weed/alcohol).

10. Have a gang bang (Yup, that obsession is still alive and well).

Obvious problems with these ideas:

1. Permanence scares me.

2. Healing time.

3. But I love him!

4. Okay, I don’t love him that much. Also, permanence scares me.

5. Can’t afford to lose all that money.

6. I have too much sexual energy to be devoted to anything.

7. Too much work. Need immediate results. Might as well just starve myself.

8. I don’t think I’m welcome in my temple anymore (long story…).

9. The threat of permanent brain damage scares me.

10. Who/what/where/when?

Obviously some of these solutions might just cause larger problems and more intense itches in the future. The issue is that my compulsions don’t recognize consequences, they only see gateways to change. Sigh. This one’s gonna be bad. I can feel it.

I will update everyone once a decision has been made. I think it’s important to consider that some of these options will provide more blog fodder than others. And, like most Tumbloggers, I live my life according to what will make the best blog posts.

Anybody have additional suggestions?


Reply Favorite

Date: August 3rd, 2011 7:49 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


I give you guys the freedom to go wild,

and the craziest anon post I get is about anal sex??? I’m disappointed.


Reply Favorite

Date: August 3rd, 2011 7:54 PM
Author: razzmatazz medicated corner

i enjoy the lol women = whores meme but jfc pumos are creepy as fuck


Reply Favorite

Date: August 3rd, 2011 7:57 PM
Author: rebellious sapphire library

pumo, are you the lena chen/miriam lazewatsky spammer?


Reply Favorite

Date: August 3rd, 2011 7:59 PM
Author: rebellious sapphire library

what compels these young women to do this? its really pretty disgusting and stupid although pumo is creepy


Reply Favorite

Date: August 3rd, 2011 7:59 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


Screwing Myself

I need to get a story off my chest before my mind and self-esteem become compromised.

As my blog posts might suggest, I have a “kick-ass-and-take-names” attitude toward sex. My goal is to get laid and if a relationship develops as a result, then it’s merely an unexpected side effect. I am not clingy or jealous. I believe people who appear too good to be true ARE too good to be true. I wait for men to pursue me, and then I rip their hearts out.

I’m like J-Woww with real boobs; A modern man-eater.

Obviously, this isn’t the exact formula for finding a boyfriend; However, I still pride myself on my laissez-faire sexual attitude. It’s exceptionally empowering and makes me feel like I’m always one step ahead of the game. No man can fuck with me, because I’ll fuck with him first and then disappear before he has a chance to retaliate.

Daddy issues.

Except, this past weekend, I slipped up and got played HARD by a man who is probably my male alter ego incarnate.

Here’s how the night went:

Saturday, 11:30 p.m.

Out—for the third night in a row—at an 80s bar called Joshua Tree. My sidekick, Cait, was with me. Spent the first hour trying to get drunk enough to make the socially awkward men surrounding us seem more interesting. Didn’t work.

12:45 a.m.

About to leave out of sheer frustration. Then, two seemingly normal guys approached us while singing some Kevin Bacon song. One was tall, the other short. The short one looked like an attractive Ed Helms and immediately struck up a conversation with Cait. I couldn’t help but point out the likeness, which opened up a pickup line for the tall guy (that would have worked if I was someone else):

“Yeah, my brother gets that all the time. He looks just like Andy from the Office, who happens to go to Cornell…just like me”.

Three immediate thoughts:

1. Unexpectedly dropping the smart bomb is MY pickup move. Don’t try and work that shit on the master—especially when I actually go to Cornell.

2. Brothers? That’s almost like twins, right?

3. Bucket list.

1:57 a.m.

After an extensive round of interrogation, (What’s the name of the only strip club in Ithaca? What bar just closed in Collegetown? What’s your major? Favorite place to eat on campus?) I realized tall guy might actually attend Cornell. Gotta love irony.

Confer with Cait. Confirm that we are both DTF with the brothers. Commence flirtation.

2:17 a.m.

Discover that tall guy has the same witty, sarcastic sense of humor that I do. Also discover that short guy is socially awkward. How are they related?

2:29 a.m.

Cait and I break off and start dancing with our respective men.

After a few minutes, tall guy says, “If I run to the bathroom, what’s the likelihood you’ll be dancing with another person?”

