Something About Fran

I finally got fucked on my full-size mattress. 

His dick was good.

His jawsome was awesome.

And he likes to cuddle afterwards.

Oh yea, dude accidentally came in my hair.  

I Wanna Put You To Bed

I’ve owned my full size mattress for two years, and have never had sex on it.

The ex hated my bed, said it was too firm.  So nights were spent in his soft king size bed.  Too bad you can’t select an orgasm when you select your sleep number.

So aside from wanting to get fucked on the wall, I may need to start off small and get fucked on my bed.

How Real Is Your Shit?

I only own two real designer purses.  Each gift was purchased in the store, accompanied with a certificate of authenticy.

On the other hand, I have personally purchased several questionable designer purses from a Vietnamese woman on Canal Street.  Nothing verifies their authenticy.  But an oversized Gucci for $80 beats a Berkin at $15K.

Some women put too much emphasis on authenticy.  Who the hell cares if a chick rocks a fake Loius.  Instead of labeling her as a trifling, perpetuating bitch attempt to consider that she may enjoy designer looks but cringes at the price of a purse worth more than a semester of school.

The same chicks rocking authentic $3K Chanel purses are still rolling with counterfeit, trifling ass men.  Your purse and its certificate do not outshine the fact that your man is wack as hell.  Fraudulent as fuck.  Treats you like shit.  And is banging three other broads on the side.  And one of them is rocking that “NewNew’” Canal shit and your man loves it.

So babygirl, trust and believe your shit ain’t no more authentic than mine.  And to make matters worse, I saved a couple of G’s while managing to slide my number to your man while you were busy strolling through Saks looking for a purple Chloe purse.

Open your eyes and stop focusing on being able to recognize a real Fendi purse and become trained in the art of recognizing a real man.

Stop concerning yourself with what’s hanging off the arm of the next chick and pay close attention to the arm you hang unto and call the real thing.

This Ain't No Love Thing, We Just Kickin' It

I waited almost a year to fuck Deondre, and I’m glad I did.  I had to make sure that I could interpret the rush of endorphins to my head as being nothing more than physical pleasure.

I am extremely aware of the fact that having sex with a man doesn’t mean anything more than you had sex with that man.

When I realized that I liked Deondre and wanted more than sex, I knew sex was not an option.  I actually considered leaving my boyfriend to date him but knew that shit only worked in the movies.  So I decided to stay with the ex and made a good effort at not imagining I was fucking Deondre while riding the ex’s dick. 

I cut Deondre out of my life.  The visits to his office ended.  Sushi for lunch was replaced with turkey sandwiches the ex prepared.  Our late night conversations dwindled into late night texts, which came to a halt when the ex went sneaking through my phone and read that, “I miss it”.

He knew what IT was.  I knew what IT was.  But we both ignored it and went to sleep.

A platonic relationship between Deondre and I bloomed in the spring semester.  He had a new girlfriend, wanted to marry her, and I was faking happy (and multiple orgasms) with the ex.  Life was perfect. 

I knew I was ready to fuck him when he told me that he planned on extending their engagement date, and I felt nothing.  I wasn’t happy.  I didn’t visualize him getting a ring sized for me instead of her.

All I saw was the imprint of his dick in those royal blue balling shorts he loves to wear.

So I told him I wanted to fuck him.  He was shocked but nonetheless interested.

The problem a lot of women have is that they overanalyze sex.  Fuck being a bag lady and bringing your past drama into a new relationship.  Women need to stop lugging in the idea that after sex a man will want more and there will be more into the bedroom.

Usually, when a woman sleeps with a man for the first time she begins to suffer from thoughts of grandeur: “What does this mean?” “What does this make us?”  “Where will this go?”  Hoping that the answers will lead to an emotionally healthy stable relationship.

Get up, get dressed and accept that the answers are: We had sex.  Fuck buddies.  Hopefully unto the floor with you on your knees and me fucking you from behind.

On the other side of the bed, the man is thinking, “Damn, that shit was good”.  He is not considering you as his next girlfriend or if he should cancel his fuck appointments for the upcoming week and deem you his exclusive fuck.

Sex is sex.  It is not the beginning of a monogamous relationship.  Instead it may be the last time you see him.

He is not your next boyfriend, he is the next sexual partner added to your list. 

He is not your man; you are not his boo.

He is a tongue, dick, and balls. 

You are not a pretty face; you are a pussy.  A wet and willing pussy.  And when you leave there will be another one awaiting his thrust.

