First of all, there is one simple rule for Dating Crazy: You don't quit Crazy. Crazy quits You!
I dated Crazy (her real name was Lacey, but the last few years I've always refered to "the crazy ex-girlfriend" or just "Crazy"). She was way way on the wrong side of the Vicky Mendoza Diagonal. I've seen her deliberately miss spotting another cheerleader doing a fall-back from a high stunt simply because the other cheerleader had been #1 on a "rank-all-the-cheerleaders-by-who-is-hottest" poll that went around school. Crazy was #3. #1 ended up in the hospital with a sub-cranial bleed. Crazy waited four years until #2 got married, and then slept with #2's husband while #2 was pregnant and then "accidentally" got caught blowing him in the half-painted nursery. Crazy for #1!
No denying that Crazy was hot, though. Otherwise, why would I ever have put up with her? She was an "all inputs" girl, taking it all the way down her throat as often and as enthusiastically as she took it all the way up her ass. Road head? Mandatory. Fucking while staying at her parents house? Better be prepared for some awkward breakfasts because nobody's going to bring up the subject of who was screaming "fuck me!" at 2AM last night even though everybody knows who was screaming "fuck me!" at 2AM last night. Public sex? Risky sex? Damn straight. Three-ways? "I'd like you to meet Heather, my friend from French 101." Crazy was a ball-sucker extraordinaire. She could make you cum from it. I've never met anyone else who could make a man cum from sucking his balls. I don't think I spent a weekend with Crazy where I didn't cum at least five times- and five would have been a LOW number. I once calculated how much of my cum Crazy had swallowed in the six years we dated- it was well over a gallon, and there wasn't a day when she didn't tell me she wanted more.
Two of my favorite stories about Crazy are the time when I came back from a meeting to set up my internship. We were both juniors. It was January. My birthday was in a couple of days. We'd been apart for a whole week. For Crazy, this was a "situation." Something had to be done. Something big.
When I got to the airport, she was dressed in a trench coat, holding a mylar balloon with "Happy Birthday, #1 Boyfiend" on it. We slogged out into the frigid Nebraska slush to where her car was parked. Despite the nearly empty lot, it was parked far from the terminal. We trudged over, balloon and luggage in tow.
When we got there, Crazy tapped me on the shoulder as I was loading the stuff into the trunk. I turned around to see her unbutton the trench coat and drop it to the ground. Underneath, she was bare-ass naked. I think it was like -5F at the time. Her nipples could have cut steel. She squatted down, took my cock out, and gave me a few quick sucks before yelling "holy fuck! it's cold out here! get in the car!"
Then instead of getting dressed, she threw her coat in the TRUNK of the car and climbed in the driver's seat.
The parking lot attendant got a nice long look at Crazy's stiff nipples and smooth-shaven pussy that night. I'm 100% sure his wife got the fuck of her life that night.
I came twice during the drive home. When Crazy decides you need to cum again, you cum again. She doesn't stop, not even to swallow your first load. It hurts like hell at first, but watching her gulp down two full loads of cum (sometimes even three) is worth it. The first load gets worked up into a kind of froth. You'd think it would act like extra lubricant, but it doesn't. It sort of makes the inside of her mouth and throat a little sticky. Doesn't stop her, though. Post-orgasm torture, some people call it. Maybe for a minute or two, but after that it's a damn fine way to drive home.
The rest of that night was standard Crazy. We fucked. She took it up the ass, several times. She started crying about how everybody hates her, how all of her friends are bitches, how I didn't call on Tuesday and she was sure it was become I was out screwing some skank, how if I didn't get it up NOW I'd never get another blowjob from her in my life. You know, standard Crazy. It was a valid threat- blowjobs were the only time I had five straight minutes without Crazy sounding, well, Crazy.
The other time was a little while after Crazy came in #3 in the "hottest cheerleader" poll. We were driving around looking for a gas station we'd heard would sell beer to under-21's if you flashed titty at the register operator. Crazy flashed like a dozen gas station attendants and got nothing but bug-eyed stares. So fuck it, we were just going to drive around while Crazy rambled on about how much she hated gas station attentandts and fuck them for not giving her beer. Best damn tits in Nebraska should get beer just for being the best damn tits in Nebraska (to which I voiced my strongest agreement, in an effort to ensure continued access to the best damn tits in Nebraska).
Then Crazy yells "STOP THE FUCKING CAR!"
I screech on the brakes and look for whatever had been about to kill us. Zilch. Not another car in sight. All I see is a strip club with…
Oh. Amateur Night Competition. At a strip club. Should be right up Crazy's alley. And having been right up Crazy's alley, I could tell it would be a hell of a ride.
So I turned into the parking lot and find a spot. Crazy was already in the back seat divesting herself of panties and bra. A few minutes and a couple of waivers of liability later, we're in the strip club doing shots with other "contestants." Turns out the other contestants weren't amateurs. They were just strippers from other clubs. Crazy's never been on a stripper pole in her life, so she's getting real nervous as contestant after contestant gyrates and swings like pros. Which they are. But Crazy's got one thing they don't have: She's underage and doesn't give a fuck. That's two things, actually. Oh, and she's way hotter than any of the "girls" who've gone on before. Which would be three things, but it's pretty dim in there so you can't honestly see how skanky some of them are.
