Chelsea And Her Tote Bag Of Sexual Terror

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After an evening of trying to convert me to the church of anal penetration (mine not hers), “Chelsea” had just left my apartment and I was enjoying some Mac-N-Cheese, my food of choice in the aftermath of all traumatic experiences. As I sat on my couch and tore through my food, I made a solemn vow by the light of a Blue Mountain State re-run to refrain from all genital contact with Chelsea for the future, lest she devise other plans to run sick sexual experiments on my semi-innocent body. As I am a weak man, my vow lasted for a solid five days before I caved and texted Chelsea once again to join me in sexual activity. Little did I know what horrors awaited me.

I remember how the night started quite well. It was one of my pledge brother’s birthday, and in typical brotherly fashion, our goal was to drown him in shots of well whiskey and bad decisions. In honor of my brother’s impending doom, I decided to “Bat for the Cycle” or drink something including four different alcohols in ascending order of ability to fuck me up. As I rounded third by draining a whiskey ginger composed entirely out of Jim Beam Black, I had the brilliant idea to give Chelsea a call. After all, she had only tried to insert a foreign object into my rectum, not like murder me in my sleep or anything. I figured the worst was over. Women are like Sour Patch Kids: first they’re sour, then they scrape your tongue up while you’re pleasuring them.

I slid into home with a margarita that could have doubled as lighter fluid, wished my now catatonic pledge brother a happy birthday and made the trek back to my place to await Chelsea’s arrival. After a brief period of time where I conducted a furious internal debate about calling the night off, pounding the six-pack of Lime-A-Ritas I had in the fridge and passing out, I heard a knock at the door. I looked through the peephole and shuddered. There, in all her glory, was Chelsea. In her right hand rested a half full bottle of Trader Joe’s wine and in her left hand sat the strap of a large black tote bag. It was too late to go back now. After a quick mental pep talk that included how my ancestors took bullets and torrents of profanity infused self-degradation, I opened the door.

Chelsea busted inside like a wine-drunk whirlwind, saying something to me about how the walk over sucked but she talked a cop out of giving her an open container citation because she stuffed the cork back in the bottle. It is entirely more likely the police officer sensed the bubbling cauldron of crazy vibes Chelsea puts out at all times and decided there were much easier fish to fry. She finally settled onto my couch and looked up at me with a smile that I can only convey accurately as resembling the Joker’s when he dropped Maggie Gyllenhaal out of the building in The Dark Knight. Only there wasn’t going to be a Batman to save me, I was thoroughly screwed.

I walked over and sat down on the couch next to her. Thinking I should try and establish my dominance early, I launched a preemptive strike. She was initially surprised by my boldness, but quickly adapted and regained control by jumping on top of me. From there, I held on for dear life. I don’t know how much time passed, all I knew was that my body was under attack from almost every angle. This girl was the goddamn Picasso of tongue play. I swear it’s like her body had no bones in it, she could slide in wherever the hell she wanted and bend like the possessed girls from every bad horror movie. Chelsea was a force of sexual nature and I was lucky enough to be in her path.

But just like the last time we hooked up, normal coital activity was not enough for her. It was only a matter of minutes before she stopped us and retreated to her ominous black tote bag of terror. Out of the bag arose a large object; it was round in the base but with what appeared to be bright pink plastic-like material in a cone shape on top. My face contorted into a look of absolute terror, she had more than just the satanic silver egg. Chelsea looked at me and giggled at my scared reaction. That fucking thing was not coming near me. I managed to stammer, “what is that?” while trying to quell the wave of fear rising from my stomach. As if she read my mind, she replied, “Don’t worry, this isn’t for you.”

To say I was relieved was an understatement. I’ve never gone from DEFCON 1 to DEFCON 5 so quickly in my life. I was in the clear. As I sat on the couch silently celebrating my victory, Chelsea was messing with little switches on the base of the cone. “Good it vibrates” I thought, conventional sex toys vibrate; we were within the realm of normalcy. She placed the now vibrating cone on the floor and lined it up with her lower half. Fascinated, I watched as she lowered herself down on top of the rubber part of the cone until she was completely sitting on it. She beckoned me over and began to… well I said she was the Picasso of tongue play.

After we were finished, I walked to the bathroom to brush my teeth before passing out. As she stood up to follow me, we both noticed something: the cone stood up with her. She sat down and stood up six more times before she looked at me blankly and stated, “it’s stuck.” I looked down at the base of the cone and then back at her face: “so um stop clenching,” I stuttered in awe of what I was seeing. She shot me a dirty look and said something no guy has ever wanted to hear in the history of humanity’s existence. “You’re going to have to get it out of me.”

The color drained from my face. “What the hell do you mean get it out of you?” She looked me dead in the eyes and replied, “You’re going to have to put your hand inside of me and get it out.” Not once in all my years on this earth did I ever imagine or mentally prepare for the time when I was going to have to birth a plastic sex toy. I didn’t even know how most things in the vagina worked; I just sort of chalked its functions up to magic that should never be discussed in public. We all have to grow into men some day, and it was on that night that my number was called. I slathered my hand in lotion and had her lie on the bed legs apart. I was going in.

I slipped my fingers into her underneath the cone and tried to get a grip on the plastic itself. The cone was engineered with one purpose in mind; penetration, it was certainly not built for retrieval. Finally I gave up on trying to grab it and focused on rotating it out of her. I was unscrewing (no pun intended) it from her genitalia. After a couple seconds, the cone came free with a slight pop. I held it in my hand, admiring its design and ingenuity, somewhere someone was paid to come up with this stuff. She looked up at me with that sick psychotic smile on her face again and said, “See, no damage done.” No, besides my mental scarring and the many years of therapy that I was already looking forward to, everything was absolutely fine. I collapsed on the bed next to her, exhausted from the night’s festivities and ready for some sleep. She rolled over and whispered to me: “Are you ready to go again?” I looked at her and made a mental note for the next day, for the love of God, buy some more Mac-N-Cheese.


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