And if you chose to attach your heart to your clit and allow him to eat and devour both then you are at fault, not him. 

We become enraged when men try us by leaving out the fact that in their world oral sex implies intercourse.  But can you imagine how a man feels when the conditions of monogamy and a long-term relationship are not brought to the table during negotiations.

When they are finally revealed after multiple orgasms.

They freak!  They still fuck us, but they freak.

I just wish some women (including myself) would stop playing the victim, stop getting played, and learn the rules of the game:

Sex is sex.  Cum does not belong on your glasses.  Raw dawg is a never.  And apparently oral sex does imply intercourse.

What A Gwan?

There's this guy that apparently has attended my school for a few years, yet I never noticed his fine ass until last week.

It's amazing how being played can open your eyes to new potentials.

So dude is like really cute.

He's tall.  Nice complexion.  Gorgeous smile.  Not too slim.  Well-groomed facial hair.  Decent dress.

Only problem is he does this weird accent thing.

He stopped me in the library last week.

My clit began to tingle.  I was a little too excited that he knew my name.

I tried to seem intrigued by his conversation but was dishelved by a fake Jamaican accent.  I told him that I was American hoping this would bring him back and stop "pretty gal" from being inserted at the beginning of each sentence.

I was hoping it was a one-time thing but today he had a phony French accent.

When I asked him what was up, dude told me he was a scitzo.

I am completely turned off by all this personality confusion but I'd still fuck him if I had the chance.

I'd fuck him.  The Jamaican.  I'd pass on the French.  The Latino could definitely eat my pussy.  But the Haitian sensation would get the deuces!

I Am Not Princess Fiona!

This plump man in my program is trying extremely hard to get up in my pussy.

He alleges that at the last social event I was soliciting my pussy, and he being too kind of a gentleman to turn me down, accepted on the spot.

The only problem is no one from that evening but his intoxicated ass can attest to this "Fuck me tonight" offer

Now I've been known to become an aggressive flirt while drinking, but I only flirt with men who when I'm sober would make my clit tingle.

This little man makes my clit twitch.  Twitch in a mode of urgency to get the fuck out of his eyesight.

He is so far from my fucking type.  And he's entirely too wack and little to even eat my pussy.

He definitely needs to commit suicide.

So when he reminded me of that night, I was flooded with the image of fucking his Pillsbury doughboy dick.  All I could do was laugh in his face.  It was more of an evil cackle followed by a snort.

You know how some men just appear to be slanging that King-Kong make you wanna squirm in the middle of class Mandingo dick?

Well this dude is NOT!  This stocky midget of a man looks like he is slinging nothing but HOT Krispy Kreme donuts.

So I politely informed him that I would never in a wet dream or while masturbating want to fuck him.

Obviously I wasn't frank enough because dude is still trying me.  He compliments me everyday and today was extremely extra.

He told me that I looked exceptionally beautiful and would give me anything in the world I wanted.

I told Shrek that what I want in this world is for a man twice his height with muscles and a big dick to fuck me dry and then commence to eat my pussy and make me scream in delight.

He replied that I shouldn't doubt his size and he recently got a subscription to LA Fitness.

Tomorrow I'm going to bring papa smurf a package of plastic knives.

How Many Dicks are In My Pussy?

This dude is keeping mad tabs on my plight to catch an orgasm.

He is entirely way too invested in my sex life.

He always manages to fill my BBM with the 5W's:

Where is Deondre's girlfriend gonna be when he fucks you?

What you plan on doing when Deondre comes over tonight?

Why you ain't fucked Deondre yet?

When you gone fuck Deondre?

Who else you plan on fucking other than Deondre?

One day I lost it and sent him a voice note demanding he chill out on the interrogatories.

But he just didn't get it.

I had to relay my frustration to his bust it baby. I told her that if dude was not in my pussy, then stop being in it.

I'm sure he remains puzzled to this day on what that means.

It means if you ain’t fucking me, trying to fuck me, or thinking about fucking me then by all means get your nose, mouth, and tongue out of my pussy and focus on the one you're supposed to be in.

How Much Is Too Much?

Deondre just might be a sociopath.

Dude straight flipped the script on me a few hours ago.

Provided below is a snippet of our conversation.  Pay close attention to his utter bullshit.

Deondre: We can meet for dinner but I'm not buying. I have an investor meeting that finishes at 830 we can meet after.

Me: Wow that's fucked up. What the hell did I do to you?

Deondre: What's messed up?

Me: You not buying.

3 hours later...

Me: Why don't you just come over here so we can talk.

