Friday, April 14, 2006
Much like the Tenth Plague, I'll pass over your sorry ass
Last night I was awoken by the dulcet tones of my Young Jeezy phone ringer. I checked the clock, and saw that it was 2 a.m. It seemed like a booty call, but since I didn't recognize the number, I elected to send it to voicemail in case it was one of the hos I've ejected from my stable. After I listened to the message, I congratulated myself on a wise move.
Indeed it was one of the dudes who was a one-hit wonder. In fact, it was a guy I elected not to call back LAST FALL after his unimpressive performance. I didn't know it was him calling, because his phone book entry didn't make the cut when I was transferring my contacts to my new cell phone a couple months back. As much as (believe it or not) I'm not the type to fuck and tell (at least not on the internet), I'd like to explain why I decided to stick this guy in the blowoff category.
I met this guy at a bar, and, after copious quantities of Johnnie Walker and a couple Jaeger shots, decided I wanted to get laid, so I brought him back to the crib. Not wasting any time, we promptly attempt to have sex, although attempting is the operative term, because he had consumed a little too much alcohol to get the job done. That alone is not enough to turn me off a guy. I do understand that sometimes, alcohol compromises normal physiological functions, and the penis is often the first organ to go.
Being the team player that I am, I elected to put my big mouth to a friendlier use than its usual insult-spewing, and help him out. His first strike: while I'm sucking him off, he tells me that he doesn't like my dogs. In fact, they make him uncomfortable, because they are in the same room with us and he feels like they are "watching us." I pause, and take canine inventory. Caesar is asleep on the couch, and Chingy! is asleep under my desk. They are not "watching us" (in fact, Chingy! is snoring softly) and since I live in a studio apartment, what the fuck does he expect me to do about it anyway? I'm not waking my dogs up to lock them in the bathroom because some dude with whiskey-dick doesn't like them. He claims it's "psychological," and I say nastily, "that's funny, I just thought it was because you're drunk."
I remember that I'm still trying to get laid, so a fight about my dogs is inadvisable. Therefore, I opt to distract him with slutty behavior, thus returning his focus to the most imperative issue: making his cock work. Since he is Israeli (I found this out because he bragged about his service in the Israeli army like he was some kind of badass commando...when I asked him how many suicide bombings he'd thwarted, he told me he worked with computers), I flatter his sense of patriotism by instructing him to say dirty things to me in Hebrew. He obliges, and we're just getting back into the action, when once again, his brief erection deflates. I sigh, and go back to blowing him. He mutters some stuff (in English) about how he'd like to screw my cleavage. At this point, I'll try anything to help him maintain an erection, so I say okay, and he starts doing that. Strike two: he attributes his erectile dysfunction problems to my breast size, which apparently is inadequate for a decent titty-fucking. I'm really annoyed now, because he hasn't done shit for me, and he has the audacity to blame me for his problems.
Despite my misgivings that I'm doing too much for an undeserving recipient, I return to the only thing that's worked so far (fellatio) hoping that I can get him up long enough to get me off, or at least warrant some reciprocal oral. Obviously that was wishful thinking. Then (pun intended) comes strike three: without a courtesy tap, he pulls back, and gives me a full-on facial, and I don't mean the type you get at the spa. "Oh, sorry," he says, and then adds that with regard to my lack of orgasm, "maybe next time I'll be a little better." Then, with an infuriatingly self-satisfied expression on his face, he settles back in my bed and crosses his arms behind his head. Next time? Keep dreaming, asshole, because there's not going to be a next time. I scoff audibly and call the dogs, who immediately wake up, jump onto the bed, and go back to sleep. Scowling and wiping semen off my cheek, I tell him that since I sleep with my dogs, he'd probably be more comfortable elsewhere, and he should have no trouble finding a cab outside at this time of night (a bald-faced lie, but it did get him out of my apartment). When he called me a week later, I sent him straight to voicemail, and deleted his message ("hey, I had a lot of fun the other night, just thought maybe we could get together again...call me"). No fucking way. I thought he got the message, because I didn't hear from him again, and then I forgot about him.
