Archive for the 'Lack of Balls' Category
Submitted by Matthew, Age 61, New England, USA
Then, not getting laid wasn’t what hurt the most. Now, forty-three years later, it is. There’s nothing like being in love the first time. Those feelings last forever.
She was in love with me too, in the same way. We declared that, someday, we would get married.
We were both virgins, but hot to experiment. We met during the summer and had a comfortable place to be alone, and we undressed each other and, without intercourse, made love often.
My friend was in nursing school. She had studied the rhythm method and took her temperature each morning. One night when we were in bed together she said, “I’m not fertile. I want to make love.”
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Submitted by Innocent Loverboy, Age 22, London
I was in my university’s union bar, trying not to let the music get to me while sipping my usual non-alcoholic cocktail. Keeping in line with my life from the age of 18 onwards, I was perpetually single, and to be frank, the idiots getting off with other idiots on the dance floor were offending me. Not because they were getting off, exactly; the dance floor was meant to be used for dancing, in my opinion.
I weaved through the interlocked couples and noticed a discarded condom on the floor. It was still sealed in its packet, and looked fine to me when I inspected it. I pocketed it to add to my stock when I got back to my room.
“Have you met my friend Laura?” asked a girl I vaguely knew from sight. I turned around, and there she was: Laura. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a few extra pounds, and a cheeky, attractive quality. I shifted uncomfortably and flashed my default ‘flirting’ smile.
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Submitted by Michelle, Age 20, California
I was in college (this was not too long ago), and I was doing some volunteering through school. I gave rides from the work site to the school for a few weeks. Usually I got stuck with two annoying girls and this one good looking guy. I was shy so we all just talked about music. The last week, the girls don’t show, and I tell the guy that he looks like one of those kids who gets stoned right before class. He said he did that in high school and asked me if I did too. I am hung over from the night before (and that is another how not to get laid story) and I decide to practice some flirting on him since this is the last time I am volunteering (which means the last time I will see him). So I decide to tell him that all I did in high school was have sex. I told him how I probably had sex more times than he got high (I left out that it was with one boy and I haven’t done it since). He seems shocked, and I feel stupid, but we are almost back to school. Then, just as I am pulling up to the parking spot, he says, “I have an hour before class. Want to go to my dorm?” Suddenly, what I have been hoping for has come to pass, but I can not get myself to say a word. I am speechless. And he just says, “That’s okay,” and gets out of the car and walks away. And I bang my head against the wheel and go, “why?!?!”
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Submitted by J. Wordsworth, Age 26, Seattle
I was a freshman in high school. I was 6′3″, skinny, wore glasses and took AP and honors classes. As you can imagine, I was completely inept when it came to girls. Utterly incompetent. I was incapable of saying anything remotely intelligent. I was also painfully aware of how awkward I was, which was a vicious cycle as far as my penis was concerned.
In my biology class I noticed this girl. She was attractive, and more importantly, she talked to me. More accurately, she had to talk to me as she was my lab partner. She was into drama and also ballet. I didn’t know why I was drawn to a girl with demonstrated flexibility at the time; I just vaguely knew that it was good for a girl to be flexible (probably natural male instinct). She also had a car. And a license. I was 15 and had neither. Perfect scenario for me.
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Submitted by Claire E., Age 22, San Francisco
If you want to sleep with the girl…
…spend less time brooding about your luck with women, and more time touching her goodies.
…spend less time vocalizing your concerns that she doesn’t want to sleep with you, and more time touching her goodies.
…spend less time arguing that you deserve sex because you are a decent person, and more time touching her goodies.
…spend less time bragging that you nearly never come because you like to please girls so much, and more time… yes, touching her goodies.
Try on some positivity, try to have some fun, and enjoy her company. Quit fussing out loud over whether or not she’s going to fuck you and quit trying to uncover the mystery of why not when she doesn’t.
Most of all, quit calling me. You blew it.
