Paul is your average 21 undergrad. Like most people these days, he's using the web to meet women. This is his first experience with online dating.

Photo by John Walker.

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Basically I was dating this girl. I met her on OKCupid. I joined because people had mentioned it was free and it was worthwhile -- the way they do their matches. I found this girl and things were going really well. We had a great first, second and third date. Things just took off. She's very attractive, a student at CalArts, where she's studying to be an opera singer -- which, by the way, means she gave fantastic head. She managed to get it all the way down there. It was fantastic.

I dated this girl. We hit it off and in a ludicrously short period of time, things got really serious and we were talking back and forth about how lucky we were to have found each other and so on. Fantastic, great. I go to Vegas for my birthday and when I got back, I had a lot of schoolwork to catch up on, and it didn't even occur to me that Valentine's Day was on Monday.

When we spoke on Sunday, when I got back, I indicated I wasn't sure if I'd be able to hang out on Monday because of the workload. Unknown to me, the girl was upset that I wasn't taking her out on Valentine's Day. She could have mentioned it in the conversation; if she had, I would have obviously taken her out. But she didn't, So Monday comes and goes and she's upset, which turns into some crazy nonsense about how she's just not ready for a relationship. Things got too serious too quickly and she realized she wasn't ready.

Nikki was born and raised in L.A. She was a straight-A student who couldn't follow the rules and spent as much time in the principal's office as she did in the library. At university she opted not to join a sorority and instead filled her free time cruising Hollywood bars and parties, hooking up and getting down. Now she's a wife and mother, but some habits die hard. This is her story.

Photo by Leezfield.

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I meet you at Starbucks, which is a bad sign. I have a no-meeting-men-at-Starbucks rule but I break it because you're smiling at me and there's something about your teeth that makes me want to see you naked. You're not my usual type; you look healthy and all-American. I can't see any tattoos or track marks.

You look like the kind of guy who thinks Green Day is punk.

Later we'll be in your new Scion and you'll tell me how you "bump" Sublime and how "sick" it sounds through your after-market subwoofer. It won't matter, though, because I'll still be thinking about your mouth. I should be feeling tired and revolutionary and contemptuous but your mouth is blocking my perspective.

Nikki was born and raised in L.A. She was a straight A student who couldn't follow the rules and spent as much time in the principal's office as she did in the library. At university she opted not to join a sorority and instead filled her free time cruising Hollywood bars and parties, hooking up and getting down. Now she's a wife and mother, but some habits die hard. This is her story.

I'm in the prepared food section of the Whole Foods at Lincoln and Rose when I see her. She's in black: leather pants, boots, ripped black tee-shirt. Her hair is blonde and tangled and she's wearing dark glasses. I'm not the only one who is staring: she should be on Sunset, stumbling out of an L.A. Guns show at the Key Club, breath reeking of dirty martinis and Marlboro reds, looking for a boy or a taxi. But this is Whole Foods at two o'clock in the afternoon and she's 10 feet from me, evaluating brands of carrot juice. I move closer, pick up a bottle of lychee-wasabi lemonade. I pretend to read the ingredients while I check her out peripherally. But she turns and faces me.

"Where's the bathroom?" she asks. Her voice is raspy and low and I feel like she's whispering in my ear. I try to make eye contact. Her glasses are just dark enough that I am unsure if I'm seeing her eyes or a reflection of my own. Her hand is on her hip, waiting. I can smell her strawberry lip gloss.

We promised you on air that we would have a picture for you of the damage sustained by former Penthouse pet Sam Phillips during a sexy spanking and we're here to make good on our promise!

Photo by Star Guitar.

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Lula Kidd is a 20-something who lives, loves and fucks in Los Angeles. Her blog, Lula Sex Files chronicles her journey. Have a look:

Almost as soon as we arrived I was sucking his dick, which was nice and perfectly sized. He made me wet by calling me a slut and controlling my head. I just love a good face-fuck. He was laying down and wanted me to work on his balls, which is definitely one of my favorite things to do. I do not know what it is about a nut sack in my face that just drives me nuts. I gladly complied. He told me to lick him like I was a dog.

