Tag Archives: Sex

I’m Judging You – A Holiday Survival Guide

lindsay-lohan-drunk-and-falling-down-again-hollywoodgrind-1Tis the season for douchebaggery. The holidays tend to bring out some of our worst fashion choices and sometimes even more devistating life choices when it comes members of the opposite sex. We sport too much glitter, think sequins belong in broad daylight and have a tendency brush off excessive drinking as just another part of the festivities. Throughout the years I have had my share of Christmas chaos – from mistaking an office function for mardi-gras to peeing off the back deck during a family gathering, I have found the holidays to be a time of feeling flushed, feeling full and feeling…well…fucked up.
There is nothing quite as degrading as going back to work on a Monday and trying to recall if it was the Pete the President of Marketing or Stacey the underage hostess that you spent half the night getting your twerk on with (or worse…if you just happened to bring both of them home to your frozen pizza covered bed and still can’t decipher which one the lacy boy-cuts belong to)


No matter what you’ve done, I think this is the year you can decide to do better. After attending my first festive function of the season, I came to realize it can be rather easy if you just follow a few simple guidelines…

1. Do not pre-drink.
You now have a grown-up job and should at least TRY to look like you can afford the over-priced drinks and/or pace yourself at an open bar. Your bosses sober wife WILL discuss at length the way you slurred your dates name as soon as you arrived.

2. Do not wear shoes that you cannot walk-in.
I am going to make the assumption you have all rolled your eyes at my previous request so I am going to spread out that safety-net of common sense. I don’t care how hot those Jeffrey Campbell’s look…you DO NOT look attractive tippy-toeing across the dance-floor on your way to the bathroom. You do however look like all those girls you see walking through the entertainment district at about 3 am in bare legs in a foot of snow yelling at their chin-strapped boyfriends to pull up the car.

3. Having sex with co-workers is a terrible idea…especially if you are the boss.
I get it, trust me, I really do but texting your best-friend at sun-rise the words “I hope (insert name(s) here) doesn’t work with me tomorrow because we totally just banged” is not going to be worth it when you use up all your sick days trying to avoid overhearing John from shipping discussing your flexibility and willingness to “try anything once” with that chick from head office. If you ARE that chick from head office…you could be looking at a severance package for your little coat room indiscretion so either break out the benjamin’s and get bribing or hire a hitman…the choice is yours.

4. For the love of God, buy some dress socks.
Your collar is telling mean you mean business…your track socks are telling me you live in your mothers basement.

5. Say “screw it” and try again next year.
I read somewehere that we are bound to change our careers like times in our lifetime anyways so just chalk it up as another savage night and move on to the next one.

No matter what you do, just remember that being over dressed is ALWAYS better than being under-dressed and if worse comes to worst… all vomiting should be done in private.

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Backdoor Sluts 9

Guilty. I will call myself out on it now. I have committed the cardinal sin of blogging, I have broken the rules, I have, for lack of a better expression (that’s a first) fucked right off.

No, I have not gone on sabbatical. No, I have not joined Sting in a tantric sex workshop in the middle of the Appalachian mountains. I have not taken up cocaine, joined the circus or learned a life-changing skill that I have found more applicable to my everyday life than my ability to give a damned good blowjob. Quite honestly, I have spent the last few months playing a consistent game of touch with the same damned person. Some may say I have lost my mind, others may say I have fallen deeply and madly in love…all I can say is that I am happy and my pussy hasn’t seen such consistency since the time I shacked up with the Guinness guzzling imp of self destruction.

Admittedly this has been harder to write than I was expecting. Worried I have somehow become a Stella in desperate need to get my groove back with the inability to afford a plane ticket to Sugar Mamma Town, Jamaica, I am just going to have to make do with what I have…my stunning good looks, my ability to be a cut-throat cunt and the cold hard fact that ladies can do whatever the fuck they want.

During my hiatus, I went back and forth between concepts, I mean, if I was going to come back, it had to be with a bang. I thought about how much I wanted to de-friend anyone of FaceBook who felt it was necessary to post more than one engagement photo, played with the co-relation between overly bleached streaks and TNA winter jackets (and the chill that run downs my spine at the thought of either). I mulled over my most recent discovery of the act of “docking” (foreskin rub-down anyone?) but realized I just couldn’t relate.