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Submitted by Jackson, Age 25, Philadelphia, PA
I was two years out of college when I found myself on a date with this younger girl who was still going to school at my alma mater. I’d always thought she was hot, but I was being realistic and not really expecting too much from this date. She seemed like a good girl, and I doubted that she would put out unless she was in a serious relationship (which I was not about to enter into with her). So, I figured my chances of getting play were pretty slim, but I went out with her anyway because she was a nice person and, hey, hope springs eternal, doesn’t it?
It was an enjoyable evening, but nothing to write home about. I had never thought much of those guys who graduate and then stick around school to poach underclass ass rather than moving on with their lives, so I will admit to being a bit self-conscious picking her up and dropping her off from school. When I pulled up in front of her dorm to drop her off after our dinner, I was ready to cut my losses and call it a night. That’s when she invited me up to her dorm to hang out.
“Hang out”? As in: “hang out with all her underclassmen dorm friends and be that lame guy who graduated but still needs to slum at school just to flirt with some girl who isn’t going to give him any action anyway?” No thank you. And if you are screaming right now as you read this, wondering how I could be such an idiot and miss such an obvious invitation for booty, you are absolutely right.
“Do you want to come up to my dorm room and hang out?”
“Oh, man. It’s tempting, but I’m afraid it’s getting late, and I do have to work tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
Yes, yes, I know, I know. Sometimes we miss things even when they are staring us right in the face. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am a moron.
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Submitted by Drew, Age 21, Toronto
My first week on the campus residence at college was typical: meet a ton of new people, make a ton of new friends, get hammered, and preform various acts of debauchery.
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Submitted by Julie, Age 29, Boston, MA
I met Richard in college. We hit it off right away and were good friends from the start, but never more (one of us always seemed to be in a relationship, and frankly, dating him never really crossed my mind). In fact, as he was a pretty shy guy, I occasionally set up dates for him with other girls!
After we graduated, we both moved to New York, where we ended up seeing each other nearly every weekend. One Friday night, I was out with him and a bunch of his friends, and we ended up back at his apartment. We often stayed at each other’s places - we were friends, after all, it was “no big deal,” as I often told my skeptical girlfriends - and, as usual, I ended up crashing on his futon around 2am. Sometime around 3 or 4, I decided, screw being friends, I really liked him, and more importantly, I wanted to get laid. So I crawled into his bed, told him I was “cold” and got under the covers. (Most of us girls have used this line at some point - guys, if a girl gets in your bed and tells you she’s cold, chances are she wants to hook up. If she was actually cold, she would just ask if you could lend her a blanket.)
I don’t remember his exact response, though it had something to do with me being pretty and him being glad I was there. I should point out here that I am a pretty big moron when it comes to guys - I never read the signals right - so, seeing as we were “just friends,” I decided he couldn’t possibly mean anything by it. Despite his shyness, if he was really interested, I thought, he would actually make a move.
Needless to say, he didn’t, and we spent the next 5 hours lying next to each other, wide awake and not touching. We’re still friends, but I’ve never had the opportunity to throw myself at him again, and considering how miserably I failed the first time, I probably never will.
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(Our 50th story AND our first one from The Netherlands! Enjoy. — SF)
Submitted by Oblivious, 25, The Netherlands
So I was like 18 or 19, in high school, and green as they come when it came to sex. I was also shy of ladies, *very* shy. We are talking “blush from hell” shy when I had to face a girl I liked.
Then there was this girl, who was half arabian and half asian. I wasn’t madly in love with her or anything, but I’d file no complaint were she to invite me over to her place, if you catch my drift. I always had a thing for foreign girls, and she did fit the profile alright. Okay, perhaps I had a bit of a thing for her, I’ll admit.
In school we had these designated study hours, and we wrote letters sometimes to pass the boring hours. One day I let the innocent and shy thing work for me, and wrote her a question “innocently” asking whether the women’s body really did react in a certain way to air conditioning on a hot day (like I didn’t know). To my suprise I got a semi-embarrassed smile delivered with the note that came back to me, which indeed contained an honest answer. Perhaps I should have taken that as a sign that she was interrested, but innocent as I was, I didn’t have a clue. Or perhaps she was just embarrassed by the sudden nature of the question. I never was good at picking up signals from girls.
