Best of Moaningful Confessions

Best of Moaningful Confessions

It’s only appropriate that the sex issue pays homage to everyone’s favourite sexscapade column: Moaningful Confessions. The column was born in 2020 out of the ashes of the seedy and often marginal Blind Date column. We’ve ranked the sauciest, most salacious, tit-lickin’, finger-fucking good submissions from Otago’s dirtiest over the years (fine, we just searched the archives and included the ones that sounded the raunchiest at first glance. They’re pretty good, though). This feature is for your pure enjoyment, humble sex-deprived student — and inspiration. If you read this and smile smugly to yourself like a punter viewing abstract art thinking, “I could top that”, send it to (please, we beg). 

Note: We’ve edited these for clarity cos some were hard to read without having an aneurysm. You’re welcome.

#10 Feelin’ Fuckin Norty (Issue 19, 2023)

So, it’s 2019, DnB artist Mr Traumatik is coming to Auckland, how good. The story begins around 10pm at the concert. I had lost all my mates and could feel the party favours kicking in so I was absolutely wildin’ in the mosh and clearly sending out a vibe. A man puts his arm around me, he’s cute, we immediately click. Mr Traumatik comes on stage with his saucy ass lyrics and apparently that really set the mood. Three songs in, me and the boy are making out. By the fifth song, we had wandered out into the city to find a spot to continue this vibe that was brewing between us. We find an alleyway that seems pretty deserted and get down to business. It's fine, it's fun, it's casual, we finish up and I stand up to leave — and I hear cheering and applause above me. No. It cannot be. Apparently our ‘deserted’ alleyway was right below an apartment building, and about 15 men were out on their terrace looking down directly at us. Listen, I live to perform, so I stood up, dusted off the knees, and took a bow, then walked away and got in the Uber. Never spoke to that boy again but hope he's thriving. Only regret is missing the rest of the show tbh.

Raunch-level: Your mum walking in on you jerking off to ‘Rollin’’ by Limp Bizkit.

#9 Campus Watch Fanfic (Issue 22, 2023)

Before you ask: no, this fantasy never happened nor have I abused Campus services just to see them. I respect their power way too much. But I can dream, and if it were to happen, I think it would go something like this. 

It all began on the first Saturday of O-Week. Mind you, this was a few years ago and I’ve grown up a lot since then. I got to the house party on Clyde. Within 5 minutes of arriving, I had a scrumpy taped to my hand. Luude was blasting from the speakers, and my worries started to fade away. As the night tapered on, I was sobering up. That was, until I was put into a dizzy spin when Campus Watch showed up. 

Campus Watch arrived at the flat and said there was a noise complaint, so everyone had to go. Tommy, one of the Campus Watch men, came up to me and laughed. “Need a hand getting that tape off you?” I must’ve blushed so hard, responding, “Yes, please.” After grabbing my hand and gently removing the tape, I looked around and everyone else had left the party. Before I could even ask, Tommy read my mind. “Do you need a ride home?” 

I’m not sure if this was me reading into a situation that wasn’t there, but for some reason his Campus Watch partner had to go back to the office so it was just me and him. As we got to my flat, he parked the car. We sat in silence before I got the nerve to invite him in, and he accepted. My heart pounded as we headed to my room. Tommy’s gentle touch glided down my waist as he closed the door behind me. “How about we get your wrists taped again, this time to your bed,” he whispered. I nodded as I felt myself getting more wet. 

The red lights of my room reflected off his high vis jacket as I threw it on to the floor. His firm hands grabbed my wrists and taped me to the bed as he slowly ate me out. I was shaking, about to finish when he stopped, looked up and said, “I’m here to ensure that student behaviour is at a reasonable level, and it seems you’re about to be out of control”.  

He stood up and got undressed, looming over me. To say the least, he was built like the fucking Clocktower. Or should I say, cocktower? Hard, sturdy, and wanting to be punished. “But wait —” I gasped for breath, “can you keep the boots on?” 