I say, “Pretty likely”.

He says,”What’s the chance I’ll be able to steal you back?”.

I say, “Fifty percent”.

When he leaves, I ask Cait if I can dance with her man for a minute. She agrees. Tall guy comes back, sees me dancing with is brother, and says with a smirk, “Oh god, you’re trouble”.

3:15 a.m.

“We Didn’t Start the Fire” comes on. I know all the words. Tall guy is totes impressed. By the end of the song we were making out.

4:00 a.m.

Back at Cait’s apartment. Get into bed with tall guy.

Ask his name.

4:28 a.m.

Hook up with tall guy.

He. Does. Everything. I’ve. Ever. Wanted. A. Person. To. Do. In. Bed.

4:33 a.m.

I get scared. Is this real? Literally everything I’d ever fantasized about doing with my perfect sexual partner happens.

4:45 a.m.

Until the sex part.

Ask tall guy to fuck me. He says he won’t unless we turn on the lights and do it in front of the window.

5:21 a.m.

Power struggle. Want to have sex, but also want to remain in control. His sexual stipulations stand. Tug of war continues.

6:02 a.m.

Still haven’t had sex. Who will crack first?

6:15 a.m.

Tall guy says, “You’re giving me serious blue balls.”

I say, “That’s your own fault.”

6:16 a.m.

Tall guy gets up from the bed without saying a word. Puts clothes on. Opens door, turns around and says,

“Have fun in France.”


This whole scenario is gnawing at my sexual ego for five main reasons:

1. I completely lost power in the bedroom. Although I enjoy the whole submissive thing, it’s with the knowledge that I am doing it willingly and can reverse the role at any moment. I’m also the one who usually does the seducing—except tall guy was so FUCKING good at giving me what I wanted that I was putty in his hands.

2. The whole time I thought I was gaming him, he was really gaming me.

3. Almost everything he did is something I would do to another guy if put in the same situation.

4. We go to the same school and I don’t have his number. Which means I have to live in constant fear that we will have an awkward run-in upon my return to school.

5. WHAT A FANTASTIC EXITING LINE. Honestly—between the timing, tone, and look on his face, it was the definition of cool.

I can’t tell if I hate him or respect him, but I need to do some serious self-reflection and decide if this is the way I really want to leave guys feeling after they take me home. Because, unless I was hooking up with a mirror last night, tall guy was definitely acting just like me, but in male form.

…or, instead of wasting valuable time, I should just find a scenario where it’s appropriate to tease someone to the point of exhaustion, stop, give them a sultry look, then turn around and say, “Have fun in France,” before exiting their life forever.


Reply Favorite

Date: August 3rd, 2011 8:02 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


I’m sure he isn’t universally a good hook-up, but it just so happens he was for me. The main things he did that drove me crazy were:

1. Intense use of force. Hands & arms pinned, etc.—not listening when I tell him to stop (obviously, this would have been bad if I really wanted him to stop. But I didn’t. Huge difference).

2. Creative, intelligent, dirty talk. For example, rather than say something like, “You’re a dirty little slut, aren’t you?”, tall guy got all Freudian on me, explaining how he knew from the minute he saw me that all I wanted to do was fuck. He said this IN THE MIDDLE of our hook up! It was crazy. And dead on.

3. Contrasting pain with pleasure. I didn’t even realize I was into this until he did it, but tall guy did this thing where he would rub my clit and, right as I was getting close, he would claw at my inner thigh, spank me really hard, or bite me. I thought I was going to explode.

I guess the most important thing is that he also knew what he was doing. Some guys have tried to whole brute force/pain thing with me and they end up actually hurting me. Tall guy was somehow able to balance all the elements perfectly.

Too bad I whimped out before the good part.


Reply Favorite

Date: August 3rd, 2011 8:03 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib

Q: Thoughts on anal sex?

- Anonymous


1. Everyone should try it at least once.

2. Lube.

3. Not optimal with well-endowed partners.

4. Don’t do it without adequate preparation.

2nd Aug 2011 (2:03 pm) - By a-foreplay-on-words


Reply Favorite

Date: August 3rd, 2011 8:04 PM
Author: rebellious sapphire library

dude is this your blog?



