Ciao, Cupids!

Like the guy with the sweet ass and the spinnerets says, "with great power comes great responsibility".

Fortunately, PIC writers don't have much of either, so we're free to use our columns to insult vapid celebrities and sleep with as many groupies as we can get our keyboard-calloused claws on.

But which PIC columnist should you be stalking, anyway? Should you go along with everybody else in the Continental United States' Higher Educational System and sleep with KC Freeman (or at least be put on the waiting list and hopefully be fucked sometime before 2046, if Mekaneck hasn't become self-aware by then), or should you chance a wild night of passion with Slava Pastukhov and run the risk of waking up in a bathtub full of ice in some Kazakhstani bordello with your kidneys missing?

Well, wonder no more, gentle readers, as I took it upon myself to fuck my way through the entire PIC staff (it'd be a Guinness record for Most People Slept With, but Sandra Bullock got Oscar Nominated this year, and there are a lot of judges at those things) and can now reveal to which of the gang is worthy of your amorous attentions and which of them couldn't get stiff in the morgue, as I present unto you:

PIC Between the Sheets – 9 1/2 Tweets:


We got into a bit of trouble right from the start when X insisted we have sex with the lights out—only once he turned them off, I could no longer find him. I spent the first few minutes of our night together having carnal knowledge of an Asparagus fern on his coffee table. The lack of light actually added to the experience once I realized that given X's height and dreads, he was pretty much cosplaying as the titular alien from PREDATOR without even trying. I tried running with the theme by skinning a couple of dead prostitutes and hanging them from the ceiling fan and light fixtures (I thought it odd that X had a couple of dead prostitutes in his pantry, but he assured me that they came with the apartment) and rigging a tiger pit-trap lined with sharpened bamboo stakes in his living room, but then he had to spoil the mood by bleeding regular old B+ instead of luminous green goop. Also, when I tried getting to third base he set off a localized thermonuclear explosion from a gadget on his wrist—a simple "not
tonight" would have been acceptable.

"What…the hell..are you…wearing Xavier?"


Oh hell no. Even if I wasn't camp as a trailer park at Christmas, this is the woman who managed to break a vibrator with the power of her thigh muscles; this is less of a trait one looks for in a sex partner and more of what one looks for in a villain for the next James Bond movie. The Energizer Bunny can just take one for the team whilst I escape through the bathroom window.


It's not that I minded Paul insisting I dress up as Hitler and stomp on him with my jackboots whilst he wore nothing but a yellow star stapled to his left nipple—Alex Boonstra's asked me to do much kinkier shit—but I really would have rather done it in his bedroom, or some other room in his apartment. The other people on the It's a Small World Ride were visibly shaken—though strangely enough, Bob Iger not only posted our bail, he gave us lifetime passes to Space Mountain for "staying true to the spirit of Uncle Walt."


Okay, I was ready to go for this one, in the spirit of the article and despite my Kinsey Six status. Ashley's a nice girl and I can always just close my eyes and think of Jared Padelecki (like I usually do anyway). Fortunately however, I remembered that Ashley posted an article about her Gay boyfriend, so I just fucked him instead. Repeatedly. In every room of their house. I was going to tell her, but her boyfriend thought it would be funnier if I didn't reveal it until right now, in this article. Surprise, Ash!


Don't get me wrong, the sex was great (I started off determined to ride him straight back into traction, but he can work the big liquid eyes better than a thousand baby seals), it's just that the constant banter between KC and his fucking organs was really distracting. It's very hard for a man engaged in deep philosophical debate with his own brain and liver to concentrate on sports fucking; not to mention extremely disconcerting for the genitals you are currently entertaining inside your body to start with the feedback on what a great time they're having.


What started out as a whole evening of debauchery quickly went haywire. First the boss-man edited out all the foreplay, claiming it was "needless filler". Then he edited me down from the whole night to just over an hour for "clarity" and he sold advertising space during the actual sex—when we climaxed, he yelled out "this orgasm was kept safely contained by the comfortably-fitting yet still reliable Durex Spoogeshield Condom, now available in choc-spearmint."  After he started going on about "cutting down on the amount of column inches" I hauled my ass out of there.


Yes, it was everything I'd dreamed it would be, but I've been coughing up hairballs for three days now- I wouldn't mind so much, but it's not my hair. Also, I really wished Andrei hadn't insisted on us fucking in the drive-through at McDonald's to "get his own back". He didn't even super-size!


This actually was nowhere near the living nightmare I had envisioned—for starters,  once I saw her naked, I was reassured that me feeling weird as a gay guy having sex with a woman wasn't going to be an issue; funny, I always thought it was only female hyena that had a functional penis and testicles.  As an entomologist, I was also delighted at the sheer volume and variety of species of arthropods crawling all over her body—I actually found 16 species totally new to science, including a form of Trapdoor spider found only in Fugly's vulva and preying exclusively on pubic lice (I've never seen a more fat and well-fed spider in my whole career) and a previously thought extinct species of flea usually associated only with  preserved Neanderthal remains (when I told her this, Fugly became all misty-eyed and talked about losing one of her "five favourite orifices virginities" to an Australopithecus named Krogg at her senior prom). On the downside, whilst I do like a nice, hairy pair of buttocks, I have limits—it's like she waxed Alec Baldwin and stuck the strips straight on her ass—and whilst I have no objection to a woman calling a halt to sexual proceedings to feed her baby, I would have preferred Fugly to have actually gotten up and gone to her infant to do it, rather than just sitting up in the bed and lactating a thick, creamy stream of milk all the way across the room from one of her four supernumerary nipples.

Fugly cleans up rather well:


He begged me to spank him for the "We Don't Hate You Because You're Gay" column. Begged me. I only relented in the end because with the rheostat on a low enough setting he looks kind of like Taylor Lautner.