If you ask, they’ll whip it out.

  Flub. His pink, flaccid, ginger pube-concealed dong flopped into his hand, as the two men on either side of me quickly turned their heads, uncomfortably averted their eyes, and focused on smoking their cigarettes. I’ll be damned, it worked again. I unleashed my usual response: throwing my head back, cackling, and pointing at the saggy little spring roll.

It wasn’t necessarily the size of it that made me chuckle, or that it appeared softer than a marshmallow, but the fact that this stranger actually had the balls to hang dong on demand. (And the fact that he looked like Simple Jack from Tropic Thunder didn’t much help me contain my laughter.) He shrugged, stuffed his sad, wilted, wiener back inside his frayed denim shorts, and walked away — surprisingly unscathed by the incident. Yes… this is how I sometimes choose to pass the time.

My question for Simple Jack, and the forthcoming others who have complied to my request, is this: What did you expect? Me to start stroking it and stuffing it into my mouth in front of everyone? Of course I’m going to laugh at a limp penis in public, who the hell wouldn’t? And, for fuck’s sake, why wouldn’t you at least slap some sense into it before showing it off?

Let’s just make a rule: If it isn’t at half-mast, or at least shows signs of curiosity, keep it in your pants (whether I ask you to take it out or not). I’m not getting my hand, mouth, or otherwise near that sucker until there‘s a sign of life. Trust me, you’ll be doing yourself a favor, showing off a drooping noodle isn’t going to get you anywhere. Actually, nothing is going to get you anywhere because my goal in asking a man to whip it out is only A.) to see if he will, and B.) because its fucking hilarious. You may be wondering why I do this for pleasure. I’m sick in the head, I won’t be coy. I do wonder whether I’m the only person flirting with dick-disaster, but, unlike masturbation, there aren’t articles in teen magazines informing you that the act of asking people to pull out their dicks is completely normal. Don’t worry, everyone does it.

It was about six years ago when I first asked a sloppily drunk man to whip it out with the intention of mocking his intoxicated demeanor. (Read: just to fuck with him.) I remember it like it was yesterday: Baseball cap, polo shirt, and… dare I suggest khaki shorts? The sorry excuse for a douche bag unzipped his zipper, pulled it out and let it sag down from the front of his pants. For five minutes he casually stood there with his hands in his pockets and his meat hanging out of his zipper. It was almost as if he forgot it was visible. He casually carried on a conversation with my friend — so casually, in fact, that she didn’t even notice his prick until she saw myself and another girl pointing at his crotch and practically peeing ourselves out of hysteria.

On another occasion, a random man pulled it out on a crowded dance floor. In this case, I had been talking to him for maybe two minutes, and that puppy was out before I finished the sentence. Please note, I didn’t say question, I said sentence. I don’t even ask them to, I simply suggest, “Let’s see your dick.”

I guess I probably lead them on; but, shit, it’s only a proposition. I don’t recall signing a contract. And, although I am clearly to blame for encouraging these three examples of disturbing public exhibition, I‘ve never suggested a man hang dong and been denied.

So what’s their motivation? Do they simply enjoy showing it off? Are they just confident? Is it because these certain individuals never get the chance to show a woman their dick? Do they need feedback on the size, shape and color? Do they actually think the outcome will be a hand job/blow job/etc.? Whatever your reasons, power to ya, shameless dick showers. You had me at flub.

I‘m a dick grabber

I’m not sure whether or not you read the fine print, but if I know you, and you’re a man — be you friend, acquaintance or mere passer-by — I will most likely grab your cock at some point in time. Consider this your dick disclaimer. It’s not that I’m a complete pervert (it is), or that I’m coming on to you (I am), or even that I’m just trying to make you uncomfortable (totally); it’s that we clearly had an unwritten arrangement and in this state verbal agreements are legally binding.