Tommy entered me slowly with the care only Campus Watch could provide. I felt as if I could ascend into another dimension. Everything in my body felt right, as if I was melting into the sheets. He knew exactly what to do and within a few minutes I had finished multiple times. But he wasn’t stopping. 

He put my legs up behind my head, and placed his standard issue boot next to my head. I knew I was about to cum again. I whimpered, knowing this was the last one I could handle, and Tommy knew as well. He winked at me before saying, “You know, we’re always here to help,” before we finished at the same time in complete ecstasy. 

He untaped me for the second time that night, and then helped with post-sex care. After cuddles and cleaning up, he said he needed to get back to work. “Just know I’m here 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. If you ever want me again, just call,” he said through a smile and left. He may have broken up the party, but I’m so glad he blew out my back.

Raunch-level: Giving your neighbours a strip tease through the window as the neighbour that’s always naked.

#8 A Cocktower Confession (Issue 4, 2022)

Once upon a time, in a place not too far away, your girl did something a lil’ bit nasty on University grounds. I had been going to some Uni events which I shall not name for the sake of protecting my identity and, well, my ego. While I was at this event, I met a pretty cute boy whom I shall call [redacted]. 

I had noticed him from afar but didn’t venture off to have a chat since I was feeling quite shy. He seemed way out of my league. But we ended up talking. After a couple of weeks of continuous flirting, we had a big BYO. During this BYO, I may have gotten a bit silly and started to feel that dutch courage working its magic. On the walk home, the boy and I started chatting and man, the way he looked at me gave me those good ol’ fanny flutters.

Fast forward to the kick-ons, and I was even more drunk and doing a lot of seductive dancing around him. I’m no Shakira but I’m not your drunk dad at a BBQ, either. This is when it started to get good. He grabbed me and took me into the bathroom at this flat and we started passionately making out, he grabbed my ass and put me on top of the sink pressing himself closer. I hopped off the sink and proceeded to rip my favourite pair of jeans so badly that my bum was sticking out. This only fuelled the fire. 

I gave him head, both of us so turned on that we realised we needed to leave this bathroom. We sheepishly and conspicuously left the flat party, him with a boner on and me with my bum out, like God intended. The trek to my flat included a walk through campus so we decided to make the most of it. We walked through the archway towards the Quad lecture buildings and he pulled me down these dodgy dark stairs that led only to a concrete wall. 

Not a bad spot, so I turned around and he slipped it in. Pretty proud of this, we carried on, but there was this giant, tall building, all lit up, that caught our eye. It was a building that would make a great backdrop for, say, grad photos. You know the one. It was the Clocktower. We excitedly walked over and I assumed my position. Pressed against the entrance to the clocktower building I admired the scenery of campus while he thrust it in and out. Finished, we made ourselves as presentable as possible (with my ass hanging out) and continued the walk home. 

Now, if nothing else, I’ll bet you anything that this story will make your future grad photos hit different. There’s like a 99% chance that you’re gonna take your grad shots in the same place I stood while I took his cumshots. And I hope that cursed knowledge sticks with you forever.

Raunch-level: Getting a hand-job in the back of a lecture theatre.

#7 Shark Tale (Issue 26, 2023)

As an avid Moaningful Confessions reader, I have been recently disappointed with the lack of jaw-dropping, juicy stories; so, against my better judgement, I have sacrificed the last shred of my dignity to provide the worst, most entertaining of sex stories.

To set the scene, I had just turned 19 while he was in his mid-20s (and still living with his parents, might I add). We had been coworkers for a while before I came down to university. Before that, we had somewhat broken things off because I was too “immature” for him, which I will admit broke my fragile heart. So when he came running back to me, I wasn’t really taking whatever we had seriously. While at university, he would message me and tell me how much he missed me (and all that gross romantic shit), saying he hoped I wasn’t seeing anyone else because we were together (ummmm…. Excuse me, what? I was not aware of this arrangement) — so I stopped talking to him.

