Weddings: aka, Another Excuse to F**k A Stranger

My "I'm available" face.  Also why I should never be a Bridesmaid.

Generally, weddings are a shit show of prurient gestures and advances.  They're a celebration of the coming together of two unfortunate bastards punching their times cards and retiring from "the game," and somehow that act of surrender promotes an atmosphere of free-love.

Alcohol and I have always had a natural proclivity towards salacious behavior, so for me, weddings were like the Serengeti: full of tasty Gazelles ripe for my inner lioness to devour.  At least, that's how I like to recall them.  Realistically, I was probably more like a wounded Zebra (no where near as majestic or graceful as a Gazelle) in a room full of Cheetahs (or the likes of any other unfaithful animal).

Weddings are similar to Halloween in the sense that they're both comprised of parties filled with drunken sluts; the obvious difference being that at weddings the girls start out pretending to be pure as the driven snow, but at the end of the night, the line separating the two is indistinguishable.  Now, at the time, I thought I was "getting lucky" - I had the kind of track record at weddings that would put John Beckwith and Jeremy Grey to shame.

I retract that statement, because it just makes me sound like a dirty, filthy whore.  I was no where near the number of weddings they were in attendance of.  Nor was I as smooth.  (Or as fictional, for that matter).  Regardless, four particular instances come to mind, which I will share with you now:

*For the record, a "real wedding" consisted of one at which copious amounts of alcohol was consumed (on my part).  I have since attended weddings, sober, and they are a nothing more than arrogant, braggadocios snooze-festivals.  But I digress.

1)  The first wedding I attended as an adult was at a winery.  Theoretically, this would be very convenient for me.  What was inconvenient, however, was the ignorance of youth - I was 20, new to alcohol, and hadn't yet mastered the elusive "maintenance."  If there was a "line," I blew right past it.  As luck would have it, this was the Holy blissful nuptials of my parents' best friend's daughter, so mom and dad were right by my side to peel me off the ground and drive me home.  Literally.  I was so wasted by dinner my parents had to escort me out the back in an attempt to hide me (aka: their embarrassment), and take me far away from any discerning guest.  Their biggest mistake was leaving me to stand on my own while they brought the car around, because by the time they pulled up, I was making out with the gravel parking lot.

How is kissing the ground getting lucky?  Technically I wasn't unlucky.  Moreover, this incident sets a tone for future weddings to come; a) that I was drunk and b) that my parents were in attendance.  It just unravels from here.

2)  The next wedding I went to was much more "successful."  It was the ceremony of my mother's best friend's 19 year-old son, and I was inspired to act just as dumb as they apparently were for pissing away their youth.  I caught a lift with my parents and made the three hour drive to the event - a responsible move on my part because I knew I'd be imbibing in a few dozen celebratory libations.

I made it through dinner (yay!) and thank God I did, otherwise I wouldn't have seen him cuttin' a rug on the dance floor.  Not only did he have moves that would put Jerry's kids to shame, he had a British accent - a real panty dropper.  I'm painting a Monet for you, cuz from far away (and through beer goggles) all of this looked really good, but up close it was a big 'ol mess.

Ironically, it was the 19 year-old groom (sober - by default, because he wasn't old enough to drink at his own wedding - and clear headed) who handed me the red flag: "Stay away from Roger.  All he wants to do is f**k you."  First off, I eat red flags for breakfast.  Second, DING DING DING!  Thank you Captain Obvious, that's what I was going for.  Not all of us are trying to get married, you little freak.  (His bride wasn't even pregnant at the time.  They got married young cuz they were "in love."   Weirdos.)

The part where I showed real class was when I told my mom and dad that I would not be needing a ride home with them, cuz I would be accompanying my new friend.

#SaveMeFromMyself

3)  Moving right along, I found myself in Pismo Beach a few years later at a wedding I was invited to by my best friend (who later made me a bridesmaid in her own wedding. See above pic.)  She asked me to be her wing woman, and I never turn down an opportunity to be of service.  Her cousin was getting married, or something like that, and all I cared about was that it was far the hell out of town and an opportunity to hook up with someone I'd most likely never see again in my life.

A bit of back story: my high school boyfriend and I kept up a "friendly" relationship that extended into my twenties.  Now, there's really no good way to spin this, so I'm just going to say that at his behest, I may have shared a certain skill set I possess for oral copulation with a friend of his.

Fast forward to Pismo, where as fate would have it, this "friend" just happened to be a wedding guest. (To say "it's a small world" is the goddamned understatement of the century.) I felt cockblocked, to say the least.  Not to mention a little dirty.  How was I to proceed without looking like a total hooker?  The logical answer, of course, would be to hook up with him again.  Though, what a fucking bummer, cuz I was really looking for something new.  After all, variety is the spice of life.  What a waste of mileage.

4)  My favorite wedding conquest, to date, was with "Clark Kent."  That's what I called him, because he had steely eyes, dark hair and black-rimmed glasses, a muscular build beneath his suit, and also because I have no idea what his real name is.  I met him at the wedding of the brother of the bride from wedding #1, so the pressure was on for me to keep it together.  There would be NO gravel parking lot debacles this time.

