4 Things That’ll Ruin Any One-Night Stand Before It Starts

Everyone enjoys sexuality, except for people who don’t, and that’s a fact you are eligible defined your watch by. Your sex watch ! And many of us are not above the idea of a hookup just for the thrill of it, because if you’re cool with it and they’re cool with it, screw anyone( not literally) who tries to judge you or suggest there are only certain relationships that are worthy of being sex. If you’re not hurting anyone and they’re not hurting anyone, then kick it like rabbits and hump till you get a friction burn, is what my granny always said. But beware! You can cause serious damage to your humpability by falling victim to any of this tomfoolery.


Your Bathroom Is A Reflection Of Your Soul

No room in your home will ever be more honest than the bathroom. You can pretty up a living room with wall sconces and IKEA shelving, and you can use marble counter tops in the kitchen. But the bathroom, behind all the fluff, is the room where you sit bare-ass on a chair filled with water and expunge your trash. It’s as close to your spirit as a room can get.

Because the bathroom is so honest, you must treat it like a drunk friend who knows too much: Be wary, for it will spill your secrets when you least expect it. Not out of malice, but simply because that is its nature. You may think you’re putting your best foot forward and very lovely the literal pants off of someone, and then they excuse themselves to use the bathroom, at which point you have zero seconds left to stem the tide of what may follow. Is there filth-encrusted tissue sitting on top of your trash can? How about errant feminine hygiene products? Is the bowl clean, or is it decorated with a thin layer of ass spackle? Has anyone pissed on the wall and left drip marks that shine in the light when you turn your head just so? Is there a hairy razor sitting on the side of the sink? Did you hang a wet pair of underwear over the shower rod? Is your hemorrhoid cream sitting out? THERE ARE SO MANY QUESTIONS!

The one-night stand is a purely impulsive decision based on your boner or lady boner’s insistence that you scratch your groin on someone else’s until your brain nods in fervent agreement. Both of them, and you at this phase, will have forgotten if you bothered to tidy up the house. You will merely recollect at the moment your new crotch-cuddler asks to use it, and at that point it’s too late to do anything about it. A solid rule of thumb is to give your bathroom a once-over every time you leave it. Look at it as if you were visiting someone else’s, and if anything constructs you wince, fixing it before you leave.

jarmoluk/ Pixabay
If the thought of wading through someone else’s groin shavings gives you pause, take care of it .


Your Kitchen Is As Important As Your Hygiene

You may be surprised to learn that I am not an immaculate homemaker. As it happens, I ascribe to the “If it’s in the chamber of representatives, it’s where it belongs” method of cleaning up more often than not. So generally, when it came to keeping the kitchen clean, as long as nothing was melting, festering or rusting, I was pretty confident that I had shit under wraps. This never went over well when anyone came over and wanted to actually ingest anything other than their own fear. When your dishes sort a squatter community across your counter and your fridge contains bags of soup, what you’re saying to other humen is “Hello, I’m a Morlock. I’ve only escaped my subterranean lair and wish to mate with one of your kind. Our spawn will be raised in a Rubbermaid storage tub.”

Your home is a reflection of yourself. A super-tidy, immaculate home may be the sign of an anal-retentive neat freak, while the eye of a shit cyclone is indicative of someone who may use baby wipes in lieu of showering. You want a happy medium that doesn’t offend yourself or others, because yes, people magistrate you. And rightly so. You deserve to be judged if your go-to style is squalor. I deserved to be judged, and judged I was. Do you know how much tail I missed out on as a result of my hapless neglect for cleanliness and organisation? One. One whole tail. And that’s a lot for me. Do you think I’m up in here having all the sexes? I once wrote a piece about why life would suck for a zombie, because I have the time to consider what life would be like for a zombie, because I have nothing else going on except cleaning my kitchen.


The Drunken Stupor Is Only Fun Until You’re Naked

I understand that a large portion of one-night stands are birthed at the bottom of a bottle of peach schnapps, and that’s fine. A little booze runs a long way in inducing some people more humpable. But there is a limit. If either one of you is so sloppy drunk that you don’t know what you’re doing, then that’s a shit buffet with no sneezing guard. Sloppy drunkenness isn’t fun for anyone.