It was the holidays and I was home for the summer, and after not talking to him for months, he decided to slide into my DMs asking for the ol’ classic ‘Netflix and chill’. To no one’s surprise, before I knew it I was in my car driving out to his house. Apparently I ignore all walking red flags. 

We shared a bit of small talk before getting right down to business. I was horny, had failed to pull anyone eklse all year because I have zero rizz. Basically, I was long overdue for some action. He put on his ‘sex playlist’ which consisted of Daft Punk, Weezer, and Arctic Monkeys. Now, I'm not stupid. I did pay attention in sex ed (mostly) and made sure he was wrapped up. The bedroom rodeo was getting hot and heavy as I rode him cowgirl style, before everything came to a screeching (literally and figuratively) halt when he said, “Stop, it feels weird.” I hopped off his high horse (pun very much intended, hehe).

The condom was NOWHERE to be found, that shit had disappeared to Narnia, vanished like when dads go to get some milk, evaporated into thin air. There was only one explanation: it had to be still inside me. So I use my trusty fingers to go fishing, but no luck. Well. We couldn’t just leave it up there, so this man takes a turn at trying to fish the missing condom out, and succeeds (thank god)! He then proceeds to say, and I quote, “Damn, your pussy is like a shark… nom, nom, nom.” 

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK WAS HE THINKING?!?!?! And before I have even a moment to process the tomfoolery that just escaped his mouth, he starts singing the well-known and universally hated song known as ‘Baby Shark’. So there I was, lying butt-naked on this man’s bed after having the sex scare of a lifetime, just having a loose condom fished out of my womanhood, and he’s singing “Baby Shark do-do-do-do-do, Baby Shark do-do-do-do-do, Baby Shark do-do-do-do-do, BABY SHARK!” 

My mind was blown (and not in the way I’d hoped). Needless to say, after that we decided to just go out for some food. But this is not where the story ends… no, you have been mistaken. This is where the story gets worse. We decided to go to this beachside bar. It’s sunset, we ordered our food (he paid, how chivalrous) and found a nice seat to sit down and chat. 

And I know what you're probably thinking: why didn’t I run off while I still had some dignity intact (I don’t have any dignity left obviously because I’m recounting my awful sex life to a widely read university magazine… duh)? Essentially, I'm completely delulu and enjoy torturing myself by willingly ignoring red flags because I think “I can fix him.” 

Anyway, while we’re waiting for our food, he takes my hands in his and looks me deep in my eyes. He starts to get all gushy and romantic about how I’m the only one he has felt comfortable with, blah blah blah… “If things were different, you would be my fiancé right now, I love you.”

What. The. Fuck. I have just turned 19, I am a university student, I am just starting out my life and he thinks I’m going to pause all that for HIM. This is coming from a man who has already lived his teen years, and just sang Baby Shark to me. I politely (and VERY awkwardly) explain that I thought we were just a ‘friends with benefits’ situation, which, needless to say, he was very upset about. I drop him back at his parents’ house, and upon arriving back home, I proceed to block him on everything and I haven’t spoken a word to him since (yes, I know it’s toxic, but what else was I supposed to do?!?!).

Moral of the story: Do NOT get involved with walking red flags, and stay toxic. And I will never listen to Baby Shark the same way again.

Raunch-level: Having a quickie with someone else sleeping in the room. 

#6 Unfucking My Brain: One Month Without Porn (Issue 9, 2020)

Porn has undeniably screwed with my brain. There is no questioning that. It has changed how I think about and approach sex. It continues to burn holes through my dopamine receptors. It’s changed how I think about both women and men. I’m in my twenties, and looking at how I consume porn now makes me scared of how bored I’ll be of everything when I’m thirty.
I had always planned to cut out porn once I was in a relationship and had a sexual outlet, but it seemed like waiting that long could be dangerous. So I decided it was time to unfuck my brain. If those anti-porn stickers around town and those r/nofap dudes on Reddit are right, every e-girl I beat my meat to was causing long term damage to my brain. 

