Sexual Conquests 1-16

(See The List for introduction and explanation) (Click to zoom)

Taking virginity on Christmas. Naked at Easter. He has some fascinating ways of celebrating Jesus. At least he doesn't discriminate for religion, age, or weight - a true patriot.

I find it rather intriguing that he calls Three a "slut." Sure, he disregards women as mere conquests, but we needn't worry because, well, the aforementioned are sluts unworthy of anyone's respect. At least they're "spirited" sluts as Two is described, despite her abundance of pubic hair. Quite a motley crew what with spirited sluts and registered sex offenders (Fifteen). This list is starting off with a bang (or 16).

Most Some people might find his chronicles rather offensive, but not I. He's aggressively bold and I appreciate that. I wish I could compile a list like this, but I am, of course, saving myself for marriage. That, or I lack the detailed memories, which is probably for the best (thank you, vodka).

I cannot blame these women for falling victim.  On the few occasions I came in contact with him, I too was charmed.  His cool confidence emanates off him in a seductive scent (think Pepe Le Pew's scented trail but substitute putrid for erotic).  Initially these women have no idea what they're getting themselves into. They're at home, pregaming with their girls, asking dumb questions like "does this make me look fat?" (of course it does - but really, it doesn't matter because someone, somewhere will fuck it), and they have no idea what awaits them out in the world.

Well, ladies, Casanova awaits. Enjoy.

The List

Oscar Wilde once said, "A man can be happy with any woman as long as he does not love her."  He went on to later say, "If you can't beat 'em, fuck 'em." Or maybe that was Chris Brown. I digress. For a dead guy, Mr. Wilde is pretty spot on. Case in point...

The below email was written with no intent to be read by a woman - ever. I luckily happened upon it by perusing through a boyfriend's email chance. While it lacks the intricate formatting of the excel spreadsheet douche, it does include plenty of eloquently observed details and does not disappoint in length (that's what she said).

Written in 2006, this list was one of many emails from its author that piqued my interest. He has a style unlike any other and paints a beautiful picture with his pot-fueled recollections that are as amusing as they are descriptive.  I might be a satisfied woman if only I possessed the updated version - a list that is sure to have quadrupled in brilliance size (as per usual, I'll have to get by with satisfying myself).

To ensure its authenticity, I will post redacted pictures (obviously, I'm not supposed to have this - or even know it exists) of the email over six parts beginning with its introduction.

It's rather self-explanatory, but I will note that he's for real. He's a womanizer, and he's great at it (he's also pretty fucking good looking).

From the self-proclaimed "Junior Casanova" (click to zoom):

I will take this opportunity to clarify that I am not on this list, which is a bit upsetting seeing as how these women become "immortalized" simply at mere mention. Well, now that they're on a blog for the world to see, I suppose Casanova was right. If you're considering compiling a similar list, might I suggest making the same preparations (e.g. "rippin bowls," "acid jazz," and "trippin out").  Sounds like a lovely little Sunday if I do say so myself.

Obviously, my favorite part of the entire email is "imagine if it got out" (cue my creepy smile and eerie cackle). He even calls himself out for being scumbag - do I hint a small measure of moral fiber? This introduction makes me happy, but the actual descriptions to come are the real cherries on top, or lack thereof (see what I did there?).

To note: The email recipient was, in fact, able to name quite a few more that didn't make the list. He named enough to maintain a high for at least a month from receipt of the many "blunts in the mail" (which is just stupid, because anyone knows you shouldn't send drugs through the mail - that's what poor people drug mules are for).

The Help

Try to limit bar attendance to four hours max. If more time must be allowed, bar hop. Nothing good comes from being in the same bar for an extended period of time. What does come is this...

