When I was 18, I desperately wanted to fuck Charles Bukowski (I know, what 18-year-old girl didn’t?)  I even sent him a letter offering to do just that.  A month later, he died.

But just because I never got to fuck my old man (not like that, ew!), doesn’t mean you can’t.

In honor of Girl’s Guide fan Frank, I encourage you to go out and make some grandpa’s day.  You could learn some new tricks not seen since the Americans liberated Paris in 1944.  (You know those French whores were naaaasty!)

But Frank puts it best:

“You may like it hot, you might like it cold,
You may get it timid, you may get it bold
But you ain’t had it best till you get it old.”

Remember when you totally made out with your girlfriend just to get that dirty sexy guy at the bar to go home with you?  But then he ended up going home with your girlfriend?  Yeah, that happened.

So the next time you think about putting on a cute little “show” that involves kissing someone of the opposite sex or doing a strip tease in the middle of the bar or betting him that he can’t hit the middle of your tits with his jizz while everyone at the party looks on (yeah, that happened), just stop.

Don’t get me wrong, I love to put on a show more than a gay guy at drama camp, but if I’m going to be getting up on stage and playing a part, I want to be sure that he’s going to be sticking around for my encore.

You know how they say sex is like pizza?  Even when it’s bad it’s still good?  Well, apparently, this does not apply to BJs.

Last night my friend L was telling this horrible story about a guy he used to date.  Apparently the dude had an extremely sensitive gag reflex.  Like if he got just the tip in his mouth, he would start to gag.  But despite this annoying limitation, he insisted on giving head the old college try.  My boy said a blowjob sounded like this:

“Slurp.  Gag.  Slurp.  Gag.  Slurp.  Gag.  Slurp.  Gag.  Slurp.  Gag.  Slurp.  Gag.”

Does that sound sexy?  L. didn’t think so either.  So he pulled his dick out of the guy’s mouth, shoved it in his butt and once he was done, they never saw each other again.

Moral of the story is — learn to love giving head!

One of the biggest issues affecting Depraved Girls today is the lack of fuck-conscious men.  Sure, stereotypically, it’s the men who beg and plead the women to bone them, but in my experience (and maybe it has to do with the fact that I’ve just encountered much more whiskey and coke-dick than the average woman), us ladies are just not getting our clam off as much as we’d like.

So if your man is acting all reluctant to wiggle his peen in you vag, fuck him.  Dump his ass and go to a comic book store (do those still even exist?) or a Christian retreat and find a guy who will.

Of course if you’re too lazy to leave the house to find some new dick, you could also just fuck him, literally.  Doesn’t matter if he’s too busy with his XBOX, dose him with Viagra and climb aboard while he’s playing Call of Duty.

There’s always gonna be some bitch who’s hotter or taller or has a nicer ass than you, but while you can’t compete with genetics (or surgical enhancements) you can beat them with your smarts.

Now let me be clear: I’m not talking about book smarts OR street smarts. What I’m talking about is dick smarts.

What are dick smarts?  Dick smarts are knowing exactly how and what to do to get any guy you want.  It’s using your head to outsmart your competition instead of your big breastacles.

How do you get dick wise?  Well, you’re reading this blog, so that’s a good start.  Reading the book would be an even better start.  But in a nutsac-shell, you need to be willing to do whatever it takes to get the guy and take down your prettier but clueless competition.  Whether it’s hiding your competish’s Coach bag so she spends all night looking for her coke stash while you spend all night boning her guy, or roofie-ing your target’s drink so you can club him and take him home with you, you’ve got to be single-minded in pursuit of his dick.  Then and only then will you be dick smart.

I’m sure most people will tell you that “time” is the only thing that helps heal a broken heart, but fuck that.

You can Carrie Underwood his car, you can gain five pounds (all from wine) sitting around watching the entire box set of Sex and the City, you can steal his cat, you can pop Xannies like they were candy, you can eat nothing but Pinkberry for a whole month, but nothing helps you get over a guy as much as getting underneath another one does.

After one particular soul-crushing break-up, I tried all of the above — in one night. I ended up spending the wee hours of the morning puking up a pinkish spew of red wine, plain fro-yo and Xanax chunks while trying to keep his pussy from licking up my puke. (Don’t worry, I returned the cat before he even realized it was gone.)

And to make things even worse, everytime this disgusting pink and white sprinkled concotion made its way into the toilet, all I could think about were the dozen strawberry Sprinkles cupcakes he bought me for my birthday (it was the only damn thing he ever gave me), so I’m trapped in this loop of puking, sobbing and kitty-swatting on my bathroom floor.

The next night, I was all set to unhinge, binge, purge and repeat when my good friend Melissa came over and forced me into a pair of skinny jeans. Luckily, I had been on the break-up diet for about a week, so they actually fit without my flesh cupcaking over the side and she dragged my sorry ass to The Village Idiot.

That’s when I met the Irish opera singer. He was hot, sexy and best of all, he had an accent that reminded me of my favorite Colin Farrell movie … what’s it called? The one where he talks all nasty? Oh, yeah, his sex tape.

Despite the fact that I SO was not in the mood for another man’s dick, my friend suggested that we all go back to my place for another drink after the bar closed — and then she drove off the minute me and Lucky Charms got out of the car.

I guess the one good thing about hooking up with Euros is they don’t care if you’re waxed/shaved/vagazzaled/coherent. I had had just the right combination of Xanax and Vodka tonics at this point, so after a little bit of wrestling on my couch, we got down to doing the dirty. I can’t say it was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life (he had this annoying habit of talking dirty in ebonics) but it did the trick.

The next day, I was no longer obsessing about my ex. Since the opera singer hadn’t returned my text in, like, 5 hours, I started obsessing about him instead. I believe in psychology this is called “transferrence.”

Sure, after another few months of stalking dating him, he pretty much pulled down his pants and took a dump right on top of my heart. But this time, instead of reaching for the baseball bat and a handful of pills, I pulled on my skinny jeans and headed out to the VI to find another peen to help me mend my broken heart.