Don’t drink on an empty stomach…

Miss NYanonymous

Oh my god, my heads hurt so bad.

Oh my god, where am I?

I am in my bed.


“What the hell happened last night,” I wondered as I started to sit up and felt as if my head was a pinata getting hit blow by blow.

All the lights were on in my bedroom and there was a bag of empty cheese puffs on the floor.

“I don’t eat that crap,” I whispered as I wiped little corn puffs from the corners of my mouth.  My room looked like a crime scene. Clothes everywhere, food all over the floor, music playing and my god damn Iphone in my water glass.


Oh I know, my arch nemesis, “Tammy” probably came out last night and clearly purchased the fattening cheese balls.

Tammy was and still is my alter ego after I have had more three glasses of alchohol, preferably…

View original post 729 more words


Date with an urban cowboy….

One of my favorites stories…

Miss NYanonymous

Oh, Where do I start?  Have you ever dated a guy that turned into a cowboy after midnight? I didn’t know they existed in Manhattan, but they do. When I accepted to go on a date with Kyle, I committed to attending my first “Manhattan Rodeo” unbeknownst to me.  Kyle seemed interesting enough, but was loosing hair rapidly (I found a few strands on my dress during the date) and was shorter than Napoleon.

He had money and was on his way to starting one of the most popular fashion magazines in New York at the time, so I thought I had nothing to loose. I was hungry for a nice dinner and was broke.  The big joke amongst our friends was that if we looked skinny, it meant we were single because we could not afford to feed ourselves. All our money went to rent, clothes and the subway.  If…

View original post 771 more words

“Ambien Airways”

Holy Shit!!!



What the hell did I do? The last thing I remember,  I popped a little white Ambien after my plane took off that was headed to London.

I woke up with just 45 minutes left of the flight.  My mouth was exceptionally dry with a strange taste in it.

I needed water.

I looked at the seat in front of me and in the pockets were 2 empty vodka bottles, the little ones.

I did NOT remember drinking those.

I grabbed both of the bottles to inspect them as if I was trying to uncover an obvious clue.

Hmm. Strange,  I still don’t remember anything.

I am sure I would have been arrested and the plane would have returned to JFK if I done anything crazy….Right?

The captain came on the intercom and said that we would be landing soon and to fasten your seat belt.

I reached down just as a safety precaution to check that my seat belt was fastened even though I knew I had not moved since we took off.

What the hell? I was actually sitting on my seat belt.

Weird, I thought. I don’t remember getting up. I don’t remember drinking those vodka bottles. I don’t remember anything!!!


The flight was a redeye to Heathrow and I was totally prepared for the flight. Slippers, eye mask, that shit you spray in your mouth to fall asleep and the “The Ambien.”

I am calling it “The Ambien” because  it turned out to play a big part in this story I am about to tell you.

Getting back to my seat belt….

I thought it was weird that I was sitting on it. I then noticed that my jeans were unzipped. WHOA!! WAIT! WHAT?

Beads of perspiration stared to form on my upper lip. My heart began to race. The guy next to me looked uncomfortable. I started pounding, not tapping my forehead with my three fingers again and again.

What the fuck? Why in God’s name are my jeans unzipped?

For a couple of minutes,  I searched my data bank trying to surface some memory of the flight.

Nothing.  Zero recollection.

I came to the scary conclusion, that not only did I have some drinks, I went to the bathroom and forgot to zip my jeans back up.

Sure, that is what happened.

I zipped my jeans back up stealthy under the tray and leaned back in the chair. I just wanted to get off the plane. I turned to look down the aisle to see how far the bathroom was and it was only 10 rows back.

OK, that’s not so bad. I only embarrassed myself within those 10 rows.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed this short red headed man smiling at me, rather drueling. Let’s call him “the red headed hobbit.”  I think he was all but 5’4.  I dare say his feet barely touched the floor of the plane.

I could see the whites of his eyes and the foam on the corners of his mouth.  He looked like he was just about to pounce on his prey. Me.

What a fucking weirdo. Ew.

The captain came on again and said last call for the restroom. I thought I would show the passengers behind me that I am not a total freakshow by getting up and going to the restroom sober and lucid.

I was in there only but 10 seconds and I heard a little knock on the door. Tap tap tap… tap tap tap..

“Hello” I said.  “SOMEONE is in here now!!! HELLO!”

I suddenly had a flash back of my Grandma. She used to say that to me when I would run and try to unlock the door anytime anyone went to the bathroom.

The voice said “Tammy it’s me. Wanna go again real quick?

WHAT??? The hobbit did NOT just say that!!

