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.

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!

How I masturbated at the clinic for a spermogram.

I had a friend who was trying to have a child with his wife, but it just wasn't working out. And then one day he said:

I need to go to the clinic and get my little ones checked. Get a spermogram.

He went and checked. He came back gloomy. It turned out he had few sperm, and they themselves were lazy, like seals at a rookery. They didn't swim toward their target, but lay on their sides, waiting for the egg to crawl to them, apologize for the disturbance, and be gently fertilized.

And then a truly profound thought comes to my mind:

«Fuck. I'm also interested in what's going on there.»

I decided that I also needed to go and have a spermogram.

I prepared myself like a responsible person. I didn't drink or masturbate for a week. The alcohol was tough, but manageable. But masturbating was more difficult, because there was a rubber vagina from Amazon in my nightstand, literally calling me back to the sordid stability of sin. But curiosity won out.

After all, it’s not every day that you go and get tested to see how well your future children can swim.

I arrive at the clinic. Everything is routine there, without a shred of respect for the moment. Sign here. Sign here. Wash your dick over there. Wipe your hands with this. Here's the jar. Here's the room. Jerk off there. Cum here.

I'm standing there with this jar and I feel like someone who would drop everything right now and go home. But, damn! I'm so fucking curious!

I walk into the room. It smells of bleach. No signs of masturbation. A typical medical office. Only the lights are a little dim. For a better masturbation, I guess! A row of several half-chairs, half-lounges, like at the beach. I go to the far corner. I sit down. I take out the lube I brought from home earlier. I open my phone to search the internet for something inspiring. I pull down my pants. I sit on the chair, dick in one hand, lube in the other, and try to find masturbatory zen.

And then the door is kicked open. A man comes in.

He's also holding a jar. I'm sitting there, my dick half-erect, looking at him, slightly stunned. The guy looks at me. He nods in greeting. I automatically nod back, because apparently, even in a collective sperm donation situation, good manners are the last thing to die. And you have to be friendly.

He stands right in the middle of the room, pulls his jeans down to the floor, spits loudly into his palm, and begins to jerk off furiously. It sounds like a carpenter sanding a slat.

Then he releases his penis, spits again into his palm, and continues. And all this with such a focused expression, as if he weren't jerking off next to a stranger in a clinic, but saving the country from demographic collapse.

I'm sitting there. I have lube in one hand, my dick in the other, and I catch myself freaking out, just staring at some guy jerking off for two minutes now. As the friction dries out, he periodically spits on it.

Then I finally can’t stand it and ask:

Maybe lubricants?

The man stops. He looks at me. Then at the bottle. Then at me again.

— No, I don't drink. I'm driving.

I speak:

— No, it's lubricant.

He keeps looking at me as if I were offering him work in Oriflame or Faberlic.

— Well, lube. For jerking off. Here.

And, to shorten the path between misunderstanding and enlightenment, I drip a little onto my palm and demonstrate the principle of operation using my own example.

— Ah-ah-ah

… the man perks up. Okay, come on.

He approaches and extends his palm.

I drip some lubricant onto his palm.

He makes a couple of movements, freezes, and then with absolutely sincere delight says:

Oh-oh-oh, holy shit. This is so good!

And at that moment, I realized I might be witnessing the greatest technological breakthrough in his sex life. Because his reaction made it seem like he'd been using nothing but saliva his whole life.

The man came quickly. Grunting, writhing, and missing. These days, the jar isn't the diameter of a basketball hoop. The man got ready and left.

I was left alone, caught my breath and tried to get back to my task.

I had just started to get myself in the right frame of mind when the door opened again. A man came in. A different one.

And now I'm no longer at a loss. So, as someone with experience, I immediately ask in a businesslike manner:

Lubricants?

And I hand him the bottle.

But this one turned out to be a professional. He had his own.

And you know what? I wasn't even surprised. Nothing ever surprised me anymore.

So a guy came in to jerk off nearby. So he got out his lube. Oh well.

A typical Tuesday, a typical clinic, a typical jerk-off with a stranger. We ended up coming almost simultaneously. In sync. Almost like Olympic swimmers, only the discipline was noticeably worse.

My life experience when I jerked off in the same room with strangers and at the same time acted as a lubricant ambassador.

When it was all over, I walked out and went to the nurse: «Tell me,» I said, «do you always have several people there? And no partitions?» It's like a wanking hut.

