The guy taking out a loan for an iPhone for a girl — that’s only half the battle. I have an acquaintance who took out a loan to pay for silicone implants for some broad. And she laid down an ultimatum too: «Either you get me these boobs, or I’m walking.» In the end, he hit the jackpot: he took out the loan, paid for her implants, and ended up all alone anyway.
What an idiot. You should invest your money in yourself, not in some skank. If he’d gotten the implants for himself, they’d always be right there at hand!
I was walking home when I saw some guy beating up a girl. I decided to step in, and a brawl broke out with that fucking pig. The end result? The cops got called, and the girl filed a report against *me*—turns out he was her dad.
I get turned on when people yell at me. Like, *really* yell—spit flying everywhere! I vividly imagine myself getting fucked while someone screams at me. It’s incredibly hard to detach myself from that fantasy whenever I’m arguing with my parents...
My boyfriend spent ages trying to talk me into a threesome (with another girl). I was always against it, and we used to have huge fights over it. But one night I finally gave in; I was sick of arguing about it, plus I was absolutely wasted—we’d been out at a club. He picked up a chick there who was also down for it; he was making out with her, thinking he was about to have the time of his life. But then we went back to our place, and once things got started, the other girl got totally into *me*—and we both completely forgot about my boyfriend. We were just enjoying each other’s company so much. He tried to join in, but we pushed him away and kept going—even after we’d sobered up a bit. Eventually, he just left.
Black leggings turn me on like crazy. Especially when they’re hugging a great figure, of course. Sometimes I just want to pick up a girl wearing black leggings and rip them right off her during sex. But who would actually agree to that—and without any compensation, too? So, I’m hoping to eventually talk some drunk girl into it after a night at the club. How else am I supposed to make it happen? Otherwise, this fantasy is going to stay just that—a fantasy—for a long, long time.
I went to a class reunion. I got so wasted there that I couldn't string two words together, and I ended up puking right next to my bed. I overslept and missed work, but I distinctly remember that all morning long, some guy named «Alarm» kept calling my phone.
I live in a dorm, and they moved a roommate into my room. Since I had absolutely no desire to share my space with him, I started stashing my dirty, stinky socks—fresh from my workouts—under his bed; the stench was so bad it made even *my* eyes water. A week later, he moved out.
If you ever feel like a total fuckwit, just think of me. One time, with nothing better to do, I decided to turn my bathroom into a makeshift sauna. I turned the water up to 50°C (I was afraid to go any hotter, thinking I’d scald myself) and let it run. I lay there steaming away, but I nearly suffocated in the end because the bathroom door was shut and the ventilation wasn't working. My dad actually had to give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
I met a guy. We’d been talking for a long time, and eventually, things progressed to sex. Passion, sparks, pure fire. He whispered tenderly that he had a gift for me. I was anticipating something really lovely—but instead, he took the «gift,» shoved it into my vagina, and started fucking me with it. I thought it was a dildo, but it turned out to be a cucumber inside a condom. I wish he’d just used his own dick instead...
I was in college—18 years old, a virgin. I had plenty of admirers and wanted to have sex, but I was terrified of it. That is, until I was sitting in class one day and something just *clicked* in my head: I needed to do it—and I needed to do it *now*. I didn't have a boyfriend, so I messaged one of my suitors straight-up: «Be my first.» That very evening, I went over to his place. The sex felt so new and amazing that, after spending the night with him, I headed straight to another suitor's place the next morning and slept with *him*. I never made it to the third guy, though—I fell asleep on the bus. When I woke up, I was absolutely floored by my own behavior—what the hell had I just done?!—and within a month, I’d settled back down. I never did end up making it to that third guy.
My pussy swells up after sex. I have no idea what to do about it. It happens every single time. It puffs up like a balloon. Whenever it happens, my husband calls it my «little dumpling.» We’ve been wanting to try anal sex, but I’m afraid my ass would swell up, too. I sit here wondering what to do about this—and whether it’s actually possible to be allergic to sex.
Other Trash Stories
Aston Martin commissioned a special series of 40 named and numbered editions of the V8 Vantage to celebrate the 40th anniversary of Aston Martin victories at Le Mans in the World Sportscar championship. The V8 Vantage Le Mans were available with either a 550 or 600 bhp twin supercharged 5.3 litre engine. One of the distinctive features included an extended front spoiler which was designed to create positive down force as an aid to high speed efficiency.
