Thursday, March 10, 2011

A good F*ck Buddy is hard to find…



This contribution is brought to by guest writer Cruella DeVag.

I recently had the opportunity to talk to an old friend on the phone. And by old friend I mean a guy I know through my ex boyfriend of two years.  This friend and I were catching up on the latest news in each other’s lives when he asked, “So what about you? Are you seeing anyone?” Like any self respecting woman without a boyfriend and zero prospects on the radar I responded, “Definitely not!  I’m just playin the field.”  “Glad to hear it,” he said, “‘bout time you finally caught on to the benefits of being single.” 



Yes, there are some wonderful benefits to being single, and believe me, this HotHotMess has no business getting into a committed, long term relationship right now, but where the hell are the short-term fuck buddies in this town?!  I know they exist, my friends have managed to find a few.  I’m talking about those good old, normal guys that just wanna spend a little time with a lady and be inside her on the reg.   The guys you date for a few months, have some fun, and then go your separate ways with some good memories and some new moves.

So what kind of guys have I met in the last month? First there was the Cupcake Marine, a ridiculously good looking GI Joe who was saccharine sweet.  The flowers on the second date were thoughtful, but when he showed up to meet me at a bar later that week with pre-ordered, custom-designed cupcakes and an authentic jersey for my favorite NFL football team I knew he wasn’t just “DTF” but “DT get married and have 2.5 kids”.  After two more dates and even more gifts, I had to pull the plug.  Then there was the Silver Fox, a handsome and debonair 39 year old who I immediately wanted to bone and probably would have by now if he didn’t live in Texas.  That’s right, a few days at a time in DC does not a fuck buddy make. 
                  
And then there was the pièce de résistance of my recent romantic follies; the resurface of the dreaded ex two full years after I stopped communicating with him.  Though I took a certain amount of pleasure in him saying that breaking up with me was the biggest mistake of his life (duh) and that he was still in love with me (who wouldn’t be), whack job has more issues than Vogue and I’m just not into good sex with a side of crazy.


                  
So if you know a guy in the metro area who is good in the sack, under 35 and not totally fucking insane, send him my way.  In the meantime, I’m glad I have my vibrator.  


In true hothotmess fashion there will be no true rhyme or reason to the postings so you should be happy to take what you can get.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Are You a Sex Machine?



A computer can win Jeopardy and a vibrating battery operated...well to be straightforward, dick can get your girlfriend off – so maybe machines really will take over the world?

On a casual Friday night a group of reserved and not so reserved white girls gathered in the very white and beautiful Chevy Chase neighborhood as Cruella deVag and Betty Cocker hosted a sex toy party! Yes, we freaky white girls prefer to have our sex toys brought to us as opposed to schlepping to the neighborhood sex shop.

Our sales consultant informed us that her orgasms were tax deductable and phrases like, “I’m into the crotch-less thing,” and “My ex-fiancé gave me my vibrator...I got rid of one of them,” were spewed. Girls secretly spilled hints about their sex lives by showing too much interest in the products like “Anal Ease” and not so secret bedroom behavior was exposed when girls openly admitted things like “…but I do that with regular candles,” when referring to a heatable wax that won’t burn you during your Ricky Martin ‘livin la vida loca’ video foreplay.  

The end result of our little sexscapes left our hosts with a whole lotta empty wine bottles in their house and their guests with $50 - $300 less in their designer wallets than when they walked in the door. What? You thought sex toys were cheap? 


Of course us girls could not be more excited to try our new goods out, the funny thing is that some of the boys, upon hearing what we had invested in were not so into it. Granted I think there is a normal mixed reaction to sex toys among men, but I’m always interested to know the reasoning behind why a boy would be freaked out or shockingly appalled by a girl getting her lovin’ on all by herself. I mean boys start yankin it in what, like middle school? Not us. In middle school we are awkwardly getting hair in places it’s never been and sprouting boobs and hips. Then in highschool it’s all boy crazed chit-chat and blowjobs until that Vcard goes and then for most it’s a slippery slope as a few years spent as a slore that leads us into college where most girls then find the sexual confidence to start having sex with themselves. I even know a few late bloomers just getting into it now...poor things.

