Vibrations of a Vixen

…stories from under the sheets…

My Brazilian. My (ir)Responsibility. January 29, 2010

Filed under: hypersex,rants — vixations @ 11:37 am

My Brazilian decided to leave the sunny City of Angels and move on to more, well, European adventures. He packed up his apartment, sold the Ikea bed that I sold him several months ago, and took about 900 bags on the airplane to Germany. Or London? I don’t fucking care. Anyway, the Brazilian decided to spend the night before he left with none other than the wonderful MOI! Why? I had no effing clue. I’m fun, but I’m not SO fun that you’d want to spend your entire last night in America with me before MOVING away to another continent. It was a Sunday. I was already drunk (naturally), and he brought over a bottle of wine from the 7-11. Even after only a few dates, he knows me well.

There I was, drunk on the couch, watching E!, and squealing about the Giuliana and Bill show because the guy I made out with on Friday happened to be on it. My roommate knew all about it. My Brazilian didn’t. Not like he would have cared. He speaks good English, but sometimes I feel like he doesn’t understand what I’m saying. Maybe because I talk too fast. Or too high-pitched. Especially while drunk. Maybe he’s like those animals that can only hear certain pitches. Did I just make that up?

The most likely explanation is that he really doesn’t care what I say at all, he just came over so he could sleep with me. Same reason why any guy comes over on a Sunday night. Right? I mean he certainly didn’t come over to watch Giuliana and Bill.

So we drank more. Much more. Until I decided I wanted to be horizontal, and I didn’t care if he wanted to join. The next part is a blur. Sometimes when I close my eyes I’m not sure if I’m awake or dreaming. Maybe that’s how I’m able to convince myself that things like naked Brazilians in my bed are okay.


If only I HAD sick days at this god-forsaken hell hole also known as my job.

The next afternoon, I received a message via Facebook from the Brazilian.

Subject: hi from London

Message (abbreviated):

so just wanted to say that was great meeting you, i like your fun sweet easy-going personality and most of all, i like that you are a very truthful (is that a word?) and original person

wish you the best!


PS.: as usual… sorry about the irresponsability that day, my fault! Would you hate me forever if I asked you to take one of those day after pills?


You can’t make this shit up. He doesn’t even know if ‘truthful’ is a word. Or how to spell ‘irresponsibility.’ And, REALLY? One of those ‘day after pills’???? Great. He DIDN’T use a condom. Again. After I FREAKED OUT last time. What the hell is wrong with everyone??? Why is it MY responsibility to ask YOU to throw a rubber on your South American cock? Why is it that I always have to prevent the babies and the diseases? I’m not responsible at all! If you were worried about little children running around, don’t fucking cum in me. Or get a vasectomy. OR USE A CONDOM. Especially when I’m half in dream state and half totally wasted. It’s YOUR COCK and therefore YOUR RESPONSIBILITY if my egg gets fertilized. It doesn’t fertilize itself, idiot. And you don’t just take the ‘day after pill’ whenever the fuck you want. It’s SO BAD for you. Not as bad as an actual abortion I guess, but you’re only supposed to take Plan B like twice in your life. This is something all boys should know. There are some retarded females out there who take it all the time, but I certainly don’t. In fact, I’ve never taken it before. Because I’m SO GOOD at taking my birth control, and I’ve been on it basically since I left the womb and there’s no way I’m getting pregnant anytime soon, even if I stop taking it. Also, I’m petrified of taking any pills (other than birth control) or putting chemicals into my body (which makes no sense, because I take birth control every day). I don’t take painkillers because I’m convinced I’ll get an ulcer or have a heart attack and die.

But, there’s no way I could ever take care of ANYONE else besides myself, and maybe the Brazilian has really fertile spermies, and since the message came less than 36 hours after the act, and I had a Plan B pack in my bathroom that Planned Parenthood gave me for free (because they know I’m a huge slut), I decided to open it, take a deep breath, and swallow it.

And that was the longest sentence ever.

