Fuck ‘Em

I am old in internet years, and so I view the advice that follows as an updated sub-conversation that’s tied into the ancient “should you date or fuck people you meet on the Internet” discussion. There was time, youngsters, where sober non-net people thought it was insane to turn to the internet for any sort of romantic or sexual purposes; when I first met The Nymph online, her sisters tried to dissuade her from meeting me on the grounds that I was probably a serial killer who kept his internet victims in the basement in trash bags.

Be that as it may, times have changed, and everybody (except the catastrophically elderly and/or conservative) now understands that one or another internet community is a perfectly fine place to find love, sex, and companionship. So I view Girl On The Net’s recent Fuck your Twitter followers. Yes, literally post not as a continuation of that ancient conversation, but as her specific recommendation of the Twitter community in particular — and especially of the smaller community each of us builds on that platform — as a place to find sexual partners. Here are two of her practical paragraphs on why she thinks so:

Why you should fuck your Twitter followers

They’re sexy, you like them, and you can see pretty swiftly whether you’ll be a reasonable match. On a dating site like Tinder you get hardly any information about the person you’ll be seeing: a line about them, maybe. Their age. What their face looks like. It’s not exactly their life story, is it? But on Twitter you get all that plus their political opinions, photos of their latest day out, an idea of the kind of gifs they find funny, that kind of thing. It is no wonder so many of us develop Twitter crushes.

On top of all this, you may also get the most important information of all: whether they want a fuck, and whether they want to fuck you. Twitter flirting — via likes, RTs, DMs or in the most obvious cases replying to a tweet about sex with Twitter followers with ‘I volunteer as tribute’ (thanks to the people who did this, I have shamelessly used your joke in this post).

There’s more, of course.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• He Looked Better On Tinder
• A Sternly Intellectual Girlfriend
• Dating/Penthouse Bankruptcy
• The Most Lucrative Blog Post Ever Written
• Kia's Experiment

Anti-Fascist Penis Propaganda: Foutre!

The few places this art appears on the web label it “Nazi propaganda” but the language is French and the style seems to suggest French anti-Nazi propaganda to me:

Even if you click for the slightly-bigger version, the resolution isn’t good enough to read the smaller text except that I can make out the word “petit” at the end of the first line. Google tells me that the repeated “Foutre!” in the upper caption is a vulgar French word that can be translated a number of ways but which, etymologically anyway, basically means “Fuck!”

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Firmly Sticks It In
• Here Comes Hitler With His Pecker In His Hand
• Male Soldiers Fucking
• Whipped With A Hat On
• "Die Wacht am Rhein"

“Wanna Fuck?”

Always Aroused Girl has posted a horrifying exchange she had with a guy on a dating site. His scintillating 20-character initial contact greeting?

“show me u can squirt”

It doesn’t get any better from there.

I left a comment musing on the possible merits of this “cheap as sperm” contact strategy. You know, it might work (depending on how you define “work”) if he sends it to enough women…

While I was posting that, I remembered a probably-apocryphal story I heard when I was a kid, still too young, in theory, to be worrying about picking up girls.

In those days, short term sex hookups (which weren’t called that) were mostly arranged in bars, the web not having been invented yet. Pickup lines were much discussed and mocked, and guys paid some attention to optimal strategies for arranging “one night stands”.

I kept hearing (“friend of a friend” style) persistent rumors about a guy who couldn’t be bothered with pickup lines and buying drinks for the ladies. Supposedly his schtick was to just walk up and ask “Wanna fuck?” Usually, he’d get a cold stare; sometimes (this being before the days when minor, provoked personal violence was considered a matter for police and courts) he’d get a slap in the face.

Which he would take in stride, before going up to the next prospect: “Wanna fuck?” Rinse, lather, repeat.

Supposedly, he never slept alone.

Urban legend? Very possibly.