The Time I Wrote About My First Double Blowjob

by 5 years ago

So apparently someone had the bright-ass idea over at VICE of giving some self-important cunt nugget a chance to write about how she and some friend blew a dude in exchange for a handle of pisswater vodka. If that sounds like a potentially fun and exciting story to you, consider me R. Kelly because I'm about to piss all over any hopes and dreams you might've had with it being slightly amusing. The most boring blowjob award should probably go to that Former Miss Teen Delaware girl, but Becky here's giving her a good run for the money. To be fair, though, new writers should always be given a chance to prove themselves, otherwise we'd be stuck with the same ol' shit over and over again from the same ol' shitters. Plus, if someone had given Hitler a legit chance at Art School, we wouldn't have had to deal with those butt-plugging wienerschnitzel goblins across the pond. It's everyone's fuckin' fault the world got subjected to this giant pile of dong shavings, so let's not start pointing fingers just yet.

For clarity's sake, “her” refers to Rebecca Martinson. She coincidentally actually writes for this site too, but the stuff she's got up in here on BroBible isn't nearly as boring or as self-aggrandizing. Leave it to a little 20-something to build up your hopes and dreams with a boneriffic title like “My First Double Blowjob,” and then spend the rest of the time talking about literally nothing and then blueballing the hell out of your dick.

For all I know what I just read — which I allegedly wrote, but was so heavily edited it barely reads like it — was entirely about a fetish that involves shoving “My Little Pony” dolls up your butt in the hopes of shitting out rainbows, which would actually have been more likely to get me off on a boring Monday at the office. But no, she spends literally five, FIVE FUCKING PARAGRAPHS talking about herself. Lady, do I have to remind you that the title involves the word BLOWJOB?! If there's no video, there's no chance I'm gonna sit here and read through your mini autobiography. I don't know who the fuck you are, and unless this is a self-memoir about Gandhi and how he gradually went from jerkin' it in piles of sand while starving himself to blowing dudes to make up for his protein deficiency, I don't care.

It's not just the fact that she decided to write about herself though, it's the fact that this entire shitstorm of feces doesn't even sound like her. Take this bit bit:

“Because there was nothing to do in my hometown besides walk around the mall and say 'Let's go check out the clearance racks at Abercrombie & Fitch,' my classmates and I had sex. All the time. Everywhere. Even the weird kids in my high school received handjobs in the back of AP Calculus…”

I'd put up more for you to read, except I know that by the time you got to the second sentence it was a struggle to resist the urge of impaling yourself with the nearest object. Personally, I've got a wire coat hanger sitting next to me that was begging to just start tearing up my uterus. But that's beside the point. You and your classmates had sex? Really? You fucked all of your classmates? You got together in one biiiiig group of people in some open space like the gym and just had everyone go to town on that vag? Really? And oh no, hold up, we gotta get a little formal here just in case someone thinks you're uncivilized: the weird kids received handjobs. The handjobs were gifts, kind of like the ones you'd see at an office party where you do Secret Santa and you wind up giving George in Accounting a sequined air freshener because you've never fucking met the guy and how the fuck do you know what he wants? They way it reads, I wouldn't be surprised if there was some legal documentation floating around along the lines of

“All semen and saliva content produced on ____ (today's date, MM/DD/YYYY)  by _____ (partner's name) is intended for the sole, specific, and private use of _____ (receiver's name)”.

Gotta be fair though, it takes some fucking skill to turn sex into a legal transaction. Prostitutes can't even get that shit in writing and they do it for a living, fuckin' scrubs.

Speaking of sequined air fresheners, does no one at VICE own Photoshop? No? Anyone? Because the minute I open this giant turd that I wrote I get assaulted by this giant fucking photo of her head. Did the web designer decide to go out for a permanent lunch break or something? For fuck's sake, I could resize this bitch blind with MS fuckin' Paint. But wait, that's not all, because her head is surrounded by… glitter.

Wait a second, glitter? As in, someone ran out to Michael's and grabbed every single tube of “Purple Shimmer #9” they had in stock and just barfed it all over the sides of her head? Is that a thing? Is it making a comeback? Please, someone let me know, because I'll gladly be the first one to start rioting and throwing molotov cocktails at craft stores. Those little shiny pieces of shit are more permanent than getting shreds of toilet paper caught in your cooch after you haven't shaved for a while, and those motherfuckers hang around until you shower.

