Putting The "Ex" Back In "Sex"

I was thinking today about the pros and cons of sleeping with girls whom I’ve already dated. Or as they like to say, “Left crushed and broken after devouring the delicate flower of their best days/weeks/months/years.”

I'm kidding. Honestly, I tend to have a pretty good relationship with my ex girlfriends. Maybe it’s because deep down, they know that I always respected them and never lied. Maybe it’s because I tend to date girls with whom I have a good rapport. Or it might just be because I never have to see them anymore. Whatever the case, I have gone back and slept with a couple women that I dated before.

I think this is an appealing proposition for women because they already know what they’re getting. They don’t have to go through the drama of seducing a guy then finding out that he’s into water-play or can only orgasm while a donkey shits on their chest. Also, a lot of women feel guilty about the number of men they’ve slept with. Even if their ex is bending them over a trash compactor, while gargling medical waste, they can tell themselves that they’re clean because it’s a guy that they’ve already slept with. “It’s as if it doesn’t really count!” they think.

I’ll admit that it’s tempting to go back for another tumble with girls I’ve dated. Mostly because I’ve already broken them in: they know what I like and there’s no hassle. When sleeping with a girl I already dated, I never have to say things like:

• “No, it’s not cool if your brother watches.”
• “Now you know: I don’t like it when you fist my ass.”
• “What’s that plastic bag for?”
• “You really want me to punch you when you reach climax?”
• “What the hell is a ‘safety word’? Is it—OH MY GOD!!! HAMBURGER!!! HAMBURGER!!!

Also on the plus side…sex with someone you’re dating is different than sex with a $15 prostitute you picked up outside of the V.D. ward of the hospital. And hopefully not just because of the ”name that fungus” game. There are just some things that you won’t do to a girl you’re dating. Like making her sleep in the wet spot, or really slapping her ass, or calling her names. I mean, generally I make love to girls I’m in a relationship with. Everyone else, I fuck. You’d better believe there’s a difference.

Why does this come into play? Well…have you ever carried a small petty grudge against someone you dated? I don’t mean filed charges against a stalker who sent you the severed heads of puppies, or the time you assaulted the whore who stole your car and gave you herpes. I mean small, almost insignificant frustrations you had against someone with whom you shared a mostly enjoyable part of your life. Maybe it was a phrase they said that drove you nuts, or a mannerism that was totally unconscious, or maybe it was just that you hated one of her best friends. There are few more satisfying revenges than anger fucking someone.

“Nag me about my facial hair, will you? Let’s see how much you like being poked in the eye!”

Bill W. And I Are "Just Friends." I Swear.

Today I got the following email from a close friend:

"so, i hadn't read your blog for about two weeks and i sat down and read them all in succession tonight. i fear that your addiction to sex may have surpassed your addiction to soco. am i really off the mark in saying that?"

I must admit, after a quick scan of my posts over the past week, that she may have a valid point. So I decided to investigate the issue a little deeper.

According to Jennifer Schneider, MD, PhD, the patterns and symptoms of sex addiction are:

1. Fantasy sex: neglecting commitments because of fantasy life, masturbation
2. Seductive role sex: extramarital affairs (heterosexual or homosexual), flirting and seductive behavior
3. Anonymous sex: engaging in sex with anonymous partners, having one night stands
4. Paying for sex: paying prostitutes for sex, paying for sexually explicit phone calls
5. Trading sex: receiving money or drugs for sex
6. Voyeuristic sex: patronizing adult bookstores and strip shows, looking through windows of houses, having a collection of pornography at home or at work
7. Exhibitionist sex: exposing oneself in public places or from the home or car, wearing clothes designed to expose
8. Intrusive sex: touching others without permission, using position of power (e.g., professional, religious) to sexually exploit another person, rape
9. Pain exchange: causing or receiving pain to enhance sexual pleasure
10. Object sex: masturbating with objects, cross-dressing to add to sexual pleasure, using fetishes as part of sexual rituals, having sex with animals
11. Sex with children: forcing sexual activity on a child, watching child pornography

Well, there’s no way I can pretend numbers 1, 2, 3, and 6 don’t apply. Forgive the expression, but you could say I’m “fucked.” I’ve cut classes, obsessed about flirting (umm…haven’t you read the rest of this blog? That’s pretty much ALL I obsess about), had one night stands, and have a pretty extensive porno collection. Thankfully, however, I have the decency to keep my pornography at home.

It’s rather depressing that I’m wondering whether extenuating circumstances come into play. For example, I’m not really into number 9, but this one time I was dating a girl who owned one of those big paddles that fraternities use to initiate new members and…well, you get the idea. And number 7, too. They don’t say whether having sex eight feet from your girlfriend’s slumbering roommate counts. I mean, it’s not like it happened all that often. 5, 6 times tops. OK, maybe 10.