It turned out there was a partition screen in the room. Like an accordion. It was like a VIP wank-off box, damn!

But we didn't see it. No one did.

Or rather, maybe we did, but who cared? No time for interior design. But at least I'm not afraid of a group masturbation anymore!

I'm just wondering, there's only one screen for the entire room. What if there's an influx of patients? Then what? Should everyone sit in a circle and jack off?

By the way, everything was fine with the tests.

1. No girl will cook a complex dish for herself alone.

2. 90% of girls are not happy with their figure.

3. Most girls under 25 can refuse a serious relationship with a guy if they are more than 2 years older than the guy.

4. Girls never envy their rival’s intelligence; external data is considered a more important indicator for them.

5. Any girl will worry about the breakup of a long-term relationship for more than a year, even if she did not experience any feelings for her partner.

6. When three or more girls get together, they talk about men.

7. Almost all girls smoke occasionally, but prefer not to admit it to their partner.

7. Girls are able to buy jeans a couple sizes smaller, thereby gaining an incentive to lose weight.

8. There are no girls indifferent to cosmetics. Even if a girl doesn’t wear makeup, she still has a huge amount of “jars and bottles” at home.

9. Sometimes girls are more attracted to the original box than the gift in it. A girl keeps bows, ribbons, and beautiful gift wrappers for years.

10. Most girls keep text messages, postcards, and notes from their favorite guys.

11. At the age of 10-14, girls in flocks fall in love with the same boy, and notify each other about this, and jealousy has no place here.

12. If you think a girl might have a crush on you, ask her friends about it. Moreover, the more friends she has, the greater the likelihood of finding out the truth. Girls can't keep their mouths shut

13. Girls love notebooks with beautiful covers and buy them, even if they don’t need them.

14. Be afraid if a girl is in a bad mood! If you try to talk to her, she will find something to be offended by. if you don’t pay attention to her, she will be even more offended!

15. All girls have complexes about their appearance.

16. Most girls don't like bodybuilders.

17. A girl can cry just like that. For no reason.

18. A girl may be upset by a phrase you throw at her with a dissatisfied or offended tone. Moreover, the tone can be neutral. It just seemed that way to her

19. If a girl has a problem, she definitely needs to discuss it with her friends. It doesn’t matter over a bottle of beer or a cup of tea. The main thing is to discuss!

20. Girls do not like young people who treat animals poorly.

21. Girls like aggressive guys, but they prefer to start a serious relationship with kind ones

22. Fix the wiring or electrical appliance at the girl’s request and grow in her eyes to the level of a deity. Almost all girls are afraid of technology

23. Girls never keep contacts of ex-boyfriends. To avoid the temptation to call

24. Gaining 1 kilogram is fatal for a girl! At least a bad mood is guaranteed during the week!

25. Girls are able to gorge themselves on muesli, fruit, oatmeal, that is, what guys don’t consider food at all.

26. If you just wrote an SMS to a girl, be sure that she no longer just “knows” that you like her, she is almost sure that you love her!

27. If you asked a girl out on a date at 9 pm, know that she started getting ready at 5, but will still be late because at the last moment some naughty hair didn’t want to get ready.

28. You can date a girl for several months, but never see her without makeup. If, after all, she appears to you without makeup, know that now she trusts you!

30. It’s hard to tear a girl away from the window of a store where there are a lot of bright trinkets. There is a magpie inside every girl!

31. Girls keep the flowers you give them for a long time. They dry them out!

32. When dressing, girls most often wear a jacket, and only then trousers. And the guys will put on their pants first.

33. A girl can wear a thin blouse at –30. She won’t wear a thick sweater that visually makes her look fatter even on pain of death.

34. Every girl considers it her duty to feed her boyfriend to his fullest. Moreover, the more weight you gain, the more happy she will be.

35. If a girl is silent, things are bad. A storm is coming!

36. Almost all girls dream of getting married since childhood. And they've been planning a wedding since childhood

37. No girl will wake up at night and go to the refrigerator. And in general, the female half of humanity sincerely does not understand how you can wake up at night because you want to eat

38. Most girls won't wait for you to make the first move. Moreover, until you tell her directly that you don’t like her, she won’t leave you.

39. If you didn't like what the girl prepared, it's a low blow. You may not even say it, but she will still figure it out in some incomprehensible way.