It may seem ridiculous that it would be hard to masturbate without porn, but an overwhelming amount of men grew up watching this shit every single time we need a nut. I have no problem masturbating without porn if I’m already horny as hell, but to remove it completely is a whole other challenge. Listen, I don’t like that it’s a challenge. It shouldn’t be a challenge. But my horny teenage self has wrecked my brain, so no more porn for me. Follow me on my journey, Critic.

Week One - Masturbation and Observation

It didn’t take long before I noticed how my body was reacting to the detox. On the first day I realised that without porn as an option I didn’t really feel like masturbating. On the second day I’d adjust the ol’ foreskin and then consider breaking the prohibition. One measly tiddy couldn’t hurt. I resisted.

On the third day I broke. My body was crying out for a quick lil cum, and so I obliged it. About one minute into choking my chicken I realised I was bored. Sure, it felt pretty okay on an objective level, but I wasn’t getting any sexual satisfaction out of it. I ended up spelunking into the wank bank and bringing dishonour upon my soul.

I didn’t see this as a step back. To quote the great Lil Wayne: “It's like when I cum, I come to my senses.” Post-nut clarity offered me a realisation; I have to fulfil my bodily needs. Testosterone research has shown that dudes are in peak performance if they nut once a week, and your body knows this too. My body had become used to going no more than two days without a squirt of the old love goop.

I could have gone the no-fap route, but during previous attempts I just found it made me feel irritable and had me acting like a bit of a cunt. Not to mention it’s mostly just pseudo science. If I was going to succeed in purging my brain I needed to micromanage my ejaculations. There had to be a sweet spot where I was horny enough to jack off without porn, but not so horny that I became a lustful lion tearing apart the fresh carcass of the online sexual gratification wildebeest.
Near the end of the week I awoke from a dream where I was watching porn. It wasn’t even a sexy dream, I sadly never get those. This dream was just me watching porn on my phone. I started to wonder how addicted to internet coochie I had become.

Raunch-level: Licking an old $1 coin while thinking of pierced nipples. 

#5 Hungry Like the Wolf (Issue 2, 2022)

So this one’s a bit of a doozy. I was coming out of a long relationship and looking to get back out there. I had this sort of mutual friend, and I could tell for a while that there were some definite vibes kicking off between us. One night on the couch I was squatting we got down to it.

I’m not a fan of being a squatter, and those days of being homeless ended pretty soon after. But I kept things going with this girl, partly because I was enjoying the rebound, and partly because she had a great vape plus a bedroom and shower. I was going through my own things, she was going through her own things, it was all very mutual and we understood what we had wasn’t anything serious.

Which is a good thing, because some weird stuff started happening pretty quickly. The first incident happened about a week into the fling: we were laying in bed and, with no provocation, she got up, walked to the bathroom, and shaved half her head into an undercut. No real concern from me, I thought it looked good enough, and it was her hair, anyway. It was just weird that she got up, shaved, and came back without saying a word. So that was strange.

The other thing I noticed was the wolves. This girl’s bed was a sort of bunk-bed setup, it had a sort of roof over it and walls, which was cool. But the entire inside of it was covered with pictures of wolves. Again, no worries from me, wolves are cool and all, it was just a lot of wolves. I didn’t notice them at first, but after a little while, they were hard to ignore. It just made the already confusing situation even more confusing. 

But finally, the strangest thing of all came about two weeks in. We were in the wolf den, going at it, as you do, when she locked eyes with me and asked me a question I’ll never forget: “Do you like pretzels?” 

I mean, what? I was stunned. I actually stopped in my tracks. What the fuck? Sure, I guess? Before I knew what to say, she had grabbed both her ankles and pulled her feet up by her head, transforming herself, I guess, into a sort of pretzel. I did not know what to make of this. I think I said, “Uhh, yeah, I do”, and just kept going. But that question has been seared into my mind, and even now, a year later, I cannot see someone grab their ankle without thinking of Pretzel Girl. 