Then I thought about all the ways I could die. Maybe Plan B will eat my stomach from the inside out and my intestines will fall out. Maybe the sperm-killing chemicals will also kill all of my white blood cells and I’ll contract swine flu and AIDS at the same time and slowly suffer for the next three weeks until my head explodes and there’s blood and dead sperm everywhere.

Clearly, I didn’t die. I didn’t even get sick. Although other girls have told me horror stories about having to skip school/work because the pill gave them the most evil and debilitating cramps of their lives. Oh, the sperm-killing terribleness!! Don’t we suffer enough with the monthly flow and the baby birthing??

These kinds of drugs were obviously created by men. If I had it my way, I would give all boys some kind of ‘night of’ pill before they sleep with me, not ‘morning after’ pill. That way I would be sure that if any of their sperm found a way into my ovaries, no babies would be made. And I wouldn’t even have to hear from them the next day.

Sounds like a win-win situation to me. Now, who’s the female pharmacist that’s going to patent this drug?? And what shall we call it?


Jason Segel. Sexytime. January 26, 2010

Filed under: ramblings,there are naked pictures of me on the internet — vixations @ 2:43 pm

You may or may not remember Jason Segel’s naked ass shot in Forgetting Sarah Marshall a couple years back. If you don’t remember, you should definitely watch it. I am impressed with Jason’s large, naked, less-than-toned bod, and the fact that he’s willing to exploit it in a feature film. A lot of people made a big deal about this. Was it because he writes songs about vampires? Because he’s awkward? Or because he’s NOT Hugh Jackman or The David? I don’t need to see tight, tan, toned asses all the time. I have Google images and porn for that. What I do need once in a while, is a loose, white, kind of mushy ass. Particularly one that’s on a tall goofy man. Who is totally my type. Now I’ll know what my future soulmate’s ass is going to look like. So thank you, Jason Segel, for that vital information. Also, thank you for the head nod I got at your birthday party the other night. I love you. I want to make out with you. You should date me. I want to make out with you. I love you. Let’s make out. <- All things I actually said drunkenly at the party. Luckily, not to his actual face. Just yelled across the room. I’m not sure if the head nod was a ‘I think you’re hot, but I’m with this girl right now so you should probably shut up,’ or if it was more of a ‘You’re fucking crazy and I’m nodding at you so that you know that I think you’re funny, but that I’ll never ever date you or make out with you ever. Ever.’


The important thing is that I DIDN’T get to make out with Jason, not this time at least, but I also didn’t get beat up by the girl he was with OR any of his friends for being super obnoxious, AND I realized that Jason Segel is even more awesome than I thought.

Jason’s modesty, the Kim Kardashian sex tape, and my recent furniture debacle has really made me think about asses. And boobs. And genitalia. I understand why people don’t show their penises and vaginas all the time. They all look REALLY different, and you use them for making orgasms and babies, so they are not for everyone to see. Boobs, though? They’re funbags. Everyone has them. And they’re worthless (unless you have a child). I mean, some of ours are hairy and muscular (not mine, obviously). Some are big and perky. And some of our nipples are smaller and pointer than others. They’re still all boobs in one form or another. And asses? Come on. They all look the same. Except some are jiggly and cottage cheesy and huge and some are flat and small and others are perfectly plump and tight and tan. Whatever though. We all know what asses and boobs look like because WE ALL HAVE THEM.

So why can’t I show everyone this amazingly awesome bruise I got last night when I was rearranging the furniture in my room? Just because it’s on my ass? Bruises are sweet. And cool to look at. So here’s my ass cheek. With a huge bruise on it. You’re welcome.

This picture does not even do justice to the actually brilliant color scheme. Don’t ask how it happened. Suffice it to say, I am blonde. And I don’t care if you think it’s ugly because your ass is probably ugly too. Or perfect. But whatever I don’t care about your perfect ass. I like my white gushy cottage cheesy one. And Jason Segel would like it too.


