Drum roll please……..
So the Grand Prize goes to Ms. Laura with a story that made me piss my pants. Short, sweet and not exactly boner approved:
So my first boyfriend and I had been having sex for about two months.
One night he was having a difficult time getting hard because he had been drinking. Since it took awhile, I began to space out and thought about random things as he ripped open the condom wrapper and as he put it on. I realized, then, that my thoughts had been swirling around one, very, essential question: "Honey, if you were going to rape me, would you wear a condom?" And then I farted, he lost his boner and we didn't have sex that night.
He still makes fun of me for that night.
And my two runner ups are:
1. Ms. Joanna at http://notesfromalabprincess.blogspot.com/ :
Let's rewind back a good 3 summers ago, to a time when I was horny and had not had sex in over a year. Hey, if we're being honest here, it was well over a year and I was getting desperate. I met this guy at a mutual friends apartment at the beginning of the summer, and he was SO not my type. I mean complete nerd, wore the glasses, and I'm sure if he still lived at home his mom would pick out his matching polo/jean/tennis shoes combination to wear every day. About 2 weeks after the first and only time we hung out, he finally did the oh so popular thing of adding me on Facebook, finding my AOL instant messenger, and starting a conversation. After dinking around and doing the small talk thing, he finally asked me out on a date.
For the record, this was my first technical "date" ever. I don't do dates, well at that time I didn't do "dates". I also didn't do "boyfriends". Think of what Samantha from Sex and the City would be like when she was 20. So this was unfamiliar territory for me. The first mistake, and sign that this was all going to go badly for me, was when he picked out our first date to be a movie, and to top it all off, he picked....Knocked Up. And let it go on the record that is the WORST movie to see on a first date. Awkward, and definitely ensures that you're not getting ANY anytime soon.
Turns out this guy was uber into me, and well, I was getting some hot make-out sessions, so I figured why not keep it going, it can't be that bad, can it? Well of course it can!
About 3 weeks into our "relationship", my dad died. So of course I drop of the face of the earth, and don't re-emerge until about another 3 weeks later. I want nothing to do with any sort of commitment, relationship, or anything requiring any sort of emotion. Perfect time to have lots of mindless sex....Or so I thought.
Of course I was the first one to make a move, the boy was a virgin. That should have been sign #2 that it was going to end badly. So I started with the "wandering hand" while we would make-out, and thank goodness things began to progress from there. Eventually he progressed to some bumping and grinding and rubbing all up on each other. But eventually it stopped progressing from there and I was horny as hell and this was getting way to unsatisfying. I was ready for some hot and heavy non-emotionally connected sex. There was just one BIG problem (and no, it was not the size of his ding dong).
This boy came like it was his job. And this was before we even started having sex! I mean he was getting off like a prepubescent boy who realized he could rub one out constantly. There was one time he looked at me, I didn't even touch him, and he came. It was unbelievable. So I was getting even more desperate and pretty sick of him always getting off and me just becoming sleep deprived with a tired jaw. How bad could the sex be anyways? Maybe he just needed some va-jay-jay to cure his quickness.
So it was finally time to do the deed. And boy was it a memorable minute and a half. It was as if he were masturbating with my vagina. I laid there and attempted to see the TV that was directly behind him. Luckily it didn't last that long, so I could get back to watching my movie. Sadly, he wanted to go at it again, and who would I be to deprive a boy of sex. Who knows, maybe I could finally get off? What's the worst that could happen, I miss another 2 minutes of my movie?
Wrong. And it gets worse. He finished again and as he lay there still inside of me, I realize he's starting to cry. And we're not talking one glistening tear, he was sobbing. Full on balling his heart out. And just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, he says (while still sobbing, try to get a good mental picture here), "I just love you so much, I don't know how to handle all of this love. You're just so amazing, I love you sooooooo much!"
There were tears, and I love you, and he was still inside me. All I could think of was "I can't laugh. I can't laugh. I cannot laugh at him right now.How am I going to get out of this one, I can't ever see him again. Don't laugh." At least I can look back on it now and laugh, but at the time the crying and the "I love you" was just too much at the time. Needless to say I avoided him for the next week and broke up with him the day after our 2 month anniversary. Tragic it took me that long to break it off. Like I said, should have known it would be bad when he picked Knocked Up as our first date movie.
And last but not least, Ms. Jas, at http://www.smilebigandpretty.com/ with “Healthy Masturbation: How I Learned the Hard Way.”
