Life
by J. Camm on April 24, 2012

Q. Last week, I started hooking up with a new slam from my town. All went well and we had a great time. It was easily some of the best sex of my life. Anyway, turns out a few days later that she actually gave me chlamydia… I don't blame her too much because many times symptoms don't show up in woman anyway, and, seriously, who likes to use a condom? Either way, it’s easily curable just like any other infection and I was given the proper antibiotics after one hell of an awkward doctor's visit. Like I said, I'm not too angry, it’s cleared up. However, I still feel like I need to tell her that she gave it to me in the first place.

My question is: how exactly do I tell her that she has it, without her flipping out on me? Obviously I'd like to be responsible and tell her so she can get checked out, but I want to do it in a way that:

1) She won't tell everyone we know

2) She won't think that I gave it to her and

3) That we can still keep on hooking up after she has it cleared up (with a condom of course).

A. I actually received this question on my road trip back from a bachelor party this past weekend. I did the obvious thing and read it to the entire car of hungover d*ckheads that I like to call “friends.” The general consensus on your course of action could be summed up by my buddy Anthony's immediate response: “Go up to her and say, 'your dirty f*cking c*nt gave me something.'” Eloquently put, dear friend.

With the exception of the harsh delivery, I agree with the guys: just tell her that her flange is rotten. Also mention that you were tested after the last time you slept with a chick so she definitely gave it to you. Even if you didn't just get tested, it'll keep her from being pissed at you and you gotta look out for #1, you know? And it’s not you that she should be pissed at, but rather the renegade that's been leaving his calling card all over town. In fact, if I were you, I'd ask her which guy is responsible for infecting her so you can stop f*cking in his wake in case things don’t work out between you and old sewage snatch.

As for her yapping about this all over town, I wouldn't worry too much. This is one thing she won't be gossiping about to her pals. Believe me, she wants less people to know than you do. But once you have a messy breakup, that'll all change. You'll go from being an incredible and tender lover to the guy that gave her chlamydia. Oh, and you'll probably be known to have an infant's c*ck as well.

Q. If you had a vag for a day, what would you do?

A. So for 24 hours I stay a man but my manhood gets replaced by a puss and the world is my oyster? Hmm…

I don’t think I’d go to sleep – can’t squander precious time – and what I would do with a vag is easy. So here goes…

Hours 1 & 2: Considering I’m still a man, f*cking and sucking my way to the top of a business organization won’t be happening, so my first order of business will be to watch a rom-com or anything with Zac Efron just so I can see if a cl*t enhances that miserable experience.

With only 22 hours of vag ownership left…things must get sexual.

Hours 3 – 11: I’ll spend these hours locked in a room pleasuring myself, all in an attempt to master female genitalia. I’ll learn how it thinks, what makes it tick; I’ll become the man even lesbians can’t resist. My right hand will become known as “The Perfect Storm.”

Hour 12: I’ll probably spend this time crying. Figure I'll be extra emotional and down on myself for 9 straight hours of bean-flicking.

Hour 13: QUEEF TIME!

Hour 14: I’ll see what happens when foreign objects go in the pee hole.

Hour 15-16: Head to a gym in a town 50 minutes away. Use the hip abductor machines for 10 minutes and then walk around the men’s locker room naked. Spend the ride back listening to “Call Me, Maybe” on loop. BECAUSE MY SOGGY BOX SAYS I CAN.

Hour 17: Snap a photo of it with my phone. Text it to all my buddies with the message reading “how hot is this p*ssy I just fingered?” When they message back asking to see more, because the puss is straight fire, I’ll ruin their month by sending a full-length photo of me.

Hour 18: Go into toxic shock after a liberal dose of Massengill douche.

Hours 19 – 23: Get drunk and introduce a reluctant lesbian to The Perfect Storm.

Hour 24: I’ll spend this time reminiscing about my day and trying to puss-fart the National Anthem while making myself enough sandwiches to eat for the next week — I figure I should get something out of this experience too.

Hour 25: Thank God I’m back to normal and jerk off until my ears bleed.

(Side Note: When I asked Reggie Noble what he would do, this was his answer: “I’d have sex…with a man. To see what it felt like. There is no other answer.” Weirdo.)

Q. How can you apologize to an ex-buddy after you slept with his ex-wife. We haven't spoke in 5 years and I want to apologize. It was the alcohol.

A. My best guess is that ship has long since sailed, my friend. YOU F*CKED HIS WIFE. Not his girlfriend, or sister, or mother but HIS WIFE. That’s inexcusable territory. She may be the worthless piece of trash to end all worthless pieces of trash, but it wasn’t your job to prove it.

Regardless of the time passed or whether or not he’s moved on to another wife, you still stabbed him in the back, heart, and face. You can say he should be the bigger man and forgive you – because alcohol made you f*ck his wife at gunpoint — but I’d argue the fact that he hasn’t killed you makes him the bigger man already. 

Last bit of advice:

If you have a limp d*ck, go see a doctor.

An alarming number of you have written in (in the last three weeks), about not being able to get it up both drunk and sober. The cause of it could literally be anything — from stress to your diet — but I have no idea how to help you, I've never experienced that problem. But you need to get past your embarrassment and go to a urologist. There's nothing to be afraid of. Going to a urologist is basically the same as going to a regular doctor, aside from the whole part where he'll touch your p*nis and shape shift your scr*tum in ways you thought weren't possible.

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