It was 1990. My dad, who was young at the time, got drunk in the village with some buddies and, somehow failing to make it all the way home, fell asleep next to a haystack. In the morning, he woke up to the sound of people talking as they walked past. As they drew closer, he recognized them—they were deceased acquaintances of his, and they were debating whether or not to take him with them. «No, it’s too early for him yet; let's keep going!» By that evening, an elderly man in the village had passed away. Since that moment, my dad hasn't touched alcohol again. And to this day, he recalls that encounter with sheer horror.
I never knew what to get my girlfriend; I have a terrible imagination and absolutely no creative flair. Her birthday was approaching, so I really needed to come up with something. A female friend of mine came to the rescue, suggesting I get her a high-tech vibrator—the idea being that it would keep her from getting lonely whenever I wasn't around. So, that’s exactly what I did. My girlfriend stayed with me for another month after that… and then decided to dump me. Apparently, I chose a gift that was a little *too* high-tech—seeing as it ended up doing a better job than I did...
Do you want to know how I learned to swim? We owned an old car. No one had driven it in ages, even though it was still in working order. Then, one day, my dad and I decided to take it out for a spin and drive it down to the river. I was sitting in the front seat. Dad sped up and drove the car straight into a river—with the doors and windows still shut. He told me, «If you want to live, you'll swim out,» and then he fucking bailed out of the car (to this day, I have no fucking clue how he did it—what kind of magic was that?). Naturally, I was absolutely fucking stunned, but somehow, I managed to scramble my way out. After that incident, Mom filed for divorce.
I was trying on jeans at a store, and I really, really wanted to fart. Then I had a thought: *What if I buy these jeans, only to find out someone else has already farted in them?*… I never did buy those jeans.
Every time I jerk off, I involuntarily point my feet like a fucking ballerina—practically bending them backward, at an angle of over 180 degrees; my heel almost touches my shin. I don't even notice I'm doing it until I finally cum. But then comes the hard part: I can't painlessly return my feet to their normal position. So there I lie, splayed out like a compass, slowly inching my feet back into place, gritting my teeth against the pain. I’m terrified that one day I’ll just snap my ankles right off from sheer arousal—yet I keep right on pleasuring myself. Afterward, I can't even walk for half an hour.
I recently buried my best friend. He was walking home from the store when he took a bad fall. His ribs hurt terribly; the pain was so severe he couldn't even cough, and breathing was agonizing. All the signs pointed to a clear rib fracture, but he wasn't in any rush to see a doctor—he kept putting it off until later. He put it off once too often… Sometime during the night, he must have shifted into an awkward, incorrect position, and a shard of the broken bone punctured his lung. In the morning, his mother went to wake him up, only to find him lying in bed, blue in the face… If he had sought medical help right away, he would have pulled through; instead, he now lies in the cemetery, wrapped in the cold earth.
I work as a cashier. During a particularly hectic rush, I blurted out something to a male customer—instead of the standard «Have a nice day!»—that went something like, «May God grant you good health!» The look he gave me… «Amen,» the man replied, then hurried toward the exit, glancing back over his shoulder with a look of sheer apprehension.
My girlfriend and I were having sex. We were just moments away from the finish line. And right at that moment, she sneezed. The sudden jolt caused her vaginal muscles to contract. Caught completely off guard, I ended up finishing right inside her. Now we’re walking around, totally on edge, anxiously waiting for her PMS to kick in.
Our whole family recently moved to a new country. We found an apartment right in the city center—it’s surrounded entirely by high-rises, and our windows look directly out onto the windows of the building across the street. One day, quite by accident, I noticed an elderly man in the window across the street. He was intently watching the tourists strolling along the boulevard; I could see the old guy from the waist up, and his right hand was hanging down, moving vigorously. Holy shit… Just imagine—you’re out for a nice evening stroll, and someone is jerking off to you from a window. I really don't think it was Parkinson's.
My husband once witnessed a conversation like this. An American and an Englishman were arguing over who actually won World War II. The American insisted that *they* did, while the Englishman argued it was the Russians. Unable to hold back, a German man finally chimed in and said, «Why are you guys even arguing? The Russians won.» To which the American retorted, «And what gives *you* the right to butt in? How the hell would *you* know?»
