Copy/paste

I don't get it. I'm a good person who lives an honest life and is nice to people, yet for some reason, I seem to have the worst luck: My toast always falls jam-side down, the one day it rains is always the day I leave my windows open, and the one time I have unprotected sex in a public-beach changing room, I end up with chlamydia! What gives?
Yes, every single year, I go for my annual gyno visit and, without fail, I find out I've got chlamydia again. Why am I always the one to get chlamydia? It's just not fair!
It's not like I'm any more sexually active than the average girl. My best friend Amy has sex with her boyfriend almost every single night, and she's never had it. Me, I'll be lucky if I have 20 one-night stands in an entire year! So if she's having sex at least 10 times as often as me, why hasn't she ever had it? Did I do something wrong in a past life? I don't think I've done anything recently to deserve being cursed with chronic chlamydia. I guess I'm just a chlamydia magnet or something.
I know what you're probably thinking: Sharon's so dumb, she never got her first infection cleared up. Well, that's just not true. Sure, I was totally freaked when I first got it back in 1995. (I thought I was going to go blind or crazy or something.) But when my doctor told me that, if caught early, chlamydia is easily cured with just a day's worth of antibiotics, I was totally relieved. Thank goodness my first experience wasn't like the time I caught that rare strain of Southeast Asian chlamydia. Lying in that hospital bed with my urethra on fire made me appreciate how easy it was to get rid the normal chlamydia I usually get.
I'm not irresponsible, either. I take care of myself, because I totally wouldn't want to spread it to other people. Especially cute guys. There's nothing more embarrassing than getting a call from some hottie you picked up at the bar last month accusing you of giving him chlamydia. Once that happens to you half a dozen times, you start to get real careful and make sure you go to the doctor as soon as you see symptoms.
And it's not like I don't have standards. I tend to go for preppy, Abercrombie & Fitch-type guys, the kind who'd be very unlikely to have an STD. Plus, I almost always have them use a condom if they don't swear up and down that they're clean. So what's the deal?
We've all been there. I mean, I'm hardly the only one out there having oral, vaginal, and anal sexual contact. I'm just the one who winds up with a pus-like discharge shooting out of my hoo-hoo.
Sometimes, I think it's my family's fault. The Glauber clan is cursed. My dad died in a drunk-driving accident when I was 5, and my mom is just plain crazy. She actually got pregnant when she was 40 after dating a guy she worked with for a week. She even kept the baby. That's why I'm on the pill. I've been more or less lucky on that front (don't ask), yet I've got to admit that this chlamydia thing gets me down. Maybe if I came from a different family, I might have better luck.
Oh, listen to me pissing and moaning: "My family's crazy"... "I wish I was luckier"... "I'm always contracting chlamydia." Everybody's got problems. It's not like I'm starving on the street without a penny to my name. I've got good friends, a good job, and a halfway-decent sex life. Maybe instead of whining about how much I seem to get chlamydia, I should be thankful for the times I don't have it.
I must say, I would probably have a more positive attitude about the whole chlamydia thing if I didn't have it right now. But, as they say, the grass is always greener on the STD-free side of the fence, right?

Hello, is this Megan? Hi, Megan, it's Patrick Hewitt from Brian's birthday party. Just calling to follow up on that make-out session we had last week. Do you have a minute? Great.
How have you been? Good, good. I'm doing well, too, thanks. Can't complain.
If I may, let me get to the point. I'm sure you must be very busy. Those were some very enjoyable French kisses we shared last week, weren't they? I thought the whole thing went very well. A little petting—not too much. Some nice lower-lip nibbling. Plenty of tongue. I thought we really clicked there. Are we on the same page here?
Anyway, just thought I'd give you a buzz to see if we wanted to follow up on that. I got your contact info from Alexandra. What do you say? Just throwing it out there.
Now, I did mean to call earlier, but it has been absolute hell around here. I've been running around like crazy. Busy week. You know how it is, I'm sure. But summer is the time to be busy, isn't it? I just love this time of year. I love to just get out there, have some fun, see people, do things.
So, I was thinking we might want to get together again, if you're up for that. No pressure. You can think about it if you need to. Then again, if we both know now, there's no need to mull. Make sense? Let's do it then, okay? Let's just decide to do it, if that's cool with you. Done.
