Check the DMs

I’d love to introduce all of you to our brand new feature. Each week will will bring you the best story out of our DM inbox (Facebook, Twitter, IG, Gmail, etc.) and post it here. The senders will remain anonymous so no one will be judged. I am hoping our loyal readers will contribute to this and make this wonderful. If you have any stories you’d like to share, hit us up on Twitter, Facebook, IG, or hit us up on Gmail.

I couldn’t think of a better story for the inaugural Check the DMs blog. This story has everything you’d want out of a Hollywood blockbuster. There is suspense, comedy, drug use, sex, and everything in-between.  Dave and I were at a loss for words after initially reading through this thing. It’s a bit of a long read, but it’s well worth it. I hope you enjoy it as much as we did.

Dear DM,

It was a typical Saturday night in the Red Light District of Amsterdam. As we paraded down the streets, window shopping in the human equivalent of a meat market, confident in the fact that the girls were into us above the rest obviously, we happened upon a live sex show. If you are unfamiliar with such a performance, by reading the name you essentially get the gist.

My brossociates and I quickly took our seats in the crowd after having redeemed our drink vouchers. Those rum and cokes were far from the first “substances” we ingested that day but added to our euphoria nonetheless. The show consisted of several acts, ranging from break dance sex (impressive to behold and leading me to consider yoga more seriously, or pilates or something) to a rather chubby man with goggles and a leather suit just going terminator on some chick from the rear (more relatable).

Soon, the performances lost their novelty, or maybe we were actually de-buzzing a little– unlikely, that was a lot of shit. We began to wonder if we made a mistake in not going to the Banana Room up the street. I will let you come to your own conclusions about what that was, but I will tell you it involved real bananas that, I suppose, could be eaten, but that was not likely their destiny. As interest waned, a new act came on stage, a couple of police ladies. Though they were talented, what really caught my attention was when one of the performers went off stage and grabbed a patron from the audience. What they did to this wayward lad I shan’t repeat on this esteemed forum.

Immediately, my squad began lamenting the fact that we did not get chosen. We would not miss this opportunity again. Later, a coconut bikini-clad minx entered the crowd again looking for a victim. She stopped at a row of Asian gentlemen (I’m not being racist they were from Asia not Asian-Dutch or whatever that would be) and said, “You, China Boy (that was racist).” They looked down, shaking their heads and muttering “No….no.” Like Asian guys always do (yea, that time I was racist). Brimming with confidence (that’s what I’m going to call the sweet cocktail of substances, of which alcohol only comprised a third, brewing inside me), I stood straight up and shot my hand in the air. She said “Yea, you.” clearly masking her unbridled enthusiasm. My bropanion, ever an opportunist, said “Wait. All of us?!” The accommodating lady acquiesced to his request. So, the four of us made our way onto stage. She instructed us that we’d each dance with her independently, then, we’d congo line as a group to finish up. Each of us, armed with his “confidence”, gave a stirring performance. The crowd ate us up. Then, things took a turn.

During the congo line, a man in a gorilla suit with what seemed at the time to be a, at a minimum, 3.5 foot strap-on appeared on stage and began chasing us from the rear. Unfortunately, as this was a line, I was in the rear of the rear. How I loathed those diffident China boys mocking me from their seats. Me, who was at risk of losing the most sacred kind of virginity that is reserved for birthdays once couples become bored of each other.

Somehow, probably because I’m fast as shit, or maybe because the act was running short on time, our pursuer relented. He, does a strap-on make it a he? I guess not because lesbians don’t become hetero dudes when they slap one of those on. That’s a whole other issue. We will settle on “it” and Lamrock and Dave can hash this out in what I presume to be an argument predicated on Caitlyn Jenner. Ok, “it” retired to the corner of the stage, menacingly stroking his nongender-inducing- as-it- is-a- social-construction appendage.

The luau lady then began unpeeling a banana and told us to get on our hands and knees on the back of the stage. A victim once again of circumstance, I was positioned last next to the androgynous ape. We began to panic. On the one hand, we had an attractive lady with a banana, on the other hand, “it” had a bigblack dildo. That sounds like the makings of what would be at best an unpleasant game of “What’s in my mouth?” and, at worst, “Where’d it go?” We planned our escape if necessary.

She then explained, “You are going to eat the banana out of my p*$$*.” Crack that censorship, reader #4thwallbreak. So she once again made me consider yoga in my future with the banana positioned in such a way as was reminiscent of the aforementioned Banana Room. So each of the 3 bromigos ahead of me crawled up and took a little taste. As has been the theme, I was in last position. So I crawled with determination in my hands and knees and a new found hunger in my stomach for a banana. Being a gentleman, I gingerly leaned in to take a nibble. At which time, the fruit-filled lady grabbed my head and snatched (lol) me up in there.

I had never eaten a banana before, and I have never eaten a banana since. That one had a lot of flavor.




If you have any stories you’d like to share, drop us a line in our DMs or shoot us an email at

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