40. Girls always pay attention to little things. Right down to the pattern on the wallpaper.

41. 90% of girls are sure that their every new love: “this is forever, this is love, I’m sure.” And they have already mentally calculated their subsequent life with the guy until their death

42. If a friend’s eyelashes are longer than a girl’s eyelashes, this is a serious reason for envy

43. There are no girls who are satisfied with the size of their breasts. You need either more or less. Always!

44. Not having the right size of a blouse you like in a store can upset a girl for at least a week!

45. Beautiful earrings, ring, etc. a friend has a serious reason not just for hostility, but for real hatred!

46. ​​Not being able to dance is a serious problem for a girl!

47. If you speak unflatteringly about a girl’s external qualities, this can provoke the development of a complex.

48. Girls are afraid to go out without makeup, even to a store 5 minutes walk from home

49. Buying and choosing a gift for a guy’s birthday takes at least 2 weeks

50. Girls wash dishes after eating, not before, like guys.

There are plenty of these tropes—and not just in American detective stories and action movies. Productions sometimes display staggering idiocy too—but I’ve picked out five that simply make me laugh.

1. The hero is a loser who’s been fired or demoted. His wife has left him. He’s drinking himself to death. He’s a psychopath. A total piece of work. Yet, we’re shown this pathetic specimen suddenly pulling off twenty-six heroic feats in a row, taking out every single villain. It seems the screenwriters are drinking themselves to death, too.

2. The hero invariably keeps a stash of newspaper clippings in a special drawer. Close-ups of the headlines: «Horrific Murder in the Bronx,» «Mysterious Disappearance,» «God Knows What Happened, But Let’s Make the Audience Worry.» He holds onto these clippings and hauls them around his whole life; he has absolutely no other treasures.

3. The hero learns the most important information from the TV. He walks into a bar to down a whiskey with his last few bucks, and behold!—the TV announces the very news the plot hinges on. The news anchor might as well be looking right at the hero and saying, «Oh, you made it? Here’s a news item just for you!» All the other characters—the bad guys included—find everything out from the TV too, like the fact that they’re wanted by the police and need to get out of town. It’s nothing but television.

4. The hero suddenly discovers he has a long-lost child or an elderly father—someone he hasn’t spoken to in years. The dad is handy for the finale, of course: the hero gives him a hug and realizes the value of family. And the kid is a total gem, because he’s convenient for the bad guy to take hostage (having obviously learned the address from TV)—allowing the hero not only to realize the value of family but also to articulate it to the child: «I’ve wronged your mother, your grandmother, and your dog; and I’m also guilty of spouting all this crap instead of just putting a bullet in the screenwriter.»

5. A mini psychoanalysis session. It invariably features the line: «You know what your problem is?» Usually, the bad guy delivers this while the good guy is bleeding out with a gun pointed at his face. The bad guy then identifies the problem—typically some utter nonsense like «You love your job too much, John»—but the scene simply wouldn't work without that «problem.» I feel the problem should be something like: «You kept those newspaper clippings too carefully, John.» That alone should be enough for the hero to pull himself together and kill the bad guy, avenging the desecrated newspaper clippings.

What’s the first thing to do after losing your virginity? That’s right: brag to your best friend. I went over to her place and told her everything in detail—from the foreplay my boyfriend tenderly lavished on me to our attempts to inject some passion into the actual deflowering. The story got us both so worked up that we started hugging, and the whole thing turned into a six-hour marathon in bed that lasted until dawn. It’s been nearly five years since then, and my memories of losing my virginity aren't linked to the boyfriend, but to my friend. I still think back to that night and wonder if I’ll ever have sex with that level of sincerity and mutual connection again.

* * *

To each their own… I had a dream last night that a dog was fucking me. It was awful… but in the dream, it felt good—almost to the point of orgasm. I’ve only watched bestiality porn once or twice in my life; I stumbled upon it by accident on the internet ages ago. In real life, I’ve never had—and hopefully never will have—desires like that :D

* * *

I’m a girl, and I love porn. During sex, I always imagine how I look from the outside—with a cock in my mouth, in the doggy-style position, or with semen on my chest. That «director’s eye» perspective really turns me on. Plus, you can always adjust your pose to make it look more aesthetic.