Good. Then we have a "go" on a date, sometime in the next, oh, let's say 10 days. Let's give it a 10-day window. This time of year is hell. Busy, but that's good.
I've got a good feeling about this one. I don't want to jump the gun on it, but I think we might have a good time. Here's my basic pitch: I'm thinking dinner—something low-pressure, mid-price ethnic. Then drinks at my apartment. Maybe sex. Maybe a little sex. Of course, only if things progress at a good pace on the date, and we're both on the same page about it. Tell you what, we'll deal with that when the time comes. We definitely can just see what happens. Play it by ear. That's smart.
You know, maybe we should set a tentative day, just to get something on the books. Is that do-able? I've got an opening Saturday. You're already booked? How about Friday? Does that work for you? Let's do that, then. I'm pencilling you in: "Friday—Megan." One of us can call to confirm Thursday night. You call me or I'll call you—it doesn't matter. Know what, though? We should probably decide who calls who. Just so that we don't each expect the other to call, and then nobody calls. No sense accidentally getting our wires crossed. I'll call you.
We don't have to move on this too quickly. I'm sure you've got a few prospects out there floating around. I do, too. So let's just keep it loose at this stage, get together, see what goes. Keep it fun at this juncture. Sound good? Great.
Who knows, we might have a full-fledged fling on our hands by August if we get moving on it. I do have a few days off at the end of the month, so now might be a good time to start.
I'll shoot you an e-mail. Let me get you my Hotmail address. Best way to catch me. We can fire a few flirty e-mails back and forth during the week, then see if we can get some chemistry going.
Damn! I just remembered a previous engagement for this weekend that I can't get out of, so Friday isn't going to work for me after all. Let's say we'll touch base early next week and go from there. Sound good? Terrific.
I believe we're all set, then. Next week or so. Thanks again for the hot tongue action. I really did enjoy it. Okay, then, Megan. Talk to you soon. Great? Great!

Boy, you try to help people out, but sometimes they can just be so sensitive. Especially over a little thing like being called stupid.
The other day, I was depositing my paycheck at the bank, and the teller asked me, "Do you want this in checking?" Now, that's a pretty stupid question, seeing as I had closed out my savings account a month before and now only have a checking account. I couldn't believe her stupidity.
But, you know, I try to be tolerant and helpful when dealing with people who aren't all that swift. So, to give her a clue, I said, "Yeah, put it all in checking, stupid." No big speech, no insulting dissection of her dumb question. I just politely answered her and tacked on a little "hint."
Well, Little Miss Genius practically stared daggers at me! What was her problem? I mean, all I did was call her stupid. And it's not like it's even necessarily her fault she's that way. Her mother might have drank too much when she was carrying her or something. All I was doing was pointing out that there's a problem with her intelligence.
A similar thing happened at Pepe's a couple of weeks ago. I ordered the Beef Enchirito Deluxe Platter, and the waiter brought me a Chicken Enchirito. So, naturally, when he put it down in front of me, I gently said, "I'm sorry, but I ordered the Beef Enchirito, stupid."
The guy takes the plate back, and as he's leaving, he shoots me a nasty look. Geez, like I'm the dumbass who doesn't know a chicken from a cow! Strike two.
But even so, I try to be nice. Next time he comes to the table, I try explaining to him as nicely as possible why he's stupid. I even talk extra slow to make sure he follows me. But does he appreciate my efforts to better him? Of course not! He tells me, "I have a lot of other tables to serve, sir," and walks off. Yeah, that would be a real tragedy, not getting waited on by this Einstein, right?
That was his third strike. As a general rule, I drop my tip to 10 percent after the first stupid move, 5 percent after the second, and on your third, you lose the whole bundle. I guess a fourth mistake means the waiter would have to tip me, but I'll never find out, because I don't give people a chance to do a fourth stupid thing. I was out of there and off to a smart restaurant.
Frankly, I don't know why I even bother trying to help these people: Every time I do, they get all huffy and defensive.
It's like the silly brouhaha that erupted when a cop pulled me over last week. It was almost 10 p.m., and I was racing to get to the Builder's Square across town before they closed so I could get the wood screws I needed for my basement shelving project. Out of nowhere, Smokey swoops down on me, apparently preferring that I get to the store after it closes.
The first sign of trouble from this state-supported moron comes when he asks, "Do you know how fast you were going, sir?" Boy, did I ever! Ninety-three! So I say to him, "I've got a question for you, officer: If you've got a radar gun right there in your cop car, why do you have to ask? What are you, stupid?"