The Witness:

Back in a previous slut stage — I am currently wedged between stages four and five — I awoke to a stranger and later pondered how someone so drunk (moi) was able to seal the deal effectively, if not skillfully. It took an eye-witness to bring me to the realization that, when I binge drink liquid courage, I straight-up seize a handful of schlong without hesitation. Is that such a crime? Bam! Your junk done got grasped. Whatcha gonna do about it? No, seriously… any thoughts on that?

The Crime:

I guess when it comes down to it, this is downright sexual harassment, and I should probably take a moment to thank everyone for thus far not suing me: thank you. But also, is it that bad to have someone caress or clasp your package? Shit, I’m cute. Is it that invasive? Yes? Well, fuck you, have we met? This is just me: sick, wrong and fabulously so. People are quick to either love me or hate me, so if you’re still around at this point you already know I’m a psychotic, crazy, asshole and you’ve come to terms with that fact. So let’s embrace the dick-grabbage, shall we? Everybody loves a semi.

The Motives:

Sizing you up

Perhaps this bothers you because you’re concerned I’m going to out you for having a baby dong. Well, if so, get over it. There’s a reason women know that the distance from the tip of one’s outspread thumb to the tip of the pointer finger is six inches, and the distance from wrist to elbow is a foot. And that the difference between the circumference of a loop made with one’s pointer finger and thumb, compared to one’s middle finger and thumb, is the difference of about an inch in girth. Don’t make us just eyeball it, let us measure that sucker. I’m up for leaving things to the imagination, but sometimes you just gotta know what you’re working with… or maybe you’re just trying to inspire the person.

Throwing it out there

Even when sizing it up is not the motive, it couldn’t hurt to throw it out there, right? If a flirtatious embrace happens to result in some sort of physical reaction, what’s the harm in that? I once tapped a guy in the nuts three times in a row and he had to leave the bar and go home for fear of growing a garden snake. This ballsy, so to speak, approach seems to signify, hey, I’m comfortable touching your penis. So, like… maybe I should… and maybe you want me to… more… later… I think so. Or, Oh, weird, what does thing do? Let’s find out. But maybe you don’t even want to get it on; maybe you’re just drunk and attempting to amuse yourself.

For the hell of it

Sometimes I’ll drunkenly grab the man piece of one of my close male friends just to fuck with him. But at least one of them grabs my tits for his amusement, so screw it. And be wary, homosexual men, you are not safe from my charming molestation. Once I felt up a gay guy and then laughingly pointed and shouted, “That was squishy!” Fast forward to me telling that story to a friend the next morning: “… and that was the second penis I couldn’t get hard that night…” (God damn it.)

Because I’m totally shit-faced (implied in each category)

I mean, c’mon, it’s not like I’m doing this while sober (typically). If I’m snatching man-meat, or “monkey junk,” as one friend puts it, I’m clearly incoherent and without acknowledgment of any degree of ethics or morality. Give me a few drinks and I’m like a malnourished orangutan, purposefully clutching a bunch of bananas and clumsily shoving them towards my mouth.

The Verdict:

Is this behavior appropriate? No. Have I ever claimed to be appropriate? No. Will I ever be appropriate? I wouldn’t bet on it. So, if you have an affinity for poor decisions like I do, I recommend you try this method. The worst that could happen is you’ll get punched right in the face. And, hey, if not, you may even get some action.

You cannot call the person you live with your roommate if you don’t have a room in the house.

I once hung out with a cute, stylish guy who was couch surfing at his friend’s house and had no plans of leaving or contributing to the household in the immediate future. I didn’t put this together at first, as we weren’t banging. But I can tell you this much: The moment he tried to make a move on me on that couch, in my drunken stupor, I suddenly realized there were only two bedrooms in the house and three inhabitants. It didn’t add up, and I realized I was the girl who was allegedly ok with getting it on in the living room. Perhaps the only thing worse than a leech with no intention of leaving, is the slut bag not bothered by this arrangement. That was the last night I saw him, I escaped that scenario immediately.