My real name is Sarah. Why is this person calling me Tammy? Tammy is/was my alter ego. I used to say I was Tammy when I went out on the town with friends in NYC totally wasted and displaying 20 year old obnoxious behavior. Tammy did very stupid things. Tammy was a little slutbag.

Wanna go again??? OMG – What did Tammy do now?

I zipped up my pants and slowly opened the door.

Suddenly his hobbit like hand came in between the door. He somehow popped into the 2x2x2 bathroom and unzipped his pants.

Fuck me. Fuck me. And Fuck me.

I fucking fucked this guy and don’t remember. I pushed him out of the bathroom and ran back to my seat.

With minutes left to land, I swore I would never ever take another ambien again.

I kept mumbling to myself, “Must keep “Tammy” locked up forever!!




Cucumbers and Coors

Ladies … And for the male followers who will wish to remain anonymous… MY GIRLFRIEND HAD THE MOST FUCKED UP WEEKEND!!!!!

No more surprises!! I am now accustomed to the stories I hear from my girlfriends, “NYESPN” (New York Entertaining Sexy Perverted Never-to-be-told) highlights of the weekend.


The story went down like this…

My MicePack – “MP” (which is my abbreviation for the female rat pack, not to be mistaken for the abbreviation for the Meatpacking District) – and I were out last night to watch a little football in the West Village.

So we the MP, mid-life crisis hot mamacitas, cruised into the Windsor Bar (full of pre-pubescent little big men, pounding on their hairless chests rooting for their schools they attended… last year) and we quickly realized that we are not Cougars, not MILF’s, just “WWWTGF.”

Can anyone figure that out?

Please comment on this post with your answer. If so, you win nothing (not enough followers to afford any electronic gifts to you at the moment), but will be rewarded verbally!


We gals bolted from the frat house disguised as a bar and went to our favorite oyster spot and played the “Drink Mimosa’s at 5pm on a Sunday and spill your sex beans” game.

I know…. We’re alcoholics. Stylish alcoholics though…

All my friends are up on the latest trends. One of my girlfriends politely insulted me at our “Oyster Binge” and made me aware that my handbag from Canal Street was not Gucci or Coach, it was “Cuuchi.”

I know, don’t judge me!!! I guess the “G” for Gucci and the “C” for Coach were morphed into a “GC” combo.


Yes, I bought, and still buy, knock off handbags, hoping to pass for a cool hipster chic or a sandal-slaving “Tori Bitch” with Mercedes medallions on my flats. (Yes, Century 21 still sells them.)

Anyway, enough about classy me…


My friend, “Ms. Cucumber” went out on a date with last Friday night with Mr. Pat Sajack meets Town and Country Magazine. You know the guys that are quirky, eccentric and can be as weird as they want because they are FUCKING LOADED?????

Yeah. This one was as flavorless as microwaved tofu.


I’ll cut right to the cucumber…

He — I’ll call him JR — took my gal out to a very nice dinner at L’Artusi in the “West Vill.”  This is a classy Italian restaurant, which would make any woman feel wanted, desired and classy if someone asked you to dinner there.

She — I’ll call her Tammy — was fucking more excited then my aunt Jackie before a Botox injection. She thought she hit the New York Lottery. Yet, dating in NYC is hard. If you’re online or not, it’s work. She was hopeful, but JR was strange.

JR asked her back to his pad on the Upper East Side, which she was willing to overlook because anything above 14th street is so laymo… full of Mr. Pink shirts that needed to be laundered about a year ago.

I know, we women are such dogs!!! Not cats, guys, we really are dogs. Our Equinox locker room banter regarding “what’s his penis size?” is brutal.

JR asked Tammy,” Do you ‘Party Party,’ Tammy?”


“What?” She played dumb. ” I don’t what you mean.”

I have no idea how “Party Party” became the Urban Dictionary definition for the question, “Do you do coke?”


Some unknown porn star started channeling through her body, making her respond to his perverted questions quickly and without consequence. Tammy sheepishly whispered, “Yeah, baby, I do.”

JR ran up stairs and left her downstairs for 30 min. Tammy thought that was weird and went on a millionaire hunt in his 5-story penthouse.


She found JR on the 4th floor sitting at his desk, whacking his very small “pee pee” to

“What the fuck, JR??? Seriously?? Is this really what’s happening???”

JR looked at her vacantly and said, “Don’t you think this is hot, Tammy?”

“No, I fucking don’t??? JR, I’m not going to watch you whack off. I’m headed to bed.”

Tammy went to bed with his Chihuahua, a little “Paris Hilton” dog, and let JR go to town on himself.


Tammy laid down at 2:35am she claims…

She was awakened by JR’s strung-out voice calling a Deli for a delivery.

