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Every man remembers his first titty. My first happened in the woods by my house during seventh-grade. I felt confident due to the new badass Nirvana T-shirt I wore under my flannel shirt.
The breast belonged to Mona, a sultry Mexicana, who looked like a Fly Girl dancer on “In Living Color.” Paler than the rest of her coffee skin, her breasts glowed angelically. They were the size of grapefruits. Sadly, like grapefruits, they were bittersweet. Mona moved away the next week and didn’t even say goodbye.
The first day back school, I looked at my friends gathered around our lunch table and blurted out, “Mona and I did it over break.”
Cyberstalking an ex-girlfriend can be extremely therapeutic when she’s fat, boring or in rehab. The only problem is when she’s hot, successful and married … to another woman.
“I have something I need to tell you,” Bethany told me four years ago over the phone.
Nothing positive ever follows that statement. No woman will ever say, “I have something I need to tell you … I’ve invented whiskey that cures impotence.” And that’s not just because women are crappy inventors.
Knowing ill-fate awaited, I met Bethany at the coffee shop. What else could I do? Children realize they’re not going to Disneyland when the dentist’s office comes into view — but they still hold tight and hope ice cream will follow.
Let me be clear, I didn’t want a hooker. I only bought one to win back my girlfriend.
I moved to Hollywood wanting to make sweet love to fame. Instead, I slept with Samantha. Quickly I learned a woman doesn’t like it when she’s the good thing in your life. Samantha dumped me after four months. Under the influence of Old Crow bourbon and Elliot Smith songs on repeat, I called my “Bad Advice Friend” for help.
“Take a hot chick to the comedy club she works at,” he said immediately. “Samantha will get jealous and want you back.” I needed to go where sultry women live … Craigslist.