Not too long ago, one of my girlfriends and I ended up staying at a bar for nine hours straight. Inevitably, we flirted with most of the inappropriate men that approached us (drunk does not mix well with questionable self-esteem). Just as the night was picking up, one of my beaus convinced the bartender to come out from behind the bar to “ice” me (for those unfamiliar, “icing” occurs when a person is surprised with a Smirnoff Ice and is then required to take a knee and chug said beverage - classy). Apparently, my icing talents are sexy because this same gentleman told me he would marry me...if I was brown.

A quick lesson for the guys reading this: Don't “ice” chicks - buy them a cocktail of their choice; and more importantly, don't tell them you wish they were brown (or any other color for that matter).

After I shook off Prince Charming and wiped the remnants of the luke warm bitch-drink off my face, I was caught off-guard by a convict. How did I know he had spent time perfecting his grip on bars of soap in the shower? His orange jumpsuit. OK - I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and say it was his Halloween costume (it happened to be October 31st). Fortunately for him, I was in a great mood having escaped my icing Indian (dot, not feather), and I was a bit more intoxicated.

(Source)



Prisoner 69 (how creative) introduced himself to me with a mumbled “Let me buy you a drink.” Sadly, as it turned out, his offering was not an invitation to free alcohol. Instead, it became more of a “Come over here where I can trap and force you into a conversation you don’t want to have.” Wow, did he know me well - this was just as enticing as a drink. He stared me down with his rape eyes, and, clearly, the only way to alleviate the situation was to insult him. So, I made a comment on his Buccaneers bandanna (yes - he was wearing a bandanna - not part of his costume): “Why is it you don’t follow a real sports organization?”

Failing to deliver my insult with the proper bitchiness resulted in further bullshit-driven conversation, mostly, regarding football. All I remember of this conversation was muttering "Cowboys" with the hope that he had been gang raped by their O-line and didn’t want to talk anymore. So, one thing led to another, and I gave him my number (before you judge - drunk, remember?).

Of course, I completely forgot the number exchange, and it wasn't until he texted me (two nights later) that I was so pleasantly reminded. I knew it was him because I had him saved in my phone as "Bucs Convict :(" - yes, there was a sad face emoticon. At least drunk me was giving sober me a warning. Our text conversation progressed:

Bucs Convict :(: hey lily, it's brian. how r u?

Me: Oh hey, Brian, I'm doing well. You?

Bucs Convict :(: still hating on me for being a bucs fan?

Me: Haha, yeah, of course

Bucs Convict :(: lol but were not a threat to dallas lol

Me: Yeah yeah (Translation: I am embarrassed by your grammar.)

Bucs Convict :(: so do u work?? (Did you seriously just ask me that as your third question?)

Me: I do...do you?

Bucs Convict :(: yeah I'm at work Now I'm a bad boy lol (Uhhh - OK? Please avoid "bad boy" talk as well as inappropriate capitalization.)

Me: Late night?

Bucs Convict :(: yeah 3-11 (Oh, maybe he’s a doctor?)

Me: What do you do? (Since we’re already crossing boundaries.)

Bucs Convict :(: I'm a janitor in a nursing home. what u do (...)

Me: Finicial services company 

Bucs Convict :(: that sounds like a good paying job (Who says that? Oh, yeah. The same guy who asks if you work as question three in “getting to know you.”)

Me: It pays the bills, haha

Bucs Convict :(: lol cool, so where are u usually free (He can't even put a complete sentence together. At this point I chose to stop responding.)

Bucs Convict :( (an hour later): hey lily guess u were busy before, well talk soon then goodnight

Bucs Convict :( (five days later): hey lily, how's it going, what are u up to tonight? and remember my friend who was talking with ur friend he wants to know if we can chill tonight, let me know, ttyl

Bucs Convict :( (ten days later): yo what's up u never respond to me from last week that's not cool, if I want i'll just erase it number then, ur FUCKED UP peace!!!!