JR: “Hi, I’d like to make an order for a delivery…

(It was 6:21am.)

JR: “Um, yeah, um yeah…. hahahaha. I’d like 6 Coors lights, a pack of cigarettes, large tub of Vaseline (what’s a tub?) and 3 medium Cucumbers….”

Once Tammy heard this disgusting request, even though being a vegan, she decided the best course of action besides juicing the cucumbers was aborting the mission immediately. ​

What did she learn from this experience? Fans, I ask you? ​​Tammy is still on an Oyster Binge, ordering cucumber mojitos with a serious case of chapped lips. She needs our help.

Fish Sticks and Dicks

OK ladies… I typically would refrain from writing about something as gross as this, but I feel that it is appropriate because so many fucking men claim that women smell of fish. I can’t stand when men say that about our vagina!!!

Fuck you boys! Like your balls don’t smell, but we never say anything. It’s such an excuse for them to not go down on us after they have cum in two minutes and they say, “I’m just too tired to reciprocate and you just don’t smell right!!!!”

In my opinion, it is just an excuse because they are incompetent in many ways… Lazy!!!

I was getting a pedicure the other day and the women that was painting my lovely toes started talking about embarrassing dating stories. I asked what was her top three and this story to follow was the inspiration of this blog post.

Her night started out at L’Artusi, a hot spot in the West Village that has hot bartenders, an amazing wine list and very rich men sitting at the bar with wedding band tan lines…. Hmmmm???

Anyway, it was my friends first date with a lawyer. It was a blind date and as soon as he walked in, she was in love. Italian, great hair, amazing smile and a money clip that was full of Franklin’s….


So we proceeded to order. We had some expensive wine and ordered some fish for dinner. When the meal came, I was overwhelmed by the smell of the fish. We were sitting at the bar by the kitchen, so I assumed that the overwhelming scent was coming for the grill….

When our fish stick appetizers arrived, owe gobbled them down and then the plates were taken away.

10 minutes passed and the fish smell was still all around me. I smelled my wine thinking the red wine was having a chemical reaction to the dish washing fluid???

“Check please,” John said.

“Thank god,” I said. “This fucking restaurant smells!!!”

So John has driver pick us up and we end up at the Soho Hotel for a romantic sex romp.

We start kissing and I start to unbuckle his pants to reveal a man hung like horse. My eyes bulged with excitement, but suddenly started to water as this gas from his boxers surfaced to what felt like Pepper Spray!!!!

Oh my god, the fish smell was back!!!!

I knelt down on my knees to give him an after dinner blow job(all men expect that) and almost vomited as his dick smelled like and old freeze-dried vandicamp fish stick!!

I jumped up and said you need to wash your dick!!! It so smelly!

He told me to fuck off bitch and threw me out of the house.


What a fish cock!!!!

Anyway, ladies… Let’s this me a reminder… We are not the only fish swimming in the pond…

Dont ever let those men say that we smell, one never knows what lays beneath the trouser abyss!

Ms. Vandi Camp

Can I get some “Kleenex Sex?”

Ok fans…

This is a good story. I just heard this last weekend after attending a crazy after hours in the city. My girlfriend and I went to coffee the next day and I could hardly wait to write her story.

My friend’s recap…

“Oh my god, I’m so horny. What is wrong with me, seriously? I so friggin horny. It is afternoon and all I’m thinking about is SEX. Why can’t I be like a normal gal and go to brunch with all my girlfriends and get off shopping in Soho? ”

I have not had sex in 10 days. For me, being the dog bitch that I am, that’s like 10 years!

Typically, I need sex 3 times a week
( with different men) or I become a royal bitch.

“What am i going to do?”

I look around my closet size room eyeing everything that is purple…actually purple latex. I see the purple rabbit penis from the corner of my wired eye and shriek with perverted pleasure.

“Yes, I found it!”

Hah. I knew it was somewhere in my room. I have not masturbated in a month, so my clothes had started to pile on top of it.

I layed down and turned the purple Roger Rabbit on. It made a sound as if a car was running out of gas. I turned it on again and off again a couple of times.

“Fuck! Batteries dead. Fuck!”

I start scrolling through my phone with potential “One Day Stands.”

That’s right, screw the one night stands (literally). I’m all about having sex in the day. After fucking in the day, I have a higher potential of getting a free dinner after.

Depending on my performance, the better the dinner. Don’t judge me please.

Last Satutday, I had a one day stand with my “sexy wonton” weekend boyfriend. He’s a hot Asian bartender in the lower east side.

I gave him the world’s best blow job and I ended up with unlimited egg drop soup and some tasty pad Thai.