He apparently didn't forget about me, because he wakes me up only to piss me off with his combined brazen and inept proposal. You would think that after his performance and my subsequent blowing him off, he would bring his best game to the booty call. Some major league balls and a very compelling sales pitch would indeed be required to convince me that I'd like a rerun in spite of such an overwhelmingly deplorable precedent. However, his message was pathetic: "Uh, hey, uh, Razzy, it's (random flaccid-dicked guy). Remember me? We met at Karma and, uh, hung out a while ago. Um, I know I haven't, uh, talked to you in a while, but I was just thinking that uh, we had a really good time, and maybe, uh, you know, we could catch up tonight. Give me a call back, uh, okay?"
Hell fucking no, not okay! Where does this asshole get off thinking that after EIGHT MONTHS I would be all ready to take a faceful of jizz and NOTHING in return?! Then I remember that it's Passover, and I assume that after one too many glasses of Manischevitz at seder, he went through his phone book looking for some willing pussy. Well, I am NOT your girl. And since it was after midnight, that actually makes it Good Friday, and I'm pretty sure that it's a no-no to get hit with an unexpected blast of ejaculate on the day my Lord and Savior got his ass crucified to save sinful bitches like myself. Former one night stands who give me no incentive for a repeat performance should be advised: voicemail is all you're ever going to get, so don't waste your minutes.
Indeed it was one of the dudes who was a one-hit wonder. In fact, it was a guy I elected not to call back LAST FALL after his unimpressive performance. I didn't know it was him calling, because his phone book entry didn't make the cut when I was transferring my contacts to my new cell phone a couple months back. As much as (believe it or not) I'm not the type to fuck and tell (at least not on the internet), I'd like to explain why I decided to stick this guy in the blowoff category.
I met this guy at a bar, and, after copious quantities of Johnnie Walker and a couple Jaeger shots, decided I wanted to get laid, so I brought him back to the crib. Not wasting any time, we promptly attempt to have sex, although attempting is the operative term, because he had consumed a little too much alcohol to get the job done. That alone is not enough to turn me off a guy. I do understand that sometimes, alcohol compromises normal physiological functions, and the penis is often the first organ to go.
Being the team player that I am, I elected to put my big mouth to a friendlier use than its usual insult-spewing, and help him out. His first strike: while I'm sucking him off, he tells me that he doesn't like my dogs. In fact, they make him uncomfortable, because they are in the same room with us and he feels like they are "watching us." I pause, and take canine inventory. Caesar is asleep on the couch, and Chingy! is asleep under my desk. They are not "watching us" (in fact, Chingy! is snoring softly) and since I live in a studio apartment, what the fuck does he expect me to do about it anyway? I'm not waking my dogs up to lock them in the bathroom because some dude with whiskey-dick doesn't like them. He claims it's "psychological," and I say nastily, "that's funny, I just thought it was because you're drunk."
I remember that I'm still trying to get laid, so a fight about my dogs is inadvisable. Therefore, I opt to distract him with slutty behavior, thus returning his focus to the most imperative issue: making his cock work. Since he is Israeli (I found this out because he bragged about his service in the Israeli army like he was some kind of badass commando...when I asked him how many suicide bombings he'd thwarted, he told me he worked with computers), I flatter his sense of patriotism by instructing him to say dirty things to me in Hebrew. He obliges, and we're just getting back into the action, when once again, his brief erection deflates. I sigh, and go back to blowing him. He mutters some stuff (in English) about how he'd like to screw my cleavage. At this point, I'll try anything to help him maintain an erection, so I say okay, and he starts doing that. Strike two: he attributes his erectile dysfunction problems to my breast size, which apparently is inadequate for a decent titty-fucking. I'm really annoyed now, because he hasn't done shit for me, and he has the audacity to blame me for his problems.
