The Girl's Guide to Depravity

Hold up: I fully admit that I need love just as much as the next hooker, but when you go looking for love, you usually end up with a handful of Xannies to dull the pain of his rejection stabbing you like a knife in the heart. However, when you go trawling for some hot monkey sex, you usually find it. Love can be one of the glorious side effects, but if you go searching for nothing more than a good fuck, chances are you won't get fucked over.

I know many a girl who's been strung along by some fickle dick who was all about the romance in the beginning—I'm talking flowers, wine, and condoms ribbed for her pleasure—but that's how they trick you. Once they start getting it regularly and you finally think you can relax and cancel your monthly ass-waxing appointment, they switch it up. If he used to text you every day from work, he'll Facebook you late at night. If he used to take you out and spend some cash on you several times a week, he'll tell you to grab yourself some Chipotle before coming over to watch a movie and fuck at his house.

J was my first real love. I met him back in my early days before I was depraved and still believed in things like happily ever after and dental dams. But I was about to get a rude fucking awakening.

He was friends with one of my friend's boyfriends. And after being introduced to him at a party one night, I was sure he was "the one." J had a bit of a bad-boy edge, just what I liked: he was in a band but made his living as a graphic artist, drove a classic BMW, and was friends with all the bartenders.

I followed all the good-girl rules: I never called him first, pretended to have other plans when he asked me out, and absolutely was not going to have sex with him until after we'd been on at least three dates.

But I felt myself falling for him after only the first date. It wasn't hard because he adored me. I'm talking called me every day, made up songs about me, bought me quirky gifts "just because" adored me.

And even though when we'd make out my vag* would get wetter than the Pacific, I still clung to my three-date rule. He said he respected me for that. And when we finally did do the do? Oh. My. God. The most amazing sex I'd ever had, not just physically, but emotionally.

He told me I was the kind of girl he could see himself marrying one day. And one night after we'd been together only a month, he told me he loved me. Of course, it was in a drunken stupor after I had just sucked the life out of him, but still.

He even introduced me to his family. When his sister came from Seattle for a visit, she and I became besties over two bottles of wine the day he got stuck at work. Although I had been trained to try not to think about (and definitely never talk about) the future with a man for fear of scaring him off, he began to bring it up. He talked about taking a trip to Spain together in the summer, adopting a dog together, and maybe even moving in together.

Then he disappeared. He stopped calling me, stopped texting me, and stopped e-mailing me altogether. I wondered if he had died or gotten horribly hurt in some accident and was in a hospital somewhere trying to call me but couldn't use his arms. But my friend said her boyfriend had just seen him and he was fine.

What had I done wrong? I analyzed our last few conversations over and over again wondering if I had pissed him off in some way. I cried to my friends over Ben & Jerry's, trying not to call him and ask him what happened. "He's just not into you anymore," they told me, telling me I deserved better and to forget about him and move on. Easier said than done.

They soon grew sick of my pity party* of one and stopped returning my sobbing calls in the middle of the night. Even my mom told me to nut up and stop bawling like a baby. No one wanted to be around me anymore.

Unable to sleep, eat, or even watch the trashy TV shows I used to love, I soon found myself spending my nights drinking alone at my neighborhood bar. That's where I met S. She was older, wiser, and as I would soon find out, completely depraved. I told her my sob story one night over drinks she had scored from some douche before she made him get lost.

I fully expected her to tell me to forget about him and move on because he was clearly no longer interested, but to my surprise, she said just the opposite. She told me I should call him every fifteen minutes until he told me why he dumped me. And if he didn't return any of my calls, I should stalk him until I found out. I deserved to know, she told me.

It was the first piece of advice I had been given that actually made me feel better. It gave me a purpose, something to do with my time other than sit around wondering what the fuck had happened. Now I was finally going to know what happened.

I launched my phone assault that night. Obvs, I got no response. When I reported back to her at the bar the next night, she said we should waste no time moving into phase two: stalking. We got the bartender to make us some super-sized vodka Red Bulls in a to-go cup and parked ourselves outside of his empty apartment.

After several hours and two piss squats, he still wasn't home. Our vodka Red Bulls had long been drunk and I was having a hard time keeping my eyes open. That's when S gave me my first Ritalin. Have you ever been with someone the first time they were on speed? Yeah, I was that annoying, but to S's credit, she just let me talk and work my jaw like a meth head on a three-day binge.

He finally turned into his driveway at four a.m.—with a girl in his front seat. My heart sank, but S kept me on task, which was very easy to do in my speedy state. It was too dark to see who she was, so S suggested we go inside for a sneak attack. She asked me if he had given me a key to the place, but of course he hadn't. Then I remembered the one time we were together when he had locked himself out and had to break into his apartment through a window.

When we stumbled in, we could hear the unmistakable sounds of sucking and fucking coming from his bedroom. I was frozen, but S pushed me forward, urging me to confront the bastard. I threw open the door and was shocked to see who he was in bed with.

"You're having sex with your sister???" I exclaimed, about to puke in my mouth. "Sister, my dick," said S under her breath.

