How To Guarantee You’ll Get Laid, Part Four: Don’t Boy Proof


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Don't Boy proof

When we make plans, God laughs. When we don’t, the nurses at student health do.

-Emily Dickinson

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 part four of a seven-part series, where I’ll prove to you just that. To read Part 3, click here.

Part 4: Don’t Boy Proof Your Home

I’m not the type of girl who can generally be bothered by shit like “cleaning.” My makeup is perpetually spread all over my vanity along with various hair tools and extensions. My kitchen sink doesn’t pile up too high, but I’ll leave a dish for a day or two before getting to it. And on particularly special days, you can see a trail of clothing leading from my bedroom door to my bed. I know, I know. I sound pretty gross. But you know what? You probably pick your nose while you’re driving because you think no one’s looking, so who are you to judge me?

I’m also not the type of girl to let guys know that she’s disgusting. In fact, I’m just the opposite. I get a little high off of showing off my domestic skills in front of guys — which is quite literally insane, because six out of six of my last six meals were takeout. But I love it. I love helping moms clean up at family parties when I know guys are watching. I love hosting pregames. I love making a plate for my date at events. It just feels like I’m playing a role, which just so happens to get me tons of compliments of the “Oh my God, you’re *so* cute” variety.

That’s kind of pathetic, huh? Whatever, nose-picker. Fuck off.

In any case, my goal when meeting a guy is to basically trick him into thinking I’m nothing like myself. So before I leave for a night out, I “boy proof” my house. This involves a few distinct steps.

1. I take my stash of condoms and put them in my roommate’s bedside drawer. Why? It’s slutty to have condoms, and like I said, I’m pretending I’m nothing like myself. Under no circumstances, of course, am I going to go bareback, though, so I leave them with my roommate. Then when the moment hits, I can pretend I don’t have any because I “never do this,” and then act like she’s the slut who expects to bring guys home.

2. I empty my bathroom trash can. Sometimes I just empty it into the larger kitchen trash can if I’m feeling lazy. This is disgusting, of course. I’m a very bad roommate. But when I only have ten minutes to get ready, it’s better than letting some dude see my tampon applicators.

3. I hide all the clothes that are on my floor. Depending how messy my room is, this can range anywhere from actually putting my clothes away into a laundry basket to hiding them under my bed and in my closet as if my mother just told me I couldn’t go to the mall if my room wasn’t clean.

And that’s it. It’s enough to transform me from a complete piece of shit to a partial piece of shit, and that’s good enough for me.

On this particular night, however, I said “fuck it” to my rules. It’s not that I had any intention of letting anyone see my room for the animal pen it really was, it’s just that I wasn’t in the mood to put in the effort that night. I’d just gotten laid the previous weekend, and I frankly didn’t care. Tonight was about me. So when I tore my room apart looking for an outfit, I left my clothes where they landed. I left the three gatorade bottles on my nightstand without a care. I emptied no trashcans and pulled no sneaky moves. I had the night to be free of care, and that’s just what I’d do.

As a senior, of course, your vagina is never really off the clock. Over the years, you develop a sort of roster. Because everyone who matters goes to the same bars on the same nights every week, it’s very hard to go a full month without running into one of your repeat customers. And just because I’d said fuck it didn’t mean the fates did. I spotted Mike across the room when I walked in. Ten minutes later, I felt a man grab my waist, and whisper in my ear from behind me in a way that sort of tickled.

“Have you been properly fucked lately?”

No, Mike, I haven’t. But I have a feeling that’s all going to change in one to four hours.

I turned around and kept my hips close to his. I looked up at him and smiled with my eyes.

“It’s been awhile.”

We wasted no time. I don’t think we even bothered to finish our drinks before we were out of there. I immediately started in the direction of Mike’s off-campus house, ready to rip his clothes off when he stopped me.

“We have to go to your place.”

Why the fuck would we have to go to my place? This never happens. Everyone knows that the shackee holds the power over the shacker, because they don’t have to walk home in the morning. I just willingly forfeited that power tonight and he didn’t want to take it? What the fuck was happening?

“My roommate has like three of his high school buddies in town this weekend and one of them is staying on my futon. And honestly, there are just a ton of people at our house right now. Your place just makes more sense. It’s closer anyway.”


“Besides, I’m running out of t-shirts to give you.”

That’s true.

“Okay, fine. We can go back to my place. But I’m warning you, my room is a disaster right now. And I know people always say that to prove what domestic goddesses they are, but I’m not fucking around. Like it wouldn’t pass a health inspection. A small child might die in there.”

“Haha, that’s fine.”

And it was fine, for awhile. Because men are accustomed to living like beasts, he hardly noticed that his clothes were practically unfindable among the fifty shades of little black dresses on my floor. He didn’t notice that there was a light dusting of hairspray on every surface in my room. And the Gatorades? He appreciated them. Even took a swig mid-thrust for extra electrolytes, which hardly paid off, but I was glad to be of service.

Half an orgasm later, we lay in my bed, sweaty and panting. Mike got up to take a leak and throw away the condom along with all of our non-children, when he froze in his tracks, and looked up at me disgusted.

“There’s a condom in your trash can.”

Yeah, asshole, I don’t keep them as a memory when I’m done with them. Wait. Ohhhhh. It’s not his condom. Fuck. It’s not his condom. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. Perhaps if I just lay very still, he wouldn’t see me, and he’d go away.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now, Michelle? Girls are always bitching about how guys are assholes and they can’t commit, and you fucked some other dude recently enough that his condom is STILL in your trash can? You said you hadn’t been with anyone in awhile! You just straight lied to me to get me into bed?!”

Is this the fucking Twilight Zone? I can not deal with a guy who’s more clingy than most of my vagina-having friends right now.

“Well, to be fair, I don’t take out my trash nearly often enough. And I technically didn’t say I hadn’t been with anyone else. I said I hadn’t been fucked properly.”

Mike stared at me as if I’d told him I used to have a penis. The look of utter disbelief, disgust, and honestly pain was something I’ll never forget. It was the last I saw of him for awhile, which is not totally unexpected. Not too much of a loss though. I still haven’t been fucked properly.

Read other installments in this series:

Part 1: Wear Spanx
Part 2: Don’t Shave
Part 3: Make A Pact


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