Why do I love ingrown hairs on my hoo hoo?
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Because it means I don’t actually have VD like I thought I might after a little red mountain popped up in Ladytown two weeks after I indulged in one too many whiskey sours and fucked some guy I met at a gay bar.
Oh, and shame on you straight dudes for hanging around in homosexual establishments, preying on women who are probably only there in the hopes that they can get wasted without having to put up with your particular brand of sleeze.
It’s not like Denver isn’t full of bars that are just crawling with hot little 20-somethings who choose to go to meat markets specifically because they’re looking for an easy lay with some nameless, faceless asshat. I know it’s true. I used to be one of those girls.
Apparently, old habits die hard.
At any rate, those ingrown hairs might be uncomfortable, and you might feel like an idiot after discovering on a frantic visit to your friendly neighborhood Planned Parenthood that you don’t actually have a herpes-ridden twat, but it’s still better than the embarrassment of having to post a missed connections ad because you can’t remember the name of the douchehound who infected you during an alcohol-fueled one-night fuckfest.
And please, for love of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, use a condom.
- Location: Uptown
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