Next thing I know, I'm in court. I end up in front of a judge, and I think to myself, "Finally! A sensible pillar of the community who'll respond to reason!"
Well, guess what Judge Chucklehead has the gall to ask? "How do you wish to plead to the charges, Mr. Turpin?" Ye gods, was I in the Twilight Zone? What kind of question is that? I was dying to say to him, "Yeah, I think I'll plead guilty to first-degree trying to finish my shelves! May I see my loved ones one more time before you shoot me?"
But I held back, because I try to show respect to people in positions of authority, even if they don't deserve it. So, instead of responding in a condescending manner, I answered plainly, "How do I wish to plead? What do you think, stupid?"
I don't even want to get into what happened next, but suffice it to say my faith in our justice system was shaken to its core.

Allison, this is very difficult to say, because I care so deeply about you. The moments we've shared together have been some of the happiest of my life. But I've given it a lot of thought lately, and I think we should fuck other people.
Now, please don't misunderstand: These past seven months with you have been incredible. Before I met you, I never dreamed I was capable of fucking somebody so much. For years, the only person I truly fucked was myself. But meeting you, it just totally opened up my legs. And I know I opened up yours, too.
But it just wouldn't be fair to either of us if we didn't find out who else is out there that we're capable of fucking. As much as it hurts to say, to commit myself to fucking any one person at this stage in my life would be to sell myself short. I want to see who else is out there to fuck. And you should, too. After all, we both have so much head to give.
Remember, we're both young. If, after some time away from each other, we feel certain that we want to spend the rest of our sex lives together, we can. For now, though, I think the smart thing to do is to fuck other people. We both need to learn about ourselves, to find out what types of people we enjoy making time with.
I'm sure this is painful for you. You probably feel as though you'll never fuck again. But Allison, you're a lot stronger than you realize. You'll fuck again, I promise. I can't say when or where or whom, but one day, when you least expect it, when it's the last thing on your mind, you'll meet someone and be fucked right off your feet. I believe magic is in store for you. You will fuck again, and you'll fuck hard.
I wish I could, but I just can't close myself off to new people and experiences. It's a big world out there, full of lots of incredible breasts. And I want to come across lots of them before I settle down with any one set. I want to expand my horizons. Only by leaving my zone of safety can I discover all the different types of people I enjoy fucking.
Please don't think that I'm dumping you. I'll always be there for you. As I move forward with my life, I'll always feel you close to me, no matter who else I fuck. Sharing my semen with you was one of the most wonderful experiences in my life. Every day, I thank my lucky stars to have had you. Especially over the kitchen sink in your parents' house. And in the tool shed. Definitely the tool shed.
No, regardless of what the future brings, I will never forget all the fucks we shared. Special, special fucks. There were times when it felt like our genitals were one. Like we had merged into a single being, body and face. And that's the sort of true fuck, Allison, that nothing can ever erase.
It was great fucking, and it was fucking great.

You know, back in the old days, I really had a way with the ladies. Back then, if I wanted to pick up a woman, all I had to do was approach her in my aspect as a bull or swan, and she'd be all mine, helpless to resist. The move was pure gold. It never failed—even on goddesses.
But these modern women, that's a whole other story. For some reason, they just don't go for it at all.
Take this past weekend. I was at a bar, and I saw this sexy little number sitting all alone at a table in the corner. Hoping to get lucky, I put my best moves on her, coming to her in the guise of a grand bull with eyes of fire. But when she gazed upon me in all my turgid majesty, instead of eagerly mounting me for a ride back to my place on Mt. Olympus, she just screamed and ran away in terror. What gives?
A few days earlier, I was strolling along the river when I saw a comely blonde maiden in a nice tight miniskirt sitting all alone on a bench. Remembering how well it had worked with Leda, from which union did fair and fabled Helen spring, I appeared to her as a great white swan imbued with a golden nimbus and bearing an oversized, inviting phallus. But unlike Leda, the blonde didn't get all hot for me. Instead, she just sort of sat there for a few seconds, looking completely weirded out, and then walked away.