Reply Favorite

Date: August 3rd, 2011 9:49 PM
Author: Umber Kink-friendly International Law Enforcement Agency

i found her okcupid







Reply Favorite

Date: August 5th, 2011 2:35 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib




Reply Favorite

Date: August 5th, 2011 4:07 PM
Author: black hell ratface


Judaism and somewhat serious about it



Reply Favorite

Date: August 5th, 2011 2:35 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


A Word on Judgment

Only God can judge me.

Which he already did—and has subsequently decided I’m going to hell. Uh, I’m totally cool with this. However, it has come to my attention that a select few are not on the same level, and therefore find it necessary to ridicule or criticize my life decisions.

For the record, I expected this backlash from the outset of my blogging career. I knew there would be followers who would read about my indecencies and become offended. I knew there would be people who would think I am a slut, a floozy, or a whore. I knew some of you would place me into a compartmentalized, schematic box inside your heads, where sexually active women go to die.

Fortunately, I also knew something else.

I knew that a small group of readers would have minds capable of surpassing belittling female stereotypes. I knew some of them would see past the sarcasm, raunchiness, and uncensored detail and comprehend the underlying motivation for my writing—which is, among other things, to inspire others to be true to themselves.

Which means that, congruently, I must be true to myself first.

For me, that means debauchery and shenanigans. It means acting on impulse and considering consequences later. It means getting into trouble for the sole purpose of having a good story to tell. It means admitting my downfalls and celebrating my successes—and if getting laid isn’t a success then I don’t know what is.

So for the readers in the former group who are actively attempting to stifle my spark, spunk, and chutzpah—calling me names won’t shut me up. I have the power of words too, and I happen to be much better at using it.


Reply Favorite

Date: August 5th, 2011 2:49 PM
Author: beady-eyed round eye indian lodge

Honestly, I've had enough of self-important bitches who think their lives are worth writing and reading about.


Reply Favorite

Date: August 5th, 2011 2:52 PM
Author: histrionic slimy corn cake roast beef


Reply Favorite

Date: August 5th, 2011 3:08 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


More About Samantha

How is a woman with a voracious sexual appetite, a love of writing, and a penchant for trouble supposed to fill her time?

This is the question I asked myself one drunken night about six months ago. I was on the phone with my best friend Jessica relaying yet another riveting tale of sin, sex, and impropriety, when she suddenly interrupted me and said, “Dude, you gotta start writing this shit down. It’s like something out of a movie. I don’t understand how all this stuff happens to you!”

From this conversation sprung an idea: What if I DID start writing it all down? But better yet, what if I started giving my wild sexcapades a context? What if I could give a voice to other women, like me, who find themselves madly confused by the mindless actions of men and women alike? What if I could make it acceptable for women who love sex to talk about sex without being called sluts or whores?

Well, we’re far away from that last one. But from these thoughts and questions, a sex blog was born.

So why should you read my sex blog?

Because I’m fucking interesting, dammit. And impulsive. And I like to drink. A Lot. And I have a “try everything once” attitude toward sex, life, love, and relationships.

I don’t have reservations when it comes to having one-night stands, multiple sexual partners, and many other wonderful aspects of sex that are often seen as taboo for women, even today.

I’m also bisexual. WINK.

My promise to my readers is that I will unabashedly share my own sexual experiences in the hopes that it will help you express your own desires, whatever they may be.

Maybe my blog will eventually contribute to an overall change in our society’s sexual discourse. Maybe it will help liberate college women afraid of expressing their sexualities for fear of judgment, shame, and oppression.

Or maybe it will just provide you with a good laugh, a new perspective, and some juicy stories to share with your friends. Just don't share any of it with my mother Marci Willner (Marci E. Willner) or daddy (Irwin Cohen) or siblings (Marta Raymond Willner and Michael A. Willner)

Questions and comments are always welcome. :)




Reply Favorite

Date: August 5th, 2011 3:35 PM
Author: bearded ticket booth ape

Why so much hate for blogging college whores on here, pumo? They're nothing to get worked up about


Reply Favorite

Date: August 5th, 2011 3:38 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib

LOL, her mom is actually a member of the PREVENTION COUNCIL



This interactive, three-session program is designed to address some of the specific challenges in parenting teens and pre-teens. Realistic family scenarios are shown via DVD, giving parents the opportunity to explore various ways of dealing with difficult behavior and see how well each way is likely to work. Parents will also have an opportunity to practice specific strategies that address a variety of teen problems.

