There’s no polite way to delicately ease into this story, so we’ll just jump into it. Recently, I got period blood on my favorite shirt. It was a horror show. It wouldn’t be quite as bad if it was my 2nd or 3rd favorite shirt. And hell, I guarantee EVERY man reading this has gotten period blood on their 4th favorite t-shirt at least once. But my numero uno? My main tee? How I’m able to move on with my life is a testament to my character.
Don’t worry, I’ll tell the dumb story, this ain’t a cliffhanger.
I went on a date with a young lady I met on tinder because approaching a random girl in the real world is for the birds. Before I met up with her I thought to myself “I’m locking down this damn thing night one. Time to break out my favorite shirt.” Of course, the date went well. She was cool, friendly, and we seemed to click. Later that night I did in fact lock it down and I like to think it was because of that wonderful shirt. Please hold your congratulations on the sex. I’m not in this for the accolades, just the love of the game.
But she was on her period. When things started getting heavy, she had to pump the brakes for a moment and break the news.
Here’s philosophy on that situation and really my life motto: “Making sweet, sweet love to a girl on her period is like being on a really high rollercoaster. It’s fun so long as you just don’t look down.” It’s that simple. That was my senior quote actually.
By the way, I truly believe that that is the TRUE definition of male feminism. A lot of dudes THINK they’re feminists, but they’re full of it. They’re like “Oh, I’m a feminist. I voted for Hillary.” Oh okay, you voted for Hillary, but would you stick your pogo stick inside a girl when her meat pocket looks like a scene from Hostel? If not, CHECK YOUR PRIVILEGE.
But here was the issue, we weren’t in a bedroom. We were in the rec center at UCLA. So we kept our shirts on in case we needed a quick escape. So if a janitor or somethin’ barged in we could just quickly pull our pants up and jump out the window, while screaming “AMERICA!” for some reason.
So I didn’t realize until afterwards, that I looked like I was wearing Dexter’s kill apron.
I feel like MOST guys would have washed the shirt by now or even toss that hoe out cutting their losses, but I can’t seem to part with this piece of fabric. We’ve been through way too much, this shirt and I. Like the parent of an amnesic drug addict, I refuse to give up on this lost cause. And if I’m being real for a second, I totally want to rock this out in public as is so one of my friends can bring up the stain and I can nonchalantly brag about getting laid.
“Hey Wally, what’s that on your shirt?”
“Well, well, well. I’m glad you finally asked after several hours together, Jonathan.”.
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