True Story: I Married a Weed Head Part 2



By Angela Perry


He quit. For anyone who read part 1 of this story you know that things were getting bumpier than the Democrat’s road to take back the Senate. But he quit. It took basically alienating myself from him and ultimately deciding that I was just going to leave him alone. Meaning, I wasn’t going to get mad at him anymore for smoking. I came up with that because I felt that I was only hurting myself every time I got mad, while he continued on. Now it didn’t mean that I was going to smoke myself, because I quit. It also didn’t mean that I was going to sit with him while he smoked. I had shit to do. But he stopped; and while I'd like to think that it had something to do with me, I can't take that credit. So how did he quit?

True Story: I Negotiated How Long My Man Should Go Down On Me




By TJ

“Are you going to cum?” asks my dude of some months, breaking the momentum of going down on me to rub his neck once again.
“Yea. I’m close.”
“You said that 15 mins ago.”
Sigh.
“You can’t have me down here all day.”
“Ok. So what’s the cutoff time?” I ask.
“Hunh?”
“What’s a decent amount of time that you feel comfortable?" I repeat.
“15 no more than 30 mins.”
“That’s plenty!”
“But you already used up 30," he says.
“That can’t be right," I frown.
“You do it all the time.”

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True Story: I Witnessed a Murder in Amsterdam


By Erickka Sy Savané

His eyes meet mine. They are the coldest, darkest eyes I have ever seen, and this I can tell from all the way across the street. What a life this person must have lived to have eyes that could damn near kill you. I force myself to look away. As does my friend Vanessa who is feeling, I’m sure, the exact same way. It is impossible to see what we see and not be affected. In silence, we turn our heads in front of us, pick up our pace and carry on to the club that is our destination. We don’t speak the entire way. There is this knowing that to even talk about it before we are somewhere safe is in some way putting ourselves in jeopardy. It is best to pretend that everything is fine. But when the doors to the club shut behind us we exhale for the first time in at least ten solid blocks.
“What the hell was that?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think we’re safe?”
“I don’t know,” says Vanessa.

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True Story: I Married a Weed Head.



By Angela Perry

Let me start by saying that I didn’t know that I was marrying a weed head. Well, I kinda did. I found out that he was a closeted daily weed smoker after we’d already been dating a year. I was already in love with him so it wasn’t a reason for me not to get married. One day, he confessed that he’d been smoking weed every day since before we met and didn’t tell me because he didn’t think that I’d be cool with it. Damn straight, an occasional smoker myself, I wouldn’t have signed up to be with a heavy smoker. My father, who I never lived with and barely had a relationship with, had substance abuse issues so men struggling with drug issues was not my thing. I even went to a narcotics anonymous meeting once with a friend years ago and they warned me of the danger of falling for a man I could save. Classic, co-dependent, child of a substance abuser shit.

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