Then it hit me as I tactically tried to mask the scent of my defecation while trying to coyly convince my two male roommates that “ladies don’t poop” (apparently bath and body works does not provide sufficient coverage in this department).

tumblr_mqyw0xv7Zb1s2gm4xo1_400Every male I have been with has had this unshakable predisposition to anal sex. Some try to bring it up in conversation…others bravely go for the gold but most mostly fail horribly and end up spending the next half an hour discussing their feelings and apologizing profusely.


I can barely remember the first time I let it slide. I was freshly nineteen and him and I were away on a romantic escape from reality in a desperate attempt to bandage up our doomed relationship. It was raining outside and besides playing another round of crazy eights there was nothing more than a bottle of Jack Daniel’s keeping us from wringing each other’s necks. Having nothing left in common we settled on drinking and fucking as the most suitable pastime. I can vividly remember crawling on top and in a drunken stupor deciding that now (the end of the relationship) was the best time to give him the only thing he had never gotten from me…a parting gift of sorts. Gulping my drink in one hand and hovering my bull’s eye atop his half-hard-on, I whispered “you’re fucking me in the ass…do you like it?”. Poor guy didn’t even get a moment to respond as I promptly jumped off and puked on what I thought was the floor but later realized was really the bed.

We didn’t mention any of this in the morning, nor has it really ever come up again. In fact, I tried so hard to forget this little mishap that I spent almost two years lying to my ex and tricking him into thinking he was the first to go the distance…ooops.
So there I was, a twenty-five year old virgin (of sorts) who firmly believed that such acts never occurred unless you actually enjoyed them. Then there I was, mid-make-out on a random sober Friday, wet to the touch and needing to be filled in a way I had never known. I asked, and looking surprised, he obliged. Staring at the ceiling I immediately regretted my demand as I fought the urge to scream (or shit the bed). As he gently asked me if I was okay (knowing damn well that this would be put to an abrupt end should I not be) I laid there thinking to myself how much better this “virginity loss” was so much better than any other I had experienced. Breathing steadily and trying to maintain my relaxed state I watched in awe (and tried not to clench) as he slid in and out of my precious backdoor.

Although I cannot say that this is something I am ready to ask for on the regular, I mean a lady needs something to hold on to for special occasion’s or weekend getaways but let’s just say I think I am beginning to get it…and I am almost certain I am okay with that.

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I’ll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours


I remember the first time I saw a picture of a penis. I was in the second grade and my mom was expecting. I grasped the general concept of where babies came from but really just did not understand what exactly was going on down below on the other half of the genetic spectrum.

We took a class trip to the library and I can vividly remember sneaking away from the group to seek out any book that could provide some clarification for my impending need for visual evidence.  I tucked myself away, slowly scanned the index and fingered the pages to the clinical display of cock.

I was baffled. How in the world did boy get anything done? Wasn’t walking difficult? Could you move it with your mind?

It would be little under a decade later that I found out that penis was not nearly as baffling as I had expected and walking was actually the least of their worries.

I am sure Freud would have a thing or two to say about this but after years of dabbling, I have come to accept that I truly do love penis. The array of shapes and sizes entices every inch of my budding libido and not since my discovery of the Ikea catalogue has my mind played mix’n’match so often – trying to pair your expectations with ethnicity is not a guarantee, height with size is a myth, and the finger span rule is a load of crap.

Like men themselves, each penis is custom designed to offer it’s own special talent. Some curve, some grow to epic proportions…and some ring true to the whole “what you see is what you get” thing. I have never lied when asked during an afternoon brunch spill session on my latest conquest, but I have also never knocked a dude by dismissing his dick as nothing more than a few extra inches of hardened flesh. I really don’t think it is fair to rag on someone for something they can’t help but I firmly believe that it is possible to overcome such obstacles with a little hard work and dedication (i.e cunnilingus).

What I have learned along the way is that the average male knows little to nothing about their own junk. They don’t really understand how it works and are satisfied in the simplistic approach that if it starts to swell, they should repeat the action until it explodes – if only I could take the same approach. Sometimes I feel like I am slightly more obsessed with the males member than most males.