In an effort to offer complete disclosure and context to my feelings on this issue, I should clarify that I did — once — sleep with someone on a couch in a living room after a long night of partying. A skanky mosaic of a sex scene, this interaction occurred in awkward snippets, as his so-called “roommates” walked to the kitchen and the bathroom throughout the wee hours of the morning. When the sun began to rise, its rays shone through the hippie tapestry being used as curtains. At this point, I noticed his battered backpack on the floor and I realized that I had just fucked a “technically homeless” man on a stranger’s couch.

Mates, each with a room

I couldn’t blame the pseudo-hobo completely for my serious lack of suspicion. So, like the majority of my slutscapades, I blame my actions on naivety and complete denial… that paired with the use of drugs and/or alcohol. I was obviously hammered enough to not question when we were going to advance to a unkempt bedroom, dirty boy-bathroom or even a fucking closet at some point. However, upon hearing one mention his or her “roommates,” you sort of assume the person speaking pays rent and has an actual room in a house (and, apparently, that they’re so turned on by you they simply cannot force themselves to pause ten seconds and move to another room, as was clearly the case.)

It comes down to this: I honestly don’t care if you’re a couch surfer. Whether you’re traveling, or need to save money, or have some other reason for doing so, that’s your prerogative. And who‘s to say I won‘t be in the same a position at some point? The ways things are going, I‘m likely lingering toward life on a loveseat. However, you can’t call someone your roommate if you don’t have a room in the house. The word roommate says it all: mates, each with a room. If this is not the arrangement, they are the host and you are their guest.

It seems to me that the relationship between a host and a couch surfer somewhat parallels the relationship between a host cell and the virus or parasite that drains it of energy and resources, such as nourishment and shelter. At this point I will put on my nerd glasses and observe the relationship from a biologist’s point of view. *Note: If you are or have ever been a couch surfer, I am not calling you a parasite/virus; I am simply comparing and contrasting two types of hosts. Don’t blame me, this is science talking.

The Hostess with the mostess

Primary/definitive host. If the parasite is lucky, it has a primary, or definitive host. This cell, or in our case, person, allows the virus to reach maturity (in some cases a contradiction in terms) and, if applicable, reproduce sexually (most likely on their “roommates” couch.) This means the person serving as the host is willing to provide shelter until it’s guest has gotten his or her shit together (an admirable characteristic of a true friend). This person is also comfortable with the fact that it's visitor will most likely attempt to nest and at some point ejaculate on its sofa — assuming, of course, it finds someone who is attracted to parasites and, therefore, getting nailed on a rust-colored, crumb- and pet hair-covered couch while scenes from Family Guy flicker romantically on the plasma screen.

Secondary/intermediate host. In terms of the host, it’s a wise idea to serve as only a secondary or intermediate host. This person harbors its visitor only for a brief, transitional period — perhaps allowing its guest to crash for a week or two while the person finds either a job, or girlfriend, or other sponsor to exhaust of its assets and mental wellbeing. I’d imagine this host doesn’t require rent or help with utilities, but simply offers it’s guest a safe place to get one’s affairs in order — an ideal situation for both parties.

Dead-end host. Then there’s a dead-end host, most likely a bigger parasite than the one seeking assistance, albeit one with a lease. This kind of host prevents its guest from completing its development, and will likely encourage toxic behavior. “Don’t have a bed? Fuck it; you can sleep on my forest green papasan chair if you slang this coke for me.” A dead-end host may be more dangerous than living on the streets, as such an environment does not allow for growth and progress.

In the end

So, is a couch surfer a deal breaker? Not necessarily. You cannot judge a person’s character based simply upon their dwellings. Everyone needs a little help sometimes and, as friends, it’s our job to provide assistance to those who would do the same for us. Plus, I’ll take a couch over a cardboard box any day; beggars can’t be choosers.

If you have a shirtless photo taken in a mirror with a camera phone, and you're not gay, then... wait, you're totally gay, huh?