Deondre: No. We can just scratch it all. I don't want some1 who's gonna say its fucked up bc I don't buy them dinner. As if I havent done that plenty times in the past. Is it abt us talking and seeingwhere each other is at or is it abt dinner? I don't want a woman who's like that.

Me: D I don't have my finaid so I can't afford dinner. If I could it wouldn't be a problem. I wanna see you and talk and wk something out.

Deondre: O ok. Well nxt time say that and please don't make me feel like I'm being used and supposed to do it. I want to get to know YOU.

This nigga is straight playing mind games, and to make it worse he thinks I have no clue what's really good.

Faye advises I leave his fuck ass alone, but I'm not ready.

After all this, I deserve an orgasm.  No fuck that shit, I deserve multiple orgasms!

This dude is officially about that fuck shit, and I swear I'll physically flip on his ass if his dick is wack.

Going Dutch

Deondre still wants to do dinner.

But he's not buying.

WTF!

Yes, You Got Caught

***For those mentioned in this entry, do not take offense to the random truths discussed. You know if I have a problem with you, it is handled face to face and not via internet***

While at yesterday's ceremony, two of my friends were IM-ing each other about Deondre and I.

My homegirl who came with me was actually using my Berry and forgot to delete the conversation.

They were going back and forth about me forgiving Deondre too quickly.

I was a little thrown off by this comment considering I don't remember sending a news flash or even posting a blog entry that all has been forgiven and forgotten.

Just because I allowed him to hold my hand so he could fantasize about covering my red glasses with sticky white goo, does not mean I have forgiven him.

Just because I put aside my beef with him and came to his ceremony does not mean I have forgotten that he played me last week.

Its funny how females talk about you or advise you on how to live. How you should let that nigga go, or move on and get another dude to fuck.

Or that your man is a dawg and to leave him, or remain patient for Mr. Right.

When they spew advice they do not even use themselves. The same women who preach about being strong-willed and not falling for a nigga's BS are the same ones that let a man treat them like shit and continue to fuck him.

The same ones who after every relationship, jump from their current dick and ride another because they fear being alone each night.

The same ones who have no idea how to just listen, shut the fuck up, and not respond when you are venting about things in your life.

So stop giving advice that you would reject yourself. Realize that when people are ready to move on they will, and your job as a "true friend" is to be there, remain there, and not doubt or talk shit about that person no matter how much you may disagree with their actions.

We all have weaknesses, but my weakness does not make me a weak woman.

So please get over yourself, step down from your pedestal and realize that you too are just as fucked up as me!

No Longer Jaded

Aside from wanting to assist Deondre with suicide, I still want to fuck him.

Not today or next week, but I'm still horny and in need of some good dick.

He called me late last night.

Wanted to do an early dinner today. I told him that would be cool, but doubted it would actually happen.

He asked was sushi ok. No. I need sharp knives (preferably steak knives) not wooden chop sticks.

And saki won't leave his crotch scorched with second degree burns.

He asked could he "cum thru". He wanted to give me something that he purchased after the ceremony. I told him I already had company on the way.

"Oh," he replied. I wasn't expecting company but he ain't need to know that.

Remain unavailable when he is available Ronda always preaches.

He took an entire commercial to gather his next bullshit line.

Before he could apologize again or tell me how beautiful I looked earlier, I asked him why he called.

He wanted to explain what happened last Monday.

That he was selfish and wanted his cake, pie, and cupcakes all at the same time.

That he noticed a semester ago I was losing interest and began pulling away from him.

That this bothered him and he couldn't lose me so he chose to perpetuate the idea we could be good together. That he'd hit my G-spot. Fuck me on the wall. Fulfill every fantasy I told him and even those I couldn't verbalize.

That by kissing me and planting the seed of unattached, good sex in my mind was only a ploy to ensure that'd I'd stick around.

That my ex wasn't worthy of me, and he was scared that I'd fall in love and forget him.

That he knew after rubbing my clit with his fingers in my office one day while managing to press ignore on all his girlfriend's phone calls, that being with me and her was impossible.

That he was stuck with a safe woman who would never leave, all the time while longing to be with a risk who could love him if she'd only let her guard down.

That he couldn't risk losing my trust by cheating on her. Trust he needed to make a relationship with me one day develop.

That he was sorry. Couldn't apologize enough.

Was 31, selfish, and aware that he had hurt me numerous times and may continue to do so in the future.

But that I was always the true ride or die chick in his life, not her. I had stood by him when everyone had disappeared. That on the most important day in his life, I was the only person there. Not his momma, not his kid brother, not that red bitch who asked him for 3 carats...ME.