I was hooking up with this uncircumcised  beauty with a rather large condom size. By rather large, I mean “watch your fucking angles before you end up poking my bellybutton” kind of depth. It was all fun and games until one day, upon close inspection, I realized that one side of his foreskin didn’t seem to go down as far as the other side. “I’m a halfie” he offered when I brought it up. Having no idea what the hell he was talking about I began researching. This beautiful specimen had gone twenty three years of his life with a broken dick and had no idea (and unfortunately was too pretty to understand the complexity of said issue which is probably why it never worked out for us).

Females would die before they allowed such a thing to happen. We are obsessed with waxing rituals, we have all inspected the inner depths with a hand-held mirror and some of us have even douched with some “spring rain” scented liquid that has probably left us with a yeast infection that smells nothing like a tropical rainstorm. I have heard of women shying away from having their clitoris tongued, their moistened lips touched, and their g-spot stroked with ready fingers in fear of having their lady bits judged. Blame it on those Vagina Monologues, but in my experience, as long as they can stick it in, no self-respecting male is going to sit there and pass judgement on the warm waters that are going to harbour his steamboat.

I have seen thumb sized, I have felt skinny mini’s and I have had to say “there is no chance in hell that is going inside me” to the unsuspecting monster trucks.  The differences is what make them each unique and the obliviousness toward just how much females (and some saucy males) find pleasure in each and every one of them is what makes the “d” so much more endearing – so let’s take a moment to appreciate what we’ve got and explore what we don’t because at the end of the day, if it feels good, we should probably be doing it.

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When I Think About You I Touch Myself

largeI didn’t own my first vibrator until the age of 21. Up to that point I had, on more than one occasion, thought about purchasing my very own handheld yet could not bring myself to go beyond perusing the aisles of my suburban Stag Shop to actually picking out and ringing through the pretty pink vibrator I had visited on more than one occasion. No one told me what to look for and more often than not the overly pierced “experts” who offered up the patience, understanding and helpfulness of roadkill just made me feel stupid for even trying. Time and time again I went home empty-handed and went back to the same topical rubdown I had indulged in since my pre-teen years. I’m not knocking clitoral stimulation, it’s just that once you’ve experienced the mind-blowing orgasm of a good old fashioned penetration, it’s kind of hard to settle on old faithful.

I can remember trying to convince the guy I was living with when I was 18 to “try something new” on Valentine’s Day. I suggested our local sex shop and nervously held his hand while trying not to giggle as we looked at the merchandise. We spent the next twenty minutes covering up our naiveté by poking fun at the other customers. In the end we walked out with nothing more than flavoured lube that ended up leaving me with some sort of bladder/yeast infection hybrid and two weeks of a penetration lockdown.

Feeling defeated is almost inevitable when you feel completely helpless. After my breakup with Mr.Lube, I thought I would give the battery operated boyfriend another try. I think I visited at least six different stores, asking a different question at each one and hoping to dear god I would be able to crack the code of sexual coolness that seemed mandatory in order to properly fuck myself. Each time I left empty-handed.

I would to say that after years of trying I was able to walk into a store and confidently pick out and purchase my very first vibrating cock, but I would be lying. It wasn’t until a guy I was seeing who insisted we incorporate a mechanical “third” into play-time did I have the lady balls to admit I did not own my own pleasure piece. Giving the fact he thought he was pounding a sexual prowess he grabbed the keys to his shitty car and drove us both directly to the store. Feeling like an idiot I waited as he went inside, returning after no more than seven minutes, with my very first pink vibrator. I couldn’t bring myself to open the opaque silver bag and sat quietly as he drove me home.

Grabbing my belonging’s as I exited his car I blushed as he insisted I take my new gift for a personal joyride.

I think we all know what happens next and to put it lightly, that pink pony damn near changed my life.

I really wish that someone had told me, showed me, or at least offered to accompany me in making one of the most important purchases a lady can make a whole lot sooner…but they didn’t….so I guess I’ll just have to keep on making up for lost time, over and over and over again.