Ultimately I think it is important to keep a healthy balance in your sex-to-sex toy ratio. Girls, while your vibrator can get the job done oh-so efficiently it can’t take you to dinner or tell you that you look hot so don’t pull a Charlotte (boys, you will have no idea what I’m referring too so don’t worry about it). And gentlemen, get the fuck over it. We masturbate. It happens. And it’s great, so drop the weirdness and join the freakin party, if you’re lucky enough to be on the guest list that is. 


In true hothotmess fashion there will be no true rhyme or reason to the postings so you should be happy to take what you can get.



Monday, February 7, 2011

Is anyone in their mid twenties really that satisfied with their body?



As girls, we are constantly talking about how fat we are. Sometimes we mean it, sometimes we don't. Sometimes we talk about it while at the gym, sometimes we talk about it while eating a Five Guys cheeseburger after a night of heavy boozing. Needless to say, these bodies are a changin'. And while we twenty something girls might not be the smoking foxes we were at 17, I’ve noticed that a lot of the boys I know aren’t exactly rockin’ the tightest bodies either these days, even publicly admitting they need to hit the gym.

How come when we were all sporting those cuter, tighter bodies we had no idea what we were doing in the sack? I can speak for myself and a few others when I say the sex in my life just gets better as I get older; I wish I could say the same for my body.

Not that any of us look bad, just more…real. You know real. Real in that we are at the point in our lives where there are 24 hours in the day and you have AT LEAST 25 hours worth of shit to do. Lets be honest, sometimes the gym is just not as important as happy hour if I have two free extra hours. These days if I get to the gym for 45 minutes 4 times a week I think I deserve a reward…Preferably in the form of a piece of chocolate and/or some booze.


Now that we do actually know what we’re doing and what we want in the sack, I wonder if those flaws that we think are so important really are? And are the flaws that we see in ourselves what the other part of the equation sees as well? Does our 'we've got this figured out, I know what I want and I know how to give you what you want' attitude and skill make up for these flaws? Is this just how it is until we have the resources/mentality to go back to being the tighter-fitter version of ourselves? And if so will the sex be even better? Hell, maybe we do have something to look forward too...


In true hothotmess fashion there will be no true rhyme or reason to the postings so you should be happy to take what you can get.  

Thursday, December 30, 2010

Yes, we know how to read.


This book has received the HotHotMess stamp of approval. I received it for Christmas and thought I should share it with every HotHotMess out there who could use a little help. (If your immediate response was that you don't need help you might want to check yourself before you wreck yourself and get this book pronto.)

The following is an excerpt from Classy by Derek Blasberg:

Even if you’re a train wreck, even if as you’re reading this book you’re drunk at a store and thinking about stealing it so you can trade it for a cigarette in the parking lot, there’s still hope for you. Even if you drink too much or pole dance to pay for your cell phone bill, you don’t have to be destined to an emotionally painful, liver-damaging, yellow-toothed, overly tattooed existence. Everyone has had a vice. Without fail, everyone still has one. The person who tells you he or she doesn’t have any vices is lying—in fact, dishonesty is a vice in and of itself.

Abraham Lincoln said, “A man without vices is a man without virtues.” So don’t lose sleep over your past. After all, part of youth is growing up and learning from your mistakes. Though your mistakes shouldn’t be so damaging they’re permanent: Don’t do something so toxic as a young woman that when you’re older you have a seizure every time you hear a bell ring; don’t pump your body with so many chemicals that when you have babies later in life they come out with three heads and twelve fingers.

But don’t beat yourself up, either. Even if you are a mess, even if you have become the type of girl no one respects, even if you are a tramp—it’s never too late to turn yourself around and become a lady. There is such a thing as second chances. (And third and fourth, for that matter.)

Read up bitches.


In true hothotmess fashion there will be no true rhyme or reason to the postings so you should be happy to take what you can get.  


Thursday, December 23, 2010

Tis the season...to get inappropriately drunk and pass out in embarrassing places.