That line right there made me dizzy with lust. I licked him for a very long time, licking up and down all the way from his ass to the tip of his cock.

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Tags: BDSM, blowjob, hookup, Los Angeles, sex

Photo by Lauren Nelson.

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Anyone who has read Guts by Chuck Palahniuk knows that things can end very badly when we don't carefully consider the risks of exercising our proclivities. But just in case you didn't get the lesson (or you fainted during one of Palahniuk's infamous readings of the story), we have some more gruesome tales for you, fresh from ERs around the country.

The Strange Case of the Missing Hot Dog

Adolescent girl comes into the ER complaining of vaginal discharge and odor. Symptoms have been occurring for over a month. The doctor examines her and finds one half of a rotting, moldy, maggot-ridden hot dog.

Photo by Alice.

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Let's call him John. John met Jen on the internet. He asked her out to coffee and she declined because, well, she's looking for more than a hookup. She wants something else, but it's hard to ask when she doesn't know what that is. It's not a relationship, exactly. It's just more than sex.

Finally, Jen accepted. She and John went for a walk instead of coffee and talked and had so much fun, they met again. And again.

John doesn't seem interested in sex. Jen dubs him "The Gentleman." Weeks pass and they start messing around, but it takes him a while to get around to sex. Finally, it happens. And he's surprisingly selfish. Jen removes the title of gentleman, but decides perhaps it's a matter of how events unfold. After all, she can't keep his dick out of her mouth. And he does say he wants to eat her out one of these days...

Then, one day, he texts her and announces (with great aplomb) that he is finally going to go down on her -- will she come over? He's being really kinky, too, saying he wants to make a video of Jen going down on him, which turns Jen on so much, she hardly has time to reply before she jumps in her car.

The screen blinks with some system error you don't understand. He doesn't explain what's wrong, just makes it go away so you can get back to work. You wouldn't know it looking at him. Most people don't think about these things at the office -- not about random colleagues anyway. Well, maybe sometimes. But not when something this big is on the line. If you took a moment to look into his eyes, would you be able to see any traces of what he did every night after he left the office? Highly unlikely. That's why you read this blog.

Photo by Trevin Chow.

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The phone rings as I step out of the shower. I already know what she wants. It's her turn. Idle conversation as I towel off. I tell her to be out front in 20 minutes. Hang up, throw on jeans, a t-shirt and my boots, pick up my helmet and jacket and roll the bike out of the garage.

Her single headlight comes around the corner five minutes early. She pulls off her helmet while I put on my jacket. More idle conversation. Her hair is still damp. She just showered. Good. That's just one of the many things I like about her. Clean is sexy. I can tell she's ready to ride, and probably has been for the better part of the day.

I put the rest of my gear on while she talks. I glance over my shoulder as I start my bike. Her helmet is already back on. We're on the move. I like riding at night. No traffic, cool air and everything is that much more intense with the added uncertainty of things like dark corners and rocks. Quick run on the freeway to warm up the tires and then into the curves.

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My mind reels backward as soon as my eyes hit the tweet. A simple enough message. Ice cream and sex...

Tokyo. I was there for a launch of a campaign for a global product I won't mention, since the trip was more an orgy of excess than much of anything else. Clubs and copious amounts of stimulants of every sort, non-stop. Most of the time, I didn't know what time it was or what day it was. I only knew what I craved and how I planned to satisfy that craving. It's the closest I have come to my animal self.

Photo by Michelle Brea.

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Los Angeles is sheathed in gray outside. Summer has hardly lasted a week and it's gone. It might be back next week. Fickle weather, it has no self-restraint. I take a drag of my cigarette. I have self-restraint.

You put a hand on my chest and bury your face between my legs. I exhale, abandoning my cigarette on an idle ashtray beside me on the table.

This is how you undo me, one vowel at a time. Lips and tongue synchronized to form a lexicon I might have known once, but can no longer recall. You're the only man who has ever been able to make me cum consistently clitorally.

You can make me cum biting my neck. You can make me cum breathing in my ear. I don't think it's possible for you to touch me without making me cum.