The Shittiest Princess and the Friend Zone

Martti Nelson, Lady Author
5 min readMar 28, 2023

The Royal Orgysmith organized the party-goers into lines of “flexible” and “brought own riding crop.”

Photo by Mimipic Photography on Unsplash

In the dankest depths of the darkest month of the year, Blorgvember, happened the most horrid holiday this side of a dirty cat butt: Valentine’s Day. Everything awful in Kingdomville occurred in Blorgvember, unless you were Princess Poot, the shittiest princess, who experienced Eeyore-levels of downpour all year ’round. Her peers once mock-elected her Mayor of Loserville, but the surprisingly-haughty citizens of Loserville didn’t want her anymore than the Kingdomvillains did.

As the vile love occasion crept closer, Poot sank into a deeper depression than usual. She never had a date on Valentine’s Day — not a prince, not a pauper, not even a proper pauper prince who really needed the dowry.

This year would be different, she vowed: She’d buy herself a man. She placed an ad in the Loserville Whatever, that town’s local paper.

YOU: Not picky, need cash, still reads newspapers

ME: Superlative royal lady with interesting features

WHERE: Annual Kingdomville Valentine’s Ball and Eventual Drunken Groping Regret-Fest

PAY: Five kegs of beer, or the equivalent in anti-fungal cream


Several august gentlemen replied. One said “send tits lol.” Since her boobs weren’t detachable anymore, Poot eliminated him. Besides, people who thought “lol” was a punctuation mark annoyed the shit out of her.

Another man messaged her “I emerge at the crack of dawn to salute the almighty universe-energy with three hours of Yoga, followed by a lentil-bark cleanse. Next, I dialogue with flowers — not just roses, but less pretentious plants, if you will, such as the strangling venom vine. Sure, it’s dangerous! YOLO.” Poot quietly deleted that message. Crack of dawn? He was obviously nuts.

The last note was much better than the others:

Dear Royal Female,

You sound hot. I’d adore being your Valentine’s/Regret-Fest date. We’ll drink a lot and see where the night takes us. I’m a nice guy who puts women on a pedestal.

PS: I’ll take the cream.

Later Bra,


Chad sounded like the bee’s knees, even though the last time Poot ventured onto a pedestal, she ended up having an incident that cannot be discussed without the Royal Lawyers present.

The night of the big date, Poot put on her best, and only, dress, and shellacked her face with makeup to make it seem more alive. She even dared to add a dash of lipgloss (pink, natch) should Chad want to swap spit, or teeth.

Posing at the top of the ballroom stairs, Poot deigned to be held up by a guard to avoid her third tumble of the night. She’d already lost a glove, and half the skin on her right knee. These spasming pains were soon forgotten when she saw Chad enter the room proudly, his fedora really highlighting the thin beard growing in a crooked line from sideburn to sideburn. He dashed up the stairs and handed her a bouquet of daisies. “Hey, babe,” he said. Poot had never been called a babe in her entire life. She thought she had once, but it turned out that the man was greeting the famous pig next to her in the beauty contest. The damn thing had beaten her.

Gooey nerves glommed onto Poot. “Hi. Chad. Ummmm…weather…moisture? Speaker stands, armpits…er…and…I’m not contagious this week!”

“You’re just as beautiful as you told me in email,” said Chad. Poot hadn’t remembered telling him what she looked like, so this was an accurate statement. “Do you have misunderstood feelings you want to share?”

“Do I!” Poot grabbed Chad and used him for ballast as they descended the stairs.

“Princess Poot and Hired Underling,” announced the Talks Sonorously in Public Minion. Poot thrilled on the inside. She was usually announced as “Princess Poot and Nobody, She’s Alone, and Likely to Stay That Way. Pathetic.”

Chad and Poot danced and talked all evening. She said she enjoyed his shirt adorned with an interesting statement about women. He listened to her story about the pedestal lawsuit and that one litigious asshole four-year-old. He fetched her chocolates, and bandages for her seeping knee. What bliss!

“How did you get this gorgeous scar?” Chad pointed to a jagged line near her collarbone.

“It’s from my vestigial fin.”


“I said skateboarding accident.”

Photo by Vania Medina on Unsplash

And so the evening came to a close. The Royal Orgysmith organized the remaining party-goers into lines of “flexible” and “brought own riding crop.” Poot pulled Chad toward the exit. “Your fungal cream is waiting outside, if the raccoons haven’t gotten to it.”

Chad yanked his arm away. “But I brought my own riding crop.”

“Oh, I’m a princess, so I can’t make sex gruntings until I marry a handsome prince.”

Chad threw his fedora into the dust. “You mean I was nice to you the whole night, and all I get is what was promised to me? You thot! You’re not even blonde! And a fin? A FIN?”

Poot’s lip began to tremble. “I thought…but I haven’t molted or anything.”

“I only did this to put a bag on your head and get some poon tang. You femoids are such dick-teases. I’m a nice fucking guy — why do I get friendzoned?”

An alarm sounded. In moments, they were surrounded by guards with pointy swords and intractable expressions. Guard Number One stepped forward and bowed at Poot’s feet. “Princess Poot, did this douchecanoe utter the forbidden word?”

Poot peered at Chad from tip of fauxhawk to snakeskin sneakers. “Yes. I could scarce believe my good ear.”

Guard Number One stabbed Chad through the heart, and then shook the sword around so that his guts fell out and blood splattered everywhere, which attracted the raccoons. After the guards pulled Poot to safety, she said, “To think, Chad was only being kind to me to play with my poon tang! It’s in the shop, anyhow.” She shook her head. “He should know that in Kingdomville, the place where everything is named literally, the F-Z word is such asinine bullshit that it invites the death penalty.”

Guard Number One nodded, for he knew that genuine respect was the only way to achieve true love. And finding the clit never hurt, either.

Thus ended Poot’s most-disappointing Valentine’s Day, but not the gruesomest. She’d learned a valuable lesson: Never date a man with a stupidly-shaped beard. Oh, well — at least she could livestream the orgy for her Tik Tok.

This is the fourth installment of my series, The Shittiest Princess. The first of Poot and Agnes’ adventures is here!



Martti Nelson, Lady Author

Beautiful, but doesn’t know it. Humor, parody, satire author. ATTACK OF THE ROM-COM out now! | She/Hers