The Pinot Experiment: Update 1 January 21, 2010

Filed under: hypersex,ramblings — vixations @ 5:22 pm

I love how ALL of my conversations with women (and most of my conversations with men) end up being about sex. I’m not a nympho or anything. Actually, now I’m not sure. I just Googled ‘nymphomaniac’ to make sure I was spelling it right, only to find that the ‘older concept of nymphomania’ has been replaced with the term ‘hypersexuality.’ Did you KNOW that?? Who decides if a concept is ‘old’ or ‘outdated’ anyway? And who said that nymphomania only applied to women? Is this right???? Apparently in males it’s called ‘satyriasis.’ Gross. I’ve never heard a single person ever say that word. Probably because it’s NOT REAL and ALL MEN are hypersexual.

Anyway, it’s clearly all relative. My sexually activities might seem super tame to some people. Probably not most people, but whatever. I don’t need to be labeled as a hypersexual. Although I kind of love this term. The way I visualize it in my head is like a severely ADHD puppy running around and sticking its red rocket in anything and everything it can find. Or a wind up toy that spins in uncontrollable circles and falls off the table and bounces off walls. Or those sex chairs that push a mechanical fake cock in and out of your vagina at ridiculous speeds. Or one of the Jersey Shore characters having sweaty fist-pumping tongue-jabbing make-out sessions with every girl in the club. Ew. Sorry about that disgusting mental image.

Aaaaanyway, I love having conversations with girls about sex. A lot of girls are really uncomfortable talking about explicit sexual things, and are even less comfortable talking about personal sexual issues, like the one I confronted in The Pinot Experiment. Apparently no one wants to talk about their vaginas. Why? Got me.

This is my favorite though: when I talk about my chronic yeast infections and someone says, “OMG I get those too!” and I get super excited because I think MAYBE, just maybe, this girl will have the cure to my itchy discomfort.

It hasn’t happened yet, but, well, this happened:

Me: I just don’t know what to do. I’m not going to be able to just use condoms for the rest of my life. I’m not even convinced that condoms are the answer.

Friend: Yea, I don’t know, that really sucks.

Me: I know. I mean am I the only one that has this problem?

Friend: No, I get them all the time!

Me: REALLY? Isn’t it so annoying? It makes no sense! I mean why do we get them so much?

Friend: Um, well…

Me: It’s like they never go away! And no one will give me anything that actually WORKS! And now I never know if I even have one or it’s just in my head! And I have no idea if boys can even TELL if I have one or not. That would be nice if they could, actually. Is there a how-to on that? But even if they knew I had one, they still can’t solve the mystery of WHY!

Friend: I mean, I don’t know why you get them. But I think I know why I get them.

Me: Really?? Well that’s probably why I get them too!

Friend: Well, I don’t know, I mean yea maybe!

Me: So why do you get them?

Friend: Well, because sometimes my boyfriend fingers my ass and then my vagina.

Me: <jaw drop> Um… <dry heave> Ahem.

That is DEFINITELY why you get them, you idiot. Didn’t ANYONE ever teach this girl to wipe from front to back? Didn’t she make the connection that the SAME RULE applies for EVERYTHING??? I mean, really. If you’re going to go in the stink (which I’m not opposed to, I just personally don’t like it), you DO NOT GO back into the pink. You just don’t. That’s called POOP going into your VAGINA. That’s called such nasty bacteria going BACK INTO YOUR BODY.

Nicole, you clearly need to teach this in your new class on How to Not Suck.

It really amazes me, even after all the stupid things I’ve done, things like this still boggle my mind. I don’t mess with actual shit. Period. It might be my only rule, but it’s an important one.

In other news, I have been diligent in getting some actual results to this experiment. I’ve only slept with one guy without a condom, so I’ll know that he’s the culprit if I do in fact get another infection. I’ll know for sure in a few days.

In other other news, I have no idea why I created a ‘Sex’ category. Clearly all these posts are about sex. Maybe I just need to change the category to ‘Hypersex’ and only tag the most ridiculously fast Energizer bunny things in there. Good idea? Yes?