It never used to be like this. I can still remember the time I came upon Europa as a bull as she bathed in flowering fields by the sea. When she looked up from laving her lithe, ivory limbs and beheld a strong white bull garlanded with hyacinths and violet, she was ready to go. Without any hesitation, she jumped up on me, put her feet upon my shoulders and rode me hot and hard all the way to the Isle of Crete. Literally. I ran right across the waves the whole way. Nereids on dolphins cheered us on, and Tritons blew their horns. And the sex was incredible. That Europa was mortal, but she sure knew her Eros from her Agape.
Recently, I tried the same move on another woman, but my efforts met with far different results. Her name was Jennifer Of Winnetka, and I spied her bathing as dawn broke and heralded the time when true dreams most often visit mortals. It was a little awkward, because she wasn't bathing in the usual sea or mountain rivulet, and I had to sort of use my bulls' horns to nudge her shower curtain out of my way. She looked up from washing her hair and, like so many of these women today, shrieked in sheer terror. When I tried to speak to her in seductive tones, she squirted a whole bottle of Aveda shampoo in my eyes. Needless to say, I begot no demigods with Jennifer Of Winnetka on that day.
I don't get it. Have I lost my touch? I'm Zeus, but I can't score for the life of me. And we're not even talking goddesses here. These are plain old mortal chicks I'm striking out with.
Sure, I realize you can't win over every woman instantly. I mean, when I first tried to pick up Hera, mother to gods and men alike, she wouldn't give me the time of day. But then I came to her as a cuckoo and, well, let's just say she warmed up real quick.
I also realize that not every woman goes for the same creature. Take, for example, Antiope. Bulls do nothing for her. But come to her as an man-goatish satyr, and she's a complete nympho. Then there was Aegina. The only thing that got her motor running was when I assumed the countenance of an all-consuming pillar of fire. Weird.
With these modern women, though, no manifestation seems to work. Even my awe-inspiring shower of gold, the aspect in which I fathered Perseus by the fair Danaë, is a total bust. There are some contemporary women who claim to enjoy golden showers, but they are not fit consorts for Zeus.
Apparently, if I want to shake the old golden bough, I'll have to use the trick I played on Alcmena, mother to that ungrateful little bastard Heracles, and come upon my chosen woman as her husband's double. It still works sometimes. But I do wish today's women were a bit more open-minded about bulls and swans and the like. After thousands of years on the dating scene, I've become rather set in my ways.

What is it with women these days? I'm seriously at the end of my rope. I mean, you treat a woman to dinner at a fancy restaurant three towns over, and by the end of the night, she's either telling you you're the greatest thing ever or she's dumping a bouquet of flowers over your head. And as for which response you get, well, that's anybody's guess. So tell me, are all women nuts, or just the ones I cheat on my wife with?
Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm just magically attracted to headcases. Then again, how can that be when I cheat on my wife with women of all stripes? I meet them everywhere: work, the gym, coffee shops, bookstores, parties, movies, museums, restaurants, my son's daycare, and so on. Yet whether they're rich or poor, young or very young, the pattern is always the same: After we have illicit, adulterous sex a few times, they start going batshit on me.
Case in point. A few months ago, I was shopping at Circuit City for a new Palm Pilot, and I met this great-looking woman: real stylish, late 20s, great body, the works. She was an executive for a record company, so I figured she must have her shit together, right? Wrong. We go out a few times, and then she starts grilling me: "Why don't you ever take me to your house?" "Whose picture is that in your wallet?" "What do you mean you're married?" We get into a screaming match, she tells me to get the hell out of her apartment, and then she won't return my calls. I don't get it. We were two consenting adults having a great time together, then she suddenly had to go and turn into a raving lunatic!
I've been with enough women on the side to know that no matter how good the sex is, they're eventually gonna go loon-tunes. Sometimes, that takes the form of them hitting me. Other times, it's them screaming about how the relationship can't go anywhere. How wacko is that? We've only been together a few weeks (plus, I'm married), and they're looking for a commitment! Break out the straitjacket, we're going to the funny farm!
It's not like I'm dishonest with these ladies about my free-wheeling lifestyle. I usually tell them right upfront the fifth night we spend at the motel off Hwy. 18. And I'm good to them, too. I'll buy them candies and magazines, and shower them with compliments. Still, no matter how sweetly I say, "You are so much sexier than my wife," they just flip out.
Do they even realize the effort I put into these relationships? When you've got a wife and kids and job, squeezing in an hour for a mistress involves some heavy-duty schedule shuffling, but do I get points for that? Nope, just an earful of cuss words from a crazed harpy. Geez!
