Back in my school days, I had a female friend. Everyone except me used to torment her—they’d even beat her up sometimes—and no matter how hard we tried, we couldn't keep those cruel teenagers away from her. Around seventh grade, she got a severe beating; it was terrifying just to look at her, and she ended up in the hospital. After she was discharged, she didn't come back to school for another month. In eighth grade, she vanished. Completely. The police were called, and the whole area was searched, but nothing turned up. Two days later, a classmate disappeared—the very guy who had beaten her half to death. It took a month to find the girl; she was hiding in an abandoned hunting lodge in the woods. She had ambushed the guy outside his home one evening, struck him on the head with a baseball bat, dragged him into the forest, and spent that whole time eating his corpse.

I graduated from college last year. My girlfriend and I started living together and renting an apartment. She’s finishing up university, and she doesn't have any family in the city. It turned out my salary wasn't enough for food or clothes, let alone movies, sushi, or gifts for my girlfriend. I started doing odd jobs as a handyman—it brought in a little extra cash. One woman—very wealthy and striking—offered to pay me for cunnilingus. I refused and ran off. My girlfriend nags me about the lack of money, but the thought of that lady’s old, graying pubic area makes me want to puke.

I experienced my first orgasm while riding a horse. Actually, probably the first twenty of them. I wasn't a virgin, but I didn't yet understand what was happening to me. You’re riding bareback, and suddenly a wave washes over you… It relaxes you so much… you almost fall off. Later, it started happening with my boyfriend, too. I still work at the stables.

I work as a bricklayer on construction sites; all sorts of things happen there. We once had a guy working as a laborer in our crew—a low-key junkie, skinny as a rail, but he could actually work when he wasn't passed out somewhere high on drugs. One time, we were heading down from the third floor for lunch, but the junkie got stuck on the second floor. We were sick of waiting, and he still hadn't shown up. I called out to him a couple of times; everyone was already cursing him out. Before we knew what was happening, he stepped right out the window. He landed on a pile of construction debris. We quickly rolled him onto his back—his eye was smashed to a pulp, his nose shattered, and blood was pouring from his mouth. He just managed to say something like, «So, wanna have a smoke, guys?» before passing out. The medics managed to revive him, but he only lasted another couple of hours. They said he didn't have long to live anyway; he was completely rotting from the inside out.

My wife and I were heading home after visiting some friends. She’d had a few drinks, but I was sober and driving. We decided to go to a hotel to spend some time alone together. Things got a bit adventurous, so we hired a male escort. We were looking forward to a threesome! A guy around 40 showed up. He banged my wife for four hours in every position imaginable. She was absolutely blown away by the double-teaming! It really spices things up.

There was a guy at my school with stretched earlobes (tunnels). One time, a classmate decided to mess around and shoved a pencil into the hole at full speed (what an idiot, honestly). The earlobe ended up tearing, and a piece of it got tossed up and stuck to the ceiling. It’s still hanging there to this day. You go back to the school five years later, and everything has changed—except for that «beauty» on the ceiling.

I can only have sex when I’m drunk. I’m 27, slim, educated, and beautiful; my life is great, except for the fact that I have absolutely zero sexual desire—for either men or women. I can only do it after consuming a massive amount of alcohol; otherwise, I just endure it. This was the case even in committed relationships, even though I really loved my partner. Psychologists are stumped: I never experienced physical abuse, I had a wonderful father, and I grew up in a stable family. I just don't know what to do...

I recently ran into my best friend; he’d been living in another city. We’d lost touch back in 9th grade. We bumped into each other by chance at a mall. I suggested we hang out, so we rented an apartment and started drinking. After a while, we called an escort—one to share between us. In the heat of the moment, I accidentally came on my buddy's face… He just left silently, taking the bottle of vodka with him—the bastard… Does this mean we’re gay now?

Here’s a life hack for dealing with cheating: cheat first. That way, if anything happens, at least I know I beat him to it.

In every relationship I’ve had—even when there was nothing to complain about—infidelity always came up. Even a man who loved me deeply went to visit his ex-wife and slept with her. So, I cheated on him with a childhood friend. We stayed together, though. But, of course, he doesn't know about my affair. If we ever split up, I’ll tell him—and make up—stories about another twenty men, just so he doesn’t think he’s the only one capable of that sort of thing.

My son was little, and we had no money. Our food supply consisted of five kilos of sugar, some grains, and flour. With my last few coins, I’d buy a bottle of milk, a loaf of bread, and ten eggs once a week. I’d fry up French toast for my son using the bread, milk, and sugar, or make fritters. A friend brought me a whole chicken, and later a colleague gave me a couple of jars of homemade canned meat. We survived; my son didn’t even notice we’d been living on the edge of starvation for three months. But ever since then, I’ve had a thing about stocking up. I always keep 5–10 kilos of grains and flour on hand, and the freezer is packed with meat and vegetables. Plus jams and preserves. That one experience was enough to teach me the lesson.

I’m a dwarf, and it always infuriated me that short characters in movies, TV shows, and books were always portrayed in a repulsive or comical light. Thank you to Tyrion Lannister for showing that, deep down, we too are brave warriors filled with a love for women and wine.