But that's just the beginning of this never-ending nightmare, because then I have to scroll. And scroll. And once I feel like I can't scroll no more and that there's no light at the end of the tunnel and that my fingers are about to cripple under the strain, I finally get to the actual story.

I'll admit, I don't read VICE, but I have a feeling that most of their content doesn't start out with an image so goddamn big that it's endurance test for your fingers. Look, I already spend too much time playing Clicking Bad, I don't need any more help getting my fingers in shape, kthx. Oh and thanks for reminding me that I failed every single endurance test of every kind not involving competitive eating in middle school, so excuse me while I throw up my lunch and cry myself to death while rolling around on a treadmill.

On a serious note, I'm actually a secret agent that was hired to spy on VICE headquarters, and this is how that abortion of a photo was conceived. I've got it on tape, this is totally 100% accurate:

GRAPHIC DESIGNER: Hey, you know what'd be great?


GRAPHIC DESIGNER: If we stopped resizing images. Yeah, I bet if we made people have to scroll around for at least 20 minutes or so they'd enjoy it.

INTERN: I LOVE it! You know what else we should do?


INTERN: We should start adding Skrillex music to the background of the site, everyone loves Skrillex!

GRAPHIC DESIGNER: YEAH! And then we can make sure not to put any controls on the site so that you can't mute it!

INTERN: Oh. My. God. That is GENIUS. We'll stop resizing with Rebecca Martinson's piece, and then starting Monday we'll add Skrillex to everything interspersed with Pitbull, just for variety.

I could go on and on about how awful this is, but the more I go back and look at this abomination the more I just wanna turn on The Weather Channel since watching trippy red and green colors move around my TV is exponentially more exciting this than garbage. Nice try Martinson, maybe next time you should just quit while you're ahead.


Now all jokes aside, everyone needs to chill the fuck out.

I'll be the first to admit that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. At all. As in my life is almost literally me walking around in a pitch black room and stumbling into things, then occasionally I get lucky and fall face-first into a pile of candy. So when I was approached by VICE to start writing for them, it was exciting. It was like the cool kid at school threw me a wink and asked if I wanted to hang out underneath the football field's bleachers later. Not because I'm necessarily a fan of them or anything (…I'd never visited their website until last week; they have an HBO show, I hear?), but because I knew that they were an outlet that attracted some legit writers, and plus I was kind of looking forward to get rid of the “Deranged Sorority Girl” title. Not gonna lie, it's getting old and it's not even that funny or clever.

The articles I pitched went over without issue (anyone with at least 1/3rd of a brain could tell you that VICE is raunchy, and it's not like I requested to write a review about Season 4 of The Care Bears or anything), but the column title? Nope. I wanted something along the lines of “Generation YOLO.” But they insisted it be about “The Deranged Sorority Girl” again. It's one thing to be called that by other people, but when you're trying to turn over new leaves and put past nicknames behind you, it's a little discouraging and rather exploitative to just be shut down and be labeled as that anyway. It was like getting asked to the prom because on the outside you've got great C-cups but on the inside, everyone knows there's not much going on upstairs.

It's not even an accurate depiction of who I am at this point, and it never even was in the first place. Did that email that everyone can't stop talking about make me look deranged? Sure, I'll give you that. But have I done anything in that same vein since then? I'll answer that for you: No, I haven't. If you're frantically opening tabs now to start looking for any number of pieces I've written over the past few months that people cited as “damaging towards women” or “insane,”  then you, and everyone else who wrote those painfully misguided critiques, need to take a step back.

I am 20 fucking years old. I've attended two large public universities, and this is the world I live in. People are shallow, horny, and consistently do not give two fucks about the people around them as long as they get their rocks off. People go out at night to get laid. Not to make friends, and not to find a boyfriend/girlfriend. To get laid. From a girl's perspective, if you go out with your head full of the ideas that guys are talking to you because they like your personality, then you're about to get used, abused, thrown out and never talked to again. Call me cynical, but it's true. If you can find a single person with any decent social life that doesn't agree that this is how people my age act, then you've found yourself either a liar or someone so secluded from reality they belong in a home. Is a lot of my stuff exaggerated? Yeah, but it's all based in truth. Very little of what I've written about is different from what most college kids experience.

Nut up or shut up, because otherwise it's going to be an emotionally draining four years of college for you.

Rebecca Martinson is a contributing writer for Read her previous posts here and follow her on Twitter here


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