The Religious MILF January 20, 2010

Filed under: sex — vixations @ 10:36 am

This is the first Vixations Guest Post!

by Rupert Pumpkin

Should male guest bloggers be called something more appropriate? Stud Secrets? Cockations? That sounds like Caucasians. Well this post was written by a 20-something Caucasian male. So maybe it works.

When I asked Rupert Pumpkin what was going on in his head throughout the whole experience, he said this:

“Well there wasn’t much going through my head that I didn’t put there, to be honest. I was like, ‘Whaaat is going on. Should I do this? Yes. Done.'”

And that’s the difference between men and women, my friends. Amazing. Anyway, here goes…

I was home for the holidays, and decided to oblige my parents by attending church with them. I used to go to church twice a week anyways, so I figured one additional time wouldn’t hurt.  We get to church, and I’m feeling pretty haggard from the night before.  I’m dreading all the superficial what-are-you-doing-these-days catch up conversations that always seem to sprout up in these situations.  After somehow escaping to my seat and pretending to text some mystery friend on my phone, I look up and see her.  We lock eyes.  Holy shit! She looks great.  I can tell she is in one of those conversations that no one wants to be in.

The service starts and I get up to grab a drink of water, and I see her scurry out to the lobby.  Is she following me?  We talk for a few brief moments and catch up on life.  I haven’t seen you in years. You got divorced? Your 26th birthday is coming up? I am home for a few more days. We should hang out.  I don’t have your number anymore…

And it was that simple.  I had hooked up with her years ago, before she got married.  Maybe if I had some moral compass left after college, I wouldn’t have acted like this. Or maybe if I wasn’t in the midst of one of the worst droughts of my life I would have just smiled and let it be.  But I was on a mission.

I have to admit there were some red flags going off in my mind, maybe for about 25 seconds. I can recall numerous potential caveats: this woman just got divorced. Her husband cheated on her. She has a kid. She had to move back in with her mom. But… she’s a MILF. She weighs 100 pounds.  She’s Italian.  Smoking body.  She’s really sexy.  There is no doubt in my mind that she wants to fuck me.  What am I waiting for?

Sometimes women will complain that men think with their head and not their head. I was DEFINITELY thinking with my southernmost head here. I picked her up a few days later.  Shot the shit with her mom.  Took her out to a bar.  Had a few drinks. Talked about music. Swapped stories. Had a great time. Had a few more drinks. She wanted to pay the bar tab and I told her no. Paid the tab. Now what? As we walked to the car I asked her what we were doing next.  She responded, whatever you want. But she said it in the tone of voice that really meant, I don’t care as long as you fuck me as soon as possible.

As I’m driving home to my PARENTS’ house, I’m thinking, this is almost an unbelievable situation.  We get to my house, and I sneak her in.  What is this, high school revisited?  We head downstairs, tip-toeing around like we’re in the jungles of ‘Nam.  I throw on a Jimi Hendrix DVD.  I ask her if she wants a drink.  Next thing I know I’m fucking her on the pool table. Against the wall. On the floor. On the couch. From behind. She starts pulling out all these crazy porn-star positions. And Jimi is still shredding in the background. Let’s just say I was enjoying myself more than a little bit.

She tells me to cum in her mouth.  She looks at me and whispers, exhausted, spent, breathlessly, you’re the man.

It’s 4 A.M. and I take her home; I’m not really sure what to make of the situation. These types of things never happen to me. I’m never the man. But I have to ask: when’s the last time going to church got you laid, by a 25 year old, 100 pound, pure-bred Italian, smoking hot mom, in the basement of your parents’ house?


The Pinot Experiment January 15, 2010

Filed under: sex — vixations @ 1:38 pm

Here’s the thing: I’m notorious for doing things even when I say I’m not going to do them. As in, I have absolutely no willpower or self-control. I also believe that responsibility is overrated, and how are you going to have any fun if you’re always saying ‘no’?

Oh, and alcohol makes me horny. Oh, and I LOVE alcohol.

