We Want To Hear Your Best Valentine’s Day Hookup Disasters

Years ago, I started soliciting story submissions for a feature called Hookup Fookups, where readers shared their funniest, most outrageous hookup failures. I stopped doing it for whatever reason (laziness, probably), and the site went through several iterations and design changes with ZERO stories of you freaks puking on guys’ dicks. A lot of those delightful tales of sexual deviance have been lost to time with the most recent redesign, and that’s a fucking shame.

But we’re bringing it back! I figured that Valentine’s Day, the most annoyingly contrived romantic day of the year is RIPE for hookup failures, and I want to hear about yours. Did your supposedly rich date get his credit card declined at the fancy Italian place (it’s always Italian on V-Day) and then try to fistfight the sommelier? Did your high school boyfriend accidentally slam his boner into the car door when he picked you up at your parents’ house? These are the stories we want, nay, NEED to hear on Valentine’s Day. Imagine the mirth and goodwill you’ll generate for single betches who can take solace in the fact that, even though they’re alone on Valentine’s Day, at least they don’t have TSS from having a condom lodged inside them for 12 hours.

Start submitting them now to headpro@betches.com, and I’ll feature the best ones next week on the big day. The submission rules are more or less the same as they were for the original Hookup Fookups:

Don’t be a douche about it: No one wants to hear about how you’re the baddest betch on the planet and always get it in because every guy you meet wants to fuck you. Just be honest and clear—let a good, funny story be good and funny on its own. This isn’t the fucking Penthouse Forum, and spending three paragraphs making fun of a guy’s whiskey dick isn’t interesting.

Make your best attempt at brevity: I understand that when telling a story, you need to set the scene. That’s fine, but remember that this is for other people to read, not a chance for you to do your best Faulkner impression. I’d hate to lose a good story to an absurd word count, and I hate editing even more. If you can keep it, say, in the 300-word region, I’ll be able to publish a bunch of them.

No fake shit: Sex is by nature so awkward and ripe for hilarity that you shouldn’t need to make something up. No one wants to hear some shit about how your orgy with One Direction got broken up because you had to catch a plane to give a last-minute TED Talk. If it’s fake, I’ll know. If I think it’s fake, I may even email you back wanting more details. Don’t make me do that; I try to avoid interacting with other people as much as possible.

It’s completely anonymous: Fucking duh.

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