The good news is that I’m definitely in the clear for numbers 4, 5, 8, 10 and 11. The bad news is that means, at worst, my score says that by a count of 6-5 I should check myself into a support group. I’d say “fuck me” but that might only exacerbate the problem (not to mention leading to more of number 3).

Wow…You know, I really didn’t think that it would be all that close. Seriously, I knew I enjoyed sex, but an illness…You know, if I had to pick one sex-related disease that I’d wind up with, nymphomania would have been near the bottom. I always assumed it would be one of those exotic illnesses, like “tropical crotchrot,” “bubonic testiculitis,” or “Explosive-hemorrhagic-whopping-cockhead-fever.”

Who would have thought that writing a blog with 183 posts on the general top of sex would be a tip-off to that I had a sex addiction?

I guess the bright spot in all this is that while recovery might suck, at least Sexaholics Anonymous is an unbelievable place to meet women.

Girls Who Don't Know Better

A depressing thought occurred to me today: I might be officially too old to bang high school girls now. Granted, there’s no law against sleeping with an 18 year old. But common decency says that if I want to bang a senior, I first have to be locked in a loveless marriage and have three kids.

It’s weird how time sneaks up on me like that. I’ve reached the age where being legally able to buy beer no longer translates into easy hand jobs from women desperate for the taste of cheap gin. And that’s just depressing beyond words. Honestly, I’m not sure I want to live in a world where that’s no longer a realistic expectation.

My friends have often said things along the lines of “If I knew when I know now back when I was in high school…” I never really went through that. I ALWAYS knew that kids I went to high school with were unconscionable pricks. It was a bunch of kids in a tiny pond who thought that they had a grip on what life was.

At my high school graduation I was walking around turning down people who wanted to sign my year book. Seriously, it was girls coming up to me with a pen crying and saying, “Oh my God, I’m going to miss you SO much. Please stay in touch.”

And I’d look at them and say, “You psychotic cunt. Do you have any idea how big of a bitch you were to me for the last four years? You never gave a fuck about me before, so let’s not pretend that you care now. You’re just terrified because you realize in about 4 months you’ll have failed out of college and will be blowing guys on a street corner somewhere. Fuck you!”

You know, in retrospect it’s not all that hard to see why I was a virgin through high school.

But back to the point at hand: barely legal girls. I’m 26 years-old. I’ve got shit like business parties and family holidays that I’m expected to bring a girl to. And damn fast, too. If I show up at another family functions single, I’m officially going to be the relative everyone suspects is in the closet. Yeah, that won’t be awkward. Family members will stop asking when I’m getting married and start telling me about the stylish young men they work with. If I show up at another Thanksgiving without a date, ten bucks says my aunt sends me a butt-plug next year.

So I need a woman. And if I’m dragging in 18 year-olds, it’s not really going to fly. All I need is my date telling my mom that she has to get home because she’s on the prom planning committee.

Sigh, I guess it’s time where I’ll just have to turn my attention to defiling College Students. I mean, I’m only 26. I figure I’ve still got a good two years left before it starts to get creepy. After that, I have no idea what I’ll do. I suspect that grad students would be too smart to get involved with me.

It’s depressing. In two years there’s a real possibility that I’ll have to date a girl who actually knows better.

Being "Set Up"

The worst part about being single is that suddenly everyone thinks there’s something wrong with you that can only be cured by flinging any unmarried acquaintance in your general direction. It’s as if my friends think that now that I’m out of a relationship, I’m ready to settle for the first female with a pulse and a lazy-eye that wanders into the soup kitchen of my dating life. I have standards! See yesterday’s post for specifics.

I also have a theory that people in relationships can’t stand seeing any of their friends single, or as I pronounce it “happy.” Seriously, I love how I can hang out with someone all day and hear nothing about how miserable their boyfriend/girlfriend/unguarded paraplegic cousin makes them. Then they find out I’m single and immediately try to get me into a relationship with some random girl they met on the subway.

It’s not a coincidence they call it being “set up.”

Look, I appreciate the effort, but let me just say this: there’s a reason that your female friends are single, ok? I’m unattached, not blind and hopeless.

My personal favorite, however, is when I’m hanging out with someone who says, “You’re single? You know, I have a friend who would be perfect for you.”

“What’s she like?”

“Well, she has a great personality.”

“So she’s fat?”

“Why do guys always ask that? She’s SO much fun.”

“So she’s over 200 pounds?”