The issue of consent is something you need to be always aware of and be respectful of. But even if you both are of sound enough mind to agree that you want to slide your slipperies together, there goes a phase in the night at which you can have too many delicious Tom Collins Slurpees. Even though inebriation might attain you more clever or honorable or a better dancer in your own mind, it also has a handful of drawbacks that tend to be the opposite of sexy. For instance 😛 TAGEND

1: Vomit

2: Unconsciousness

jarmoluk/ Pixabay

3: A hobble, lazy , no-good wiener.

All three of these outcomes are to sex what all three of those things are to anything — maybe with the exception of the limp wiener, a condition which doesn’t generally affect things like boiling an egg or Scrabble, unless you play it the route I do . But you get the idea. At some phase, you need to know your limit and drink within it, or else face the terrible prospect of sitting on your bed, puke onto your own wobbly squish digit before passing out in your new friend’s lap.


Fossils Of Booty Past Are A Sexual Brick Wall

A general rule of thumb you want to follow when it comes to sex is always feign you’ve never had sex before. Which isn’t to say that you need to act like a virgin trying to discover which flap fits into which orifice, but you do not need to acknowledge that you’ve savoured someone else’s genitals in that moment. Because, more often than not, the current person whose undercarriage you’re taste-testing doesn’t want to know what other wobbles you’ve gobbled. The more you remind someone else that you’ve boinked other people, the more they’re going to be worried about two key things: Are you comparing them to someone else, and do you bone so many other beings that you’re a walk-to chlamydia salad with gonorrhea sprinkles and a side of Paul Newman’s non-GMO herb dressing?

ailinder/ Pixabay
It tastes like rub !

No one should care how many sex partners you’ve had , nor is it really their business. But you make it their business when you rub it in their face, literally or figuratively. Hopefully merely figuratively, but who am I to judge what turnings you on?

Obviously, most of us don’t start an evening of seduction by saying something like “I’ve taken a real shine to your crotch, but the last five I jiggered were a little nicer.” Don’t say that. But you don’t need to say anything sometimes if you’ve really fucked up your preparations. First and foremost, you’re going to want to not have a used condom pretty much anywhere that it can be seen. That’s a surefire sign that you’re gross. A use condom has no choice but to be gross, and the closer it gets to you, the grosser it becomes, like a proximity mine of viscous, ropy repulsion. It’s a literal sack of biohazard, and if you see it in someone else’s home, it means they had it in and around where you’re trying to go, all squishy and glorpy in the promised land. That’s terrible. Objectively, it’s a good thing, as it means that your friend is responsible. But you’re not objective — you’re subjective, and you’re being subjected to a rubbery spooge sock within oozing distance. Gross.

If you collect panties, jock straps, bras, photos of ham wallets, butthole silhouettes, or any other sort of sexual trophies, make sure they’re in one of those dry cleaning bags or something else no one is going to look in. People who collect sex trophies are too much like serial killers for anyone’s comfort. You conquered something and needed a creepy reminder of it that only appeals to you but when anyone else ensure it, they’re worried you’re going to put a tarp down and start playing Huey Lewis.

Even if the condom isn’t used, you’re going to want to keep your birth control out of sight in general as well. If you have a fishbowl full of condoms or an IUD-of-the-week rack, it takes person out of the moment. By all means, have those things, but keep them in a drawer. Imagine grandma coming over and mistaking your birth control pills for Tic Tacs, the style so many sexually clueless boobs in direct-to-video slapsticks do. You don’t want to live with that on your conscience. It’s not about being a prude or concealing who you are. It’s just about tact and considering the feelings of other people who have to see your used condom homunculus trying to birth itself from the ooze-encrusted waste basket, and must decide whether they should flee in silence or whilst emitting terrified screams.

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I’m In A Wheelchair: 5 Ways Dating Can Be Super Dark

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My wheelchair often becomes a small elephant in the room wherever I run. That’s especially the case when that room is full of the most frightening type of people to me: strangers. Their inability to process someone using a wheelchair has become so commonplace that I often fast-forward to resenting them before they’ve even spoken to me.

