Valentine's Day

Ah, Valentine's Day. A day for love, miniature chocolates and rabid oral sex.

Not for me, though. Never for me.

No, I’ve spent 22 consecutive Valentine’s Days alone in my bedroom trying to drown my sorrow with Baja Blast. But this year, I decided to make a change.

Instead of perusing my typical subreddits, I start dropping my phone number attached to pictures of my balls on r/trashyboner.

Next thing I know my phone is blowing up with cheeky, yet forward, inquiries about suckin' toes - and you know me, I can’t pass up a good ol’ toe suckin'.

With a stunning lack of forethought, I give this stranger my home address and the location of my spare key, and within 40 minutes I’m having the time of my life with a 62 year old lunch lady with two lazy eyes.

What started as a Valentine’s Hail Mary turned into nine weeks of sloppy promiscuous hookups.

But I should have paid a little better attention to some of the red flags that arose. For example, I never knew her last name, and she never wanted to meet at her house.

After one of our post-brunch bang it out in the park sessions, I found out why she was being so secretive.

What am I greeted by on my front porch? A seven foot Serbian beast with a beard long enough to host a family of blue jays, and arms covered in tattoos that I’m 90 percent sure indicate prison murder.

Turns out this floozy had been married to that behemoth for the last eight years, and I’ve been nothing but a paramour caught up in a dying marriage.

Dying or not, that power forward sized maniac pounded on my face flesh for 80 straight minutes - only 12 of which I was conscious for. Even worse news is I’ve been tied up down here for nearly a week, and I don’t think he’s coming back.

I fucking hate this holiday.