The rest of the affair went by with a similar sense of surrealism. I don’t know when it ended, how it ended, or why it ended, but I do know that my concept of what can and can’t be a pretzel is forever changed. Not in a bad way, mind you, just in a “I can’t eat pretzels without thinking of wolves and sex” kinda way. 

I have a home now, and my own bedroom, which is not decorated with wolves. I have not heard from Pretzel Girl since we last spoke, and I can’t help but wonder what she’s up to. I hope she’s moved past whatever she had going on, and I hope that whoever she ended up with can match the absurdly chaotic – but ultimately quite endearing – vibes that she gave off. 

Raunch-level: Accidentally playing near-cancellable porn over the UE boom.

#4 Accidental Isolation Partner (2020)

Monday 23 March, 2020. Doomsday. When the news hit about a nationwide lockdown, there was panic in my flat. So much so that it rubbed off on me. My flatmates were making plans to move home, but with flights booked out and my dad immunocompromised, I knew it wouldn’t be that easy for me. I was left with a choice. I could stay at my Dunedin flat by myself, or I could find someone to quarantine with, immediately. 

Now, four weeks alone is no joke for a horny extrovert like me. I spent six weeks alone in the flat over summer school, and even without the quarantine, I went a bit crazy. Like, writing poems at 4am and getting drunk and sad alone crazy. I craved social contact like nothing, and took long hot showers to feel some form of intimacy. My dry spell was so prolonged it felt like my vagina had inverted, and I got so desperate I broke it with a random second year breatha from Castle St. Now a lockdown looming, when my sometimes dick appointment asked me to go over before quarantine, I said yes. 

First, some background. I’d seen this guy around in Flo and O-Week. He was a friend of a friend’s, but we didn’t hook up until two weeks before the pandemic. He came over maybe once more the week after, and we spent the weekend at St Clair. A nice enough guy, but maybe not boyfriend material (sorry). Still, the promise of getting away from my stressful flat, maybe out of Dunedin for the quarantine, was appealing. His family owned a house in Cromwell, and he was due to take some time off work. You bet I packed my shit and gassed it out of there. 

That was my first mistake: I didn’t factor in that I would have to meet his family, and deal with all the subtext that comes with that. I spent the evening getting to know his dad and brother, and when his sister arrived the next morning, I overheard her asking if I was the new girlfriend. Fuck. I needed a contingency plan. My flatmates were still at home so I decided to hold off a bit. Maybe he wouldn’t get time off work and I could wait until my flatmates left the house to go back. This idea was pretty reassuring, so I settled down to do some work and wait it out. 

Not even a full day later, he came back with the news that he was sent home sick. My heart lurched: did I just walk into a coronavirus case? He started packing. We were going to Cromwell.

Now, I’ll admit, it’s nice here. The house is right in front of Lake Dunstan, and there’s ducks that come around for a feed of bread. His sister is cool, and we all get along pretty well. So what’s my problem? 

The problem is that I now know way too much about this guy. Like way more than anyone should know about a dick appointment. I know all about his ex-girlfriend. I know about his childhood, his interests, his hobbies, his music taste. I know about his father, his grandfather, his extended family. I know which movies he’s into, and that he snores in his sleep. There’s nowhere to go: we sleep in the same bed, eat together, drink together, and even shower together.

It’s getting increasingly domestic. In the mornings when I try to get up, he plays a game where he won’t let go of me because he wants more cuddles. He gives me forehead kisses for no reason. He holds my hand when we go out for walks. He makes me coffee in the mornings. We did a facemask together. The other day he referred to himself as my “man”. That’s not to say I’m not being domestic too — I’m a slut for human contact after all. Everytime we watch a movie I find myself insisting on a cuddle. Everytime he goes out for a cigarette I sit on his lap. Sometimes I find myself thinking what would happen if we did end up in a relationship. And then I remember that I emphatically don’t want one, and I’m kind of in love with a girl from Auckland. My commitment phobia is off the charts, but it’s currently struggling with a tinge of Stockholm syndrome, which is probably the case for him too.