So we all have had that moment where we pass out in an inappropriate place at an inappropriate time...but this is one of my most favorite holiday tales, enjoy!


Lived and written by an anonymous HotHotMess.


'I went to Don's for Christmas Eve dinner. His parents got a bottle of Crystal (I don't even know if that is how you spell it---but the nice champagne---lets be real, I only now how to spell Andre). We had it with dinner and I was a little intoxicated. His mom happened to have two other bottles of other champagne, so we drank that too. Then, his parents decided to go to their friends party (seriously, they have more friends and are cooler than I am).  We went to the party and there were a ton of people there---and a bartender. The bartender took a liking to me (I think more so because she could see I was wasted and wanted to embarass the fuck out of me). I then started telling all sorts of inappropriate sexual jokes. When we left I just remember thinking I was going to puke in the car. When we got back we were supposed to open presents but I went straight to Don's bed. I remember waking up around 4 am in my tights and bra, no dress. I just started yelling how I ruined Christmas. To make matters worse my nazi mom said I had to be home at 9am the next day so we could do Christmas (and for some reason, I listened to the bitch). So I had to leave at 7am before Don's parents woke up. They got me really nice and expensive gifts and wrote me a check for 200 bucks. But, I couldn't even say thanks. So, I had to call them later that afternoon when I got home to apologize for being a druken asshole and to thank them for their gifts. Mortifying.'


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In true hothotmess fashion there will be no true rhyme or reason to the postings so you should be happy to take what you can get.






Saturday, December 4, 2010

Marking My Territory

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I remember my first time. My first kiss, first blow job, first fuck, or maybe I remember absolutely none of those things. But what I can piece together, through memory and hearsay, is a fantastic story about my first time…peeing on a boy…the first time I ever slept with him. Granted I have peed on a few boys in my time, but I usually wait the appropriate 5-7 months before I mark my territory. And by territory I mean pee on him and by pee on him I DO NOT mean some kind of kinky shit. I mean I was shitfaced and peed his bed.


How this situation starts: Like usual PussyFoot and HHM start drinking midday all by themselves. They get DRA-UNNK vary vary early and decide to meet some friends for happy hour. After happy hour everyone has some dinner (this is where HHM’s memory starts to fail), night falls, everyone heads to a nearby bar and at some point the group starts to lose and gain people. Now please note, that PussyFoot has been long gone. She went to meet up with some other folks and it is later disclosed that she walked into the bar, ripped three tequila shots, said hello and goodbye all in the same sentence and then woke up in her bed (luckily all alone) the next morning. If only HHM had been so lucky. HHM and a boy whom she had been infatuated with for quite some time proceed to reportedly express some viscous forms of PDA in the bar before slipping out and heading to said boy’s place.


So here it goes: When they get to said boys place HHM immediately passes out; moments later peeing herself, the entire mattress, sheets and of course the idiot who took her home. Completely appalling, right? I mean could said boy hate HHM anymore? Yes, yes he could. At some point HHM awakens from her stupor and decides she is ready to hook up. Finally said boy can take advantage of the one redeeming quality of having such a drunk girl in his bed. But no, mid bone HHM decides she’s had enough, rolls over and passes back out leaving said boy to think about what a poor decision this was on his part.


The next morning: HHM wakes up in a different state than she was in the when she started her evening, she is sopping wet and immediately knows why (this ain’t her first rodeo), looks over to see that indeed it is the boy she has been infatuated with laying next to her and realizes she has on no pants and no bra but yet the shirt she arrived in. Interesting. As if the severity of her intense hangover is not enough to make her want to die, HHM lays there contemplating ways to get the fuck out of there, if only she knew where she was. (What? You thought she would want to fix this, make it not awkward, no – first instinct: burn that bridge on both ends and split post haste.) In the end, said boy was surprisingly nice about the whole thing ater a complimentary blowjob, even giving her clothes that were not drenched in pee and driving HHM home (yes, to another state). What.a.gentlemen.