Needless to say, I haven’t heard from him since. Was I a bitch for ignoring his texts? Maybe. Was he a bitch for not taking a hint and losing his shit via text? Absolutely. If, sitting at that bar for nine hours taught me anything, it was this: Avoid all men in bars who refuse to buy you a proper drink. I would take a roofie-colada over being iced or dealing with an illiterate, foul-mouthed janitor any day.

Release and Repeat

Warning: Do not read while eating.

My stomach woke me up 15 minutes before the alarm. The pain and discomfort was, of course, easily recognized - explosive diarrhea. Good morning.  We've all experienced it at one time or another, and most would agree that it's a situation best handled miles from human contact. For some reason (let's go with vanity), we always ignore the unwavering fact that everybody poops when caught in the explosive diarrhea predicament. OK, so explosive diarrhea isn't your everyday poop. It's a bit more aggressive, I suppose. A bit more unforgiving.

Unfortunately, on this specific day, when my bowels woke me before Lil Wayne's "How to Love" did, I was sharing a small hotel room with my then-boyfriend, Riley, on day two of our cross-country drive.  We were scheduled to wake early, checkout, and get back on the road.  Something definitely needed to checkout of me, that I knew.

Hoping Riley would remain asleep, I turned off the alarm before it sounded and tiptoed to the bathroom.  What happened next was infinitely more disagreeable than the Catholic Church's stance on birth control.  Running the sink's faucet failed to muffle the vigorous rumblings in the least.  It seemed it would take the raging Niagara Falls to depress what was happening.  I haphazardly crammed a towel under the door to offer Riley some reprieve, hoping he hadn't already woken up to the commotion...or the smell.

My fears were realized when he softly knocked on the door, explaining he was heading downstairs to get some breakfast. I could hear him loud and clear - which only meant one thing.  Ignoring the issue at hand (or ass, in this case), he was sweet enough to ask if he should bring up any of the continental breakfast for me, but we both knew I should consider never eating again.  I told him not to worry about it and he left with most of my anxiety following suit.  I was finally alone to poop in peace.

Soon, I felt almost 100% better.  I even hoped he would bring me back something to eat.  We had been feasting on nothing but fast food for most of the trip, and I hated the idea of passing up a free hot breakfast (especially since I now had plenty of space to store it).  He returned...with a banana.  A little late for that, Riley.

We cracked a few jokes about my morning wake up, and both started to get our stuff together, allowing the bathroom to return to a pre-hazardous air quality.  We were nearly finished with the packing when Riley decided to hop in the shower.  Thinking nothing of it, I continued shuffling around the room making sure we didn't leave anything behind.  Suddenly, I about-faced and raced to the bathroom.

Banging on the door, I started pleading for Riley to get out of the shower (possibly the state) - it was back. Why does it always come back? I was in a panic; my sphincter muscles were no longer capable of containing the wrath that was overdue and unyielding.  The attack was as relentless as Riley, because he shouted back that he didn't care, and encouraged me to come in the bathroom and "just go."

Why someone who frequented that region of my body would be OK with me wreaking havoc on the plumbing a foot or two away from them is beyond me, but I had no choice. He wouldn't budge and I had already concluded that the trashcan in the room would have likely melted. I rushed through the doorway, dropping trou mid-hurdle.

I still have nightmares about what happened next.  A mere arm's length from my naked, showering boyfriend, I cowered on the toilet and released.  Physically, I was reaching a peaceful state, while my anxiety levels spiked more aggressively than *NSYNC's hair in the 90's.  I'm not sure if it was more for him or for me, but he seemingly attempted to comfort my embarrassment by singing loudly.  It didn't help. Nothing could.  Both of us were undoubtedly traumatized.

Needless to say, we weren't together much longer following that incident.  Truthfully, I would rather have my eyelids paper-cut with cardboard followed up with a lemonade waterboarding than suffer through that with another boyfriend.  At least I lost some weight during the whole travesty - I suppose that's a win in my book.

OK, I'm Going To Come

In celebration of Friday the 13th...