So Crazy's turn finally comes, and she gets up on stage. She's supposed to do a two-song set, tittys out on the first set, bare-ass on the second. No self-touching, no touching by patrons, and a bunch of other rules. Scoring is by how many $1 bills get thrown on stage. Crazy yells up to the DJ. "Fuck it!" she says. "Turn up the fucking lights, and I don't need any fucking music!" and then she strips right off. Bare-ass naked with the house lights full on. Then she starts fingering herself and rubbing her clit, right in front of God and sixty drunken Nebraskan rednecks. All hell breaks loose. Crazy get practically covered with cash. The house mom storms out about three minutes into this. Crazy walks out of the club, disqualified but clearly the undisputed winner, butt-naked and clutching handfuls of cash. I follow, carrying her purse, shoes, and dress. Fucks given: zero. Sex that night: fucking insane. (epilogue to this story: Crazy went back the next night, spit in the house mom's face, and got physically ejected by bouncers while I tried to negotiate a night without police reports.)
Crazy never changed the entire time I dated her. Marriage was out of the question. I was willing to spend six years in mortal terror, but a lifetime? Not even a consideration. But it really wasn't my choice. I tried to break up with Crazy a couple of times. Never a good idea. I once made it an entire weekend- and then asked her to take me back because I had no idea how a butcher knife got embedded in the bed next to me. I never even woke up. Never told her it was because I was afraid she's slit my throat, either. I just called back and said "Baby, I was soooo wrong. Can you forgive me?" The next time I tried, she just looked at me and said "are you stupid or just forgetful?" I went with stupid. Worked just fine.
It all ended one day when Crazy and I got home from Wal-Mart and found that the check-out clerk had failed to credit Crazy $1.45 for a discounted item. Wal-Mart was a twenty mile drive from our apartment, but fuck you if you think you can short Crazy $1.45 and get away with it. She screamed about how she was going to rape kill that checkout clerk until her vagina bled into her asshole and she'd poop through her pussy. And that was some of the milder stuff.
If you're wondering why I went along with this, it was mostly for safety's sake. I followed Crazy to these things in the hopes that I could at least contain the damage. My job was to keep sharp edges and blunt objects out of Crazy's reach and maintain a keen eye on the horizon so we could get out of there before the cops showed up. This time, I was successful on the first objective but not so much on the second. Crazy blazed into that Wal-Mart like an avenging angel, rage-bound to do as much psychological damage to that checkout clerk as possible, hopefully make her cry and maybe even drive her to suicide. It's good to have goals in life.
Unfortunately, local cops were already there dealing with something else (I have no idea what). Neither of us noticed them until it was too late. About the fifth incoherent screamfest and seventeeth death threat, the checkout clerk pushed a panic button and Crazy found herself on the business end of a can of pepper spray. The list of charges was impressive, as was the sight of Crazy being carried out of the store on the shoulder of a 6'4" oxen-huge black cop.
Miraculously, Crazy beat the rap. Being insanely hot and having a rich daddy go a long ways towards obtaining justice. The charges were dropped, and the closest she got to punishment was a letter from Wal-Mart telling to stay out of every damn store they had, or would have, in the fucking entire universe. Not in those exact words, but the implication was clear.
I never got to see any of that because Crazy dumped me the next day after getting arrested. It seems that my failure to wade in and fight four very large and very armed cops for her was unacceptable. Note that I was not dumped for failing to talk her out of driving twenty miles to beat the fuck out some register drone, nor did I get any credit for taking away her "self defense club" (a spiked monstrosity that looks like something that Bowser would use to peg his boyfriend while complaining about "that bitch Princess Peach.") Nope. I was either gay or a coward or both because I didn't pimp slap a cop.
Oh, there was lots of post-breakup sex. The thing is, Crazy never really quits you- Crazy just shows up at 2AM for drunken anal sex because she knows you're engaged and wants to fuck it up for you. Which works because you're never going to date anyone half as hot as Crazy, and she knows it. You're fucked for life because nobody- and I mean NOBODY- does a single sexual act (oral, anal, doggie, missionary, in a chair, up against the wall, etc.) as good as she does. Most days, you're just happy to not be afraid anymore. But if Crazy calls, you're like "uh, Honey, there's something I have to take care of down at the office," and fuck you you're cheating on your wife & kids and you KNOW Crazy's got it all on camera in case you ever try to say "no" later on.
Crazy got married a couple of years back. She broke up cheerleader #1's family and married the guy. Three kids without a dad and a wife now a single mom just because some assholes in our high school ranked her above Crazy. It wasn't even her FAULT! None of the cheerleaders knew it was going on at the time. But fuck you if you get picked before Crazy. As far as I've heard, #1's ex and Crazy are still together. She called me the night of the wedding, sobbing hysterically about how she still loved me, and that I'll always be the love of her life, and that she doesn't want me to ever be out of her life. It was like being on the other end of the conversation that Sharon Stone has in the movie Casino, only with fewer mobsters. I hope. Anyway aside from one other time where she texted me while her new husband was fucking her in the ass (at least that's what she said was happening) and blaming me for "abandoning her," I haven't heard from her since.
So with luck, Crazy's finally quit me.
I've been dating a much calmer girl for a while. Things are going great, although it must kind of suck having someone like you because you're NOT particularly hot or sexy. Who knew that the lack of fear is an aphrodisiac?