I Really Want Good Traffic So I'm Going To Tell You About The Time I Took A Video Of Myself Masturbating In The New York Post Bathroom

You know the one assignment Woodward and Bernstein were afraid to take on? This one, motherfucker.

Jan 18, 2013 at 3:00pm | Leave a comment

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Near the end of working at the New York Post I did not. Give. A. Shit.

I sometimes regret the gene I have in me that will not let me slack at work but instead makes me work even harder -- as if somehow that will fix the problem of total unhappiness in a job.

Don't worry, this story will lead to me diddling myself in the Post bathroom and capturing it on my iPhone 4.

Patience, friends.

So essentially when I was in my hyper-DGAF phase of my career (which I actually recommend for everyone's life -- honestly -- IT IS FREEING), every place I went, every party I went to, when I smelled someone who might have money, connections, power, influence, hiring capacity I kind of threw myself at them. Not in a sexual way, although I do think that flirtatiousness and sexuality is a part of my personality, and I'm OK with that.

Side note: Ironically, this chick once came up to me and tittered, "I just think it's so EASY when women write about their sex lives, you know?" and it turned out this bitch had gotten her job by fucking her way into nabbing the interview. So yeah. Not me. Although I do like the secretary-boss role play fantasy just fine. Or if I'm going really dark I once imagined myself blowing Rupert Murdoch in the elevator (I'm not proud of this OK) while Wendi ate me out and fended off a pie-thrower or something. Yeah. Hmm. I need a new turn-on besides power.

Maybe botany. Maybe that will be my new thing.

Sidenote continued: So the chick who said the "I just think it's so easy" line I immediately sussed out the nature of the game we were playing and said, "Oh yeah, it's almost whorish to do it, don't you think?"

This chick knew I had done multiple stories about sex and dating. So I felt like: Really, bitch? You want to play? Let's play. Because I do not. Give. A. Shit.

So, at this one terrific power-floweth-over party I went to, I met a man who seemed like a potential business connection. But then the jaded part of my brain thought of all the millionaire dudes I've met who talk a big game but then never even buy you a fucking cup of coffee. So I triaged the potential there in a very gross transactional way (that I am not proud of but, hey, I'm being honest) that went a little like this: business? fuck? business? fuck? and my radar went over to the "fuck" end of the dial.

This guy was sexy. I was horny. This was in my "sexually acting out" phase of sobriety (about a year in).

Now I just walk my dog and write articles about sexy things. Aren't I healthy? Yeah. It's great.

Oh, wait, yesterday I did send a very lovely, understated, I would say almost arty shot of my vagina to a potential husband so, yeah -- GUESS I'M STILL FUN, KIDS.

Back to my party. The millionaire. The social triaging decision of which way to play this relationship.

In a fun little twist of fate, this man saw our highest potential in a business relationship. So when I texted him the morning after the party: "Good morning! Let's fuck. I'll go to your hotel room," he said that he wanted to essentially "put a pin it" because he thought we should "slay dragons in business first."

I didn't quite believe that. And I, being the very mature woman I am, had the grown-up sex addict equivalent of a let's-blow-some-shit-up hissy fit and instead grabbed my iPhone and stomped into the Post bathroom and prepared to film myself masturbating to orgasm.

Obviously.

I think that's a pretty-clear-cut Choose Your Own Adventure choice, am I right?

Now, a few people came in and out of the bathroom during this time. I was quiet. I was in an end stall. My ass sweated up the toilet seat something good because obviously I wanted to get a few good cinematic takes where I looked super-pretty mid-climax. And then there was the distraction of having to hold the camera up from that optimal above-forehead outstretched position to really capture the action.

I removed my top so that my tits were nice and bouncy for the camera, and I tried to give an impish, "Oh, I'm sorry, did you catch me playing with my pussy while sitting on a corporate shitter?" level of ingenue.

The first take was a brutal wake-up call.

It was when I first realized that my orgasm face looked a little like a rabid animal who had just been caught in a painful metal trap. Huh. Instructive.

The next time I was determined to really put on a show. So I inserted my fingers into my vagina, rubbed and teased and thought about sucking this guy's dick and how naughty I was being, and I contracted my muscles and held my breath to heighten the pleasure a bit, teasing, teasing, flicking -- and I came again. But this time I put on a big sultry oh-my-did-you-just-catch-me again smile. Less wounded animal needing to be put down. More YouJizz. (An actual site! Recommended for the superior production quality!)

Interestingly, I have found that needing to be quiet actually excites me more. There's something thrilling and "9 & 1/2 Weeks" about the whole operation that makes it very in-the-back-of-the-library next level.

I've fucked in a library before. Have you? That was fun. Cold hard floor, but fun.

Check that puppy off the bucket list. Thank you, Northwestern! The tuition was worth every penny.

So even though I was very quiet while I did my Scorsese audition, as it were, I still withdrew my Bose headphones to listen to my porny handiwork while sitting on the yet-again-slick-from-my-ass-and-masturbation-sweat toilet seat. Oh, yeah, toilet seats. So erotic. I watched my second take. It was pretty good. I did the duck face a bit, which was a little desperate, but, oh, yeah, then I remembered.

I'm taking a video of myself masturbating in a bathroom.

To send to a guy.

Who I met last night.

So.

Maybe in this case I could get past the whole "not following 'The Rules'" part of this scenario.

I did hear some people drift in and out, and I was grateful that I didn't have one of those workplaces near the toilet where people can monitor how long you've gone and how long you've been in. You can also exit from either side, so, hey, for anyone casually watching me enter the bathroom, I mean, I could have just exited the other side! Right? Right.

I thoroughly wiped off the seat with hand sanitizer (I felt a bit guilty for fucking myself on the seat instead of shitting poop whilst sitting on it), and proudly walked back to my desk.

"Jesus, Mandy, you look great," a co-worker said. "Have you been working out?"

I smiled. "Yeah," I said. "That's it exactly."

Then I sat at my desk, edited the video on my phone (it's really all in the editing for these things), and with one click, I hit send to email the video to my new friend.

The response was immediate.

"WOW THANK U," he texted back. "SUPER FUCKING HOT."

No, no, no, I thought. Thank you.

Because ever since, I've consciously made an effort to have a sexier O-face.

The epitaph to the story is that me and that man never hooked up (never even kissed!), but we did stay in professional contact and have immense respect for each other. That man's name? Ron Jeremy.

I'm totally kidding, you guys. It was Manti Te'o.

Okay, well, I can't tell you his name, and he's not someone famous, but I always try to respect that these are my stories -- so I try to keep them that way.

Anyway -- what is your O-face?

Wouldn't that be cool if people's O-face actually looked like Oprah?

Have you ever filmed yourself masturbating -- or having sex for that matter? One dude I told this story to got really excited and said, "That was your first time 'doing tape,' eh?" I didn't know that was a thing. Kind of like "IDK" or "ATM" (I don't know and at the moment). Have you ever "done tape"? Do tell. Bonus points if your story too was on the ninth-floor bathroom stall at 1211 Avenue of the Americas.

THE AMBIENCE IS GREAT, YOU GUYS.

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