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It was a small New England college - one devoid of the traditional raucous party scene that peppers the imagination when one thinks of college…or Girls Gone Wild. On this dreamy little campus, a wild night out consisted of hanging at the campus coffeehouse to hear the “hot” a capella group of the moment. On this particular evening, however, I was hoping for something more …
I was chilling out with a group of outcasts and miscreants - the typical sort that declares “Theatre Arts” as a major. And yes, I was one of them. We inhaled a little inhalant and imbibed an intoxicant or two to mellow out the mood. Then we settled into the dorm room of the femme fatale in question, which we filled with music both acoustic and deep.
As the conversation flowed, I found myself becoming more intrigued with “Emily” with each passing minute. We were both seated on her bed, but were separated by two others. As the evening wore on, one-by-one the group began to dissipate. Finally, I found myself alone with Emily sitting on her bed, just talking the night away. Despite our proximity, despite our privacy, I was not quite sure if we were just talking as friends, or if she was sending me signals. So we just talked some more. 2am, 3am and on….by 6am we had talked ourselves out, and decided it was time to call it a night….or morning. A quick hug at the door was all that I managed, and I left tired and disappointed. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t picking up any signals from Emily, but determined the next time we were alone, I was definitely going to make a move. Sadly, there was no next time.
Years later, I found out that Emily was perplexed I never made a move on her that night. Clearly, she thought being alone with her in her room on her bed throughout the wee hours of the night and morning was a fairly strong signal. In hindsight, that sounds like a pretty strong signal to me too.
Submitted by Jackson Caribou, Age 29, Boston, MA
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Back near the dawn of time, I spent summer and christmas breaks working alongside a smart, beautiful, smart-ass girl. The banter was legendary. Never had I compatibility with someone that devastatingly intelligent, stunning, and, well, dirty. However, due to a high-school-ish lack of self-confidence and cluelessness, I assumed our linguistic sexual interplay was merely in the land of “let’s just be friends”ishness.
Eventually, our friendship progressed into letter-writing and getting together with groups of friends now and then. I think our flirtiness via snail mail and parties got to the point where I somehow indicated my real feelings, for she responded with a “I’d love to go out with you, but [her best friend] has a crush on you and I wouldn’t want to hurt her.” So after much soap opera garbage and letting down the friend easily, I got that first date. And it was spectacular; the specifics were better than I’d imagined (a story for another website?). This was an open-minded girl! But I stopped short of home plate that evening, I don’t know why: I’d never had sex, lack of self-confidence, first date, stupid, etc. And we went on for a couple of weeks, and here’s where the train falls off the track.
Rather than trying to reignite the passion and fun and fearlessness of that first night, I became a supreme fluffhead schmuck. A far-too-expensive necklace for Christmas. Teddy bears. Little gifts all the time “just because.” Discussions at her house, alone, without progressing to making out. Too much obsessive attention WAY too soon. Trying to show her the relationship wasn’t just about sex.
And then, well, it wasn’t. She let me down easy, but she never really explained why she broke it off, to my lifelong frustration. We wrote letters for a while, even with some of the flirty stuff thrown in, halfheartedly, but that was it.
And in twenty years, I’ve never met another woman with that same combination of smarts, beauty, humor, and pure sexuality. How’s that for schmuck?
Submitted by Snake, Age 35, Boston
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In the summer after college, I joined a band in Chicago, and we were all living together in a rented house in a very wealthy northern suburb. Squalor amidst obscene plenty, was my observation of the mansions on the lake compared to my old sleeping bag on a hardwood floor.
The band was full of preening prima donnas, and I was bunking with one. Me and Rich, one of the singers, both slept on the floor of one of the bedrooms of this ranch. One morning, I awoke to find that Rich had a pretty young thing sharing his sleeping bag. He got up and walked out of the room, presumably to take care of business, or even have breakfast. The touseled-haired thang looked over at me and saw I was awake. She said softly, “C’mere”.
I looked at the door. Was Rich coming back? I could just get up and lock the door. I was frozen. I hadn’t gotten laid all summer. Keyboard players didn’t get laid, only lead singers (and guitarists and bassists and drummers and roadies).
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(4.72 out of 5)
(21 votes, average: 4.19 out of 5)