Despite my misgivings that I'm doing too much for an undeserving recipient, I return to the only thing that's worked so far (fellatio) hoping that I can get him up long enough to get me off, or at least warrant some reciprocal oral. Obviously that was wishful thinking. Then (pun intended) comes strike three: without a courtesy tap, he pulls back, and gives me a full-on facial, and I don't mean the type you get at the spa. "Oh, sorry," he says, and then adds that with regard to my lack of orgasm, "maybe next time I'll be a little better." Then, with an infuriatingly self-satisfied expression on his face, he settles back in my bed and crosses his arms behind his head. Next time? Keep dreaming, asshole, because there's not going to be a next time. I scoff audibly and call the dogs, who immediately wake up, jump onto the bed, and go back to sleep. Scowling and wiping semen off my cheek, I tell him that since I sleep with my dogs, he'd probably be more comfortable elsewhere, and he should have no trouble finding a cab outside at this time of night (a bald-faced lie, but it did get him out of my apartment). When he called me a week later, I sent him straight to voicemail, and deleted his message ("hey, I had a lot of fun the other night, just thought maybe we could get together again...call me"). No fucking way. I thought he got the message, because I didn't hear from him again, and then I forgot about him.
He apparently didn't forget about me, because he wakes me up only to piss me off with his combined brazen and inept proposal. You would think that after his performance and my subsequent blowing him off, he would bring his best game to the booty call. Some major league balls and a very compelling sales pitch would indeed be required to convince me that I'd like a rerun in spite of such an overwhelmingly deplorable precedent. However, his message was pathetic: "Uh, hey, uh, Razzy, it's (random flaccid-dicked guy). Remember me? We met at Karma and, uh, hung out a while ago. Um, I know I haven't, uh, talked to you in a while, but I was just thinking that uh, we had a really good time, and maybe, uh, you know, we could catch up tonight. Give me a call back, uh, okay?"
Hell fucking no, not okay! Where does this asshole get off thinking that after EIGHT MONTHS I would be all ready to take a faceful of jizz and NOTHING in return?! Then I remember that it's Passover, and I assume that after one too many glasses of Manischevitz at seder, he went through his phone book looking for some willing pussy. Well, I am NOT your girl. And since it was after midnight, that actually makes it Good Friday, and I'm pretty sure that it's a no-no to get hit with an unexpected blast of ejaculate on the day my Lord and Savior got his ass crucified to save sinful bitches like myself. Former one night stands who give me no incentive for a repeat performance should be advised: voicemail is all you're ever going to get, so don't waste your minutes.
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Duders. I know you don't post your comments, so let it the fuck go... that being said, this guy is an asshole and you knew it: done? perhaps.... but perhaps we are too much with you: think: a quote from school, just in case...
Wow, Take it easy Razzy: I know you do not save comments... but seriously, what the fuck di you expect? I luvz you and all, but seriouthly....
So you met this guy in a bar, and in a few hours he was using your body like a crumpled-up T-shirt he found lying next to his bed. Why are you surprised he thought he could hook-up with you moths later? He thinks you're a slut. I wonder what gave him that idea?
You are SO cool for not calling him back. You really got the better of him!
You are SO cool for not calling him back. You really got the better of him!
# posted by 
: 4/18/2006 5:31 AM
: 4/18/2006 5:31 AM
You missed the point, anonymous dipshit. The point was that I was supposed to be getting off, not that I'm a slut. That's not fucking news to anyone. You obviously think I'm the type of bitch who bangs random dudes to make myself feel better or validate myself. WRONG. I do it because I LIKE HAVING SEX. So can the judgmental Smith College armchair psychology bullshit implying that I'm a self-hating whore. I'm merely surprised that he had the chutzpah to call me back after I clearly kicked his bitch ass to the curb, not that he thought I'm a slut. I am a slut, dumbass, and I'm fucking proud of it.
gee raz, you're call me an unemployed racist and a fake doctor and now i learn you live in a filthy one room dump right smack in the heart of nigger town LOL, pathetic. no wonder you're lonely and bitter and make up stories.
by the way, in one post you told me you save all your emails in case you have to get an OOP against some enemy. In another you said you possessed herculean strength in your delete finger.... which is it? like all liberals your stories fall apart over time because you forget what lies you have told. nasty skank, start working on that octoroon though, that would be cool, LOL
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by the way, in one post you told me you save all your emails in case you have to get an OOP against some enemy. In another you said you possessed herculean strength in your delete finger.... which is it? like all liberals your stories fall apart over time because you forget what lies you have told. nasty skank, start working on that octoroon though, that would be cool, LOL
# posted by : 2/21/2008 4:38 PM
: 2/21/2008 4:38 PM Links to this post:
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