The night was SO dark and SO cold, and I was trying SO hard not to be a baby about it all. Finally, he noticed me shivering and gave me the warmest, softest, little green blanket ever (which I totally stole the next morning), wrapped it around me, and took my hand. Here we go. A friendly movie night was beginning to turn into something else, I could already tell. We were about two glasses of wine deep at that point, and there was still another bottle to drink. He was getting more snuggly. I was debating my choices and their consequences.

A. Stop drinking now, refrain from saying anything about the other full bottle, and have a 50% chance of not getting in bed with him.

B. Stop drinking after this glass, try not to say anything about the other full bottle, and have a 25% chance of not getting in bed with him.

C. Finish this glass, open the full bottle, and have a 0% chance of not getting in bed with him.

I’m proud of myself for realizing how quickly Pinot Noir affects my judgment and attempting to make choices accordingly.

However, if you know me at all, you’ll know exactly what I did.

D. None of the above.

I finished my glass, said nothing about the full bottle, but didn’t resist when HE opened it and filled my glass. Not trying to be rude. Also not trying to be sober. Just trying to make good decisions. Good decisions though, are also overrated.

After the movie, he announced, ‘Bed time!’ and dragged me from the couch to the giant bed with the down comfortable and 18 pillows and Egyptian cotton sheets, a.k.a. the most comfortable bed ever. I was practically asleep as soon as I hit the pillow because it was THAT awesome, and then I felt his hands all over me.

M: Your boobs got bigger.

Me: Yea, I noticed that too.

M: Are you pregnant?

Me: No.

M: Are you sure?

Me: Yes, I just finished my period.

M: Are you sure?

Me: Am I sure that blood was coming out of my vagina at rapid speeds??

M: Gross.

Me: Yes.

Next thing I know I’m face down on the perfectly pressed white sheets with his uncircumcised cock behind me. I’m wishing I didn’t notice the sheets.

Me: This is not your bed.

M: I know. It’s my sister’s.

Me: WHAT? It’s your sister’s? The one with the OCD? Where is she?

M: She’s out of town. I told you that.

Me: Oh. Well you better clean these sheets and you better hope your shit doesn’t stain.

I think about the fact that she’s definitely going to know we had sex in her bed, even if he buys her new sheets, because she’s super neurotic and notices every. single. microscopic. thing.

The dirty talk is fun. The sex is okay. His penis is very touch and go. Like a blowfish or something. It doesn’t maintain its hardness. Sometimes I ask him how it feels. He always says my pussy is amazing. His dick is not small or anything, but it’s not huge either, so unless it’s super hard I won’t get off. Later I ask him why it doesn’t stay rock hard the whole time. He says it’s just blood flow. I tell him to make his blood flow more. Or harder. Or something. He tells me I don’t have a penis (duh) and I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.

Me: Well no one ELSE’S penis does that.

M: Yes they do.

Me: How the fuck do you know?

M: Why are you talking to me about someone else’s penis???

Me: I really didn’t think we were gonna have sex.

M: What made you think that?

Haha. He’s right. We ALWAYS have sex when we see each other. Even if we don’t plan on it. I tell him I don’t know why I thought that, but then, because I’m drunk, I tell him the real reason.

Me: I went to the doctor a couple weeks ago because I had a yeast infection that wouldn’t go away.

M: And? (sort of freaking out)

Me: Well they told me it wasn’t just a yeast infection.

M: And?? (totally freaking out)

Me: Well…


Me: They told me…

(I’m really mean)

M: What!!???

It was just a bacterial infection that I had to take antibiotics for. They also tested me for STDs, but they all came out negative (YES!). They told me to use condoms every time. Hence NY Resolution #1. Which I’ve already failed at. And I really don’t know why I made that resolution anyway. Something to work toward?

The doctor told me it’s possible that whoever I’m sleeping with has the bacteria and/or the yeast and that we could be passing it back and forth. And yet I didn’t tell him about it beforehand, slept with him, and didn’t use a condom. Because I’m self-destructive like that.

