Sometimes I love picking fights with my husband out of thin air. I invent a pretext, push his buttons, and escalate things into a full-blown argument. Why do I do this? So that afterward, I can approach him wearing a «slutty» dress—along with his favorite stockings and absolutely no underwear—and sit right down on his lap. I know that in those moments, he is overflowing with anger and raw energy—energy that I then channel into a sexual outlet. He fucks me so hard that my legs feel like jelly for the next two days. I never get that kind of intensity from our usual, routine «domestic» sex in the evenings. Once every month or so, I orchestrate this kind of release for him; it’s my way of keeping the passion alive in our relationship.

I have nothing against watching porn, but when my boyfriend left a bunch of porn tabs open on our shared laptop, I asked him not to do that—to please just close them when he’s done. It’s just jarring and unpleasant to open the laptop only to be greeted by a full-screen view of someone’s genitals. He got offended that I called him out on it; he insisted it was his business and that he would leave whatever he wanted open. So, I found a video featuring a woman with a rectal prolapse shoving her hands inside herself, and I left *that* tab wide open. Since then, even his browser history is left absolutely clean after he’s used the computer.

I completely lost my head over a married man. He spun such beautiful fairy tales, and I totally fell for the expensive gifts. Three months later, he vanished. I checked social media and saw that he was spending the entire summer vacationing in Greece with his family. I felt so hurt and resentful that I went out, bought an ovulation test, and mailed it to his wife—along with a note implying that I was pregnant. I just wanted to ruin their vacation and make sure she found out about his philandering. However, his wife simply replied by sending back a string of laughing emojis. Can it really be true that women put up with infidelity just for the sake of money and comfort? How can anyone have so little self-respect?

I work at a small local morgue. I’m the night watchman. Everyone makes jokes about this line of work: people say the dead walk around and howl at night, or that it reeks of rotting corpses, or that we’re constantly shooing away necrophiliacs, or even eating sandwiches right next to the bodies. Guys, it doesn't smell like anything here at all; the bodies are kept in a specialized room with refrigerated compartments, and there are cameras and sensors everywhere. It’s not scary to work here, and nobody bothers me. At night, I design layouts for photo books and weave baskets and planters out of paper. I’m on duty alone, too. I can even lie down and take a rest, since there are cameras, an alarm system, and a panic button covering every inch of the place. The pay isn't huge, but it’s steady; plus, I get vacation time and sick leave. Between that, my pension, and a few low-stress side gigs, I make enough to get by! And in my 17 years on the job, not a single person has ever asked me to steal a body or do anything worse than that… It’s just a normal, quiet job!

I’m a total boob fanatic. I have a very specific type and size I like: they have to be a decent size—not perky enough to defy gravity, and definitely not fake—and big enough that they don't quite fit in the palm of your hand, with large nipples and small areolas. Only one of my girlfriends ever had boobs like that, but we broke up because she was a total bitch and a horrible human being. No matter how many women I’ve been with since then, I’ve never managed to find my dream boobs again. I’m seeing a girl right now, and she’s great. But her breasts are small and don't turn me on at all—though everything else about her is perfect. I’ve asked her to marry me, and now I feel a bit sad, because my quest for the perfect boobs has ended in failure—and, as a decent human being, I won't be continuing the search.

Every time I get indigestion and diarrhea, I find myself involuntarily thinking of my ex while sitting on the toilet. I whisper, «And then Travor goes...»—immediately followed by the loud sound of a fart! I can't help myself; it’s completely uncontrollable—it just comes out automatically. Apparently, that’s the only lasting impression he left on my memory.

My «biological brother» isn't actually my brother at all. My parents brought him home when I was nearly four years old, but my mother hadn't been pregnant prior to that. I remember that day clearly, even though my parents deny everything. My parents are a secretive bunch—they’re a bit odd. I’m actually terrified that they might have stolen my brother.

I work in a department staffed entirely by women—young, attractive women. Sometimes, oblivious to my presence, they slip off their shoes when they get tired of walking around in heels all day. And their bare feet drive me absolutely wild—sometimes clad in tights, sometimes in stockings, and sometimes completely bare. I get such a powerful erection that I sometimes can't get up from my desk for long periods—even when I really need to for work.

I stopped going to prostitutes because they simply didn't arouse me as women. Expecting emotional intimacy in exchange for cash is foolish; besides, I only dabbled in that scene a handful of times—maybe five or six at most—back in my youth. And almost every single time, I felt absolutely no desire or passion during the sex! I just can't do it that way. You have to physically *want* a woman—not just go around poking at some naked object. Back when I was 15 or 16, I would’ve gotten rock-hard for any random thing with a pair of tits, but now, it just doesn't impress me anymore. That’s why I’d sometimes spend 40 minutes trying—and failing—to finish. I regret ever going in the first place!

I just don't get these «sweet» girls—let me give you an example. When I was 17, I fell for a girl who told me, «You're a fat bastard; we're never going to be together.» *Okay*, I thought to myself. So, basically, after that incident, I started losing weight—dropped 25 kg in a year. I got shredded—pull-ups, the whole nine yards. Then I tried making a move on her again, and she was like, «You're a twig; the wind could blow you away...» Son of a bitch. So I started lifting heavy, packed on 10 kg of muscle mass in a year. Everyone remarked on how impressive I looked and kept asking how I got so jacked, and all that. I hit on her again—we actually met up—but she got scared of me. Now she claims I'm «too swole» and might crush her in bed… She even said something like, «You're too big, but what good are those muscles in a real fight?» So, out of pure rage, I decked her right in the face—«That's what they can do, you bitch!» I ditched that airhead and now I'm banging every girl I can find—and with a body like mine, plenty of them are eager to give it up.

I started dating a guy who had been pursuing me for a long time. Things progressed to sex, but he couldn't get it up. Maybe he was too nervous, or maybe it was something else—I don't know—but I didn't freak out about it. We were lying there cuddling, and I started stroking his back. Then I put my fingernails to work. I began tracing them over his back—gently, but with firm persistence. At first, he broke out in goosebumps, and a moment later, he had a full erection. He proceeded to fuck me so hard I saw stars. We haven't had any issues in bed since then, though I rarely use my nails anymore. Plus, he now happily pays for my manicures.

My girlfriend and I came to the conclusion that a threesome (FMF) would be a hell of a way to spice up our sex life. For the experiment, she invited an acquaintance of hers over; we talked through all the details, and the very next day, we got down to business. It was… absolutely terrible! I’d turn the wrong way, or insert it wrong; one girl wouldn't feel anything, while the other would whine, «Where’s the passion?!» Then they actually started arguing about positions and who should go where. My girlfriend screamed, «He’s *my* boyfriend, so *he’s* going to be fucking *me* more!» The other girl shot back, «Then you’d better use your tongue properly, because right now you’re just fumbling around aimlessly!» It’s hard enough to handle one hysterical woman in bed—but here I was, stuck with two of them at once!

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