Because of that, I often find myself in angst mode, which can be a real problem when it comes to dating. Dating necessitates meeting new people, and I can’t meet person new without them being far more interested in the wheelchair than any aspect of my personality. Admittedly, my personality sucks, but being reduced to a set of tires, axles, and motors isn’t going to endear you to me either. Dating while confined to a chair is an altogether different and more challenging experience — though it makes me a much more efficient speed dater.


People’s Reactions Have Fundamentally Changed Who I Am

It’s inevitable: Upon meeting me, my date will do absolutely everything in their power not to mention or look at my wheelchair. It becomes my defining feature. After about ten minutes of stilted small talk and eye contact so intense I sometimes dread they may actually be trying to explosion my head with psychic energy, the desire to know why I’m confined to such a contraption takes over. When the affectations fall away, I’m asked to casually adapt the painful origin story of my disability into light and breezy chitchat. The person who can turning a virus that eats the protective tissues around their brain into quirky dialogue deserves a large trophy.

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What’s worse is that I now expect this reception from every single person I come across. When I can’t satisfy anyone new without expending the totality of the conversation wondering when the small talk will veer to the painful memory, I start scheming exit routes that ensure I run over as many feet as I can on the way out. I anticipate people’s judgement before they’ve even spotted me rolling along at crotch-level. I visualize them asking me to relive the moment when I was lying in bed , not even sure if I would live to see my life go to shit, and I shut them out before they get the chance to prove me incorrect. Humanity’s prejudice has induced my own racism against them. It’s a sick various kinds of poetic justice, but not the deep, introspective kind. It’s more like annoying slam poetry.

All this is probably why I’m marrying the first person who could actually insure past my wheelchair. That’s not a joke. I’m literally about to marry such person or persons. You have to lock down the good ones before someone else takes them.


People Think My Date Is My Carer

When people assure me out with my able-bodied equivalent, they presume he’s only there to wipe my ass at regular intervals , not to buy me cake and watch superhero movies with me. People don’t seem to get that the person or persons with me isn’t a registered nurse I pay to spoon-feed me when I’m out to lunch. I’m trying to have sex and fall in love with that person, and I’m hoping they’re willing to reciprocate.

Depicting my partner as my carer is fine when he is helping me to get on a train. It is not fine when we are simply out together wandering the street, and anyone who has to interact with us refers to him as my carer. They don’t speak to me — they speak to my date, as if I’m miles away. Meanwhile, I sit there trying to pass my hand through someone’s body in case I didn’t realise I was a ghost this whole period. To them, the chair I sit in reduces me to someone not worth speaking to immediately, but instead through an intermediary they assume I’ve been assigned. And it’s automatic for a lot of people. Without a few moments of hesitation, they presume I’m a vegetable.

No one ever ensure a relationship when they look at us. It’s an idea so deeply burned into the brains of society that no one supposes twice about it before deciding that my capability for a relationship widens no further than necessitating someone to help me do normal-people stuff, because clearly I am incapable of normal-people feelings, supposes, or even speech. When it’s pointed out to someone that I’m wearing an engagement ring for a reason, they look like someone just devoted them a astound prostate exam. Once they’ve is dealing with the fact that wheelchair users are, in fact, human beings like everybody else on countries around the world, they start to become suspected that something sinister is taking place. “But … but how are you able love WHEN YOU HAVE W-W-WHEELS ?! “

Sadly that’s not the worst thing people think about the people I’ve dated …


People Think My Date Is A Creepy Pervert

Before my fiance and I started dating, we attended a social event for colleges and universities society, where he befriended a young woman who was struggling with severe mental health issues. After she couldn’t cope in the overly crowded room and the rest of the group simply wanted to send her home in a taxi so that they could drunkenly enjoy their night out, he made the heinous mistake of daring to comfort her. The seeds of mistrust were sewn.

Months afterward, he and I were dating. We gratified up with members of said society. The reception was a little icy when they realise we were more than simply friends, but nothing was said at the time. Behind our backs, however, it was perfectly obvious to them that he was taking advantage of me and my vulnerability to satisfy his own passions. I wasn’t consultation with the matter, as it turned out I was a ghost, and as such, my opinion was invalid. There was no relationship between two consenting adults. To them, there was only a sex predator and his dimwitted prey.

