A game where car lovers can repair and customize late model cars and trucks. Working from their virtual garage, players use power tools to repair their cars to top condition. They can even paint them with a virtual paint can, or apply catalog-bought decals anywhere on the body. And for more personality, custom parts are available for every car in the game!

Download: Gearhead Garage

Password: gearhead

Works on windows 11.

I had a dream where Hercule Poirot was performing cunnilingus on me, and I couldn't stop laughing because I kept seeing his waxed mustache. I kept giggling and couldn't relax. He kept glancing at me angrily, but I just kept laughing. My husband woke me up and kept pestering me about what I’d been dreaming, but I was too embarrassed to tell him.

Once, while chatting with some girlfriends, we got onto the topic of how embarrassing it is to poop away from home. Well, one friend declared: «I absolutely cannot poop anywhere except at home.» She ended up in the hospital and didn't have a bowel movement for a whole WEEK just so no one would hear her fart. She described the sensation like this: at first, it was really uncomfortable, but eventually, the urge just went away. I managed to hold it in until I got home and finally dropped a week's worth of poop with a clear conscience. I’m still amazed her ass didn't tear open.

I accidentally found a vibrator in my grandma's nightstand. She’s 70. On one hand, I’m happy for her; on the other, it feels a bit weird.

Everyone knows about double penetration, but few have heard of double cunnilingus. My dorm roommate was a girl with a high libido and a vivid imagination. As it happened, both I and another guy we lived with wanted her. To avoid hurting anyone's feelings, we took turns sleeping with her. Things were going well until she said, «It's either double cunnilingus or I'm moving out.» We agreed. It was a strange experience—one moment I was licking her clit, the next he was...

How being late can change your destiny. I’ve been dating a guy for six months; he’s affectionate, gentle, and fun. We decided to spend our vacation together to enjoy some quality time and nature. I stopped by a travel agency to pick up our trip vouchers. I got held up a bit while finalizing the paperwork—the first time I’d ever been late for a date. Breathless, I rushed to the meeting spot, eager to see my boyfriend, only to see an ambulance driving away. He was nowhere to be found; there was a bouquet of white roses and blood on the pavement. I overheard two police officers talking: «He showed up for a date, then a car hit him—killed instantly.» My vision went dark, my legs gave way, and I sank to the ground. Strong hands caught me and helped me stand up. It was my  boyfriend! Tears streamed down my face, smudging my mascara. He was alive—he’d just been a little late—while the guy who died was someone else, someone whose date would never show up...

I really wanted to try rimming a guy. After a lot of persuasion, he agreed. And it was absolutely disgusting!!! But I was too embarrassed to tell him. Yet, he ended up liking it and is asking for more. FUCK.

Once again, I realized I want to be a man. Men can cheat—«it's just nature»; masturbation, blowjobs, and strip clubs—«that's not cheating»; they can scratch their balls anywhere, go shirtless in the heat, flirt with acquaintances without risking a «slut» reputation, fuck whenever they want without being tied to a cycle, and not shave if they don't feel like it. They don't need to get all dolled up before going out, among many other things simply unavailable to women. It's a man's world.

My internet started lagging one day. I checked everything and found out a neighbor—who had turned down my request for a date—was stealing my Wi-Fi. I changed the password, and the next day she came over: «Could I use the Wi-Fi a bit?» «And what are you willing to do for that?» She thought about it: «Would a kiss on the cheek work?» It would. A couple of days later, I changed the password again and asked her to go on a date with me in exchange for access. We had such a great time that I walked her back to my place instead of hers. She lives with me now, but I still change the password sometimes if I want something spicy from her in return.

Many people are familiar with the habit of keeping one's hands busy while talking on the phone (doodling on paper, fidgeting with small objects, etc.). Slip your cock to your girlfriend while she’s on the phone, and she’ll definitely start jerking it off. It worked with mine.

I want to address the husbands and boyfriends of women who teach at schools or universities—specifically the young female teachers, because they are the biggest bitches imaginable. Could you please fuck them? Like, really fuck them—fuck the demons right out of them. I’m a first-year student myself, and sometimes *I* want to fuck my professors because it’s obvious the men in their lives aren't getting the job done; I want to do a service—not just for you guys, but for the students, too. If your ladies act like sweethearts at home, I suggest sitting in on one of their classes to see what I mean. You’ll be shocked at what a total bitch your darling little «home kitty» can turn out to be.

What I want most of all is to turn back time. I used to be an athlete—handsome and fit. I studied at a top university in the capital. I spoke two foreign languages ​​and played musical instruments. And most importantly, I had the feeling that something great lay ahead for me. Well, something *did* lie ahead. Fifteen years later, I’m a depressed recluse, obese, and earning a below-average salary. I have no relationships. My diploma is gathering dust in a drawer. I failed to make all the right decisions when I should have. Now, I live in a state of apathy and regret over the past.

When I was six, I took a deep whiff of my own shit and threw up violently. My mother scooped me up and rushed me to the hospital, thinking I was sick. We sat in line for half the day, ran some tests, and went home. Because of all that, I missed my cousin’s birthday party—an event I’d been looking forward to for ages because they always served amazing cakes. I still regret missing it, even though thirty-six years have passed.

A friend of mine is pushing forty. He’s still unmarried and has a massive complex about it. He frequently falls into bouts of depression and searches for a wife with manic persistence. But in reality, his search always ends with him bedding total bitches and gold-diggers who care only about his money and fame, not him. It makes me wonder: is he just an idiot, or is he pretending to want a family so he can sleep around with impunity—only to look at them with puppy-dog eyes later and say, «But I thought we’d be together...»?

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