This Story Must Be Told. And, at the expense of losing my current girlfriend, I’m going to tell it.

Why?” you might be asking. Well, simply, because I’m a writer, goddamnit, and writers—for better or worse—cannibalize every tender, bloody-rare morsel of their lives. It’s why my friends no longer tell me secrets (I know you’re gay Tony, you don’t have to say anything), and why my parents have officially cut me loose and stopped calling me “my son.”

Admittedly, this is certainly not the first time that something I’ve written on PIC could possibly fuck me over, as “How to Tell If Your Girlfriend is Lying” put me in a submissive position with the last “gee eff,” where I lost sex for three fucking days because I wanted to entertain all of you unappreciative cunts. But, like an abused whore (Allison Parks), I always come back to you bitchy, malicious readers for more saucy comments about my lack of integrity and inability to write…as if you dumb motherfuckers know anything about that anyways.

I should say, as the story will indicate, that nothing between Kellen and I was official until this last Friday, and I hope that when she reads this she can appreciate why the hell I called her the next morning and begged her to hang out with me. I am not a cheater and will hold true to that forever; I will admit, though, that I am a bastard who was rightfully and wholly punished for my deeds, and for the first time in my entire life, I couldn’t be happier with a monogamous relationship.

The Worst Sexual Encounter in All of My Fucking Life

When West Virginia University plays football games away from good ol’ Morgantown, the students hit the bars. And, as the number one party school should, when we hit the bars, we hit them hard. We crowd into the shitty, cramped brick buildings and glue our eyes to large televisions, only looking away to obtain, imbibe, and eventually vomit up alcohol. We push each other like brothers and slap slurry high-fives and press hugs like a miracle just happened every time we score. The entire town lights up and turns into the largest fraternity in the country, all in the name of a football victory.

I might be an asshole, but I’m still not going to let a crying, menstruating girl sleep on my floor.

Well, after the game against Maryland was over, I started playing pool with my buddies Dylan, Crigler and Sam, who were as drunk, if not more drunk than I was. During our time “playing” pool—I use the term loosely here, as collectively, it takes us about an hour to end a game—a woman, 28 years old, approached me and started flirting. Eventually, as fate would have it, we left the bar for my place to drink with my roommates. I wasn’t totally into her, but I have this awful tendency to want to have random sex with a girl before I commit to the one I actually like. Strange, you might think, but guess what? I’m a fucking guy.

We had a few drinks and then she asked to use my bathroom, so I took her upstairs, unlocked the door and let her in. As she was doing whatever she was doing in the bathroom, I sat down on my bed to let the room spin a little. She came out naked and hopped on me. I thought, “Well, why not?” and let things progress into fucking.

After two minutes or so, she looked down.

“Oh…Jesus…no…,” she said.

Oh no! I thought, and as I looked down, I saw that around the base of my dick and coating the condom was a sticky, viscous syrup of blood.

“Jesus Christ!” I shouted, not even believing in Jim at the moment, and ran off to the bathroom to clean my shit up. Even at that point, I thought, “What a fucking bad decision. What a fucking bad, bad, bad, bad decision.”

But that wasn’t even the half of it. Not yet, my friends.

After only five or six seconds with the washcloth on me, I heard my bedroom door slam.

“Good,” I thought, “she just got embarrassed and left. At least I can sleep and forget about this, call Kellen in the morning and work my way past this shit.”

No, not yet.

If you didn’t know, it takes more than five or six seconds for a whore to get dressed; once I realized this, I knew that this girl had left my apartment naked as my dick was bloody.

I grabbed her purse and clothes and tossed them on my doorstep, thinking, “My housemates can deal with this shit. I’m done.”

Well, instead of this bitch going to my cool housemates, who smoke more pot than I thought was humanly possible, she went across the hall to some redheaded Jersey fuck who made it his personal responsibility that I not de-scab her axwound again.

“Hey, you bastad!” he shouted, pounding on my door, “You brought a drunk girl home!”

“Fuck you!” I shouted from behind the wood paneling, “Why don’t you take her and patch her up then?”

After a few seconds of silence, I heard maybe ten more voices and more pounding on my door. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I said, and grabbed the nearest phone to call my buddy Shaun, who owes me a throw-down and owns a set of kitchen knives.

Shaun, who also has a career now, answered sleepily and said that he was too far away to help. I hung up the phone, grabbed a putter and opened the door with it poised over my shoulder.

When I opened the door, only the girl was standing there, crying and blood-soaked from the waste down.

“What the fuck?!” I said.

“They left me because I called them a bunch of faggots.”

“Come in and get dressed and get the FUCK out.”

“My car is across town…it’s 4AM…could you at least let me sleep on the floor?”

Now, I might be an asshole, but I’m still not going to let a crying, menstruating girl sleep on my floor. I grabbed my pillows, ripped off the bloody sheets and threw them away.

“Here, sleep on my bed.”

“Okay,” she said, lying down and sobbing. “Oh and Nick?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have a tampon?”

I answered, but after, thinking of this question filled me with so much fucking rage that I left my room to smoke on the balcony, leaving her to sleep alone. After the cig, I came in and pulled a pillow close to my head, trying to forget the whole thing ever happened.

Later in the night, I was woken up by her head bobbing on my dick. “Nice,” I thought, “finally some sort of retribution for this bullshit.” I sat back, let it happen and then, suddenly, she twitched and her teeth clenched down on the shaft of my dick, making it bleed.

“Goddamnit!” I shouted, tears forming in my eyes.

“Opps!” she said, and began crying again.

I left the room again and stayed out on the balcony the rest of the night. When I felt it was an appropriate time to text Kellen, I wrote her, “You and I are hanging out tonight.” And truth be told, I’ve always known Kellen as a smart, graceful woman, and as I rehashed the whole, terrible night in my head, I knew that I had to get her and keep her. A dumb whore in this town is a dime a thousand…and methinks that this is probably true everywhere else.

Now, what I’ve learned from this whole experience might shock you, given the themes and topics of the last 50 articles here at The Lady’s Shave…but truthfully kids, I’ve got to say that after this experience, I couldn’t appreciate my girlfriend more. More than that, I also couldn’t vilify the idea of the one night stand more, either.

So, I’d like to end this story with a pledge.

After this whole debacle, I promise to you readers:

I, Nick Gaudio, will never have a one night stand again. I will not approach women at bars, nor will I take them home at all, let alone with the intent to fuck them. I will commit myself fully to one woman or none at all…unlike I usually do (usually it’s only about a day into it that I’m thinking, “What the fuck did I get myself into?”).

And after you’ve read this story and somehow think that I’m a pussy, or a liar, or a cad or whatever the fuck you might think…well, fuck you son. Put your dick into the jaws of life and then tell me then that you’re still afraid of commitment. Tell me that one night stands are still great; that dating a girl who doesn’t put out readily is stupid; that college is meant to be a fuckfest…and I’ll tell you that you’re just scared. And if you reply like I think you might…you know what I’ll tell you, reader? I’ll tell you what I told the 28-year-old who changed my entire outlook on the dating world:

No, bitch; I do not have a tampon for your fucking bleeding pussy.

This is Nick Gaudio—diehard romantic—signing out.

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