The rumors led to his exclusion from events, and even the people he planned to move in with the following academic year forced him out based on rumor alone. Having spoken to other disabled people, I know that when they hang out with someone able-bodied of the opposite gender, members of the general premise of those around them is that the disabled person is a weak and pitiful animal falling fouled of evil intent. It’s difficult enough to lead a normal life as it is. It’s even worse when idiots assume the non-disabled friends and fans around me are merely there to get some kind of sick thrill out of it, like I’m a character in a David Cronenberg movie. When they’re not doing that …


People Think My Date Is A Hero

If my partner is not assumed to be a criminal, then he’s at the other end of the spectrum: a hero we should all aspire to be one day. Did he save the family from a burning house? Did he singlehandedly save the world from an alien intrusion? Nope! He’s a hero for having sex with a wheelchair girl. Let’s give him the key to the city!

As we travel down the street together, some people will give him genuine lookings of admiration. Their eyebrows create a fraction, they flash a warm, condescending smile, and then they turn to their companions to discuss how sweet he is in whisperings so loud they’re more accurately described as breathy holler. Few ever speak to him directly. Why would they? Doing so might break the elaborated fiction they’ve made of a Superman walking among us, hurling lonely disabled girls a pity boning.

Short of shutting ourselves behind closed doors all day, it’s inescapable. My fiance has mentioned to me more than once just how uncomfortable this induces him feel, and I can hardly blame him. He’s here because he likes me, and he knows that I’m more than the wheels everyone else uses to define me. I read books. I write. I listen to music. I wear too much eyeliner. I attend wrestling indicates. I like superhero movies. I’m terrible at Crash Bandicoot . I swear like a motherfucker. These are the reasons he’s with me. Pity isn’t one of them.

Besides, a very close he gets to valor is when he remembers to put his underpants on before his jeans when he’s drunk.


People Are Utterly Mystified( And Way Too Curious) About How I Have Sex

I’ve been asked whether I can feel anything. Can I orgasm? Can I satisfy my partner? Can I go for a normal duration of time? Do I have to use special positions? Do I have to use contraception? Can I have sex at all? Has my vagina been sealed by a magic curse which can only be lifted by the love of a prince? I get these questions all the time. Fortunately, most people have had the decency to stop short of asking if they could watch.

You’d imagine that the worst offenders here are drunk humen outside of pubs, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. When I was collecting my contraceptive pill from the pharmacy, the middle-aged woman who was behind me in the queue asked me why I required them. Out loud. In front of everyone. Truth be told, I take them for medical reasons as well as newborn prevention, but that wasn’t what she was driving at. So I turned around and told her it was because I got laid more often than she did. If I could sculpt her stunned expression in bronze and put it on my shelf as a little trophy, I would.

On another occasion, my male best friend, who I have never dated and never will, was spotted leaving my room at 1 a.m. after a movie marathon. The first thing one of my female flatmates said to me the next morning was, “So you can have sex, then? ” Had I been less hung over, I would probably have had some witty response, but instead tried to create the kind of silence that lets people know you’re quietly calling them stupid.

Sadly, this happens on a pretty consistent basis. I don’t know what it is about the wheelchair, but the second person gets comfy enough with me to start asking personal questions( and it doesn’t take long ), the topic of sex comes up, and they get pretty goddamn blunt about it. I’m still confused as to why the wheelchair generates these kinds of behaviours in people, and why they take offense when I take offense to these queries. What are they expecting? For me to crack and give up all the juicy details like it’s a police interrogation? No. I owe them nothing and they should expect nothing, other than a punch to the face as they’re doubled over in pain after I’ve run over their foot in yet another perfectly executed exit.

Emma Steer, a.k.a. “Mini”( long tale ), has her own blog, “Diary of a Disabled Person, ” with new posts discussing her life released every Sunday. She also has a Facebook page accompanying the blog, sending out notifications with every new post, as well as the obligatory silly photos . If you loved this article and want more content like this, support our site with a visit to our Contribution Page. Please and thank you . For more, check out 5 Route The U.S. Is Still Horrible At Managing Disabilities and 5 People Whose Major Disabilities Only Stimulated Them Stronger . Subscribe to our YouTube channel, and check out What Your Doctor Wants To Tell You, But Can’t( From A Medical Physician ), and watch other videos you won’t find on the site ! Also, follow us on Facebook. You won’t regret it .

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