Chances are pretty good that half of your male gay friends between the ages of 18 and 30 have one (or 136) photo(s) of themselves flexing, without a shirt, taken in a mirror (oft-times in a bathroom or closet) with their camera phone. The shameless shirtless self photo shoot is as gay as glitter and, if you live in Denver, as gay as Thursday night.

I would argue that the gays have stolen this and made this their own, along with the rainbow, and Uptown. What I can do without, however, is straight men attempting this technique. It’s funny how this look only offends me when the person taking the photo is someone I could possibly consider having sex with (whether I’d have to be drunk off my ass or not).

Another time this look fails is when straight women share practically nude photos of themselves and gather them in albums labeled “Modeling.” Just because some creep talked you into dressing scandalously and greasing up for his photographic and pornographic pleasure, doesn’t mean you should post 45 nearly identical photos of yourself wearing lingerie, and licking a lollipop with a come hither stare. If these photos are in a magazine or advertisement, you’re a model. If your photos are in some guy’s spank bank, you’re just undressing for a pervert with a camera. There’s a thin line between self-promotion and self-exploitation.

If you’re wondering whether you should be sharing photos of you topless and in the mirror, I’ve made a simple little equation for you:

Gay = OK; Not Gay = No Way

I can’t describe what it is exactly that makes this photo procedure so wrong on a straight man. Featuring a straight man, these pictures seem silly, vain, hilarious; while when depicting a gay man, the photos are sexy, confident, flirtatious. Why is it that gay men can get away with this when straight men cannot? It could be because, in my eyes, the gays can do no wrong — they can pull off a mesh neon tank top, and they can pull off the rightfully-confident-look-at-my-sexy-body pic.

I’m unabashedly obsessed with gay men. My fantasy is to one day marry a homosexual male (insert dream sequence fuzz). We would have an impeccably decorated house, host amazing cocktail parties, spend our days shopping, have our own separate sex lives, and share all of the dirty details over martinis and Scrabble. I can see it now: My homo-husband and I are laying beside the fire in matching “OMG” monogrammed silk pajamas (his pink, mine blue), watching Mean Girls, playing the popular word game, and gossiping about our latest mistakes. I’d would play the word “fellatio” on a triple word score. “48 points, biotch!” “Whore!“ he’d respond. Then, spilling my drink, I fumble for the remote, “Girl, it was this big!” to which my husband would reply, “Aw, heeeeyyy!” and we’d cheers, leaving practically no drinks left in our glasses, and calling the dog over to lick the booze off our $1,500 dollar rug.

I can’t get enough of the half-nekkid photos that gay men promote themselves with. I find them horribly amusing, and seeing as I’m a total pervert, a free show. As I walk through life, I basically check out everyone: men, women, grandfathers, baby daddies, grocery store checkers, your mom, security guards, department store santas, preschool teachers, sluts, and so on. I’m like a construction worker, except I don’t wear hunter orange, have less of a gut, and do not have a penchant for the arrogant ability to shout out things that could make even a sexual predator cringe (instead I say these things under my breathe to anyone who is within ear-shot of a whisper.)

Will fuck for food

I haven’t been on a fucking date since ’nam. This is not entirely surprising, considering that men long ago realized that they do not have to buy women dinner and/or roofie their drinks in order to get laid. All a man has to do is walk up to a woman at a bar at just the right time — and not be completely repulsive — or invite himself to “hang out” — and not be completely repulsive. At this point, I feel like the only way I’m going to be taken out is if I stand on the corner alongside the transient who holds a sign that reads “savin for a hooker thankx,” with a sign that says “will fuck for food.”

Will I really fuck for food? Fuck yeah, why not? I’ve fucked for worse: validation; boredom; revenge; a beer. We all have motives for doing what we do, be it subconscious or obvious. I may as well be honest with myself… and you may as well be honest with yourself, as well. I deserve, you deserve, no we deserve some fucking red meat and engaging, intelligent conversation.

