How To Guarantee You’ll Get Laid: Part 1


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How To Guarantee You'll Get Laid

“When you don’t want to bang anyone, you will. When you do want to bang someone, you won’t.”

On any given night, when you’re full-on glam, maybe down five pounds, and looking absolutely flawless, boys will not give you a second glance. It’s the laws of nature. Only on the nights when you are least expecting to have a hookup will you end up safely nestled in the bed of a suitor where you’ll be penetrated seven ways ‘til Sunday. This marks the beginning of a five(ish)-part series, where I’ll prove to you just that.

Part 1: Wear Spanx

For those of you who’ve never worn Spanx, the first thing you need to know is that they are beige, and hideous, and quite literally extend from just below your tits all the way down to your knees. You might hike them up so they don’t show beneath your dress, and they come in thong form, but this is home base. You can buy them in black if you’re feeling sexy, but let’s be honest, if you feel sexy in Spanx, you have bigger issues.

The second thing you need to know is that they are very tight. A pair of Spanx, whilst not on a human body, is about the size of a human infant. The fabric is very thick, and while it’s “stretchy,” it’s not that stretchy. That’s the point of them. They stretch just enough to fit over your fat ass, but not enough to allow your fat ass to take its natural shape. They suck you in. It’s quite restricting, and my organs may be failing from wearing them too often, but the results are lovely.

Add sweat, alcohol, and a dirty frat bathroom to the mix, and these things are very difficult to remove, so surely, you’d think, wearing them would mean you’re going home alone to ask your roommate to cut you out of them before bed. No. You look fucking awesome when you wear Spanx. No way drunk you is passing up this once-in-a-blackout opportunity to get laid by someone hotter than you are.

On one such night, I went home with a guy, and frankly, I was nervous. Not because I cared about pregnancy, or diseases, or my reputation like a normal functioning member of society. I didn’t want him to know I was wearing the devil’s underwear. We got to his bedroom and started making out. As his hand started to graze up my thigh, I felt the nerves of a thousand horny middle schoolers.

“I have to pee,” I whispered sexily, as I swatted his hand away from my vagina as if I was programmed to do so.

Close one. I hurried to the bathroom where my grand disrobing began. Try as I might to peel my ugly body suit from my skin, I stood there, stuck. I had flashbacks to Forever 21 fitting room blunders, where I’d tried on a dress that was too tiny and couldn’t get it off. I might die like this. I thought. I will be buried in these Spanx. I felt my face flush, and I began to sweat and panic at the thought. I was taking too long in there. The only thing worse than letting him know I wore Spanx would be for him to think I was taking a shit in his bathroom like some kind of monster. The horror.

One final pull, and I’d freed myself from my torture device. I looked at my stomach in the mirror, as it immediately inflated.

Surprise! I’m fat! Too late now, bitch!

As I was about to leave, I grabbed my clutch….my fucking clutch. My tiny, barely-fits-my-phone-and-my-keys-at-the-same-time, good for nothing clutch. It’s cute, though. I emptied my bag, and tried to rearrange its contents so a pair of underwear double its size might fit inside it. Eventually, I admitted defeat. This was useless. I looked around the bathroom, and eventually stuffed my Spanx into his medicine cabinet, freshened up, sent a Snapchat to let my best friends know I was about to get laid, and returned.

We had a perfectly average night. He didn’t mention once that I’d nearly doubled in size from the time we were at the bar to the time I was naked in his bed, but I was sure he’d regret sleeping with me by morning. It’s called self-esteem, people. Learn about it. I don’t remember when the pillow talk ended, and when the sleeping began, but I drifted off, post-orgasm, into a dreamland where I was naturally thin, and didn’t have to deal with body-morphing undergarments to begin with. It was bliss.

I was awoken the next morning by a crashing sound coming from the bathroom, followed immediately by a man scream. And then there he stood in the doorway, holding my pantaloons up in front of him, both confused and disgusted. I didn’t know what to do, so I blurted the first thing that came to my head.


“They’re not yours?”

“What? Fuck no. How many girls are you bringing home that you have random gross underwear in your bathroom. You know what? Fuck you. Don’t call me.” It occurred to me that he hadn’t even asked for my number, but if I was pretending we were living in a world where I was the one who had the upperhand in this situation, I might as well fully commit to it. I quickly bolted out of the bed and grabbed my things.

“You can keep those disgusting things. I’m keeping this t-shirt.”

Nailed it.


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