There was a time when my husband worked in another city on a rotational basis. During one of his visits home, I discovered an online correspondence he was having with various women from that city—exchanges along the lines of «Give me your number, let's meet up for a beer.» Naturally, I caused a massive scene, but he just stood there laughing! I nearly lost my mind with rage at such audacity, but it turned out he had found a way to make some extra cash: he’d find women online, charm them into giving up their phone numbers, and then sell those numbers to his colleagues. The guys were happy, he had beer money every night, and one of them even ended up moving in with one of the women. Still, I put a stop to his «lucrative business» anyway.

Other Trash Stories

After being told that my balls looked like an old Rastafarian, I decided to take the plunge and buy this gel—mostly because previous shaving attempts hadn't gone well, and I’d nearly wrecked my back trying to reach those hard-to-get-to spots.

I’m a bit of a romantic, so I decided to do it on my wife’s birthday—sort of as an extra gift. I ordered it in advance. Since I work in the North Sea, I considered myself a tough guy and figured the previous reviews were written by some pathetic office drones...

Oh, my fellow sufferers, how wrong I was. I waited until my better half had gone to bed, hinted at a special surprise, and headed to the bathroom. At first, everything was fine. I applied the gel to the target areas and waited. And I didn't have to wait long. At first, I felt a warmth that, within seconds, turned into an intense burning sensation—a feeling I can only compare to having a pair of barbed-wire underpants yanked up tight while someone tries to launch you toward the ceiling. I hadn't been particularly religious before that evening, but in that moment, I would have believed in any god if he’d just save me from the horrific burning around my arsehole and the total devastation of my sausage and two eggs. Trying not to bite clean through my lower lip, I attempted to wash the gel off in the sink, but all I managed to do was shove a clump of hair down the drain.

Through a veil of tears, I stumbled out of the bathroom and headed for the kitchen. I couldn't walk anymore, so I crawled the last few meters to the fridge. I pulled out the bottom drawer, found a tub of ice cream, ripped off the lid, and shoved it underneath me. The relief was fantastic but short-lived, as the ice cream melted quickly and the hellish burning returned. The tub was rather small, so I couldn't really treat my asshole.

I started rummaging through the freezer, hoping to find *something*—my eyes were so full of tears that I could barely see. I grabbed a bag—which I later discovered contained frozen bean sprouts—and tore it open, trying to be as quiet as possible. I grabbed a handful of sprouts and tried, unsuccessfully, to wedge them between my buttocks. It didn't help; the gel had apparently made its way into my rectum, and it felt like a jet engine was running in there. I hope I never again find myself wishing for a gay snowman to appear in the kitchen—do you realize how low I was willing to stoop to ease the pain? The only solution my pain-crazed brain could come up with was to carefully insert a sprout where no plant had ever sprouted before. Unfortunately, hearing strange groans coming from the kitchen, my wife decided to get up and see what was going on. She was met with a stunning sight: me lying on the floor with my ass stuck out—dripping with strawberry ice cream—shoving beans up my rear while muttering, «Oh, that feels so good.»

She was undoubtedly shocked and screamed in horror. I hadn't heard her come in, so I was startled too; my gut spasmed, and the sprout shot out at high speed in her direction. Yes, I realize that a bean sprout—which someone farts in the direction of at midnight—isn't exactly the surprise she was hoping for; plus, the next day, the kids had to be given a long explanation about what happened to the ice cream… all in all, thanks to Veet, you can lose not just your body hair, but your dignity and self-respect, too.

«You want fantasy? Here's one… There's this species that lives on a planet a few miles above molten rock and a few miles below a vacuum that'd suck the air right out of them. They live in a brief geological period between ice ages, when giant asteroids have temporarily stopped smacking into the surface. As far as they can tell, there's nowhere else in the universe where they could stay alive for ten seconds.

And what do they call their fragile little slice of space and time? They call it real life. In a universe where it is known that whole galaxies can explode, they think there's things like 'natural justice' and 'destiny'. Some of them even believe in democracy… I'm a fantasy writer, and even I find it all a bit hard to believe.»

-Terry Pratchett, Whose Fantasy Are You?

Was about to change Vanos seals and bearings today. All of my parts and tools needed for the job are here and ready to go. I opened the hood and I closed the hood. 

More and more young women are asking indignantly: where have the knights gone? No one courts them or gives them gifts anymore.

We asked the guys why they don't court women or give gifts.

— Why the fuck should I humiliate myself and act like a beggar? When I can just message a MILF on a dating app, go over to her place, and she’ll suck me off for free and feed me, too.

— Real girls—the kind you’d want to court and invest in—are a dying breed. They’re all used goods. Nobody wants to pick up a «used food» from the trash and finish off someone else's leftovers.

— I could. But why bother? There’s no such thing as «my girlfriend» anymore; they’re all public property. Everyone uses the girl, but I’m the one who has to pay? I don’t even want that public cesspool, not even for free.

— Because nowadays a girl is like a taxi—everyone uses her, and the mileage is sky-high. It’s cheaper to just order a ride once in a while than to own your own clunker that needs maintenance and money poured into it—plus you have to ask for permission to do anything.

— Hey, listen, brother. If you want to drink some milk, do you want to get your own cow and build a barn for it? And clean up its shit and maintain it… Or is it easier to just buy it ready-made at the store and drink it?

— You wear that collar yourself! I ain't no dog to live tied up on a leash!