If you want me to put out, pay up. Stimulate my brain, and fill my belly, and then you can stimulate me elsewhere. Plus, shit, if you buy me a steak, you just may, and I stress may, get a blow job. I feel like $20 for a blow jay from a hot girl is more than reasonable. Either that or pay a disease ridden crack whore $50... or find a girl without standards… or be lucky enough to run into me when I’m drunk and with withering values.

Now, I don’t want you to feel like you could get in trouble with the law as a result of this arrangement. I’m not a hooker who accepts wine and food as payment (although I see the benefits of such a system). I’m just a woman who knows what she wants, and what she doesn’t want.

What I want is to be taken out. Get to know me; let’s figure out whether you find my presence too abrasive to stand before I throw you a bang. If history is any indication, chances are 50/50 you will either love me or hate me. What I don’t want is for you pursue me passively, or mack on me using social media sites. If you send me a message on Facebook with some corny/horny line, it isn’t going to get you shit from me. If I had a nickel for every man who sent me a suggestive e-mail or IM, I’d have about 45 nickels. And if I had acted on any of these solicitations, I’d likely have a few stalkers… and a handful of STDs.

My advice for those of you attempting this approach on women: How about a little creativity? You all sound the same: creepy, desperate, unimpressive. I’m not completely conceited, but I do think I’m generally a badass individual and I am worthy of more than a “let’s get blackout drunk” over IM, or a private message asking me for a photo of my feet (although I must admit that one made me laugh).

Face it, to freak isn’t free; we all pay for sex in one way or another: power; respect; health; reputation; euros, etc. You don’t have to be affluent to be a gentleman. Less fortunate, or a penny pincher? Plan a picnic, something thoughtful, something creative. I’m not that high maintenance… or maybe I am. But either way, this bitch is worth it.

Try as I might, I am not a whiskey girl

I’ve always wanted to be one of those girls who drinks whiskey straight out of the bottle and isn’t fazed. When I say “whiskey girl,“ I am picturing a beautiful woman who chugs the brown booze like it’s water, and can drink a man under the table with much aplomb. Am I one of such girls? No, no I am not. I can drink vodka until I turn into a potato, but one shot of whiskey and I have the tolerance of a Mormon school teacher.

Despite my efforts to become accustomed to this alcoholic beverage, I always become a stumbling, bumbling hot mess of a wastoid — black tears streaming down my face; red lipstick smeared around my mouth; making out with a gay man, or a woman, for that matter; starting a fight with a random man who walks by; and strutting about like Elaine Benes dances.

Mistakes that I can attribute to being whiskey-drunk:
Making out with my friend’s ex boyfriend
Puking under the bar
Illegible text messages
Calling guys who I don’t even like
Driving drunk

While I enjoy a whiskey ginger on occasion, shots are a definite no. If ever I take a whiskey shot I puke — either immediately, later on that night, or the next morning (something that I never did until whiskey entered my life.)

I should have known the moment my friend and I bought I bottle of Jamo that I was going to be in trouble. Although we only had one double before we left, we continued to drink whiskey at the drag show at X Bar, and again at Chi Chi and Cain’s wedding reception. Throughout the course of the evening, I saw my partner in crime dash into the alley to puke, I burned myself on the chin and the thumb with my own cigarette, and at one point I fell completely down on the ground outside of Club M. My friend also walked back to my house without telling me, as if she was going to somehow be able to break into the building or climb into my window.

Upon realizing she didn’t have a key, and that the dog wouldn’t let her in, she walked back to the club. We then ventured to 7-11 and drunkenly purchased two hot dogs, two pizzas, and two ice cream bars. Home girl passed out while the pizza was cooking, but then the smoke alarm starting going off, so that woke her up. We spent about 10 minutes trying to fan the air with towels and pillows and an actual fan before I finally was able to smack that fucker off the ceiling. Then she and I both passed out.