And that he knew I wouldn't always be there to hold him down. That I'd wake up and realize he was a con-artist, a fake, a lie.

I listened and took everything in. I wanted to believe every word. I wanted to ask him to make a u-turn and come over.

But I couldn't.

And the sad part is only he'll know the truth, because I've been down this road before with him and in the process of our journey together I no longer believe.

A Week and One Day Later

Yesterday afternoon I received a text message from Deondre.
 
I held my breath as I read the message. He was getting sworn in as an officer of the court at 6pm and wanted me there.
 
Of course, his fuck ass waited 30 minutes before the ceremony to contact me.  Turns out his mom and brother were besotwed the initial invite. They were 20 minutes away from the school but had chosen to take a detour and purchase a new car.
 
No comment.
 
I exhaled and called my homegirl for assistance. When she reached the parking lot my hands were shaking. I was overcome with rage and if not for the fact that I was a crackberry fein might have hurled the phone into a wall.
 
I ran to my car and re-applied my makeup.  Made sure my lipglass was popping.  Put on my Versace glasses to remind him of his fantasy.
 
I was wearing dark denim jeans.  His favorite.  A shirt with the school's logo.  I was casual but cute.  My bamboo earrings were weighing my lobes down, but they too were a favorite of his.  All I needed were my wheat Timbs and he'd be in love
 
We met him at the courthouse.  He was wearing a blue, pin-stripped suit and to twist the knife inside my pussy even more he had the nerve to wear a tie I bought him for graduation.  He was also wearing the matching tie clip and cufflinks.
 
It wasn't as though he did it on purpose, considering he had no idea we'd see each other that day.  But looking at him accessorized by my efforts made me want to regurgitate and swallow.
 
He was all smiles when he saw me.  I dodged his hug.  My homegirl embraced and congratulated him. Now I have bitch tendencies, but was able to see past getting played and congratulate him on the beginning of his career.
 
He pulled me aside to talk.  The talk I envisioned over the past week involved a restaurant, sharp knives, and a cup of scorching coffee I could accidentally knock over unto his lap.
 
I asked him why he chose to invite me and not his girlfriend.  He stated that he did not have a girlfriend anymore.  I apologized.  I lied.  He said he wasn't sorry they weren't together.  I retracted my statement and told him neither was I.  He smiled and grabbed my hand.  He stood there holding my hand while looking into my eyes. 
 
It would have been the perfect time to slap the shit out of him, but I figured it was not courtroom appropriate.  Looking back, he was probably staring at my frames, imaging skeeting white lava all over them.
 
"All rise," demanded the bailiff.  The process was short and simple.  Deondre raised his right hand, repeated a promise to serve and protect, and was officially an attorney.
 
My homegirl cried.  I held back a tear, and couldn't help but become nostalgic.  I was flooded with thoughts of him trying to convince me to get my doctorate degree. 
 
The day he was accepted into law school.  The moment he told me that he was quitting his job.  The feeling of despair.

The first day I saw him again after two years of phone sex, Wednesday red-eye flights into my city, numerous fuck friends, and his parent's divorce.
 
It was an amazing feeling to watch him realize his dreams.  To see all of his hard work come to fruition.  It was beautiful.
 
I quickly snapped out of nostalgia and realized this nigga was still on my shit list.
 
I waited for him to return. Handed him his program and walked away.
 
No goodbye.  No "I'm proud of you".  No pictures.  I had to escape before I became weak.
 
He text'd me an hour later saying that we needed to talk.  Trying to be a hard ass, I told him what had to be said could only happen in person and if he couldn't make that shit happen, then today was it.
 
He apologized.
 
I responded with blank space to let him know this time I was not buying his bullshit.
 
Faye always comments that when a man has fucked up so much you don't even want to fuck him, he should kill himself. That when he isn't worth eating your pussy, he should kill himself with a dull knife.
 
Right now I want to give Deondre a butter knife and tell him which vein supplies the most blood to his heart.

Hate the Game, Not the Player

Today will be a week since getting played.

To think about it and put every inconsistent, pussy ass nigga stint Deondre has pulled on me into perspective, last week’s cancellation shouldn't be a surprise.

Faye is baffled herself.  I think everyone who is working laborious hours at getting me an orgasm is baffled.

Even my close male friend doesn't understand dude's malfunction.

“Maybe he's gay,” a friend stated as though him being a FAF (faggot ass faggot) would bring solace to the situation.

