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Tell Us About a Horrifying Thing Your Fuck Buddy Has in Their Home

Illustration for article titled Tell Us About a Horrifying Thing Your Fuck Buddy Has in Their Home
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When I was a single lady right out of college, I ran into a former classmate at a bar and ended up going home with him. He had one of those weird lofted beds and no fitted sheet—despite being in his late 20s—but we had a good time... until I saw it. In the middle of his living room, on a craft table, was a giant plastic head, buckets of plaster, tons of sharp utensils and clay lazily dripping off the left side of the figure’s face. It could’ve very well been part of a half-finished, ongoing art project, but having the deformity be the first thing I saw after climbing out of the glorified bunk bed to pee in the middle of the night? No thanks. I’d say it was almost as horrifying as, say, hooking up with Drake, only to find out that he has a Supreme rug on top of his carpet leading up to his bed.

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So now I want to know: what traumatizing thing have you uncovered in the home of someone you’re banging? Was it a one-night stand or an ex? Are you still with the woman with the haunted doll collection? Tell us in the comments below.

But first, it’s time last week’s winners! These are the dumbest things on your bucket list.

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heavynettle, I respect you and this:

PUT MY MOUTH UNDER A SOFT SERVE MACHINE SPOUT AND LET. THAT. BITCH. GOOOOO.

also get fisted!

goddessoftransitoryrisesagain, you should do this over the weekend and film it, because it sounds like the kind of ASMR-lite shit that would do well on YouTube:

I’ve always wanted to squeeze out an entire tube of toothpaste, ever since I was about four and one of my Richard Scary books had a cat character doing that.

This was reinforced when I was reading the Ramona series and she does it with a brand new tube. Her parents punish her by making her put the paste in a plastic bag and she has to use that, but Ramona can tell her mom is amused and also has wanted to do that herself.

meritxell: an erotic life, go solo:

I want to go to the Gathering of the Juggalos but my friends think that’s insane and I sure as shit am not going solo

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Rayceeya, I volunteer as tribute:

I want to play the Floor is Made of Lava with 50 other people in an Ikea.

bourbonmillerj, your coworker’s Virgo power is unrivaled:

Not mine but my coworker’s. We found out he carried a diary with him wherever he went for the past 20 years where he writes down lists: lists of the top 10 songs of summer each summer, beers he likes, items he’s lost, addresses he’s lived at... the lists continue. We found out about it because he referenced it in a $70mm negotiation; just pulled it out in front of [senior exec at Fortune 20 company] to clarify the top song of summer 1997. Anyways, he of course has a bucket list in said diary he updates from time to time. Number 1 on the list to this day remains “See Tool in concert” but it used to be “See Creed in concert” but that one’s crossed off now

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nadaforgretchenweiners, I also want this bathroom:

I’m a simple woman with simple tastes, but one of the small things on my bucket list is to have a massive soak tub in a restroom with tons of natural light and plants. If I can have a restroom like that i’ll be in heaven.

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SmoothAndCrunchy, this is noble:

I want to cuddle a big cat. I want to throw my arms around a beautiful tiger or leopard and hug him and give him scritches and treat him like a housecat. I want to rub his ears and boop his nose and play with his giant toe beans while talking to him in a baby voice and telling him how sweet and good and beautiful he is.

I would like to do this for as long as I want, and I would also like to not die while I’m doing it.

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kinbari, I have total faith that you will one day find a severed foot:

It’s not quite ‘bucket list’, more like ‘bucket expectations’.

I live on southeastern Vancouver Island, which is prime ‘mysterious foot in shoe found on beach’ territory. In the summer, I swim in the ocean every day, and I am always half-expecting to find one of those feet. So macabre! But I still kinda feel like one day, I’ll see a shoe and - I’ll just know. One more mystery foot for the record books, and talked about forever in family lore.

Two feet, though, and I would start to feel cursed. I’d have to switch to river-swimming.

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Drop those creepy-crawlies in the comments below.

Senior Writer, Jezebel. My debut book, LARGER THAN LIFE: A History of Boy Bands, is out now.

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darlingbreedlove
DarlingBreedlove

I met a queerpunk art freak dude at the Ramrod in Boston back in the 90’s. His name was Luther. Red flag right there.

Luther was an experimental art instructor teaching at an area school. He definitely had a Silence of the Lambs vibe, with a real deep voice and a feather earring and leather vest, but since he was an art teacher at the Museum School, I figured he wouldn’t dismember me.

As anticipated, his apartment was in a basement, and quite dark. There were clown costumes and home made clown masks interspersed with cacti and concert posters of punk rock bands on the walls. He had a leather swing fuck chair right by a brady bunch couch, and tons and tons of vinyl. He had me pull an album out randomly without looking. It was Horses by Patti Smith. He put it on and he dropped his pants.

Luther had a massive scar along the ridge of his hip, which was extra pronounced as he was a lean and tall ectomorph. He explained he’d been shot while volunteering with the Sandanistas in Nicauragua back in the 80’s. I thought this was interesting, so we fucked on the floor.

Post coital and still intrigued as he cried about the death of his x-bf, Lou Miami of the punk band named ’Lou Miami and the Kozmetix’, who had literally died, it turns out, THAT EVENING, I decided it would be a good idea to shared a spliff and randomly pick a new album which was a Tibetan horn and monk chant collection.

It was Luther’s favorite meditation album and apparently, a sign. Just as was Patti Smith’s Horses. By now, he was calling me ”brown eyes” and falling in love, so logically, he asked me to fist him.

I had never done it before. I was 20 years old. I was hesitant already to be in Buffalo Bill’s basement on all fours with clown masks starring down at me. Fisting a skinny ectomorphic sandanista punk rocker drunkenly mourning the death of his x-boyfriend?

Of course I said yes.

As we were preparing for the deed, my heart racing with fear and amyl nitrate, he pulled a bullet shell from a jar on a shelf. He explained it was the shell that he’d been shot with. He saved it after the surgery. He then requested that I hold it while I fist him.

I declined. But I fisted him anyway, just with no war relics in hand.

Cut to a few years later. One dark stormy night, the power is out. My roomate, a prolifically active sex worker who was a greater sex pig than I, brings home a guy, but does not bother to tell me. The guy walks into our living room while my slutmate is in the bathroom. I see a tall lanky extomorph lingering in the dark of the doorway. I freeze with fear as lightening strikes and thru a flash of light we see each other.

I hear a deep voice ”brown eyes”

I’m now dead.