Topics include:


Helping around the house


Solving conflict and helping students do better in school


Speaking respectfully and obeying requests

For information about future workshops, please contact Marci Willner at 518-581-1230 ext. 17.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, bonniemae glassdesigns, Borders, FareCompare.com, The Alcohol & Substance Abuse Prevention Council of Saratoga County, Ben & Jerry's of Saratoga Springs, love.fútbol


Reply Favorite

Date: August 5th, 2011 3:39 PM
Author: bearded ticket booth ape

Cornell AND Ithaca College? Huh?


Reply Favorite

Date: August 5th, 2011 4:03 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


I’m so excited for this weekend that I’m actually using a Rebecca Black lyric to title this blog post. WHO AM I? FridayFridaygottagetdownonFri-

Woah, sorry, I just had to slap myself in the face. Note to self, never momentarily think it’s acceptable or cool to quote an auto-tuned twelve year old who got famous on Youtube.

Anyway. What was I saying?

Oh, yeah. These next few days are going to be epic. It is my final weekend in Manhattan before I move back home for the next 2-3weeks to prepare for FranceFuck 2011. Therefore, I have to go all out. Balls-to-the-mother-fucking-walls.



* Dinner and happy hour at Burgers ‘n Cupcakes with a group of interns from my office. Commence drinking around 5 p.m.

* Meet Adam at Penn Station. Transition happy hour to Chelsea. Bring on the gays.

* Shots.

* Take off bra.


* Which seat can I take?

* Just kidding.

* Jessica arrives in Manhattan from White Plains. Dinner anywhere that serves alcohol.


* Lesbian orgy.


* Arise.

* Hate myself.

* Epic battle with Jessica to see who gets to puke in the toilet first.

* Catch 3:15 p.m. train back home.

* Order beers on train.

* Strike up conversation with hot stranger.

* Get his/her number.

* Arrive home.

* Orchestra with mom (No, really. She bought tickets).

* Jägerbombs, Jägerbombs, Jägerbombs.

Goal is to get as many numbers/free drinks as possible. I also plan on taking a shot for every failed date or hookup I had this summer, which is somewhere between 10-12.


Because this is my moment…my moment.


Reply Favorite

Date: August 8th, 2011 2:23 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib

lol, doing drugs with her BROTHER? something tells me

MOM might like to know...



Final Weekend Follow Up

When my grandma was alive, her favorite saying was, “Man plans and God laughs”. In other words, the more we try to control our lives, the more likely it is that fate will intervene, introducing new and unforeseen circumstances.

Fortunately, these plot twists can sometimes make for better stories than whatever was originally planned. This is exactly what happened to me this weekend. Let’s examine the sequence of events via the incriminating text messages in my phone—the only evidence I have of my final riotous weekend in Manhattan.

Plot twist #1- Slept with MF. On a rooftop. Back/shoulders/arms painfully sore.

Plot twist #2- Afterwards, accidentally texted my younger brother Evan Willner (instead of Cait) telling him that I had sex. Tried to cover it up unsuccessfully in the morning. Mortified.

Plot twist #3- Cait has sex with my ex-boyfriend.

Plot twist #4- Get high with my younger brother [Evan Willner (Saratoga Springs High School)] for the first time.

-How was last night with Evan [Willner]?!

-Hahaha Evan [Willner] and I got so high and watched family guy for

like 5 hours, ate the world and then passed out. It was awesome

Plot twist #3- Kory sexts me.

Plot twist #4- My gay friend Adam asks if I’ll be his future egg donor.

Plot twist #7- Random OK Cupid guy gets clingy.

God is laughing so hard at me right now. Especially because I just referenced my dead grandmother, younger brother, and the Lord in a blog post that also contains the words “culo,” “fucked,” “high,” and “lesbian”.

P.S.-Cait’s BBM pic.


Reply Favorite

Date: August 9th, 2011 11:10 AM
Author: vibrant shitlib

oops..."NOT FOUND"

looks like mommy wasn't too pleased...


