Welcome to a new Friday feature on BCP, “The Best Sex I Never Had,” in which we invite our readers to submit their most humiliating, pathetic, and just-plain-awful sexual experiences for public consumption.  Seriously, email us!  It’s like an group therapy session with 1,000 of your closest friends.  You’ll feel so much better after you share.  If you would like to contribute, see the rules for submission at the end of this post.

Our first tale is courtesy of MyrtleBeachBum (everyone say, “Hi, Myrtle!”) .  A girl, a boy, a bottle of hand lotion, and the warning signs she didn’t heed.  Feel her pain after the jump.

Ms. BeachBum writes…

I’m a lucky girl.  I have a high number, and 99% of that number is comprised of really good sex, with only one abortion (yes, Rush Limbaugh, I’ve paid my feminist dues) and, amazingly, zero STDs.  I can thank my mother for giving me the facts of life at a young age and for drawing me a map to the local free clinic.  I could’ve used a little Mrs. Garrett in my life, though, because something no one told me about sex was that every now and then, you’ve gotta take the good and take the bad.  Take them both and there you have the real facts of life, bitches.  And so our sad tale of tail begins.
I spent my sophomore year of college at a women’s school, and nothing will bring your inner ho out to play quite like being denied daily access to men.  It made me look at my accounting professor in an unnatural light, but I digress.  The real action for my Salem College sisters and I was at the Wake Forest med school just down the road.  The students were male, available, and geeky enough to be a sure thing.  They were also health-conscious enough to remember the condom even after a romantic evening for 60 over a punch bowl of Kool Aid and PGA.
At the end of the year, I whittled them down to one I really liked.  We went on dates.  We went running in the park.  We went to see unfortunate films at the foreign cinema series.  We did not, however, sleep together until after school had let out for the summer.  I agreed to stay with my guy for a week while my BFF took a road trip in my car.  Anti-ci-pay-a-tion?  Yeah, Carly knows of what she speaks. 

The tension was there, people.  Unfortunately, the magic was not.  First, he wanted me to run upstairs to borrow some porn from his classmate.  After asking him 5 times why he couldn’t just do it himself and giving up on getting a good answer, I relented, only to find him standing at the bottom of the stairs grinning and watching me take the tape from his neighbor’s hands.  Mkay, whatevs, let’s bang already.  And so we did, with mildly satisfactory results.  I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm on his part, but I managed to muster enough excitement for the two of us, and I finished, hoping he would do the same shortly thereafter.  Nope.  We changed positions.  We talked dirty.  We rewound the porn tape and watched it again.  We went down on each other.  We fucked some more.  Finally, he told me that the only thing that was gonna do it for him was a good hand job.  This I knew how to do.  So I went to work on the man, and I worked, and I worked, and…nothing.  I finally jokingly asked if I could just watch regular t.v. while I did my thing, and he said, “Sure.” 

Wow.  Jerking a man off during “Dateline” is depressing, people, for you and for Stone Phillips.  Neither of you wants to be there.  I finally fell asleep, and a few mintues later I woke up to him coming on my hand, which he had wrapped around his dick.  IN. MY. SLEEP.
I tell this tale to warn the young ‘uns: never trust a man with a big bottle of lotion on his bedside table and the need to watch you shift uncomfortably from foot to foot as you ask a total stranger to borrow some porn.  It will not end well, and your BFF may not love you enough to cut her Outer Banks vacay short to pick you up at a rolling stop.  My girl had my back.  Who’s got yours?


Can you top Myrtle’s story?  Is that good sex compared to what you’ve been through?  If you’d like to contribute a sad tale of tail, please email:  tarred.and.tailfeathered@gmail.com.  Keep it short, sweet, and as explicit as you like.  Include your preferred pseudonym.  Please also be factual — this is not “Penthouse Forum.” And that’s it!  We can’t wait to hear the gory details, so get to it.