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Coffee And Blowjobs

I am not one for morning sex. It’s not that I am insecure about my horrendous morning breath, nor am I too concerned that I am one of those females who wakes up looking nothing like they did when they first crawled into those twisted sheets of hormonal friction, it’s just that I usually want anyone and everyone to fuck right off until I have consumed at least one serving of hot coffee. Yes, I have tried, yes, I have had some rather pleasurable morning romps, but there is just something that lingers in the back of my selfish twenty something mind that insists I dedicate my mornings to no one other than myself.

tumblr_ljtv68OCKq1qzbdzao1_400Now for all of my male readers, I know you are rolling your eyes and moaning “but morning sex is the best sex” and I get it, I really do. Your raging boners are hard to ignore as you roll over to wrap your arms around my naked body as you “accidentally” stab me in the backside with what seems to be a near completion erection of epic proportions. I am not an idiot, besides the “surprise blowie” I know that nothing can start your day like a good old fashioned lay. It’s just…well…unless your willing to invest in copious amounts of KY, or are dedicated to the thought of vagina as an appetizer, you will be having nothing more than a sugar free yogurt (with or without fruit…depending on how long it’s been since pay day) tossed your way during peak breakfast hours.

I do understand that this is a personal preference. I know plenty of lovely ladies who just love to get down and dirty at the break of dawn, but I also know a good amount who just lay there thinking to themselves how the fuck it is possible that last nights moistened palate has turned into a somewhat awkward display of avoided eye contact as both parties try to muster up enough saliva to make this entire scene passable as even slightly porn-esque.

So what do we do then? Is the pre-work throw down so crucial to a males existence that the ladies like me who can actually feel their vagina’s dry out at the thought of banging before bacon get ridiculed on their lack of daylight deliciousness?

As much as I am willing to take one for the team, sometimes I just want to find a phone app that makes my alarm clock shout something along the lines of “good things come to those who wait”. So for all you good ones, you know who you are, remember; patience and caffeine are often rewarded…and although you may not get it in, I can almost guarantee there is a post-java shower blowjob with your name on it.

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Getting Older, Being Broke And Finding My Inner Submissive Part II : Textual Intercourse

sextingWords have the capacity to change perceptions. More often than not I have found myself intrinsically “involved” with fictional characters based solely on a delicious collection of descriptive words (and an alliteration or two, just for good measure). With the introduction of MySpace, I sought my justification through lyrical content…


I mean sure he needed more hairspray to hold down his side-bang than Poison ever used during the entire span of the 80’s, but his choice in teen angst scripture (aka Bright Eyes lyrics) was enough to lead me to the sort of fanaticism my never been kissed lady bits were yearning for. Then came the optimal screening process, Facebook. If they claimed to be “Born and BREAD”, I knew it was highly unlikely I was about to pounce on it (but… if they were to corner me in a hallway and tell me I’m pretty, I may have (had) to given in – that home town recycling bin is a hard habit to kick). Then there’s the Twitter (abomination) and good old Instagram (my go-to), which inevitably leads to the text message.
I have been called on more than once for my crafty use of innuendo via text. In person I can come across as a blabbering imbecile yet you toss me an IPhone and I suddenly become the Casablanca of data plans. So after years of cunning conversation, it seemed as though my limits were about to be pushed as I entered the world of sexting.
I had played in the minors but had never actually gone pro when it came to textual intercourse. He was an unlikely candidate, one of those always popping up sort of guys a girl in Toronto tries her best to avoid (yet seemingly goes out of her way to attract…). It was starting to get warm out, I was now seasonably required to start shaving my legs on a regular basis and two of my best friends had left for extended vacations leaving me in dire need of just about everything. The late night digit exchange occurred without a second thought as I miserably chatted away on messenger.
By the second day I knew I was a done deal as my face flushed with his demands of lust teetering on the BDSM forefront. I went to work only to be reminded every time I checked my phone that I was the type of girl who “needed to be punished”, taking moments to collect myself in public bathrooms as I read on and encouraged the revelation of being the type of woman “who wanted to be punished”.
I was being outdone…and I liked it.
Days went by and the words continued, expanding and contracting their importance in my fervid imagination. Push, pull, choke, suck, torment – my mind was a wasteland and my fingers defenceless to the words my libido typed back.
The words had roped me in like they had so many times before…yet this time was different. My fictional desire was about to cross-over to something a little more tangible than a hard-cover.