A lesson to all: If you drink too much you may pee the bed (if your lucky and don’t drunkly pee in a closet or a sink) and if you take a vary vary drunk hothotmess home they may pee on you and your belongings. Since you are going to do these things anyways (duh!) you may want to invest in a waterproof mattress cover for you and your beds sake. You’re welcome.


Click here to follow HotHotMess.
In true hothotmess fashion there will be no true rhyme or reason to the postings so you should be happy to take what you can get.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Your Marriage...The result of an ultimatum or a fantastic blowjob?


This contribution is brought to by guest writer Cruella DeVag, and her favorite bottle of vodka.

Oh, the holidays. A time to be thankful and reflect on the year behind us and all the love and joy we have shared. Or, if you’re me, a time to receive your credit card statement and reflect on the obscene amount of money you spent attending and participating in ten weddings this year. No, that is not a typo. Ten.

Like any single, twenty-something woman faced with the realization that she had spent more than her annual gross income on other people’s nuptials this year, I poured a drink, popped a handful of xanax and got to thinking about the bigger issue. You guessed it – which was the hottest guy I boned down after a wedding this year?

Then I started thinking about the couples themselves, what their weddings were like, and who I thought would actually NOT get divorced. Here’s a few things I’ve picked up on over the years that are pretty good indicators of when Ken & Barbie wasted an ass load of money on their dream wedding.




1. You wouldn’t let him choose the cake…or the song…or his groomsmen…or anything

Let’s face it, if you are that much of a micro-managing, anal retentive, uncompromising, heinous bitch… your reign of terror will not last, Kate Gosselin. I give you an over/under of 7 years.

2. His mother planned your entire wedding

This would be the opposite of problem #1. If your future mother-in-law fits the description above, you need to slow her roll. That miserable old bag ain’t gonna get any easier to tame till she’s dead. I recommend a few strong martinis to channel your inner bitch and get your cat fight on.

3. His proposal came on the end of your ultimatum…or a fantastic blowjob

Yes, shacking up with your man before marriage is totally normal these days but nothing sucks sweaty balls more than when you realize five years after moving in with that Douche-hammer that he has no intention of making an honest woman out of you. This is when your mother tells you to serve up a hot ultimatum with that baked ziti you’re serving his ungrateful ass.

This ends one of two ways: he takes the bait and then resents you for the rest of his life for shackling him; or you get into a relationship ending fight, followed by a 20 day “break” until he needs to get his rocks off and then after amazing make up sex… proposal “a la blowjob.”

In either scenario, the big picture is he doesn’t want to marry you, despite your superior knob-slobbing skills. Instead of subjecting yourself to this, put on a push-up bra, your Wonder Woman panties, and kick the mother effer in the balls with your stilettos on your way out the door (don’t forget to take your
vibrator with you).

4. You blacked out at your reception

Don’t get me wrong, there are few things more fun in this world than shootin’ the lock off at an awesome wedding reception, especially if you’re the poor bastard that spent a small fortune to pay for the event (thanks Dads!).

But there are few things more pathetic than a spending all that money to look like a princess only to get wrecked 8 hours later and have your in-laws calling you “that alcoholic that Jimmy married.” Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

5. Your bridesmaids don’t speak to you anymore 

Chances are that throughout the entire absurd spectacle of the wedding, you were nicer to those unfortunate souls you forced to be your slaves for the day, I mean bridesmaids, than anyone you
came in contact with. So if after it’s all said and done those broads won’t talk to you, you must have been a real c*nt to everyone else – including your now husband.

And we all know how much men love a psychotic female presence in their lives. Good luck with that.

In true hothotmess fashion there will be no true rhyme or reason to the postings so you should be happy to take what you can get.

Friday, November 19, 2010

An excuse for getting drunk and hitting on you…no, we didn’t really mean it.


So here is a little story about what happens when a group of hothotmess girls get bored/are feeling neglected. If you we were overtly and/or inappropriately hit on by on by one or all of us recently (you know who you are) you can now rest assured that the harassment will stop…or maybe not. Oh and a deeper apology if you were one of the dumb bastards who actually took one of our hothotmess asses out and footed the bill for this little venture. Sorry...