On the up side, I am viewing this as an experiment for all girls with chronic infections like me. Do we REALLY need to use condoms to prevent them? Can guys really get yeast infections and spread them to girls?  Or do we just need to wash their junk and give THEM some kind of antibiotic so they stop giving us the awful annoying infection?

Results coming soon. The only down side to this is that I might have to plan another trip to the ghetto-ass Planned Parenthood in Boyle Heights. But it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make for the sake of vaginas everywhere.


Addiction: Round 2 January 12, 2010

Filed under: ramblings,relationships — vixations @ 1:01 pm

(Disclaimer: This is about as personal as it gets.)

I am concerned with my addiction. Yes, I know that addictions are always something to be concerned about. But I’m really good at blocking things out, especially when I’m worried about them. Like the gang bang. And the hot-tub-partner-swap. And the summer of 2005.

I am more concerned now, though, than ever. I assumed it was a crush. Okay, a crush with great sex. Okay, okay, a crush with great sex and great conversation. But after reading Jamie’s post on crushes, and actually thinking about this delicate anatomy, I am concerned that my crush is much more than that, and it totally freaks me out. Of course I hold my breath after texting him, counting the minutes before he texts me back. Of course I fantasize about what I would do to him if we were left alone locked away in a dark room. Of course I worry about any other girls crushing on him and figure out ways to make myself the best option he could possibly have. These are normal crushing behaviors that every girl has. These are the things that make crushing fun, and also obnoxious.

But then there are the other things. The things that may not be normal. The middle-of-the-nights when I wake up before the sun, roll over seeking his arm to hold or cheek to kiss, and am surprised when he’s not there next to me. The days when I’m at the grocery store and I buy things that aren’t on my list because I know he likes them. The times when I find myself thinking for two, not just about where I want to go or what I want to do or who I want to be in ten years, but about what he might want too.

And then I bang my head against the wall for being so completely unselfish in the time of my life where I am actually allowed to and should be the most selfish ever. And I think about the real reason for these unselfish tendencies. Am I simply being unselfish because I am an unselfish person? Hell no. I am one of the most selfish people I know. Am I being unselfish because I am in love? Because I know exactly how he takes his coffee? Because even after an entire night of sitting at the same bar talking not to each other, but to other members of the opposite sex, we still end up entangled in each other’s arms at the end of the night? Because he’s the one person that knows how hold me and how to keep me asleep for an entire night and how to handle my crazy? Because I can’t live without him?

Holy effing balls. I hope not.

As much as my heart tells me I want all that, my head tells me over and over that I’m not ready for that. Usually, my solution is to just not think about it. Block it all out and let whatever happens happen. Days and weeks and months go by. We spend hours on top of hours together. Things are great. I stop worrying. But then it happens. He stops answering my texts and calls. I convince myself that I’ve failed. I cry. I send him an email asking what happened and what did I do and why are you treating me like this?? And he says because he can’t do it anymore. Because he’s becoming too attached. Because it’s too good and why did we have to meet so young?

And so my only logical solution to this is to keep busy. Think for only one, not two. Make time for other people. Don’t fall into the whirlwind of lips and hips and fingertips. Pray that I’ll find someone else to fill my thoughts and fantasies. Hope that person isn’t as crazy as I am and knows how to handle temptation and make decisions with the head, not with the heart (or genitals…). Don’t question whether or not that person exists. He does. And he’s praying for me (and you), too.


I Have a Death Wish. January 8, 2010

Filed under: rants,sex — vixations @ 4:30 pm

But not for myself. Because I might not have to ASK 2010 to kill me. It might do that on its own.

