gq:
Dinner, Movie, and A Dirty Sanchez?
One female writer laments the um, messy effects of our porn-y culture. An excerpt:
I was out with a Brit I’ll call Robbie, because that was what he went by, poor guy. Not Robert or Rob. Or even Bob. A 31-year-old Robbie. It was our fourth date, and we’d already done some things in dark corners of various Brooklyn bars that get kids kicked out of BYU, but he hadn’t, as Jason Segel might say, put his p in my v yet. It was time to take it to a bed. Or at least behind a closed door. So we went back to my apartment and consummated our courtship. There was some fumbling, as there always is at first, especially after a couple of nerve-zapping beers. But we’d managed to get the condom on, the penis in, and a nice back-and-forth rhythm going. We were making sounds like Jodie Foster in Nell. Making faces that signify a stroke. In short: Everything was coming along nicely, pun intended.
Then Robbie started talking. Indelicately. Fun fact: Turns out the Brits have their own term for “dirty slut.” The phrase was something like “tidy slapper.” As in “You’re a tidy slapper, aren’t you?” Tidy slappers, I learned, like “big hard cocks.” Robbie’s precoital BBC accent had morphed into a buttery Cockney. It was like I’d wandered onto the set of an X-rated movie called Cherry Poppins. Before I knew it, he was out of me, over me, and breathlessly inquiring, “Where do you want this?”
Unfortunately he was not the first nondermatologist to offer a fourth-date facial.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!