* * *

There have been plenty of times when I was masturbating and got that coveted «What are you up to?» message in my private chats. Naturally, my reply contains anything *but* the truth. But it makes me damn curious: how many times have I been an unwitting accomplice to someone else’s pleasurable activity without even realizing it?

* * *

Do you know what sexual hopelessness feels like? It’s when you’re used to masturbating by stimulating your clitoris while squeezing your legs together. I don't experience vaginal orgasms; I tried using my fingers during sex but realized I couldn't replicate what I do when I'm alone—and consequently, I couldn't climax. The medical term for this situation is «sexual solitude.» It’s incredibly frustrating, and it’s impossible to unlearn the habit now. Ladies, don't do this—you end up developing a conditioned reflex.

* * *

Before giving my first blowjob, I thought it was disgusting, gross—just totally yuck. But now, I can’t even imagine a morning or evening without giving one. The feeling of him trusting you with such an important part of himself makes you fall even more in love. And that moment when he holds my hand or places his hands on my head… mmm, it just blows my mind. There’s no feeling more arousing than that!

* * *

My ex was a sick bastard… He’d ask me not to wash up before oral sex, and he wouldn't wash his own cock either—it turned him on. He wanted me to pee on him and into his mouth. After he came inside me, he liked to gather it all up with his mouth and transfer it to me so I’d swallow it. He even asked me to take a shit during sex once (though I never actually worked up the nerve for that). He came up with all sorts of other stuff, too… Anyway, I loved him madly, so I did it all… Then he left me—even though we had a child together—and now he’s on his own. I wonder if he’ll ever find someone else willing to do the same things just out of love for him.

* * *

I used to love doggy style in all its variations, but then I started seeing an older man. He doesn't like that position; he thinks it’s «con-style» (like something you’d do in prison). At first, I thought, «Well, shit, that’s a bummer.» But it turned out to be a good thing—I climax like crazy in the missionary position because he moves just right; it feels amazing inside *and* puts pressure on my clitoris. Every time, I’m on the verge of tears because the sensation is so good. Plus, he doesn't just spin me around the bed on his dick—pardon the expression.

* * *

I have a wild craving for sex with a woodcarver. I just imagine: if he can create such masterpieces out of wood, what could he do to me with those hands?

I don't understand how this is possible. I watched Michael Jackson die, Maradona die, Pele die, Queen Elizabeth die. I watched three popes pass away. I lived through a pandemic, I saw the internet begin. I watched CDs give way to Spotify, DVDs give way to Netflix, landlines give way to iPhones. And I'm witnessing the rise of AI. And I'm only 30 years old.

I started seeing an interesting man. Things eventually led to sex. After some intense foreplay, I was lying naked beneath him. He kissed my lips and started moving lower. I thought I was about to get some amazing cunnilingus. He kisses my neck, chest, and stomach, and then—skipping the «right» spot—starts kissing my knees, moves even lower, and begins frantically sucking on my toes. After three minutes of sex, he has an explosive orgasm, and that’s it… That was the last evening we spent together.

A friend of mine has a neighbor in the village who needed to saw some firewood. He borrowed a circular saw, but while he was working, he lost consciousness. He fell stomach-first right onto the saw—there was blood everywhere, screaming relatives and neighbors, the whole chaotic scene. By some miracle, the guy was patched up and saved; he’s still alive today, though he has a huge scar on his stomach.

Being a bold young woman, I decided to study a field that wasn't exactly «feminine.» One of our subjects was «Metals and Alloys.» The professor was a lecherous old geezer. During one class, we were learning to weld. I was standing there in full welding gear: a black mask with a small dark visor on my face and an electrode holder in my hand. Who would have thought that my appearance would turn him on so much? He came up from behind and started groping my ass with one hand while trying to slip the other under my protective clothing to get to my skin. I tossed aside the welding gear, kicked him hard in the balls, and smashed my mask right into his brazen mug! He couldn't straighten up for ten minutes. There was a confrontation. The rector got involved. They started drawing up expulsion papers. After all, who would they believe—me or him? Him, of course. But at the very last moment, a classmate burst into my dorm room: «I've got something for you!» He showed me a video where… That old geezer’s harassment was clearly caught on camera. He’d wanted to film me screwing up and failing to handle the welding machine just for a laugh, but in the end, he actually saved me. The instructor got fired, and I’ve become something of a legend.