Other Trash Stories
So, there was this one time I went on an «extreme» date—one I might not have even made it back from alive… It was around 2010, the heyday of facebook. I was messaging back and forth with this gorgeous girl on there when she wrote:
«I’m just so sad at home right now… so lonely...»
Now, being the «knight» that I am—or so I thought—I immediately replied:
«Hey, tell you what: I’ll come over with some cognac; you whip up something to eat, and we’ll have a good time.»
She shot back: «Let's do it!»
I was a starving student at the time, so—anticipating both food and romance, and not wanting to jinx such a stroke of luck—I spruced myself up, put on some cologne, donned a pair of clean underwear, and drove all the way across town to her place...
I arrived. The door opened; a mysterious silhouette slipped into the kitchen, and I heard:
«Go on into the living room, sit down—make yourself at home.»
And there, laid out on the table, was a spread: sausage, cheese, potatoes!
I set down my bottle of cheap, bootleg «Ararat» brandy (the three-star variety) and thought to myself:
«Any minute now, I’ll get to eat… and get to the 'other stuff' with that beauty, too. What a lucky guy I am...»
BUT!
Into the room walked a woman twice my age—with fried-looking dyed-red hair and a stretched-out tank top—looking utterly unkempt.
I just stood there:
«Um… hello? Where’s Sveta?»
(I think that was her name.)
She replied:
«Don't take this the wrong way, but *I’m* Sveta. The photos online aren't actually me—because if I’d used my real ones, you never would have shown up...»
By that point, however, the smell of food had already gone to my head, so I decided:
«Ah, screw it. I’ll stay anyway—at least I’ll get a meal out of it. Then I’ll bail.»
We sat down, had a drink or two, and I started absolutely pigging out on the sausage. Meanwhile, she began telling me the story of her life—and with every passing sentence, her spirits sank lower and lower, until she finally burst into tears. Then she started openly biting her nails, and suddenly she turns to me…
I remember it like it was yesterday: she was tear-stained, a snot bubble was inflating right out of her nose, and she said—in this sultry, languid tone:
«KISS ME.»
Total shock. I started trying to backpedal, mumbling something about how we were just friends...
With every excuse I offered, her eyes seemed to fill with blood.
At one point, she leaped up, grabbed a massive dirk that was hanging next to a portrait of her sailor grandfather, stood right over me, and screamed:
«DO YOU WANT ME TO SHOW YOU—RIGHT NOW—JUST HOW LONELY I AM?!»
And she took a swing!
They say that right before you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes; but for me, only one thought flashed through my mind:
«I’ve really done it this time… Oh God, please don't let me end up on the 'Crime News.' It’s always just drunk stabbings on there—Mom would see it on TV… what a shameful way to go...»
She stood there with the knife—seething, trembling.
I sat in the armchair—terrified, with a mouthful of half-chewed sausage and underwear that was no longer exactly clean—and switched into «therapist mode»:
«Alright… show me. But hey, let's have one more shot first, okay?»
She let out a breath and sat back down—though the knife was still clutched in her hand.
«Will you stay the night?» she asked.
I told her I would; I promised her the moon—all while pouring the drinks.
And the moment she started to take a sip, I seized the opportunity—and couldn't think of anything better to do than simply tip her over, chair and all, onto the floor.
She hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, rolled under the radiator, and let out a hiss:
«PRAY FOR YOUR LIFE, YOU BASTARD!» I grabbed my backpack with my teeth, tucked my brand-new Nikes under my arm, and bolted down the hallway—all while praying to every god imaginable that her door wouldn't have some stupid, finicky lock.
Because if it did, I’d be absolutely screwed—riddled with stab wounds and serving as the dramatic footage for the evening news.
But no—I got lucky.
Having miraculously managed to get the door open, I ran home barefoot and scared shitless.
I didn't make it back until nearly dawn.
My friend was visiting when I got there—the same guy I’d bragged to earlier that night, boasting that I was heading out on a date where I was definitely going to get laid.
And he delivered the final blow with a single question:
«So? How’d it go? Did you get laid?»
Hooray! Everything is read.
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