I don’t have a means of transport other than the car we drove here. I’m left with the dawning realisation that I’ve literally trapped myself into a four week relationship with some guy I’ve known for two weeks. 

On top of that, since it’s not my house and not my family, I feel constantly on edge. I’ve been stressed 24/7, having weird nightmares, and a weak appetite. I’ve discovered a newfound fear of lakes, and I’m quickly running out of green tobacco to relax. I’m bad at confrontation, and I probably have to tell this guy I don’t want a boyfriend soon.  

It’s day five, and I’ve moved into the garage to do work. It’s the only place I can’t hear his music that he plays on repeat. If you’re reading this and you’ve moved in with an intimate other, you’ll know an unplanned quarantine with someone is a crash course on all the little things that annoy you about the other person. Now imagine that, with someone you barely know, and have nothing in common with other than the bacteria that live in both your mouths. Yeah. To be fair this was a bad idea from the start, and it’s my fault. Probably should have listened to my brain instead of my pussy. 

TL;DR: Don’t quarantine yourself with a dick appointment. It will shave ten years off your life from stress and you will owe them and their whole family a long term relationship.

Raunch-level: Telling people that the guy you’ve obviously got with is your cousin, just to get a reaction. 

#3 How I Caught an S-T-Daddy (Issue 3, 2022)

After spending 4 months in one of New Zealand’s shittest small towns, sleeping in a single bed, and spending all my time with my parents and the one friend I still talk to from high school, I was horny and ready to get back out into Dunedin. 

It was my first night back and I was alone in my flat. “Perfect,” I thought, “time to look for company”. Tinder was giving me nothing and it wasn’t until I turned the age limit off that things got interesting. Scrolling through an array of silver foxes, I came across a very sexy man, we matched and he agreed to come over in an hour. Now, I know what they say about stranger danger and I would usually agree, but this man was old enough to be my father so I figured it would be fine (plus I was just that fucking horny). 

He arrived and, not gonna lie, things started awkward. I can only liken it to when you go over to your friend’s house and their dad answers the door. Because of this we didn’t spend long on the formalities and we headed upstairs to get down to business. I've heard people say that with age comes experience and boy are they right! Never in my life have I felt the way he made me feel. Our man came from an era before digital porn made boys get self-conscious in bed, or overly dramatic. A bygone age of good old fashioned chivalry. Not only could this man find the clit, he actually knew what to do with it. I’m talking many, many orgasms. Not gonna lie, towards the end I was pretty tired. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do and when he left I slept the best I had in years. 

Fast forward three days. My vagina has barely recovered but I had at last regained feeling in my legs and was able to walk again. This was lucky because my new flatmate “Kate” was moving in that day. Now, Kate is from Dunedin but had been away fruit picking in Cromwell and had just returned. Once Kate arrived at the flat we sat and chatted for a good hour and she was so excited to hear of my sexcapades from the previous few days ago. The future of our Dunedin sex lives was looking good! I helped her move in, and all was well until Kate’s dad arrived to drop off her bed.

It was the car I recognised first. As soon as I saw who got out of it I knew I was in trouble. I was suddenly face to face with the man who had rearranged my guts three days ago, who turned out to be none other than Kate’s dad!!!! This led to one of the most awkward encounters of my life which I don't wish to recount. 

Moral of the story: Dunedin students, specifically those aged 18-22, please just get good at sex so I don’t have to fuck anymore of my flatmate’s dads. And Kate, just know that your mum is a lucky gal.

Raunch-level: Cruising at Marsh Study Centre

#2 Not Into That Shit (Issue 1, 2022)

I believe I have had the shittiest attempt at a hookup ever. 