Breaking a mirror, walking under a ladder, a black cat crossing your path, using the batteries from the smoke detector to power your vibrator: all widely accepted as contributors to bad luck. OK, so perhaps you're not as familiar with the last of the aforementioned. Fortunately, I'm here to warn you against battery thieving. At least, it's what I'm going to blame for the bad luck booty call that occurred soon thereafter.*

Booty calls are fairly easy to recognize, seeing as they typically fall between 11:00pm and predawn hours (this in no way negates a refreshing afternoon delight).  They're even easier to recognize should "Booty Call" populate the screen of your phone. Changing the contact name in your address book makes for a quick deciphering, but leaving said phone at your father's dinner table could make for an uncomfortable conversation (unless it's my dad, in which case you'd probably be high-fived). I think it's fantastic when people (read: girls) try to convince themselves they're not being booty called.  Yeah, your late night caller really wanted a recap of your last few days when they texted "What's up?" at 2am. Historically, I like to make sure nothing is lost in translation, and reply "Your penis?"

Sadly, I veered from straightforward and instead replied with what I thought was witty and flirtatious innuendo during a recent late night call-o-booty.

It's easiest if we follow a timeline of the evening...

Mike (11:02pm): Wyd pimp (Seriously?)

Me: Still recovering from my weekend. How's everything?

Mike: Wowwww stop partying so much (Stop judging so much.)

Me: Haha I just got into some day drinking. No harm, no foul.

Mike: Lol I see I'm in your town
Me: Is that right? What are you getting into? (Me?)

Mike: My boy had a golf tourney we on our way to city

Me: Oh fun. How long you here? Going out tonight?

Mike: Till tom am. Ya wyd

Me: Just got home from the gym a little ago. What are your plans?

Mike: No clue somewhere in the city u trying to come (Yes, in more ways than one.)

Me: For sure. Gonna hop in the shower. Let me know what's up.

Mike: Text me when u out I'm still trying to figure it out

Me (11:47pm): Any new developments?

...I washed my hair and shaved my legs.  Let's try something simpler.

Me (12:41am): Drinking?

Mike: Yesssirrrr. Heading to top of the standard

Me: Should I head down? Gonna be there for a while?

I read back through the conversation and realized the friend he was with was someone I really wanted to meet, a celebrity of sorts. Even though it was nearing 1am, I was fully prepared to get my ass in a cab and get down there.

...

Mike (1:22am): Ya im ready to come lay w u tho

Me: Well that would make my travels much shorter. (Oh, well)

Mike: Haha what's your address?

Me: (Insert my address here)

...

Mike (1:54am): Ok i'm going to come

Me: Is that a prediction? (See what I did there?...)

Mike: What (...because he didn't)

At this point, I decided that it's a good idea to get drunk.  I was on the phone with a girlfriend and asked her to FaceTime me so I wouldn't be drinking alone (nothing out of the usual when one lives alone).  The drinks were necessary because he would be drunk, and if I was going to put up with inebriated foreplay (read: an awkward hug hello at the door), I sure as hell needed to be near the same level.

Me: Haha never mind. Let me know when you're close.

Mike: Lol ok. But what did that mean.

Me: (Not really knowing how to explain the word "prediction" or the innuendo that went with it over text) I'll explain it when I see you.

After a while I decided that it was way too late for me to be waiting around (I mean, I am a lady after all - clearly).

Me (2:22am): I'm falling asleep - you coming?

...

Mike (2:47am): Yes stay up i'm trying to get everybody to leave

Me: What's the timeline? I'm fading pretty quickly...have work tomorrow

Mike: Lol I'm rounding everyone up boo. Stay upppppp! (Everyone?)

Me: Is everyone coming?

Mike: Lol noooooooooo

Me: Haha k well I'm going to shut my eyes. Call me when you're here.

...

