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).

Never Again: Chapter 5

THIS POST IS THE FIFTH OF A SERIES OF POSTS IN WHICH I DESCRIBE A RELATIONSHIP I HAD WITH AN EMOTIONALLY AND SEXUALLY ABUSIVE MAN. CHAPTER 4 IS HERE AND THE REST OF THE SERIES CAN BE FOUND ON THE STORIES & SERIES PAGE. THANK YOU FOR READING, AND PLEASE FEEL FREE TO SHARE THIS STORY SO THAT OTHERS CAN LEARN FROM MY EXPERIENCES INSTEAD OF NEEDING TO MAKE THE SAME MISTAKES.

I was getting sicker. Waking up for work was becoming more impossible than the standard Monday blues. My first thought in the morning when I woke up and sat up was routinely, “I’m just too exhausted to get through today,” and I would need to seriously consider whether any of it was worth it at all. When I had to visit clients or sites for work, I would take a nap in my car in a supermarket parking lot afterwards, and tell my manager Angela that there had been traffic on the way back. I was listless, my cheeks becoming hollower by the day, my hair wasn’t growing anymore, my skin was pallid and my lips such a dull pink as to be nearly grey.  It seemed like every food made me sick, so I wasn’t eating. I didn’t know what to eat and I began to become fearful of the negative effects, so I simply abstained.

Continue reading

Never Again: Chapter 4

THIS POST IS THE FOURTH OF A SERIES OF POSTS IN WHICH I DESCRIBE A RELATIONSHIP I HAD WITH AN EMOTIONALLY AND SEXUALLY ABUSIVE MAN. CHAPTER 3 IS HERE AND THE REST OF THE SERIES CAN BE FOUND ON THE STORIES & SERIES PAGE. THANK YOU FOR READING, AND PLEASE FEEL FREE TO SHARE THIS STORY SO THAT OTHERS CAN LEARN FROM MY EXPERIENCES INSTEAD OF NEEDING TO MAKE THE SAME MISTAKES. 

 

My job was boring. I was a staff scientist at an environmental consulting agency, and per the instructions of my overbearing manager, Angela, we used AIM Pro for intraoffice communications. I also used it for personal correspondence.

“What would we name our kids?” Eli asked me one day over instant messenger as I mindlessly entered potential clients’ information into a spreadsheet.

“I don’t know… I could see us having a daughter.”

“I’d love a daughter. But you know I’d be so protective.”

“Not as protective…”

“…as you!”

We both laughed.

He continued, “You’d come home one day and ask where she is, and I’d be like, ‘Um… She was right here,’ and we would go out and see her eating tomatoes in the garden.”

“Who eats plain whole tomatoes?!” I laughed.

“I did! She would get it from me!” he insisted.

“She’d have pigtails.”

“And your green eyes.”

“Green eyes aren’t inherited, they’re a mutation.”

“Whatever. She’d look like you.”

“I like the name Abbie.”

“But hyphenated with something.”

“Yeah…”

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Two words, seven letters

The weird thing about the digital era is that you can fall for someone, really fall for them, without ever meeting. Not in an obsessive fan-fic way, but with very deep, true, invested emotion.  Continue reading

Never Again: Chapter 3

THIS POST IS THE THIRD OF A SERIES OF POSTS IN WHICH I DESCRIBE A RELATIONSHIP I HAD WITH AN EMOTIONALLY AND SEXUALLY ABUSIVE MAN. CHAPTER 2 IS HERE AND THE REST OF THE SERIES CAN BE FOUND ON THE STORIES & SERIES PAGE. THANK YOU FOR READING, AND PLEASE FEEL FREE TO SHARE THIS STORY SO THAT OTHERS CAN LEARN FROM MY EXPERIENCES INSTEAD OF NEEDING TO MAKE THE SAME MISTAKES. 

There wasn’t much that I could eat without getting sick, so Eli boiled plain white rice while I sat on the couch trying to avoid eye contact with Lucy. She was still mentally confined to the corner but following our every motion with her eyes, and would occasionally whine gently or optimistically wag her tail in the hopes that she would be released.

Eli exited the kitchen with a bowl of rice for me, a glass of neat scotch for himself, and joined me on the couch. I nudged him and gestured toward the dog, but he ignored me and turned on the television. After a while I asked if I could borrow his laptop to e-mail my parents and let them know I had arrived safely. I browsed the Internet and ate my rice while he sipped scotch and watched the news.

When we were both ready for bed, he finally allowed Lucy to move and give me my greeting, commanding her “COME!” as we walked up the stairs to the bedroom. She wasn’t allowed on the bed, but after nearly licking my face raw with her ebullience, she settled on the floor and we climbed under the covers. Eli spooned me from behind, one hand cupping my butt and the other resting between my breasts.

In the morning, Eli told me he wanted to show me something. He led me downstairs to his study and asked me what I thought. Continue reading

Never Again: Chapter 2

THIS POST IS THE SECOND OF A SERIES OF POSTS IN WHICH I DESCRIBE A RELATIONSHIP I HAD WITH AN EMOTIONALLY AND SEXUALLY ABUSIVE MAN. CHAPTER 1 IS HERE AND THE REST OF THE SERIES CAN BE FOUND ON THE STORIES & SERIES PAGE. THANK YOU FOR READING, AND PLEASE FEEL FREE TO SHARE THIS STORY SO THAT OTHERS CAN LEARN FROM MY EXPERIENCES INSTEAD OF NEEDING TO MAKE THE SAME MISTAKES. 

It was two weeks before Christmas, and Eli had driven up north to stay for the weekend and give me my Christmas gift. He wouldn’t tell me what it was.

He was due in before I got home from work that Friday, so I told him where the hide-a-key was and encouraged him to make himself at home.  That evening, he let me into my house and took me to the bathroom where he had drawn a bath, complete with scented candles and aromatic salts.

This was just the first part, he told me, closing the door so that I could undress and fully relax.

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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…

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Never Again: Chapter 1

This post is the first of a series of posts in which I describe a relationship I had with an emotionally and sexually abusive man- how I came to be in that relationship, why I stayed, why I left, and how I slowly and painstakingly rebuilt myself afterwards. It’s all true, as told from my personal perspective, with names and places changed to preserve identities and allow me full freedom of expression without fear of ramification. The rest of the series can be found on the Stories & Series page. Thank you for reading, and please feel free to share this story so that others can learn from my experiences instead of needing to make the same mistakes. 


I don’t lie, as a general rule. I do my best to phrase my truths diplomatically, although sometimes I fail and what comes out is too blunt, but I would rather be forgiven for bluntness than for lying. To me, it’s the one and only immediate deal-breaker for a relationship. I’ve come to realize that, to me, it really is an unforgivable sin.

But I did lie, once.

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