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Getting Older, Being Broke And Finding My Inner Submissive: Part I

fuckI think I have officially kicked-off my quarter-life-crises. I more often than not contemplate cutting off all my hair (yet again), find it imperative that my evening bath ritual be performed with utmost precision (unless of course I have been at the pub, yet again) and am trying to find the balance between Greek yogurt and ramen noodles (or the all-together avoidance of late-night take-out… because my fridge is empty, yet again). The only things I own seem to be unreliable laptops with expired warranties and enough chachki’s to put a small town Goodwill to shame. At 19, I thought at 25 I would be a well-established stylist living in a world of high fashion and glamor. I didn’t realize at the time that carpel-tunnel and my inability to speak a foreign language would truly hinder my ability to achieve the sort of success I desired. At 21 I went back to school, somewhat jaded and desperate to find myself amongst the great academics I would undoubtedly be surrounded by. Sure, the content was riveting, the professors inspiring and the hours shorter than my usual 12-hour stints on my feet. Yet there I was, blatantly fooled by my own optimism as I watched 17 year-old girls exchange looks of contempt as I pulled out my paper and pens whilst they cheerfully tapped away on their Ipads.

poorSo here I am, less than two months away from celebrating my twenty-fifth birthday in an apartment I can’t afford, with a cat that eats more nutritious meals than I do, listening to what may be the saddest soundtrack known to man on Songza and contemplating as to whether or not my hair colour regrowth is passable as an “alternative” style statement.

Last month I started working at a cute little place just down the street from my house. I had romanticised my decision to return to the restaurant industry by watching 90’s rom-coms that glorified the indecisiveness that is your twenties. Truth of the matter is I was doing the same fucking thing I was doing when I was sixteen. So on that fateful Sunday, mid-brunch rush and sweating with patio order confusion I darted for the change room, dropped my apron outside the managers door and snuck out the back. If I didn’t have such a heavy bag I probably would have ran, and if I hadn’t been so exhausted from the day before I definitely would have shouted “I’m free!” through the yuppie filled streets of Yorkville. Instead I settled on a mid-level panic attack that could only be subsided by the soothing voice of my mother. She refused to scold me, reminded me I was an adult, and sent me reassuring words of wisdom (or tidbits of raunchy humor) she found on Pinterest via screenshot text message.
I cooked, I cleaned, I ran (a new progression towards adulthood) and then I slept for 12 hours of blissful, carefree (read: gravol induced) sleep.
Spending all of my Monday surfing the internet for mindless opportunities of employment, followed by a hearty lunch-date with one of my many employed friends, followed by well-deserved nap and a 2 hour toenail painting stint and I was ready to get back at the world in any way I could…and let me tell you, I was anything but a lady about it…

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What’s Your Brother’s Name?



The seventh grade opened up a whole new world. I made friends outside of my comfort zone and would soon find myself spending my summer poolside with the “rich” kids who occupied Trelawny Circle. The youngsters who lived in this neighborhood had moms who made petite fours and would let us drink red wine with dinner. Their fathers drove fast cars and their older brothers played on private sports leagues with other people’s children from this elite society. I had somehow tapped into a world so separate from my own and my ego and sprouting breasts were not willing to overlook my new-found attention.



Before this I had never paid too much attention to my own appearance. Sure, I would spend those extra ten minutes rotating butterfly clips and applying white eyeliner and Bonne Bell clear mascara, but my reward was a personal satisfaction. It was not until I attended a friend’s brother’s hockey game that I realized my appearance was worth more than I ever could have imagined. At the end of the game I was welcomed with compliments beyond my semi-pubescent mind could imagine. I was hit with the bug and my days of Bop magazine day dreams became a thing of the past and real life fanfare became my reality of my now.