“Maybe he actually cares, or is afraid of hurting you,” another friend declared.  The thing is I'd rather be bowlegged with a slight limp after good sex than deal with how I feel now.

I feel like a complete fool.  I allowed myself to become vulnerable for a man with a well-known fuck ‘em and leave ‘em track record. I made it through undergrad, countless frat parties, long evenings alone with him at work, states apart with only phone sex as a comfort, and managed to not become a notch on his list.

But now, I'm just like the others except those chicks actually got fucked in the process.  Well I guess I got fucked too, just not where it counts.

Faye tried to cheer me up yesterday with the old "Everything happens for a reason" speech.  And I know she has a valid point, but its just like when I had to decline admission into Howard because of finances; no one wants to hear their hopes and dreams have been deferred because everything happens for a reason.

So what is my reason?  Maybe dude has a horrible infection or virus. Maybe I would have gotten pregnant.  Or maybe I would have experienced the best sex of my life with a man who has a ride or die girlfriend and also intends on marrying her within the next year.

Shit, maybe I would have lost the game and fell in love.

Fell in lust.

Shit, just fallen for his smooth ass game.

I never have regrets, only mistakes made and it is official readers Deondre was a huge mistake.

Like I said, last Monday was so predictable.  I was just too blinded by the feeling of my throbbing clit.  Couldn't process reality because every thought was on his thick, black dick.

Everyone has tendencies, but Deondre's ass has straight up nigga propensities. 

He is and will forever be a fuck ass nigga.

A dawg.

A womanizer.

A punk ass bitch.

(excuse my moment of typing rage)

But for real, he has always been this way so what made me think him being older and more educated would change his doggish mentality.

His law degree has only amplified his dangerous propensities. Now the nigga can prey on women in all arenas. He can seduce a judge into an extension, a female juror into a conviction, a prosecutor into a plea, and the courtroom audience into his bed.

Oh, the nigga is amazing!

He has been inconsistent since day one.  Do you know that nigga left the country without telling me.  His only response was, "Baby, you were the first person I called when I got back.”

WTF?

He also flipped on me in public and called me a hallucinating bitch.  Told me that I was crazy and was done dealing with me.

Again WTF?

And each WTF? is aimed at what the fuck was I thinking when I continued dealing with him after all this time.

I was thinking about his dick.  He knew what he was doing that day he invited me to his school and on the 4th floor in the law library showed me a picture of him naked.

Full frontal.  Shaven low.  Dick and balls.  Just how I like it.

You talking about your girl had to rush home and change her panties.

Moist.

Wet.

Please it was like a fucking flood between my legs.  I would have fucked his ass right then and there, raw, I was just that horny.

Once he showed me the photo and sent it to my phone to use for those late nights when he couldn't talk, it was over.

And it wasn't just the photo.  It was the years spent trying not to succumb to his charm.  It was the relentless effort made at being the baddest bitch and treating him like ultimate shit.  It was Lisa pulling me away from him at every frat party as though a simple conversation would lead to us fucking in his green Mustang convertible.

So the sexual tension of 4 years combined with my present sexual frustration has clouded my judgment.  I became his fool, his toy and have absolutely nothing to show for it but some of the best material I've written in years.

I guess tragedy truly is comedy at its best.

You Ain't Fooling No One

In the previous entry I discussed my girth/length test.  It’s not meant to prevent orgasms, just to allow women the opportunity to reflect on their options.

But trust me, men are just as bad if not even worse.

They think they’re slick by starting foreplay off with a little index and middle finger action on your clit.  Then they skip down a few inches and insert the two fingers into your pussy (those who are aggressive have been known to use three or more).

Next they probe you with the mind boggling, hopefully rhetorical question of, “Damn baby, what does your shit taste like?”

Um negro, how the fuck should I know? 

And ladies if you do know, please don’t answer when a dude asks.

So, he proceeds to pull out his fingers (or entire hand) and begins to suck on them in order to prove that he is a pussy juices connoisseur.

Do not let this shit fool you.  Dude is just applying the age-old “does her pussy have a tangy smell” test.

He is determining whether you are eatable.

Whether you are clean enough for him to risk suffocation.

Whether your shit is funky and reminds him of the smell of chitterlings or raw, spoiled seafood.

Or worse, the smell of BUDUSSY.

And then there’s the other method of testing.  This is when a dude may be too shy to ask how you taste, so instead he pulls his fingers out and distracts you for a few seconds by asking a random question and when the opportunity presents itself, he sniffs.  