As a child, my parents were always slapping my hands because I was touching myself or ripping off my clothes in public. They eventually learned not to give me any kind of toy that shook or vibrated (See you later, Elmo.) I hopped on the hormone train when I was nine years old - early, early bloomer. I was that girl; the one who walked into fifth grade with a small set of boobs and hormones already already simmering. I straddled pillows and other random crap because it felt good. It should go without saying, but I'll say it anyway: I was always a sexual being.
I was thirteen, almost fourteen, when I began to seriously try and masturbate to achieve an orgasm instead of poke around down there to see what was up. I had seen the movies. My prettier, social butterfly best friend had already had a close encounter with a boy. Relying on film scenes from the late 90's and early 2000's or on my prettier friend to tell me what an orgasm felt like while I suffered through some hellacious hormonal urges was torture. I needed to figure out how to come, and quickly. Fingers didn't work for me; they never have. I always gave up after laying in my bed, wondering why the hell I was rubbing off for eleven billion hours with no orgasm to speak of. I went onto an internet chat room - you know, one of those "for teens only" rooms that, in reality, was probably crawling with 30 and 40 something old men - and asked, "I need to have an orgasm. What do I do?"
HOTGUY18: get a dildo.
ME: I can't.
ME: I'm too young to buy one.
HOTGUY18: want 2 cyber, a/s/l
*CUTIEPIE2000*: hm maybe a banana
BKSTRTBOYZ4LIFE: a pencil
*CUTIEPIE2000*: oh try a hairbrush handle
Bkstrtboyz4life was a fucking moron, because that pencil didn't do shit. I tried the hair brush handle. Nothing. I tried the banana, but I was a dumbass and peeled it first. It broke off inside me and I spent the next half hour frantically shoveling banana mush out of the danger zone. I went to the kitchen to put the spoon in the dishwasher and hide the evidence when I spotted an empty wine bottle near the recycling. My mind began racing: Could that maybe...? No, don't even think about it. But still. I bet...
I grabbed the bottle, washed it with some soap and water, and shut myself in my bedroom. I put some music on. I sat on my bed and worked up my nerves to do it. This was it. This was going to do something. And I pushed it in a little. And then a little more. Uncomfortable, but I had read that the first time you stick something in there wasn't going to be a parade of fun, so I kept going. And suddenly, I felt something rip and the most uncomfortable sting in my life. I didn't know this at that point, but I had broken my hymen with a goddamn wine bottle.
It really hurt, so I tried to pull the bottle out. Only the bottle wasn't budging.
I pulled harder, but no luck: I was too sore and that bottle was lodged up in there. I began to cry and panic. What do I do now? I have to get this out. Can I call someone? Can I even walk to the phone to call someone? Oh my god, what the hell is going to happen to me?
I sat on my bed, bawling like a baby, until my mother got home from work and heard me in my bedroom. I had covered myself with a blanket by the time she got to my bedroom.
"What's wrong, sweetie?" She asked. She had most likely assumed that I was crying because of my lack of social success at school. Oh, how she was wrong. I lifted the blanket and her expression changed instantly. "The hell have you done to yourself?"
"It's," I managed to get out, "It's stuck!"
"Oh my god."
My mother and I sat there, trying to will the wine bottle out of my vagina, for another half hour before she threw her hands up and said, "I don't know what else to do. We have to go to the emergency room."
"Don't do that! What the hell were you thinking, sticking a wine bottle up your cooch? What in the world made you think that was a good idea?"
I was silent all the way to the hospital. I had to walk into that lobby with a large blanket draped around by body while I held the wine bottle in place so that it wouldn't dangle and damage my insides. There were a few people ahead of us with legitimate and life threatening emergencies, so my mother, my wine bottle dildo, and I had to wait in the lobby for another half hour until a nurse came and fetched us.
I could tell that the doctor wanted to laugh at me; he even called in two more nurses so that they could "have a look." They explained to me what had happened: the wine bottle, because it was uncapped, had created a suction cup effect when it got so far up into my vagina that it broke my hymen. It's like that trick you can do when you suck on a plastic drinking cup so that it sticks to your face except, this time, it was a wine bottle and my vagina.
In the end, they managed to get it out by making my lie down and try a variety of interesting positions while they tapped on the bottle with special hammers. A few days later, when I had somewhat recovered physically, my mother would sit me down and give me an important talk about masturbation and hygiene. Specifically, why I should never put a wine bottle, "or any other kind of bottle, for that matter," in my vagina again. That initial long silence on the way home from the ER, however, was only interrupted by her quietly saying,
"I think that it would be a good idea to keep this a secret from your father."