Say I were to go down on a lady. What exactly is the process? I need a step-by-step tutorial.
Are You Experienced?
“I were to go down on a lady.” (You told me to say it. And don’t you dare ask me a question in Jimi Hendrix lyrics.)
Your eagerness to learn is commendable, but I have to teach my Roomba how to unload the dishwasher, so I’m fresh out of leisure time. Since you’re still on Mom and Dad’s data plan, flip your phone to incognito and view some X-rated tutorials. Or ask your mom to crochet directions into a throw pillow. Neat! A cheat sheet.
Just the tip: If she screams faux O, back to the drawing board. Lady parts may seem like complicated machinery (band name?), but they’re really not. Have you built an Airbus? It’s not like that, so chill out. It’s possible for broads to pop a sober O in a matter of minutes, so learn the trick and you could be a keeper.
Your best bet, if you have a lady, is to watch her fiddle around and take notes. Then you can start a band called Complicated Machinery, strap on a goatee and sing about whether Nickelback is/is not having fun yet.
Report back and I’ll either rip you a new starfish for failing, or I’ll teach you how to teach a Roomba how to unload a dishwasher.
Now I have to go buy a Roomba.
Streams of some young guys
My best pal visited me in Denver from the ATL for St. Paddy’s weekend. I don’t get out much, as raising a toddler limits raging. (Leaving out a bowl of milk and letting her ride the dogs around the house while I’m at the neighborhood bar is apparently frowned upon.)
After living in downtown Denver during my formative years for nearly a decade, I’ve avoided Lower Downtown like it’s a pair of moldy granny panties riddled with fire ants and chocolate pudding. But since I’m such a pal, I LoDo’ed for my bestie, D.
We went to Fado Irish Pub for its (WHAT) $20 cover-charge festivities and $8 Budweisers — which took a far backseat to my purse flask. (D got me a fake sunblock bottle that doubles as a flask. It’s my new favorite thing to drink at work.)
Point ahead: I hit up the row of portable toilets to relieve myself. While simultaneously hovering over the pit of despair, I was holding up my skirt and gripping my stupid green aluminum beer bottle with my teeth when I realized my right leg was getting wet. Shit, I’m peeing on myself (that’ll happen). I readjusted, moving further back, but my leg was still getting wet.
PSA: The following announcement is not for the faint of gut. I finished my task, turned around and watched as the men’s clogged urinal runneth way over.
I exited, drank half of my sunscreen and housed $36 worth of overpriced booze in 10 minutes to suppress the memory.
I took two showers that night. One was to wash the juice of 100 men off my leg and one was to wash the LoDo off my soul.
Unless I get attacked by a pack of rabid jellyfish prior to festivities, D may have to go it alone next year.