Reply Favorite

Date: August 9th, 2011 11:12 AM
Author: shimmering office

Contributing to the Delinquency of A Minor


Reply Favorite

Date: November 8th, 2011 1:38 PM
Author: idiotic gaming laptop menage

wft? this chick is out of her fucking mind.


Reply Favorite

Date: August 14th, 2011 3:59 PM
Author: vibrant shitlib


started a TWITTER yay!

It's my step sister's last day here :( ....at least mommy [Marci Willner] is taking us shopping! #hooray #LOL

@YeanaHyun Yeana Hyun

@SamanthaWillner ooh look who has a twitter!!

10 Aug via web

our thoughts, exactly


Reply Favorite

Date: November 8th, 2011 1:35 PM
Author: Nubile dilemma


Reply Favorite

Date: November 8th, 2011 1:42 PM
Author: Excitant nursing home chad

You people are so fucking aspie. Why do you indulge psycho queers who post shit like this?


Reply Favorite

Date: November 9th, 2011 9:44 AM
Author: black hell ratface


Editorial Assistant at The McGraw-Hill Companies

New York, New York (Greater New York City Area)

Writing and Editing

McGraw-Hill Higher Education

Public Company; 10,001+ employees; MHP; Publishing industry

May 2011 – August 2011 (4 months) 2 Penn Plaza, New York, NY

Assist with manuscript turnover, manage book/chapter reviews, handle development of multimedia textbook supplements, edit and review new chapter material, develop art manuscripts

6 Things 20-Somethings Want

Jun. 12, 2012

By Samantha Willner info

1. To own books. To have an apartment that houses an overstuffed bookcase overflowing with fiction, non-fiction, autobiographies, cookbooks, self-help, and cheesy romance novels. Underneath the windowsill overlooking the city, there will sit a leather lounge chair that you picked up at an antique store or yard sale. Here, you will sit and read all your wonderful books.

2. To be loved. By friends, family, men and women. To never be alone on a Friday night. You’ll host book club meetings in your apartment and show off your overflowing bookcase. You’ll do yoga on Tuesdays. You’ll take art history classes for fun. You’ll go on dates. When your world falls apart, you’ll always have someone to call for support. A loving soul will always be there to congratulate you on your accomplishments, give you a massage after a long day, hook that difficult bracelet latch around your wrist that you can never get on your own, and of course, tell you you’re beautiful.

3. To own a unique pet, like a cockatiel or miniature pig. To have a doorman who knows your name. On rainy days, you’ll attempt to watch all the classic movies you never watched when you were younger. You’ll call your mom every Sunday. You’ll write poetry for fun. You’ll read the New York Times at your local coffee joint and attempt to do the Sunday crossword puzzles. The barista will know your order without having to ask. One day, you’ll give up coffee for green tea, but what’s the rush?

4. To be successful. To receive invitations to fashion shows and art gallery openings, but only attend them selectively. To write beautiful things to fall upon the eyes of beautiful people. Your feet will be your main form of transportation. You’ll be the most fashionable person at the office. During lunch breaks, you’ll get lost in Barnes & Noble. You’ll call your boss by his or her first name and sometimes, when a deadline is approaching, you’ll shoot each other a text. You’ll have health insurance and a retirement plan.

5. To do something crazy — like move to China — and then blame it on a fleeting youth. To eat pizza in Rome. To accumulate frequent flyer miles. To, every once in awhile, fly first class.

6. To, one day, reread these hopes and desires, smiling at the things that came to fruition, and wondering what happened to those that didn’t.

Samantha Willner


fugly bitch Samantha Willner is a New York City transplant, originally from Saratoga Springs, who currently works with McGraw-Hill Professional in Manhattan. She prides herself on having read the seventh Harry Potter book fifteen times, and being able to complete the NY Times crossword puzzles up until Thursdays. She dreams of one day owning a small, Parisian apartment overlooking the Seine, where she can drink wine and fondly reminisce about her young, wild days as a twenty-something living in the Big Apple. If you have question or comments related to anything from croissants to Voldemort, she can be reached at smw276@gmail.com.




Reply Favorite

Date: November 9th, 2011 3:43 PM
Author: Puce Racy Gay Wizard

I don't know why people said this girl was a 5 when she's clearly a 6 (and maybe a 6.4). large breasts are prole, we know this, but those things look pretty huge