Welcome to Great Moments in Drunken Hookup Failure, where we showcase three heartwarming true stories of drunken love gone horribly awry. Off we go.
A few months ago I was at my friend's wedding in a random suburb of Chicago. I met the woman in the bridal party that I would be escorting. She was fairly attractive, a rogue addition to the bridal party as a friend of the groom, we'll call her Sarah. The wedding day started slow, and fairly G rated conversation was thrown back and forth between us during picture time before the ceremony, but after the ceremony it was clearly game on in her eyes. We were drinking shot for shot and beer for beer in the limo before we got to the reception and it got real sloppy, real fast.
Fast forward past dinner, I was talking to the mother of the groom about God knows what while pretending not to be obliterated, when, out of nowhere comes Sarah. Without saying anything, she grabs my hands, and pulls me onto the dance floor without so much as a second look at the dumbfounded mother of the groom. We start grinding it out and she keeps on whispering the lyrics to some generic top 40/rap song that was playing, but only when it referenced banging or getting it on or something like that.
So the wedding ends and we get back to the hotel, she follows me to my room. Aggressive making out and petting continues as she removes the 25 articles of clothing my tuxedo contained on the way to my bed. We start going at it with me on top, but before I can get my pants off she starts complaining about the bobby pins in her head from the stupid hair-do that all women in a bridal party are required to sport at every wedding. I try to brush it off and keep going but this chick just won't give it up until those things are out. I say fine, and start ripping out bobby pins as fast as humanly possible. I'm pretty sure I took a good amount of her hair too, but that's what you get for making a man on the brink of sex pull out bobby pins before sealing the deal. When I undertook the task I had assumed there couldn't be more than 10 or 15 in there, but oh no, there were at least 50. Since pulling out 50 bobby pins in less than 5 minutes is impossible, by the time I finished with those fucking things she had passed the fuck out. I couldn't believe it and rolled over to go to bed. Fuck you Bobby and your stupid fucking pins.
They don't even make your hair look that great.
Shortly after my divorce I moved from the south, where I had lived most of my life, to a small but well known city in the upper midwest. Out at a bar watching the final four last year with some buddies, I happen to hit it off with a cute blonde. I distinctly remember connecting with her over our mutual hatred of Duke and revulsion that Bob Huggins was like dry-humping one of his players on the court. After a few drinks, I'm able to score a number and, despite the fact that she lives a few hours away and was visiting a friend in town, we agree to meet up again at some point.
A week or so later, I get the invite to drive down to her place on a Saturday and spend the weekend. Seemed kind of a big step for a girl I had only met once, but being fresh to the game I figured I'd give it a shot. We go out for burgers and beer as soon as I get there, and decide to hit a bar with some of her friends afterwards. At the bar, she's very generous with the drinks. I'm lucky to get one half empty before she's got a fresh drink waiting for me. As awesome as this is, after a few hours at the bar and the brews we had at dinner, my stomach starts sending me the "this cannot last" signals.
I pull it together long enough for us to leave the bar and grab a ride back to her friend's place, where she tells me we'll have a room to ourselves for the night. We get to the room, she sits down on the bed and removes her shirt, and all appears right with the world. I excuse myself to take care of my impending vomit issue, hit the mouthwash, and then return. That was the plan. Instead, I wake up 4 hours later with one arm on the toilet and a nice imprint of the bathroom tile on the left side of my face. When I return, she is of course sound asleep in the bed, so I lay down and pass out again for a couple of hours.
By some miracle, the next morning she was not only understanding, but actually willing to make up for the night before. Not wanting to press my luck, I agreed and the making out and heavy fondling began immediately (if she was cool with morning breath, by god I wasn't going to make it an issue). A few minutes in, and I get the sick feeling again. Only this time, it's not the alcohol, and it's definitely not going to just be coming out one way. I'm almost in tears as I have to excuse myself again, and proceed to absolutely punish that poor toilet with liquid hell from both ends. Knowing that it wasn't nearly the end of it, I sheepeshly return to the room and apologize, silently cursing the no-doubt e.coli handed cook who made my burger the night before.
She was surprisingly understanding about all of it, and actually drove my sick ass around to see the highlights of the greater Minneapolis-St. Paul area before I left. But it was pretty clear that after my intestinal explosions and failing to close the deal twice, that was it for my chances with her. Pretty depressing for my first attempt in 11 years.
It's my sophomore year of college and I just started dating this waitress at a bar I worked at......we'll call her "Sally". Three weeks into dating, the furthest she had let me go was second base.
So one night she takes me to her mom's house 30 minutes away and we have wine with her mom and her mom's boyfriend. A few hours passed and both Sally and her mom are both getting pretty wasted. She starts to send me text messages which basically say "get me back home so I can rock your world." So we part ways with drunk mom and head back to her apartment. She starts to give me road head about ten minutes from her home and then asks if I have any condoms for when we get back. I realize I don't so I go about 120 mph to the nearest Wal-Mart and run inside.
It must have been hilarious to see because I was fully erect while I was running inside trying to find any kind of condom. I find the right aisle and tear open a box of condoms and shove them in my pocket and sprint out. I sure as hell didn't have enough time to wait in line since my dick was throbbing at this point. We finally get back to her apartment where as soon as we get inside she immediately rips off her clothes and starts yanking at my shorts. She says she wants to start on the kitchen counter so I prop her up and reach into my pocket for the condoms. I pull out the wad of open condoms and she immediately stops me and says....."Um.....where the hell is the box for them?" I begin to stutter and try to explain that there were long lines and I didn't want to keep her waiting. She thinks I stole them because I was ashamed of buying condoms and that I wasn't ready for sex yet. She puts all of her clothes back on and tells me to go home. It took another 3 weeks before I finally closed the fucking deal. Misdemeanor theft blue balled the shit out of me. Fucking ethics.
We call that Narcblocking.