When my alarm went off this morning, I looked at my phone like you’d look at a man whose gut is hanging out of their shirt: disgusted. One thought crossed my mind: WATER! Desperate to quench my thirst, I grabbed the closest cup to me. In my still-drunken haze, I had accidentally grabbed last night’s whiskey ginger. Luckily the smell hit my nose before the liquid hit my mouth. Shivers coursed down my spine and my gag reflex awakened. I got myself water and then looked around. My apartment looked like a tornado had blown through it — a 5 foot 6, teal-haired, big-assed tornado. The thought of going to work was about as appealing as the thought of chewing on glass, eating out an asshole, or seeing another teen mom on the cover of US Weekly. I begrudgingly walked my dog (picking up dog shit while hung over [or still drunk] is especially revolting), and drove to work, somehow evading an early morning DUI (thank god drunk driving is perfectly legal during the day.)

Now I sit here at work, counting down the 6 hours, 22 minutes and 45 seconds until I get to lock the door, unfreeze the forced smile, and stop being convincingly sincere. All I can think about is greasy pizza and weed delivery and doing absolutely nothing tonight… and maybe taking a nap in my car… and being really mortified about falling down like an asshole.

“Do you do couples?”

Out of boredom the other day, I decided to bury my pride six feet under and join a typical, clichéd, and slightly frightening dating site. Considering that I recently saw the documentary Catfish, I’m not sure why I would practically solicit a prospective stalker. I guess if I had to name a reason for joining said site, I would say: A., I like to flirt; B., my ego could use the occasional validation; and, perhaps most importantly, C., it’s like shopping for sex (albeit most likely in the irregulars section.)

Dating sites are kind of like eBay, only for fucking and/or finding a relationship of any magnitude. You can check out an item (man/dong) and see if it looks damaged or weathered from use; make assumptions based on photos; and negotiate a fair price (date/casual sex/etc.) — all the while competing with other individuals for the grand prize.

In the mere three days I have had this account; I have been approached in a variety of ways. One man messaged me, “hey, you’re online, I’m online. Fuck this, let’s fuck. Dub palace is on 1390 and I have a boner,” an especially amusing offer since DJ Segue is a good friend of mine. Another guy messaged me, “Are you in love with me?” to which I sarcastically replied “head over heels.” And yet another attractive man messaged me, “Do you do couples?”

Hmm… do I do couples? I’m not completely opposed to the idea of a threesome. In fact, I may or may not have already had a threesome… and it may or may not have been with two men. Maybe yes, maybe no. But, as a woman who can be somewhat jealous at times, could I share a man, neigh, a penis with another woman? A woman who gets him full time, no less?

And, I can’t help but wonder: Could I hook up with the woman and to what extent would I be expected to do so? I’ve made out with a woman before, and I’d switch teams for Ginger Perry in a New York minute, but I’m pretty confident that tongue and tittie action is as far as I could go (although I bet a woman is better at going down on a woman than a man). Besides, I get dressed for other women, not undressed.

Then again if one was to “do” a couple, two strangers would certainly be the ideal. You could fuck ‘em and chuck ‘em and go on with your life. Whereas if I were to enter Smashville with a couple who are also my friends, I would have to think about them naked every time I’d see them from that point forward. “Oh, there’s curves to the left, and little miss three nipples,” or “Remember that guy I told you about who shouted out ‘Tammy Faye Baker!’ during sex?” And I don’t even want to know what they’d say about me.

And yet another issue, perhaps the most important one yet, is the fact that I’m an only child. As a result of this, I’m not necessarily accustomed to sharing. I don’t share my toys — be they legos or vibrators — and I don’t share my power tools either. Picture it: The other women grabs her boyfriend’s cock and I grab it away from her, “Hey, that’s mine! It’s my turn! I’m telling my mom!”

While getting down with a couple could be a complete blast, and make one hell of a story, I don’t think I could do it. With all these little hiccups and hang-ups in mind, I think that, for me, a ménage et trois with a male/female couple is a ménage et nah (but if you know two hot tattooed men who are interested, let me know.)