Back in September, I met a really beautiful, sexy woman in an online game. We started messaging on Instagram, and a week later—once she found out the size of my «little rascal»—she suggested we see how I performed in the bedroom. I drove to her city for five days, and things got pretty hot every single night. Now, she flies in to see me once a month for a day, and we spend the whole time doing that wonderful thing… I’m 28 and she’s 34; I’ve never had a woman this hot in my life!

A woman lived in a one-room apartment in our building's entryway. She’d inherited the place from her elderly parents long ago, but after their funerals, she suffered deeply and—without even realizing it—sank into alcoholism. She didn't work; instead, she’d hang out with the local drunks, swilling moonshine. Unlike them, she didn't beg, but she absolutely loved animals. She’d take in every stray cat she found and keep them in her apartment. No one knew where she got the money, but the smell of boiled meat often wafted from her window, and she clearly fed the cats something. A neighbor got fed up with the constant stench of cat filth and went over to confront the woman. She walked in and found her devouring a boiled cat; there was a pile of bones and rotting pelts in the corner, and about twenty cats were yowling around her, begging for food.

Back in school, during our safety class, they taught us how to stop bleeding, but I didn't pay attention and just did my own thing. Then, one day while walking down the street, I witnessed an accident where one of the victims suffered arterial bleeding. Blood was spurting out like a fountain; I just stood there watching, unable to do anything but call an ambulance. But they didn't make it in time. I later found out the man who died had a wife and a four-year-old daughter. I still can't forgive myself for it.

There’s a colleague at the office who walks without lifting her feet—she shuffles loudly enough for the whole place to hear. You can hear her coming from a mile away. On top of that, she sighs heavily, acting as if she’s being forced to haul heavy sacks. She stomps and shuffles back and forth in her slippers like a lumbering elephant, annoying absolutely everyone. I politely asked her not to do it—it’s loud and infuriating. She ignored me. I gave her a car jack for her birthday. She had gotten on everyone’s nerves so much that the whole office chipped in and sent money to my card with comments like «Thanks,» «Hilarious,» and «Finally!»

My brother took out a loan to impress a girl he’s liked for a long time; he took her to restaurants, bought her gifts, and even took her on a seaside vacation. But once the money ran out, she stopped answering his calls. She never promised him anything—they weren't even dating—she just accepted his courtship. Now he’s asking for help with the loan; he’s barely scraping by, and Mom is in tears. Look, I’d happily lend the money, but I refuse to pay off such a shameful loan—he needs to learn a life lesson. Now Mom hates me; it’s both funny and sad.

I love sex. In any form, and in large quantities. I’m 27, single, not ugly, and can hold a conversation. But lately, I keep running into men who *don't* want sex!!! Even the married ones prefer going to the movies with me rather than giving me a good pounding at my place—anytime! What the hell??? My girlfriends have the exact opposite problem: they want relationships, but men only offer them sex!

I’ve noticed a pattern regarding men's bodies. A man’s penis is shaped just like his fingers. For instance, if the fingers are thick at the base and taper toward the tips, the penis is the same way—with a small, narrow head. Conversely, if the fingers widen towards the tips (say, with spade-shaped nails), then the penis is narrow at the base while the head is wider—or even larger. And naturally, if the fingers are thick, it’s thick; if they’re slender, it’s slender. The resemblance is especially striking with the thumb ;) I haven’t seen that many penises, mind you!

After sex, I went to the bathroom to freshen up my pussy. Since there was no hot water, I grabbed the electric kettle, thinking, «Ooh, nice and warm.» I sat down, spread my legs, and poured the water—only to scream in agony right down there! It felt like red-hot iron! Then it hit me: an hour earlier, I’d put descaler in the kettle! I called my boyfriend over and asked him to check if my pussy was still there or if it had dissolved. It turned out fine—it did a great job removing the limescale, and I didn't even get burned.

I came home pretty drunk after a work party; my wife was in the kitchen with some girlfriends, chatting about life. I walked in, said hello, and told them I was heading to bed; I stripped naked, turned off the lights, and got into bed. Half-asleep, I heard the door open as my wife tiptoed in with three girlfriends, all of them giggling softly. My wife whispered, «He's passed out—we can do it now!» She pulled the covers off me and started caressing my cock, while her friends gasped and marveled at it. It really stroked my ego. I adore her.

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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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