Mike (3:23am): On my way

Mike: Stay up

I saw these messages, but decided I was over it.  I had already watched a few episodes of Girls and that was plenty satisfying for the night, or would have to be.

Mike (3:47am): Hello

Remember that time I got wasted by myself waiting for a "friend" to arrive only to fall asleep three hours later...on a Monday?

Lesson learned:  Don't use innuendo or words three syllables or greater when orchestrating an evening rendezvous with an athlete.  There's a reason they get paid not to sit behind desks.

*Mom, my entire blog is fiction.

Birthday Sex

My brief hiatus can be chalked up to aggressively celebrating the birth of the great US of A, and, more importantly, the birth of yours truly.  Unfortunately, both fell on awful days this year.  Don't get me wrong, I will celebrate my country any day of the week, but a Wednesday - come the fuck on.  And then to immediately follow that up with celebrating my favorite thing - me - on the worst day in the history of the world? I felt like I was stuck in the middle seat to Australia between a three-years-pregnant Jessica Simpson and, well, my mother. It was clear that 25 really wanted to finish me off raw and hard (something I might usually otherwise enjoy).  There was nothing else to do except puke-and-rally my aging ass all the way to 26, and that, I did.

I celebrated the 4th as I envisioned America would, if America was a single 25-year-old professional with student debt, a Manhattan studio apartment, questionable self esteem, and a healthy appetite for alcohol, living beyond her means.  I drank beers, watched some fireworks, "Ooh"-ed, "Aah"-ed, and repeated the process a few times sans the fireworks. More impressively, I convinced my friends to join me on a subway ride that would turn into a two hour affair.  Because nothing screams "America" like a drunk chick sitting in a fold up American flag chair, chugging a beer, and toting an easily handled cooler on the subway.  Before you judge me, know that I checked, and Goyard doesn't make mini coolers...or fold up chairs.

After making many a friend on the 4th during its well-documented joyride, I enjoyed two days off from work.  While I don't mind being at the office, what with its free air conditioning, I was glad to have a bit of a reprieve.  Especially since I ended up celebrating America in a similar fashion to that of my first night of college, my 21st birthday, and many other less momentous yet fully inebriated occasions - by holding my own hair back whilst enjoying dinner for the second time.  Have I mentioned I'm single?

A few days and many libations later, after finishing a 15k road race that boasted a finish line in a brewery, I found myself loving 25 less and less. Sadly, the backlash of the race and its effect on my muscles helped me actually feel older. I was finally ready to swallow the full load of 26 and embrace it head on.  At the stroke of midnight, the calls, texts, and Facebook posts began - nothing a middle child enjoys more than some unearned attention.  Friends and family became eager beavers as they reminded me that I was aging.

The onslaught of push notifications continued throughout the day, keeping my phone at a steady vibrate. In fact, the notifications were consistent enough to replace an item I purchased that only "notified" me sans a pesky voice plan (yes, of course I'm giving a shout out to my vibrator).  Close friends, good friends, and friends that Facebook suggested were acknowledging "me day," commonly misspelled "bday."  All of the love gave me lady wood for the better part of 24 hours.  I was more than content when, at the end of "me day," more persons than not who had at one time or another seen me without clothes on (mistakenly or otherwise) wished me a happy day.

Long story short, my birthday well-wishes got me thinking about sluts, as these things tend to do. More specifically, I started pondering the sex number to age ratio, and concluded that having fewer sexual partners than years lived makes you a prude well adjusted person of the world (unless you're over 30 and that number is zero). Consequently, if you've had relations with more people than years you've been alive, then congratulations you might be recognized as a whore whose morals aren't the only thing considered to be loose. Fortunately, this logic allows one to easily decrease their skank level with age, and for some reason this made me feel better about getting older.  Gain wrinkles, lose a slut tier.  Clearly it's true what they say about getting older and wiser.

In summation, when you realize you've got more past than future, start recycling - and I don't mean paper and plastic.