A funny story. Period.

If you get grossed out easily, go to another blog because I was inspired to share the following story by a Twitter follower from TOO Apparel who told me that TMI always makes her laugh. Sara, this one’s for you.

This story takes place in college, where all the really great (and by great, I mean horribly embarrassing) dating stories happen. Back in a time before I really fully appreciated what it meant to have standards; in men, hygiene, or anything else. Back in an era where all adventures were fueled by a mix of alcohol, hormones, and a hearty disrespect for consequences or repercussions. Those were the days.

It was the end of senior year, it may actually have been senior week (the week following the last day of finals but ending the day of graduation). I don’t remember exactly, because I’m pretty sure that week was actually a 5-7 day bender and some of the details are at-best hazy and at-worst lost entirely to the blackness of an over-inebriated brain.

The girls and I were at one of our favorite bars, a two-floor hole in the wall with decor and ornamentation solely comprised of a neon Bud Light sign and discarded cups and bottles, where the outside patio is really nothing more than a few picnic tables from several generations ago that are now polished smooth by a patina of spilled drinks. I was with my friend in line for the bathrooms, two grungy unisex doors behind which there usually was no toilet paper. I’d dragged her there because I was on the last day of my period and wasn’t sure whether or not I was in need of a new tampon.

Ahead of us I could see a blonde head of hair in a slightly tattered grey gym shirt, and when he turned around he had one of those faces that manages to be a baby-face but also muscular and defined. My friend elbowed me and whispered that he was hot; I agreed. He was in and out of the bathroom before we’d even worked our way up the line to the doors, and as he walked past us I made eye contact and smiled. He passed and did a double take, so I knew I was in.

When I made it to the front of the line and it was my turn to go in and lock the door, I found that my period seemed mostly to be over and decided I wouldn’t need any more leak protection for the night. My pants were black (and cheap), and even though I was sans panties I wasn’t too worried about ruining them.

Later on, I found hot Blondie outside sipping beer with his friends and brazenly went over to introduce myself and hit on him. He was a graduate student studying for a masters degree in something that didn’t interest me; what interested me more was his former lacrosse career and his muscular build. His friends weren’t subtle about encouraging him to leave with me, and when we had a moment alone he asked how nearby I lived (very, very close, I told him).

We left out a back door and he immediately pressed me up against the brick wall of an alley, lifted me up so I was straddling him, and we drunkenly made out for some length of time. It may have been a few seconds or minutes, but it ended when the door next to us slammed open once more and his friends stumbled out, saw us, and immediately began to make noises and remarks (the way large groups of guys always seem to do). He waved them away, lowered me down, and whispered that we should get a move on. Both of us stumbled as we took our first steps, but we gradually made it back to my place after a prolonged and wavering half mile walk.

I showed him to my dimly lit room and he sat on my bed, turning to lie down as he lifted me on top of him. We made out feverishly and took off our shirts, then he fumbled for a few moments with the button on my pants. Frustrated, he looked up at me and asked, “Do you care if I rip these?”

“No.” Before I finished wondering whether or not he was serious, he had flexed his arms and chest and torn my pants right in half, splitting them down the seam of the left leg all the way to the knee. Incredulous, I stood up to take them off the rest of the way, balling them up and tossing them in the trash. I was naked. He was not. I helped him off with the rest of his clothes and provided him with a condom. He put it on and lifted me back on top of him.

My room was lit only by the moonlight but I could see him clearly, albeit through unsteady eyes. His head was cocked back and he was clearly enjoying himself. After a few minutes he remarked on how wet I was and that it turned him on.

Odd, I thought. Since I wasn’t quite there yet.

I looked down.

Oh NO.

I looked up at him to see if he’d noticed anything yet. He hadn’t. The blood smeared on his thighs and lower abs was still undetected by him. I quickly faked an orgasm and soon his real one followed.

As he recovered, I made little motions with my hands, acting as though I was caressing him when really I was wiping him clean of blood and trying frantically to hide my smeared hands. I got up while his eyes still looked closed, and searched in the dark for tissues. When I turned he had sat up, and was drunkenly looking and feeling around, mumbling something I couldn’t make out.

Abruptly, he said something I didn’t understand, clumsily got dressed and pitched himself towards the door. He hit the doorframe, stumbled once, righted himself and was gone before I could even comprehend what had happened.

Shit. He definitely saw. Oh my God, this is so embarrassing. And then, I assume, I drunkenly passed out on my bed and woke up in the morning, mostly none-the-wiser.

A few days passed and I found a contact in my phone I didn’t remember.

Who the eff is Blondie McHotty? I thought back to my recent nights out and remembered: A dirty bar, a blonde guy. The brick wall. Torn pants in the trash. …. the blood.

Oh my God, did I actually do that? Did that actually happen? I bled on him? I wonder if he noticed. Did he notice? Well he didn’t text me ever so maybe he did. He ripped my pants off my body, didn’t he? Wow, that’s incredibly hot. Hey, maybe he didn’t actually notice the blood. Maybe I have other pants he can rip. Maybe I should text him.

“Hey Blondie, this is Trouble from the other night.”

“Hey, wow, I’m surprised to hear from you.”

Shit. He noticed. … But don’t assume anything. Play it cool.

Oh really? Haha why’s that?”

“Well, it’s been a few days. WAIT. You’re not preggo, are you?!?”

Guess he didn’t notice after all.

Did you enjoy that story? Check out TOO Apparel, they make women’s underpants and donate to women in need. Pretty awesome, right? Go get yourself a few pairs of period panties and don’t be an idiot (like me).


Some people just aren’t going to like you. The important thing is to dwell on that until you die.

I laughed out loud when I read this. It’s the Tinder profile of Donnie, 25.

Thank you, Donnie.

It was not a squirrel

It’s no secret I’m an active Tinderer. Tinderella, if you will. All the new matches and small talk get pretty tiresome after a while, and this week I decided that I would take a new approach.

“I propose that we each get to ask three questions. They can be anything. And then after that, we decide if we want to meet. You in?”

“Definitely. I’ll go first.” Continue reading

My subconscious is a jerk

I woke up this morning thinking I was engaged.

That’s a new level of crazy, even for me. Dream-engagement. Nice. Here’s how my twisted little subconscious apparently envisions me tying the knot: Continue reading

Ladybugs are NOT sexy

After having a kitchen heart-to-heart with my “not that drunk” housemate, Elle (name changed for “anaminity”), this post is going to be about ladybugs. Because, as Elle so astutely commented, “Ladybugs are not sexy.”

Too true, Elle, too true.

Here’s the backstory…

Continue reading