I slowly developed a sort of awareness. By the tenth grade I noticed that sleepovers with my girlfriends now included their older brothers who would encourage my return long after their little sister went to bed. Their friends always seemed available to cater to my underage demands of peach schnapps and bong hoots whilst my other friends so often seemed overlooked. I did not question the interest but cultivated my ability to acquire whatever it was a girl of fourteen could possibly desire. Belmont’s, vodka and late night drives to McDonalds seemed so innocent to a young virgin such as myself, yet looking back I realize just how naive I was to think my impulsive nature was not capable of leaving a trail of frustrated testicles just screaming with blueness. How silly it was to think that with every tit there was not a tat and that every time I covered my pool soaked body with nothing more than a blank white t-shirt I was in fact setting up every on-looking mother with a heart attack as their G2 affirmative sons stared on with intrigue.

You see, the boys my age never paid much attention. I was more often than not overlooked by those whom my school-girl fantasies were polluted with. I was dismissed, ignored, or quite simply disregarded as unworthy for those who occupied my age-range. A mystery I have yet to unravel, yet it is in those formative years between virginity and male domination that I learned just how powerful the owner of a vagina could be.

Some may call me cocky, some even called me a tease, but to the girl who knew what she wanted to the woman who knows what she wants, I am nothing more than self-aware…and let me tell you, it always has and always will feel fucking great.

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Take Off Your Pants And Jacket


I put away my winter jacket for the season, and this time I mean business. I may have been jumping the gun as I spent the Monday evening defrosting my toes after insisting that park hangs and tall boys were crucial to my existence, yet when I awoke to a nose sprinkled with UV induced freckles on Tuesday morning I knew it was all worth it. 


You see, there’s something in the simple promise of less clothing that makes me giddy like the school girl I (was) am. Boys begin to roll their jeans, and I (in return) convince myself that what would constitute as an undergarment during the winter months is now passable as a pair of shorts. My hair gets bigger, lipstick gets brighter, and my hormones begin to race out of control.

I am convinced this is not a figment of my imagination. In one way or another we all suffer from “Spring Fever”. Some daydream of hand-holding and walks along the boardwalk, while others (*ahem*) fantasize about patio pitchers and alleyway make-outs. Whatever your ideal springtime activity is, I do hope that a little nooky is in the cards as this is that rare moment in time where the male population has not yet forgone all hygiene rituals. Flip-flops are still tucked away in the closet (unless you play hockey, in which case I am pretty sure your douchebaggery can be spotted in 4 inches of snow) , snap-backs are not stained with sweat, and those man sweaters are accessible enough to forgo that awkward moment when you need something to lay (bang) on.

So let us all just take it in, enjoy it while it’s here because sooner or later we’re going to end up hung-over, without a ponytail, in an un-air-conditioned apartment, trying to find our cellphones so we can figure out how far away we are from the nearest patio mimosa and familiar face.




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Frankly My Dear, I Don’t Give A Damn

In case you haven’t noticed, I have been M.I.A for the past couple of weeks. Not to say this lady has been out of commission but sometimes we all need a little life time-out, and my most recent encounter with a (how do I put this delicately…) “really big fan” seemed reason enough to do so.



Truth is, when I started this little adventure into whatever the fuck it is I seem to be doing, I thought long and hard about how and if it would influence my day to day life. Some people were appalled by the fact that I would go public with my endeavors but if you know me personally, you know I have never shied away from a good story.



Since I started, nothing much has changed except for the fact that my best friends now introduce me as “the one who writes the SEX BLOG” and people (more frequently than before) take it upon themselves to ask me personally if I would like to participate in their sexual fantasy re-enactment.

So I thought I would let you know from the bottom of my flattered/flabbergasted heart that being sex positive DOES NOT mean:

  • I want to fuck you and your boyfriend (Unless he’s hot, in which case, you probably DO NOT want me rocking his world)
  • I want to blow you (This is not high school and blow-jobs are no longer currency of cool)


…or that…

  •  I want pictures of your D (It takes a boy to snap a dick pic, it takes a man to come over here and rock the cock)


Now I am not saying I am unappreciative of all the “love” I receive. Some of you make me laugh, some of you make me laugh even harder but some of you are downright oblivious to the fact that…well…am just not that into you.

So take a hint, or don’t, either way your stalking tendencies will wind you up in jail while I keep doing my thing with someone that isn’t you.


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