Shut up! She’s sweet.”

“Christ, how fat is she??? Can she walk under her own power or does she just ride around on a moped?”

Listen, no ever describes Victoria’s Secret models as “having great personalities.” It just never happens. And I know the reason: because women don’t want to hang out with girls who are exponentially more beautiful than themselves. Every girl secretly believes that she is the hottest member of her group of friends, so when they offer to hook you up it’s never with some playmate. It’s always some charity case that your buddy uses to improve her self-esteem. Just once, I want the conversation to go:

“I have a friend who would be perfect for you.”

“What’s she like?”

“She’s a total cunt, but Christ does she have a great ass.”

See that would be someone I’d be interested in meeting. Because you know what? I know enough about my female friends to know that they have a better idea about a girl’s ass than anyone’s personality. What the fuck does that even mean, personality? You just finished telling me about your ex boyfriend who fucked your sister and tried to steal your car. Now you think I’m going to trust your judgment on someone’s character?

Besides, the term “personality” is way too slippery and capricious. People have opinions on whether your friend Bertha is nice. No one ever argues about whether Jessica Alba has a great ass.

Ehren Posts A Personal Ad

So I was thinking today, that maybe I should make a list of exactly what it is I’m looking for in a woman. If nothing else, it would help me organize precisely what I wanted to so I could keep my eyes open.

As my list grew, I decided that it would probably be easier to just post a wanted ad. Because I’m too cheap to buy newspaper space however, I figure I’ll just post it here and hope that my dream woman happens to randomly come across my blog, drawn thither by the power of fate, destiny and true love.


Hopeless romantic seeks filthy whore.

26 year old white male who enjoys long walks on the beach, candle-lit dinners, and snuggling seeks limber female companion to anger fuck. The successful applicant must be willing to perform in any and all of the locations below:

• Construction Site
• Office Desk
• Mall Changing Room
• McDonald’s Bathroom
• Crowded Street Fair
• The Vatican
• During High Speed Pursuits by Local and State Officials

Applicant will be needed to show up with-in ten minutes of a phone call (sort of like the “whore” equivalent to the bat-symbol) and perform without thinking, speaking, or crying about how we never talk about feelings. Special consideration (and an extra $50) will go to women who get the fuck out of my house before I finish my post-coital cigarette.

Position requirements include but are not limited to: Missionary, Doggie, Conch, Inversion, Cowgirl, Reverse Airplane, bondage, role-playing, anal, oral, and some light typing. Applicant must be so hot that she makes men want to "fuck the whore out of her."

Ehren is an equal opportunity dater. No applicant will be terminated based on race, religion, or sexual preference…that’s right, bring on the lipstick lesbians. I will, however, commit hate crimes against idiots, the humorless and fat people.

I know you're out there somewhere, dream woman. And it's only when I've penetrated your ass with the broken ends of a florescent light while strangling you, that we will both understand the meaning of "true love." Sigh...

Wanted: Hot Girl With Headwound

“You know Ehren, I’ve been thinking about your situation surrounding your break-up. I think I know the solution.”

This statement was delivered to me by one of my friends. From his tone, it was obvious that he had been considering it for sometime.

“Oh?” I said. “What’s that?”

“You should date hotter girls.”

This right here is why I love my friends. He said it to me like he genuinely believed it never dawned on me to date hot women before. And I don’t think that he was implying that my exes were ugly, but to him the solution for my problems was easy: unhappy? Date more attractive girls. I thanked him for his input and assured him that I would do my damndest to comply.

After some reflection, I’ve decided that an easier way might be to start drinking more so that women just appear more attractive. And hey, if that means I have to stay drunk for the next 50 years of my life, so be it. Because honestly, me with a ridiculously hot chick would be a pain in the ass. It’d be her walking around and everyone asking who the fuck that 15-year-old with her is.

Sure I could say, “I’m the kid that’s hung like a black porno walrus.” I’m sure a lot of people would ask “what exactly is the difference between a porno walrus and a regular walrus?” Come on, you think all those walruses they film mating on the discovery channel are just “average?” It’s all a fantasy.

“Oh baby, I love it! Slap my tail! Spit seaweed in my mustache! Call me a whore!”

Worst job in show-business: walrus porn fluffer.

Where was I? Oh yeah, hot chicks.

See the problem is that hot girls get hit on so frequently that their standards for men are much higher. And it’s not that I can’t get a hot girl…it just takes a lot more work. Because I’ll admit it: I’m not a handsome man. I’m cute, but certainly nothing that stands out in a crowd. In order to get a girl I need time.

