How Not to Get Laid

Submitted by Cara, Age 24, Ventura, CA

Peter and I dated for nearly two months when I was eighteen. Things were going okay, but I was not serious about it and little things, like his arrogance and unique brand of vulgarity, kept stacking up:

1)He took pride in his unearned wealth that came from his parents’ successful ranching business.

2)My friend overheard him say he would never marry outside his race. He’s half Irish and half Mexican. Nevermind that I’m white and never plan to marry–how does a man (especially this one) limit himself that way?

3)He has a disfigured thumb from a childhood tug-o-war accident, and he once stuck it up my pussy and exclaimed “Stumpy thumb, stumpy thumb!”

4)His screenplay… he asked me to proofread it, and the first page looked like a used overnight maxi pad when I finished with it. It was not only riddled with errors, but it was a badly written rip-off of a movie that I love. To finish the task would have been a waste of time.

Those are just a couple examples. It might sound snobby but by the time he offered me a key to his apartment and asked what I wanted to do for Valentine’s Day I knew I couldn’t continue.

I came down with a convenient cold and didn’t see him for two weeks. I didn’t miss him at all and decided to call and end it. He took it pretty well.

A couple weeks went by and I finally got around to his place so we could trade our things back. He invited me in to talk for a minute and once inside he proudly offered me a seat on his brand new futon couch and asked my opinion. “Yep, pretty comfy. Good choice, Peter.” How much did your parents pay for it?

As he kept scooting toward me, I kept scooting away. When he had me cornered against the armrest, he put one arm around me, the other hand on my thigh, and started to kiss me on my cheek and my neck.

I asked him what he was doing, and he said “I just thought we could have goodbye sex.”

“What? I broke up with you because I don’t want to have sex with you anymore!”

“Aww, c’monnnnn, help me break in the new futon. Please?”

Way to go, buddy.

I grabbed my things, returned his tragic screenplay, and wished him luck on his future futon conquests.

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