To set the scene: I’d just freshly moved out of my mum’s house into my first flat. My flatmates are both out so I decide fuck it, time to hop on Grindr, what’s the worst that could happen? So I message this guy and he seems sweet, if a bit awkward. He Ubers over, I’m dressed up all cute, ready for a mediocre, awkward teenage hookup. I open the door and there he is standing at the very bottom of the steps. As I smile and say hello he looks up at me with pure horror in his eyes and mutters, “There’s been a terrible accident.” I look down and see… 

He’s shat himself. Like properly shat himself. I’m not talking about a log rolled out of his trousers or a simple shart, no, our man has liquid shit streaming down his leg and pooling around his feet. I’m talking a monumental amount of shit. I wish I could say I shut the door. But there’s a man dripping in doo-doo standing in front of me! What the fuck am I meant to do? So I say, “Uh… do you want a towel?” (the first of many mistakes). I give him one and he starts stripping naked on my doorstep where my lucky neighbours have full view of this literally shit situation. 

“Can I use your shower?” asks the scat-covered boy now standing naked in front of me. I say yes (mistake number 2) and he hops into my flat because he only has one faeces-free foot. Also just to clarify, this was not a douching mishap on his behalf, I’m the one bottoming. To this day I don’t know why he shat himself. He gets in the shower and I grab the dish brush to try scrub the crap congealing on my doorstep. 

He gets out of the shower and I give him some of my clothing. I’m now down two towels, two washcloths, a dish brush, a whole outfit, and my dignity. “Do you have a washing machine?” I should've said no. Why didn’t I say no!? I tell him if he stands at the BOTTOM of my driveway and hoses his pooey pants off he can use my washing machine (WHY???). This genius stands at the TOP of my driveway so shit cascades down my driveway like a poo tsunami while I watch in horror at his attempts to make it all some weird joke about “getting wet tonight”.

He puts his clothes in the machine and I suddenly realise I’m stuck with him for a whole wash cycle. I say, “I’ll make a cup of tea”. When someone says “I’ll make a cup of tea” that means a tragedy has occurred, right? I make this man his cup of tea and we sit down on my couch. He is WAY too close. This boy puts his hand on my thigh and wiggles his eyebrows at me. The AUDACITY. You just shit yourself in front of me and you still think I’m going to fuck you? I pluck his hand off my thigh and say “not today buddy.”

He moves to the other end of the couch, sighs forlornly, and, no joke, tells me “My dad died a year ago today.”

I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO RESPOND TO THAT! I have just been comforting you after YOU shat yourself on MY doorstep! I can’t also comfort you about your dead dad! What should I say? Is that why you shat yourself? This is a nightmare. Instead of comforting words of wisdom I put on a video and proceed to stay as far away from him on the couch as physically possible. You know that look boys do when they want to kiss you and they kinda look like a dead fish? He keeps doing that over the course of this painful 2 hour wash cycle while slowly inching closer and closer to me on the couch. 

After a punishingly long wait, I hand this boy his now poo-free clothing and tell him to just keep my clothes. As he opens his bag inside it I see:

  1. A whip (not shaming, just surprised)
  2. A ziplock bag bulging with at least 30-40 condoms (who needs that many?)
  3. A huge buttplug. Like. HUGE.

Why the FUCK couldn’t he have been wearing the buttplug? That would’ve prevented this whole thing! He looks at me, wiggling his eyebrows again and I feel my bone marrow dry out and my dick wither and die. At last I get him out the door. I had almost blocked out the whole experience until I later hear my flatmate say, “Hey, where’s our dishbrush gone?” 

And that, in my opinion, is the shittiest hookup ever. 