Usually my “seduction” of women occurs over a course of days or weeks. She resists initially, but through a series of psychological torments and mind-fucks, I break her like a torture victim. At first I’m repellent, but eventually I grow on women like a fungus. And with roughly the same aesthetic effect. Basically, my only hope for romance relies on Stockholm syndrome.

What I need is a hot girl with a learning disability, head-trauma, or heroine addiction. And really, who wants to deal with the day-to-day hassle of teaching her to read, wiping saliva, or testing for Hep C?

Therefore, I’ve decided I need to drink more. Because the drunker I get, the hotter girls become. My plans for the night involve two gallons of wine and that homeless girl who lives under the overpass.

Why I Don't Watch Football

At any given time, I only have time in my life for about ten different things. They are, in order of importance:

1. Girls
2. Music
3. Blondes
4. Work
5. Redheads
6. Writing
7. Boobs
8. Reading
9. Asian Girls
10. Baseball

My life really can’t handle anymore interests. I just wouldn’t have enough time, particularly because numbers 1, 3, 5, 7 and 9 lead to my 11th interest: masturbation.

So every year, when the leafs change and I know baseball is winding to close, I think, "maybe I should start watching football, or basketball, or that weird ice sport played by guys with mullets and missing teeth…"

Here’s the problem: I don’t think it’s worth the stress and the time. Everything on the top ten occupies my mind roughly two hours a day. That leaves a precious four hours in which to take care of shit like bathing, paying bills, and being socially presentable. I don’t think I could deal with another sport. It’s more of my time that could be spent pretending I give a fuck about girls’ feelings.

Let’s see, I could either learn the intricacies of the “pass-interference rule” or listen to Wendy and her stripper-ass complain about how her boyfriend doesn’t appreciate her new underwear.

Every once in a while I think about branching out and expanding my interests. Honestly, it gets to be way too much of a hassle, because I can’t just pick something up and have fun. I have to set out to learn everything there is to know about it until it consumes my life and makes me miserable.

A few years ago, my friends decided to start a poker night. Now an ordinary guy would be happy just showing up, hanging out and drinking a few beers. No. I had to go buy a simulator program and commit four books to memory. And for what??? It’s a stupid, $20 once a week game!

I was the same way about sex. When I first starting having sex, I practiced so much I didn’t even enjoy it. It was “wow, here’s something you suck at. You’re going to learn to do this right or die trying.” A week in, my balls were emptier than a titty bar at 10 am.

I think this is why there are so many things I just refuse to take an interest in. Like cars, or football, or…fisting. Yeah, I guess it would be cool to know about that shit, but eventually it’s one more thing that tears into my time…or my girl. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s Busty Asian hour here at Ehren’s house. Hey, I’m multitasking!

No Means No

I was thinking today about how little respect men are given when they say they don’t want sex. I mean, women are offered sex just about every waking moment from the time they reach puberty until death. And in some very rare instances, sometimes even a few days after death. But I digress.

Because of the wide availability of dick, women think little of turning it down. They know that there’s always another dick six inches or so down the road.

Men, on the other hand, know that the number of girls offering sex to them is limited. So we’re supposed to feel grateful at every scrap a woman throws at us. Which why girls never take it seriously when a guy says “no.”

Think about it. All I’ve ever been told since I became aware of these things is “No means no.” When I went to college orientation I learned about when date rape is a man’s fault. It breaks down this way:

• If you’re both sober, it’s your fault.
• If you’re sober and she’s drunk, it’s your fault.
• If you’re drunk and she’s sober, it’s your fault.
• If you’re both drunk, it’s your fault.

Legally, if a woman even thinks “maybe I don’t want anyone to look at me tonight.” You’re guilty of rape.

Don’t get me wrong, sex is great. But there are times when I’m going to lay down the law. And without fail, the few times I did it, I got zero respect.

Back in college, I was fooling around with a girl. She was hot and things were getting pretty heated. And then she made a play to get my pants off. Now, maybe it’s a foolish line to have, but this girl had only been broken up with one of my friends for about 3 days. I could justify making out…both of us were very drunk, but I wasn’t going to do that to a friend.

I told her I didn’t want that. And she said, “ok.” Five minutes later, she went back for it again. So I got up and left. You would have thought I’d slapped the girl. She was so pissed she never spoke to me again.

Now reverse the roles. Imagine that I had tried that on a girl who said no. Girls saying, “no” is the story of my life! How big of an asshole would I be to try again and then be pissed when she wouldn’t put out?

My friend tells a story of hooking up with a girl in his room. They were getting hot and heavy; she was naked, he was naked and doing…various things. He describes the actions as “warming the oven.” So the two of them were having a great time getting her amply “warmed” and he had every intention of getting down.