My 2010 death wish is for whoever decided that skinny jeans look good on guys. And whoever decided that all aspiring band members should wear them (in case that person isn’t the same as the one who invented their appeal in the first place). Here’s why:

A few years ago I was working for a music production company. They also managed bands at the time. I became pretty close with one of the bands we managed (I’m tempted to say the name here, but I won’t), and started hanging out with them outside of work and shows. When I say I started ‘hanging out’ with them, I really mean this is when we started having drinks together, as opposed to just being drunk around each other. I also brought my best friend into the mix, who started ‘hanging out’ with my boss. One wasted night before I had any form of common sense (not to say I have much now, but I had zero then), my friend and I were conned into going back to my boss’s PARENTS’ house downtown for some post-partying action. I have no idea why going back to my BOSS’S PARENTS’ house didn’t seem weird to me at the time. Maybe because I was hammered. Or maybe because I was 18. Or maybe because, like I said, I had zero common sense.

‘We have wine, and vodka, and my parents are out of town.’ So we get to raid their liquor cabinet and go down on each other in your parents’ bed? Like high school all over again.

What the hell does this have to do with skinny jeans? Well, before I go any further with the story, here’s my beef with skinny jeans: Guys weren’t born to have curves like girls. For the most part, they are triangle-shaped, which is not nearly as pretty as the womanly hourglass shape. Male top halves are noticeably bigger than their bottom halves, and a lot of them were born with hairy chicken legs. Okay, they weren’t hairy when they were born, but lay off, they can’t help it. That said, why would ANYONE come up with a style that accentuates these unfortunate parts and cramps the ballsack? Any guy that wears skinny jeans MUST have a small penis and shrunken balls. Otherwise they wouldn’t fit. Right?

This brings me to my next skinny-jean-beef: Too many guys in bands wear skinny jeans. And there’s no functional reason for it. And I love guys in bands. I love to think that they all have big cocks and are super rhythmic in bed. Probably the reason I especially love drummers. Mmm. Anyway, if they are all wearing skinny jeans, that means their cocks are SMALL. And a small cock with rhythm < a big cock without it. Actually a small cock with rhythm < a lot of things. Like tequila. And cheese. Okay, everything < tequila and cheese, so that was a bad example. But you can always spot the small-dick-band members by their tousled, sideswept hair and their stupid jeans and their shoes. Boys in bands wear Converse, some form of vintage cowboy boot, or loafers. The shoes are one thing.

But the skinny pants?

After some more drinking, the debauchery began. I don’t remember the details. All I remember is waking up in the middle of the night, looking around, realizing that I was not in my boss’s bedroom or the guest room, but that I was IN MY BOSS’S PARENTS’ BED with the bass player from the band. Naked. And SO THIRSTY. And IN MY BOSS’S PARENTS’ BED. And what. the. fuck.

I got the naked hipster next to me to get up, put some pants on, and get us some water to minimize the effects of the nearby hangover. Which was still REALLY bad, by the way, despite the H2O chug session. Like, so bad that I didn’t even care when the boss’s parents came home early from ‘being out of town’ to empty bottles everywhere and an unmade bed. I think I left my underwear there too because I never saw it after that night. And it was super cute. Sad face.

Before all that, when we first woke up the next morning, he got up, put some pants on, and went to the bathroom. When he came back to bed, he took the pants off, and laughed. ‘What’s funny?’ I asked.

‘Nothing, I just realized I had put your pants on by accident. I was wondering why they felt a little big. Haha.’

Why they felt a little BIG?! Ha ha?? ExCUSE me?? Your skinny pants are SMALLER than MY skinny pants? But they’re SKINNY pants! That means that’s as SKINNY as I get! And I’m a girl! And that means that your skinny pants don’t FIT me! In what UNIVERSE is it okay for men to wear smaller skinny pants than women??

This one, apparently. And this is why I don’t hook up with hipsters anymore. And why look at boys’ hips and butts before I even talk to them to make SURE that their jeans will be bigger than mine so that they can’t ‘accidentally’ put my jeans on in the middle of the night and wonder why they’re too big. And also why I have a death wish.

So, small-dick-squished-balls-rhythmic-hipster-band-member-fashion-designer, you better keep one eye open when you’re sleeping because I am coming. And I will strangle you with a pair of size 25 skinny man pants. And you won’t be able to torture any more curvaceous women with your too-tight-ball-shrinking pair of jeans.