He may even pull the fake cough trick, cover his mouth, and take a quick whiff.

All in all, you better past the old sniff-a-roo test or no cunnilingus for you.

He Wasn't That Damn Awesome

My friends say I no longer have the right to complain about the lack of good dick in my life.

That I should have fucked the dude from a few weekends ago: Mr. Awesome Jawsome.

I probably should’ve.  And maybe I did put my pussy on pause for Deondre, which in hindsight was a huge mistake.  But my decision was heavily influenced by a test I performed during foreplay.  When dude was one top of me sucking my nipples, I performed the girth/length test.

Yes, ladies the good old girth/length test.

As to not leave anyone out, here’s a brief tutorial.

The best opportunity arises when dude is on top of you kissing, sucking, licking, probing, whatever.  This is when you would reach for his dick and hold it in your hand.  Your grip will be as though you are holding a soda can (minus the pinky in the air for those of you who are pure boug).

Ok, do you have a visual?  Great. 

While still holding his dick, you will commence to rub your thumb slowly across the tip.  This allows you to check for premature ejaculation and will alert you that its time to fuck.  It also feels good, or so I’ve been told.

Now the key here, is to obviously check on the girth and length of his dick.  Your grip will secure an accurate girth measurement.  For most women girth is the least of their concerns.

Its all about the length.

So, if his dick is almost completely covered by your grip; if a few inches do NOT protrude, or worse, if nothing is there and the tip of his dick is completely covered by your grip you may want to reconsider this particular fuck.

Take a rain check and gather information on his skills.  Who knows, maybe dude can fuck.

Now this test doesn’t result in past or fail.  It just determines what type of girth and length you’re working with.  If you like them skinny, small, or both than by all means get your orgasm.

So when I performed the test on Mr. Awesome my hopes of getting fucked were deflated by the fact that my grip created a shadow over his dick.

Shit, it was more like an eclipse.  His dick and my orgasm disappeared within seconds.

So ladies, I had to weigh my options.  Get some bragged about head, or deal with his small dick sliding out of my pussy every other minute.

I chose the former and have absolutely no regrets.

Nonverbal Introduction

I miss the initial feeling you experience when a dude introduces his dick to your pussy.

No, “Hello, how are you doing?”  Skip the, “Hi my name is…”

It’s straight forward and to the point.  “Can we fuck?”

His confidence lets you know that no response is necessary.

You hold your breath to prevent answering in discomfort.

When the pain and pleasure of his first thrust combine, you greet him with a low, blissful moan.

His dick is pleased to make your acquaintance.

He pulls out slightly, leaving only the tip inside.

As though to say, “It’s been a pleasure, but I must go."

“But I don’t even know your name, sir,” your pussy pleads for him to stay.

Not one to disappoint, he slides back in.

He whispers something into your ear, but the motion of his dick overpowers your ability to hear.

His name is no longer important, as you both move simultaneously to a smooth tempo. 

A slight swivel of your hips answers his every thrust.

You dig your fingernails into the small of his back.

And take a brief moment to realize you are finally getting fucked and the shit feels amazing, and all you can do is

EXHALE.

I'm Clean, Don't Worry

I remember when Deondre found out I was on birth control and took this to mean he could raw dawg.

Why are some men more concerned about making babies than contracting or giving someone an STI?

He propositioned me with the idea that we could be great together, and that this greatness would include unprotected sex.

His actual words were, “I only want it if I don’t have to wear a condom.”

LMAO.  Hold on there buddy.

He explained that he had a clean bill of health; yet provided me with no proof.

I interrupted him with the reminder that both of us had significant others.  That I could never put my ex’s life in danger like that, and that I didn’t know nor trust his girlfriend’s pussy.

He replied that he knew where his dick was and most importantly that he knew no one else was fucking her. 

Negro please.  If you can skip out on her ass, trust, she can do the same to you.

He continued to explain how she was on birth control too.  That he wanted to experience all of me.  And that he never came inside her and would practice the same withdrawal method on me.

How delightful.  A male’s promise that he won’t cum inside of me.

I looked at his educated ass and burst into laughter.  Was that the most convincing argument he could provide?

I told him that I didn’t care where he came.  On my stomach, my back, shit my 500 thread count sheets. 

The issue at hand was not the location of his semen, but the act of having unprotected sex with him.

And his girlfriend, and whom ever she is fucking or has fucked.

I told him he was bugging and made it clear that sex with me would involve a condom.

Take it or leave it.

He left my counteroffer on the table next to the Spicy Tuna Rolls.