By now I had a few weddings under my belt, and knew that my plus one had to be a friend who was fun, but didn't upstage me.  I wasn't interested in competing.  I needed a Best Supporting by my side, and she really pulled through.  If there was an award I could have bestowed upon her, I would have, because this bitch snuck into my bedroom the next morning as Clark and I laid in bed to CLEAN MY ROOM so he wouldn't be repulsed by my pig pen when he woke up.  Now THAT is a fucking good friend.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Clark had me at double windsor knot - that is to say, using his tie, he placed it around my neck and taught me how to tie one - and that's where it stayed all night, long after I lost every other article of clothing.

Of course because he was the only wedding hook-up I was interested in ever having call me again, he never did.  My karma finally caught up with me.  Sure, there would be other weddings, but they all fell short of my sordid evening with Kent.  I searched phone booths before resigning myself to the insides of bars, and found other action figures to spend time with, but never a super hero.  Booze will betray you more than men, but it took a while for me to piece that together.

Compliments of the Bride.  I'm so grateful I have friends willing to remind me of how classy I was.

No-K Cupid

Ok Cupid is a free dating website.

I think it's fair to say, you get what you pay for.

The above was submitted by my slutty friend.  (I can say that because water seeks it's own level.)

Aaaaaaand the kind of response my profile was attracting.  My account has since been deactivated.

Got an OK Stupid experience?  I'd just looooove to hear about it.

SUBMISSION: Slutty Swim Team Girl

This gem comes to us from XX in NorCal.  

http://hd4desktop.com/76809-memories-of-you/

So, I was a freshman in high school and I was on the swim team.  My teammate, Lisa, wanted to take me to a swim meet in Modesto.  She was a senior.  My mom thought she would be a good role model and safe to go with, so she let me go.  My mother had no idea that before school, Lisa and I would go for a run, then get cream soda Slurpee's and fill them with vodka before French class.  

Now with my super wholesome swim team buddy (she didn't even wear make up), my mother never suspected a thing.  Off we went.  We never made it to the swim meet, but we met a friend of hers named Mark.  We sat around by some swimming pool, drinking Kahlúa and cream, when he presented mushrooms and cocaine.  I passed on the shrooms because they smelled like Poo, but decided to take my first little sniff of blow.  I didn't think it worked, it might have been fake, (BTW, it was the 80's).  

But I decided he was hot, and we ended up making out.  He went down on me, but I stopped him right there because I didn't want him to think I was a slut.  We exchanged addresses and that was it (again, it was the 80’s).  Went home and told my mom how we kicked ass at the swim meet.  

A couple days later, I received a letter from Mark with some artwork… who knew he was an artist!  As I'm reading the letter, all twitterpated and excited in my bedroom, I came upon a drawing of him eating me out, with "memories of you!" written under it.  Just at that moment my stepfather walked in and demanded to see what I had thrown under the bed.  

"Ummmmmm, nothing...”  

"Let me see it" he said.  

He then showed my mom.  I was grounded for life, and never got to see Lisa again.  And my mom called me a slut.

Get That Thing Out Of Me

Tony, Type 1 Diabetic

(Photobomber: Mystery Brother)

In regards to trading his insulin pump in for some old school needle action:

"I'll explain it in terms you'll understand, Kris. Sometimes, your body needs a break from constantly having a foreign object inside you, and I get nostalgic around the Holidays. But I believe you call it your thirties."

Good to know I've made a lasting impression. 

SUBMISSION: Her Yeast Was Kneaded Hard by KIM, HOLLYWOOD

My mom always told me, there are Jackies and there are Marilyns.  There are girls who get married and girls who serve as cautionary tales.  I'm a Jackie (sort of)  and this is my Marilyn….

Junior year in college I was friends with a co-ed who was known around campus as Sexler (actual surname Wexler, you get the idea).  Sexler was a great gal to be friends with.  She could get us into any club, bar, restaurant, party because she was sleeping with the bouncer, bartender, matre'd, keg tapper, you get the idea. 

I had a friend who slept with her and he said afterwards, although he'd never been with one, he imagined it was what banging a prostitute would be like.  She knew exactly what she was doing. 

It came as no surprise then when she developed a serious yeast infection.  Her yeast had been kneaded pretty hard.  Luckily, her medical condition didn't slow down her social life at all.  She simply made sure to have a large tube of Vagisil handy whenever we went out.  Depending on the size of her clutch, she would occasionally ask one of us non-infected to hang onto it.  If she needed a hit she would use the code word "sil" as a reference.  Unfortunately, after a few cocktails, I became forgetful and would refer to it as her tube of "vag".  Easy mistake.

This being college, we often went to sporting events (truth: our college was not known for its athletic department and this was the only game I ever attended, also the experience was traumatic, as you'll see).  I happened to get my hand on 4 front row tickets to a basketball game.  I invited Sexler, a mutual friend, and a totally unacquainted pal who we'll call Caitlin (cause that's her name).  The four of us piled into the back seat of a cab and headed off to the arena.  The cab traveled exactly one block before stopping at a red light at which point Sexler, who had been twisting and squirming the entire block, suddenly started shaking her head, opened the cab door and said, "I'm sorry.  No.  I can't do this."  (First time those words ever fell out of her mouth.)  She proceeded to leap out of the cab and RUN home.  Although our mutual friend understood why sitting still had become too much for Sexler, poor Caitlin was confused and horrified.  I was a poli sci major but that's a tough situation to spin, let me tell you.

Here's the moral for all the young ladies reading this: when your sex life makes it difficult to endure a cab ride, take a moment to pause and consider whether or not you're on your way to becoming the cautionary tale.