I'm not going to give up on other women just yet, but is it too much to ask for one that isn't completely bananas? Out of the billions of women on this planet, at least one of them has to be sane, right? There must be a woman I can casually sleep around with who won't go postal just because taking my son to hockey practice made me late for a secret rendezvous.
I know I sound totally jaded, but I'm really not. The truth is, even through all of my relationship troubles, I'm still a hopeless romantic. At the moment, I can't stop thinking about a cute little number I met at the mall last Saturday. She's gorgeous, but she really seems quiet and laid back—the kind of gal who won't lose her shit. But no matter how well things go with her, I'll remain on my guard. You know what they say: It's the quiet ones who always go the craziest when you're fucking them behind your wife's back.

Pardon me for staring. I'd hate for you to think I was one of those guys who thinks it's okay to approach women he doesn't even know with unsolicited romantic advances.
My God, you're stunning.
Don't take that the wrong way. I realize full well how inappropriate it might be for me to gaze longingly at you, a complete stranger, and then express awe at your incredible looks. I can certainly understand how any woman might find that off-putting, but let me assure you that when I say you are beautiful, I mean that in a completely non-threatening way.
When I saw you emerging from that Walgreens and looked into the most stunning eyes I've ever seen, I was overcome by a desire to hold your perfect cheekbones in my trembling hands and kiss your moist, yielding lips like they've never been kissed. But I would never in a million years dream of actually doing so, because it would surely make you ill at ease.
Unlike so many men, I don't view women as mere sexual conquests. I abhor such a view. You are so much more to me than an object of carnal desire. You are someone I respect and would never dream of approaching in an intimidating manner. After all the crude, uninvited remarks you must receive on a daily basis from men, isn't it refreshing to be approached by someone who actually takes your feelings into consideration?
I have the urge to run to the nearest street vendor and impulsively buy you flowers, but I won't, for fear that you would think it too forward. Would it help to prove my sincerity if I were to weep with joy at the sight of you? I am not afraid to show my feelings, as long as that expression of romantic longing does not frighten you.
Men can be coarse and vulgar, especially when enflamed with passion for a woman of your magnificence. But I would never want to cause you the slightest bit of emotional unease as I express my desire to gently slide the straps of your sundress off your milky-white shoulders in a non-menacing way. I would give you adequate time to become emotionally ready for such an encounter and allow you to set the pace. I'm not like all those crude men who only want to get their hands on the frilly lace Victoria's Secret underthings which no doubt caress your stunning form under that sundress. I am not the sort who sees you merely as a receptacle for my own wildest fantasies. I am a caring soul who would keep such lustful thoughts to myself until I had gone out of my way to ease your mind first.
I never would run my hands through your hair, unless I had first gained your explicit approval. I'm not one of those men who only thinks of satisfying his own animal needs. Trust me, if we were ever to get together, I would consider all your needs, both physical and emotional, so you would have no reason to find me selfish.
Please! Don't run away. And when I say "Don't run away," know that I mean it in the least "I'm gonna get you" way possible.
Yes, a man with a less-than-heartfelt desire for your perfect, round, dimpled ass might chase after you as you hurry down the street in an attempt to evade someone you assume only wants to make you feel uncomfortable. But I would never do such a thing. I will only follow discreetly from a safe distance, explaining my good intentions from several paces behind you as I continue to woo and pursue you in my own special non-scary way. You will feel totally at ease once you understand my motives.
I notice that you have not offered me your phone number. No matter. I would never ask you to give me such personal information until I was absolutely sure you were ready to give it to me. I would never want you to think of me as some sort of pervert stalker who follows strange women down the street.
My darling, you must know that I am not one of those repellent lowlifes who make unbelievably attractive women like you afraid to leave the house in short, flimsy dresses like yours merely because they are frightened that showing their perfect, shapely legs might provoke some untoward response. I would never in a million years make you feel the least bit threatened by my all-consuming lust for your tanned, lithe, nubile flesh.
Wait! There's no need for you to quicken your pace to try to outdistance me. I will make my move only when you are ready for my embrace and not one minute sooner. I would never think of forcing my affections upon you one second before you felt completely at ease with the idea of my hands drifting across the contours of your curvaceous torso and exploring your private recesses.
I'll be waiting! Just as soon as you feel non-threatened by me, I'll be here.