But then, out of nowhere, she piped up, “So, are you going to fuck me or what?”

He stopped and looked at her for a moment. Then he got up, tossed her panties at her and said, “No, get the fuck out.”

We all know that women hold about 51 of the cards when it comes to sex. And girls, you can get sex 99% of the time by asking for it. But don’t mistake that for total power. Because sometimes, we men will play our one card just to let you know what it feels like. Hey, you’re the ones screaming for equality. And bitch, this is as equal as it gets.

Easy Like Sunday Morning

Yesterday a friend got me a giant red “easy” button. Staples used to use these things in their ads a while ago. I’m staring at it now and thinking of alternate and devious uses for this thing.

So far, the run-away favorite is to attach it to one of my belt buckles. Mmm…classy.

I realize that as a man, I’m inherently easy. Hey, if I see cleavage on a 90 year-old burn victim, I’m popping wood. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of. But a man’s got needs, and right now my needs have me twenty seconds away from picking up a hooker.

But I’m not bitching about that. The important bit of information to take away is that I’m at the point where I want sex so badly that I’m unable to think, speak, or act coherently—even when I’m not actively sabotaged by my friends.

Over the weekend I was dragged out with one mission: find Ehren a girl. I didn’t ask, in fact, I didn’t really have much of a choice. However, it was made clear to me that I had two options: go out trolling for pussy, or have my tires slashed and then go trolling for pussy.

We arrived at bar where one of my friends had agreed to meet a girl she thought might be my type. Now, the night was growing old by then. We’d reached the point in the evening where the single girls finally realize that no better options are available tonight, and if they want dick they’ll have to make due with what’s available. So as we sat at the bar and made small talk, we were doing our best to ignore the couples making out three feet away. Drunk people making out are gross. It was like watching a scene from Aliens.

To take our minds off the horror movie unfolding one stool over, we ordered a few rounds of whiskey.

First whiskey: I introduce myself to the girl I’m being set up with. Some mildly uncomfortable jokes are exchanged.

Second whiskey: We’re all friends now. I help myself to her hat. She throws a fuss.

Third Whiskey: She makes a joke about her boobs. I flash the bar to the horror of everyone, I’m sure.

Fourth Whiskey: I’m outside. Alone.

See, somewhere between the third and the fourth shot, my friend muscled her way between us and began talking to the girl. I mean, as unsteady as my friend was walking at this point, I was shocked at the unstoppable flow of words that escaped her mouth. I would have needed a crowbar to pry my way into that conversation.

There was no getting them apart for the rest of the evening.

Later, I asked my friend, “What the fuck was that? I thought you wanted me to get to know that girl? Do you have any idea how much you just cock blocked me?”

“No, don’t worry!” she protested. “I told her that you really, really like her. And that you’re very single and have no prospects!”

“Thanks.” I said. “Maybe you could have made up some diseases that would have made me more attractive.”

I guess I have a few points to make with this story:

1. My friend can’t handle her whiskey.
2. I’m going to be single for a loooooooooooooooooooong time.
3. I don’t need an easy button. I’ll just get my friend drunk, and she can announce my level of availability to anyone in 200 yards.

My Funeral

I was thinking today about death. Very cheery, I know. However, I’ve decided that I really have to get cracking on my last will and testament. Otherwise God knows the kind of heathen ceremony they’ll have for me when I finally die saving the earth from killer sea mutants. Hey, it could happen!

First thing’s first: open bar. And I mean at the ceremony, not the after-party. I want there to be a keg right next to that fucking casket. Hmmm…considering I’m an odds-on favorite to die of alcohol poisoning, do you think that would be insensitive?

Next, I want no less than 12 supermodels dressed in black, wailing and weeping uncontrollably. I’m talking rending clothing, passing out and screaming.

I want a pirate, complete with eye patch, hook, and parrot to show up, drop a stone artifact into my casket and say, “A deal’s a deal. Here’s the stone head of Karkutua’s Mine, curse you!”

14 Chinese monks in full ceremonial garb.

7 Sherpas, complete with pack mules.

5 Aborigines. When my casket is lowered into the ground, they’ll play amazing grace on their didgeridoos.

A single, gigantic Native-American to weep silently but refuse to speak a word to anyone.

An entire Ox, roasting on an open flame.

A man with an unidentifiable accent to deliver a eulogy in a language no one understands.

Except the Native American who laughs, cries, bows his head and applauds along with what is apparently the most eloquent eulogy ever—silently of course.

Man…if only there was some way for me to attend my own funeral. The whole thing sounds like entirely too much fun.

Sigh, I wish I was dead.