The game (as proposed by The Ring Leader):
(The names of the participants have been changed to protect the guilty parties)

“In light of recent events, (namely our dating discussion at Pour House last Saturday, Tom monopolizing HHM's sex life, Pussy Foot stonewalling every penis that comes near her and me [Ring Leader] resorting to meaningless intercourse with long time friends), desperate measures must be taken. 

The Point system:
  1. Date for "drinks" - 1 point
  2. Dinner date (this includes cocktails while waiting for a table) - 2 points
  3. Cocktails AND Dinner (this means going to 2 separate locations, one for drinks, one for dinner, in either order) - 3 points
  4. Coffee date - 1/2 point
  5. Lunch date - 1 point
  6. Movie/Show/Game/Other activity for your date, day or night time - 2 points
  7. Weekend trip together - 5 points
  8. Each NEW guy you go on a date with is an additional 2 points.
  9. Going on a date with someone the group unanimously would never go out with - 1 additional point
  10. Maximum date rule - after your 5th date with the same guy, you no longer get points for going out with him.

Additional provisions:

No points will be awarded for any dates with Tom - we all are basically dating him and it's just going to inflate the numbers. Going home with guys does not earn you any points, regardless of what you end up doing (this rule is for me [Ring Leader] so I stop being such a shameless whore). Giving out your number awards you no points. And most importantly, the first rule of Date Club is that you don't talk about Date Club.... with men. Tell all the broads you want, I don't really care, but let's not let any men know that we're this shallow."

The end result of the game:

Pussy Foot beat HHM by 2 points. The Ring Leader failed miserably and is still resorting to intercourse with long time friends. She did go on a date but unfortunately Pussy Foot and HHM (and team) crashed it, caused mass chaos and then ended up without the Ring Leader but somehow with her date at a strip club…on a Tuesday. Pussy Foot met some great people and ultimately found herself a fantastic boy who is still around…dumb bastard. And HHM, well, she died.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

My Mustache Obsession!



My mustache obsession runs much deeper than just Movember, but before we get into that here is a friendly reminder that today is:


Now back to me and my mustache obsession! I LOVE mustaches! My dad rocked the Tom Selick stache when I was a kid, which is probably one reason that I am obsessed with the stache. But the weird thing is that I not only love, love, love boys with mustaches, I love wearing mustaches…hothotmess style.

For Halloween 2010 the hothotmess ladies of the 15th St. Sorority House went as Mexicans! Can you imagine 3 blondes with staches? Yeah, it was hot. 
Here is a little something to compare my lady stache to: Women with Mustaches. 

Now get out there and find a boy with a mustache to have sex with today. Sorry I’m not sorry (lo siento no lo siento) if it’s not your boyfriend/husband you find to bone. Maybe he should have grown a pair, or a stache in support of his and others man parts.

In true hothotmess fashion there will be no true rhyme or reason to the postings so you should be happy to take what you can get.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Welcome to HotHotMess

Whether you stumbled upon this blog by accident, someone is holding a gun to your head and forcing you to read it or you are here to find other kindred spirits (and by kindred I do mean others who are are also drunk/slutty/unstable) I want to say thank you. Gracias for obviously having nothing better to do, merci for your poor decision making skills and grazie for more than likely being a ridiculous human being.


Definition of HotHotMess

Pronounced \ˈhät ˈhät ˈmes\

1
: what provides amusement or embarrassment to ones self or others; specifically : drunk often slutty action or speech
2
: a disheveled exterior appearance
3
: over the top ridiculous comments and actions
4
: complete loss of control over ones emotions and actions

Examples of HotHotMess

Why am I such a hothotmess? I lost my cell phone, wallet and went home with that random guy.
Bitch looks like a hothotmess.

Synonyms: lush, outrageous, ridiculous human being, life of the party, drunk
Antonyms: organized, sober, boring, well put together



Side Note: Please don't forget that tomorrow is National 'Have Sex With a Guy With a Mustache' Day. Support Movember and use your V to make a difference!




In true hothotmess fashion there will be no true rhyme or reason to the postings so you should be happy to take what you can get.