This is a good life, I thought to myself. Good sex = a free late brunch or dinner. And on my salary, I needed it!

Anyway, after my sexy wonton excursion, I got invited to go to Mr. H, the hot new club in the Mondrian Hotel in Soho.

I was so excited. I needed this! Fresh Pad Thai I thought to myself!

I prowled around the club and ran into who I thought was Al Gore’s son.

He was all over me. I’m blonde, big boobs and all American girl.

I’m not trying to sound narcissistic, but men love me. I usually troll the city with my best friend in the city, she is a red head, super cute and is a mix between Jennifer Anniston and Jenny McCarthy ( only they were red heads). When we go out, we attract all sorts.

Al Gore’s son seemed to like the Blonde women!!

OK, so I’m fucking rambling.

Al came up to me and said,”You are so hot, can I take you home?”

“Sure,” I said, “but what are you going to do for me?”

Al responded “More than you can handle.”

Oohhhh, game on!

We left the club and headed to my apartment in the East Village.

He followed me up my exhausting 5th floor quad building walk up and he ripped off all my clothes, starting with my dress, then eating me out as he pulled off my g-string.

We started to fuck on my bed and it was amazing, but I had my eyes closed.

I forgot to mention he looked like the son from one of the actors from the old movies from “Revenge of the Nerds.”

Not cute. But I was desperate.

He was about to cum and then right before he was going to ejaculate he pulled out, grabbed his cock and ran into the bathroom!


What the fuck was he doing????

Well, he ran into the bathroom to ejaculte into a god damn kleen-ex.

I heard the toilet flush and then he came back and said that was the best ever and couldn’t wait to fuck again.


I told him to leave and sent him on his way with a box of “Kleen-sex” and told him that if he ever wants to date or have a one day stand again, leave the kleenex out of it and grab some god damn ribbed condoms!!!

Talk about clean republican sex!!!

Oh well, there are many more salmon in the Atlantic!

Ms. Kleenex-Sex Anonymous

I got a T.W.W ticket today!

<Hello friends,

This is an unusual post as it has nothing to do with dating stories (well sort of does), but felt compelled to write this as I was walking in the subway today. I have recently moved back to New York and have realized that the city at 35 years old is a hell of a lot different from when I lived here at 25 years young.

Everyone is on their phones with their heads down, walking full speed ahead and bumping into every poor innocent tourist. I can barely maneuver Penn Station, let alone Grand Central. It’s a war zone!

While I was trying to dodge human paint balls in the belly of Grand Central, I thought to myself, “What’s worse than texting while driving? Texting while walking!”

Really people….?

Some jack ass ( a rather cute banker type) just cited me with a “T.W.W” verbal warning when he sat down next to me on the train.

I grumbled, “What the hell is that?”

He answered with a whisper, “It’s stand for “Texting While Walking! You about killed me just now as you entered the train.”

I chuckled, “Sorry, I was playing “Words with Friends, what do you expect?”

He was not amused.

I swear I have had more pedestrian head on collisions since I moved back to NYC two months ago. Either I’m checking my email incessantly, responding to every text message within seconds or trying to get my damn compass to work on my I-Phone while walking around the city.

My friends make fun of me because I have no idea which way west or east is in the city. My friends always say, “Walk the same direction the cabs are going when you get off the subway!”

What’s the rule on responding
to text messages anyway? What do people think when you respond in seconds? Maybe they are wondering if have a life? Don’t answer that.

What about autocorrect? Fuck! It’s so god damn annoying. I can’t tell you how many times I have been asked if I speak Hindu as my first language? Sometimes I give up and “jug” send the text message anyway.

And the LOL’s, OMG’s, TYLL’s, NP’s …. I’m done, especially with “LOL.”

Why can’t people pick up the phone and call? I had a three week relationship with this guy I met when I moved back to NYC. The relationship was amazing on text. Finally, AT&T called and said I was over my text limit and go out already!


I met Mr. Text for a drink and had nothing to talk about face to face. He was a total dud. I went to the bathroom and “texted” my best friend to call me in 5 minutes so I could get out of the date. My friend called shortly after and I left the restaurant. Of course, I did not “call her,” so I am no better than the people or men I am bitching about!

The next day my “text boyfriend” texted me that we were not right for each other. He didn’t feel we had a connection. Hilarious. Whatever.

So now I have come to the conclusion, there are text boyfriends and phone boyfriends. Texting is the lowest form of communication. If you have a text boyfriend, don’t expect much….LOL!

What’s really funny is that while writing this walking in Grand Central with my head down, I got on the 7 train instead of the E.

OMG! I’m LOL! Oh well, NP!

Until my next commute,

Miss NYanonymous..