I’ve only had three relationships during my lifespan. Is that bad? I don’t know. Seeing as most phone batteries last longer than relationships these days, I’d like to think it’s not. But the more I look back on my past two relationships, the more I realize how similar relationships and being single actually are. In both cases, I ended up getting more action from my hand. My first girlfriend would brag about how good she could give me a hand job. I would just nod to avoid any argument, but in my head I was thinking, “Bitch, please!” I’ve been giving myself hand jobs since I was 10! If you seriously think you can out-jack me, you’re sadly mistaken. Don’t get me wrong, hand jobs are awesome… when you’re 12. You want to give an amazing hand job? Use your mouth. I eventually did tell her that she couldn’t compete with me, and that lead to her getting mad at me for masturbating. I guess she saw my left hand as competition. Imagine if I could give myself blow jobs. There is no way she could’ve competed with my mouth. I would have been better at blow jobs and not talking. I could never be with a girl who didn’t like me masturbating while we were dating. The sad thing is I rarely do it. But if someone is so clingy that they get mad over that, things are only going to get much worse. That’s one thing I took away from that relationship. I refer to that as my “Masturbation Relationship” because it was actually a lot like masturbation – it was fun while it lasted, but ended up in a mess.

I’ve always been the type of guy who would prefer to be in a relationship with a girl before doing too many intimate things. In the transition between high school and college, I did have a ‘friends with benefits’ situation. The only exception was we weren’t really friends. She was a pretty attractive girl and I knew she thought the same thing about me. One night I took her home from school because her sister forgot to come pick her up. We were at school for a rehearsal and I’m not the type of guy who is going to leave a 17 year-old girl stranded. So she hopped in my ride and we left. (For the record, I’ve always wanted to say “ride” to make it sound like I have really nice car. I drove a black Ford Taurus at the time. And believe me, it was the blackest thing about me if you catch my drift.) We didn’t say a word the entire drive back to her place. It was very awkward. It was as if we had just run over the neighbor’s cat and didn’t know if anybody saw so we could drive away, or if we had to confess. When I pulled in her driveway, I shut off the engine and looked at her, as if to very politely say, “Please get the fuck out of my car.” After an awkward five second staring contest, she pounces on me, starts kissing me, and begins playing with my penis like it’s a Goddamn Bop-It. It was more awkward than Eminem picking Rihanna to do a song about domestic violence with. Two minutes later, she jumps off, opens the door, and gets out. Before closing the door, she looks me dead in the eyes and says, “That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.”

The next day at school, her and I were paired up to take a load of boxes to the new storage annex. We arrived at the annex (which was an elementary school which only held a few classes), and I was putting down the last box. I hear her shut the door behind me. “Oh shit,” I thought. She walks over, leans in, whispers, “I’m falling in love with you,” and starts kissing me. It starts slow and then quickly escalates. The next thing I know my belt is flying across the room and her shirt is being ripped off of her torso. I undid her bra and threw it on the floor. I went to put my hands back on her breast and… hold on… something’s missing. As she continued to kiss me, I managed to open one eye, glance down on the floor, and notice she was wearing a push-up bra. I was thinking, “What the fuck is this bullshit?” Men’s boxers don’t come with built in socks to make them look bigger. This is false advertising! It’s like opening a bag of potato chips and realizing 80% of the bag is nothing but air! Being a fat ass, there are very few things in life that disappointed me more than that realization. Even after my great grandpa died, the only thing I could think was, “Man! I haven’t been this sad since that one time I opened a bag of chips.” After I realized it was a push-up bra, she got on her knees and my pants came off faster than a Kenyan running from the police. She looked at my penis as if she had just found the Holy Grail. Feeling confident, I asked, “See something you like?” She immediately stopped smiling, looked up at me, and said, “Oh, I was daydreaming about what I thought it would like it. I’d prefer to not start any arguments.” I should have been pissed off, but before I could get a word out, my little “disappointment” was in her mouth. Everything was fine and dandy until she grabbed my ass with both of her hands and started pulling me in, as to get every last inch of me in her mouth. Normally, this would’ve been pretty hot, but not today. Why? It was Sloppy Joe day at lunch, and my stomach picked the perfect time to remind me what I had eaten. At this point, I’m trying everything in my power to hold in what could be the most disgusting fart of the century. The pain of the gas was building up in my system and I wasn’t sure how long I could keep it in. Mentally, I’m starting to panic. I knew I didn’t have much time. I had to get out of that room. I felt it getting closer and closer, so I did what any man would’ve done – I faked an orgasm. I pulled out of her mouth, turned around, and pretended to shoot my load into the wild blue yonder. I wasn’t out of the dark yet. I still had horrible gas. I turn back around, and she’s staring at me as if I’m the most miraculous man she’d ever seen. My entire focus has shifted to getting out of the room so I could let the air out of my ass, but I couldn’t just bolt out without saying anything. This girl had just told me she was falling in love with me for God’s sake! With very little time left, I stick my hand out, shake her hand, and say, “Thank you for your time.” At this moment, she bursts into tears. I didn’t have any time for apologies though. I pulled up my pants, and ran for the door before my ass made that classroom look like Hiroshima. As soon as I get into the hall, I slam the door shut behind me, lean against it, and rip the loudest, raunchiest fart you could ever imagine. It went on for at least twenty seconds. Once it was finished, I turned around as if to head out of the building. There was a class of kids in the middle of the hallway. They were in a perfectly straight line, just like we were all taught at that age. They had completely stopped and were staring me dead in the eye. Even the teacher, a young heavy-set woman, was completely stopped in her tracks. I was like a deer in the headlights. Suddenly, I notice one of the children getting blue in the face. She begins leaning forward and her cheeks filled up like a balloon. She started puking everywhere. The smell I had released into the hallway was awful. It smelled like a homeless man had been set on fire, and then extinguished by Indian hair. The poor girl was probably 4 feet from where my ass had been. At that moment, all attention had shifted toward the girl. This was my escape. Without hesitation, I bolt for the front door and never looked back. I was in the clear. To this day, I don’t know whether or not that little girl survived, but I do know she will never be able to eat Sloppy Joe as long as she lives.

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