Raunch-level: Suspended from the Clocktower via an anal hook

#1 Not begging for moa (Issue 11, 2023)

Music has the ability to bring people together. So do taxidermied moa. And blowjobs. As it turns out, all of the above can also tear people apart and sow weeks of exasperated sighs into your everyday life. Let me explain:

It was midnight on a Friday. I was “ethically” non-monogamous, AKA single and sending the same snaps to my current top 5 Tinder matches. “Caleb” was one of them, though slightly lower in the ranks. He was attractive and we had good chemistry, but he was a musician and had the ego that comes with it. I can’t name the band, but they’re very popular in their niche genre here and have international acclaim. I hadn’t heard of them, and didn’t really give a shit either way. I told Caleb, the frontman, that I gave them a listen but had to skip through the boring parts. He seemed into it.

We had no real plans to hook up as he lived up North and was always on tour. And then he snapped me: “I’m playing a private gig in your town. It’s at this random rich lady’s house and she’s hosting us after. U should come thru.” I replied: “Can’t. Work tomorrow.” But then he hit me with the: “She’s got a really nice house. Some kind of collector. It’s like a museum in here. There’s a moa.”

“Wtf fr?” I say. “It’ll be like a $50 Uber tho so mb ceebs. Send proof of moa” Caleb replied with a selfie of him in front of a wholeass taxidermied moa. It was well over 5 ft tall and displayed in a glass cabinet. In the background I could see rows upon rows of curated glass display cabinets. I was immediately soaking wet. To top it off, he sent me $50 for the Uber. I had a moment where I thought to myself, “Am I really gonna ho myself out for $50 and a moa?” And then I got in the Uber.

He was staying in the guest wing of this lady’s house – some kind of rich super-fan – and sure enough, there was a moa. I took a moment to stare into its glass eyes and take in every detail. It was beautiful. I could get up close and breathe all over the glass and no one could stop me. I took a shitload of pics. It was so magnificent that I almost forgot I was horny. Almost.

Caleb takes me to the bedroom, and I have to stop thinking about massive chooks and start thinking about regular-sized cocks. We chat, make out, he goes down on me, and I go to return the favour and… he cums almost immediately. It took me by surprise a little, but I suck it up (literally, sorry) and tell him that it’s all good. Caleb seemed relieved, but a bit defensive. “Oh, it’s probably because I haven’t smoked weed in ages,” he said. Aight, dude.

After a bit more small talk, he seems ready to go again. I blow him to get started, but don’t bust out the power moves. I ask him to go down on me, and he does, but he seems to think he’s way more skilled than he is. Doing all that overly-complicated tongue stuff, button-mashing like he’s playing Street Fighter. I get a bit sick of it, and coyly tell him I want him to fuck me. He puts the condom on, shoves my legs back behind my head, we finally get to it. He lasts for eight strokes, max. Again, he blames it on weed. I joke that I just have god-tier pussy and I’m flattered if anything. He goes on about all the drugs he’s tried. Cool, bro.

This played out several more times throughout the night. Each time he got more and more defensive, and each time I got a little less sympathetic. He’d bust early, and then almost immediately feel the need to talk about all the strippers he fucks, or the groupies he had an LSD orgy with in Amsterdam, or how he fucked this one girl that could do this or that — the entire time I’m just lying there, cleaning cum off of wherever, occasionally saying “Oh, okay, cool” or “Damn, that’s crazy.”

I silently finished myself off a few times (he made no offer), but the scoreboard for the night was him at about 5 orgasms and me at 3. I was there until about 4am, and we had maybe 10 minutes of intercourse over several occasions. The chemistry we had to begin with completely evaporated, as we both got bored and frustrated. I left, but not as soon as I should’ve.

The only thing about having a bad sex story with a semi-public figure is that it’s really easy to find pictures of him. Which my flatmates did. In abundance. They printed out hundreds of tiny photos of Caleb and hid them around the flat. For the next month I’d find them stuck to the microwave, in the cutlery drawer, on the back of the TV – and every time, without fail, I would be disappointed all over again. He kept trying to hit me up for a while, too, but I’d tell him to bring me a moa or fuck off.

Raunch-level: Getting a hard-on during a class trip to the museum.

This article first appeared in Issue 5, 2024.
Posted 4:15pm Saturday 23rd March 2024 by Critic.