After their initial surprise wore off and S threatened to take a dump on top of his precious BMW if he didn't tell me the truth, I finally found out what had been going on. Obviously, this bitch was not his sister. He had been cheating on me with her the whole time we were together. When she had come out to visit, she had decided to move down here. The day she arrived was the last time I ever heard from him.

Now, I had heard horrendous stories of deception like this before, but I couldn't believe that it would happen to me, and that someone I loved and thought loved me back could be that much of a dick.

As we left him and his "sister" to continue having incestuous sex, S scooped up some dog shit from a nearby lawn and piled it up on top of his car. "Fuck him," she shrugged.

The next night I was back at my neighborhood bar with S, still a little shell-shocked over what we had found. But I had gotten my closure and no longer craved to talk with him—or any man for that matter. I needed a time-out to get over my heartbreak.

"You got fucked over. But that shouldn't stop you from getting fucked," S said. She was right.

I hung out with S for the rest of the summer, which became my summer of Xantinis* and one-night-stands. I'm not going to try to pretend I never got fucked over again or didn't fall for some dick when I should have known better. But at least I had the time of my life filling up on sex, prescription drugs, and free drinks in the meantime.

As for S, the last time I saw her was at the end of the summer when she ended up in the hospital getting her stomach pumped after taking one too many sleeping pills to counteract all the Ritalin and Red Bulls. Her parents threw her in rehab in Arizona where she "found God." I hear she's still stalking people—but now it's in the name of Jesus.

Sure, when you see him ramming his tongue down the throat of a Megan Fox look-alike at the party, it's tempting to pack it in, go home, and eat the rest of those pot brownies you were saving for a rainy day, but don't. A well-placed herpes rumor by a great friend just might take her out of the running, and then you'll be sad you didn't stay to become his sloppy seconds.

Once I was on a weekend stalkapalooza of my loser crush of the moment. After two straight days of drinking and hangovers, I finally found him Monday night at Bigfoot Lodge.

When I spotted him, he was chatting up this bitchy anorexic girl, who, incidentally, had slept with two of my friends' boyfriends. She was looking at him like he was the one M&M she had for lunch, but I wasn't deterred.

I stuck by his side as he ordered round after round, but the rex* wasn't budging either. She matched me vodka tonic for vodka tonic. Now anyone who's ever had a drink with me knows I can't hold my liquor, but I was damned if I was gonna lose a drinking competition to a ninety-pound whore!

As he got up to get us more drinks I turned to her and said, "Look bitch, I outweigh you by twenty-five pounds and I have a pair of Depends in my purse so I can sit here allll night."

"Well, I was social chair for my sorority at ASU, so that means I have a degree in getting fucked up," she responded, a surprisingly steely look in her eye for someone so devoid of substance.

We went a few more rounds, and by last call, she was swaying and staggering. When she finally got up to empty her pea-sized bladder, I followed her to the bathroom, where I bribed an alkie* to hold the door shut and not let her out under any circumstances.

Then I went out and told my crush she had left with someone else. I was the last woman standing, so he ended up taking me home. Sure, I puked in his bed and he kicked me out before the P went into the V, but at least I won!

Ladies: don't go into battle uninformed. If you can't tell just by looking at her, here's how you can identify what kind of skank you're dealing with by what she's drinking:

Sometimes, a girl just wants to have a quiet drink with a friend alone, and doesn't want to be bothered by some loser trying to buy her time—but girls, a free drink from a loser is still a free drink. Plus, how can you get into trouble if you're drinking alone?

The next time you're about to order yourself a drink at the bar, instead:

After one of my girlfriend K's particularly painful breakups, we decided to take our usual pity party to our local bar. The minute we walked in the door, a dude who looked as if he had been headed for the nearest Margaritaville, but took a wrong turn somewhere, offered to buy us a drink.

Of course we immediately asked for a split of Veuve. He turned to the bartender and ordered us two vodka tonics. "What the fuck?" said my friend. "We don't even rate call drinks?" Of course, we gulped down our well drinks anyway. But then two young douchebaguettes with fake tans, fake tits, fake hair, and fake teeth walked in. We watched in astonishment as Mr. Margaritaville ordered them two Patron Cadillac margaritas.

If my girl wasn't already feeling shiteous from being dumped, the indignity of being offered a well drink while some bargain-basement hos got top-shelf tequila was almost too much for her to bear. So she became determined to get some poor asshole to buy us a split of Veuve by the end of the night.

I can't tell you how many disgusting dudes we talked to that night. I still shudder every time I think of how Psoriasis Man shed some skin flakes into the white wine spritzer he tried to pass off as a glass of bub. But the vomit taste in my mouth was nothing compared to how I felt for my friend, who was bad off enough after getting dumped by her dirty hot boyfriend, not to mention being denied top-shelf booze by far lesser men.

But we wouldn't go thirsty for long. She went to the bathroom and by the time she returned, a split of Veuve was waiting for her at the bar. "Well done, whore!" she said, reaching for a glass. "Oh, this was all you," I responded, explaining that the hot guy with the ironic mustache at the end of the bar had sent it over for her. She headed over to thank him. And by "thank him," I mean took him home and fucked him. I never had the heart to tell her that I was the one who actually bought her the Champagne.