Welcome to Great Moments in Drunken Hookup Failure, where we showcase four heartwarming true stories of drunken love gone horribly awry. Comedy Week curator Luke Cunningham got these four bonus stories from working comedians, so enjoy. Off we go.
Memorial Day weekend 2005. My group of four college friends and I decided to get together in Boston, where I was going to be featuring. Our group had started to settle down in the 5 years since we graduated college. One of us was already married. Two were engaged. Adam was the 4th and he was very excited about this new girl he'd been seeing, Hannah.
They'd met on-line. He was really apprehensive about sharing that. We went to an expensive dinner on Newbury Street. I had pork tenderloin. You can never go wrong with pork tenderloin.
Hannah and my fiancé were really hitting it off. Inside jokes were already developing. Hannah had a decent face but her body was the star of the show. She looked like Gianna Michaels though for obvious reasons I could not tell my girlfriend "That girl looks like Gianna Michaels."
A few weeks prior, the Ron Mexico story about Mike Vick had come out and my friends and I had all made jokes about it. As dinner went on we all loosened up and shared stories about having ever interacted with anyone famous. One of my buddies has an older brother who went down on Chelsea Clinton at a water polo tournament, blahblahblah, it's Hannah's turn. The girls were all on one side of the table and the guys were on the other. Adam had asked for it to be that way because he wanted my fiancé , now wife, to get to know Hannah.
Hannah, "Oh, when I was in college at Virginia Tech, I dated Mike Vick for a little while. We dated again briefly when I worked in Atlanta about a year ago."
The girls are all impressed, "Ohhhhh. He plays football right?" The guys had a different reaction: one guy put his head under the table because he was laughing so hard, another had to be excused, I patted heartbroken Adam on the back. He looked like something had been stolen from him. He showed her to a cab after dinner. My wife still insists she was very nice and we are judgy. Though my wife does not have or want herpes.
But you CAN go wrong with pork tenderloin. It gets all dry and shit!
I performed in Reading, England, in 2001. It was part of a festival, which are always a clusterfuck. Sometimes the shows will be in beautiful theaters and other shows will be in bars that look like a fine place to contract Hep C. There is no in between.
This was one of the beautiful theater shows. The crowd is in to it. I was performing before about 300 Festival nerds who were mostly there because The Streets was supposed to perform comedy after me. He read from a diary and the performance was in English but I couldn't understand most of it and I wasn't supposed to. He was doing so well that I was hoping to get deflection laid. A show can go so well that you can pull just by being associated with it. Mike Skinner reading from his journal was one of those nights. He was doing great.
There was a darling dark-haired minx backstage with two older women in their mid-40s. She introduced herself as Susanne. The two older ladies with her seemed to have a very cordial relationship. They ribbed Susanne about her "first job" which I assumed was because she'd just graduated college. The Streets asked me if I'd like to go to the pub with him and I absolutely would. Wild horses couldn't keep me away. Wasn't disappointed as women were coming at him in waves. I don't know how so many of this guy's songs are about heartbreak as it doesn't seem like he'd ever have to be lonely for more than an hour.
Susanne was conspicuously absent from the stream of "Essex girls" who were going after Skinner. Women wanted a piece of The Streets like a Barksdale. Susanne asked me if I'd like to go home with her. As we were walking to a cab, she said, "No. I live right around here." We approached a home and she told me I should walk around the back and she'd let me in. Letting me in turned out to be climbing in a first story window into her room. Conveniently, Susanne was already undressed. Rather than ask questions I made out with her. The weird part about girls that young is that even their soft parts are hard. Susanne was taut and perfect. Said she was a pro snowboarder and that's the best part about being naked, no one is going to dispute any of your non-sense career choices when you're not wearing any clothes. Where do you snowboard in England?
Susanne was blowing me when things got strange. She shushed me while my dude was in her mouth because of footsteps in the hallway. Then the loudest pounding I've ever heard followed by a booming voice, "Sanne have you got someone in there!"
She jumped up. I headed for the window because it sounded like Rockbiter from The Neverending Story was on the other side of the door. I asked, "Is that your husband?" To which she responded, "No. That's my Dad. He doesn't like when I go to pubs with my Aunt Lydia, whom you met earlier tonight…I'm 17."
I James Bond-barrel rolled out of the window and into a garden. Every British house has a "garden." A pile of dirt and broken Newcastle bottles constitutes a garden in the UK. I came up and hit the ground running but now had a massive gash on my forearm. When I got into a cab the cabbie made the executive decision to take me to the hospital. It took 17 stitches to close my forearm. Moral of the story: socialized medicine is the TITS!
17 years gets you 17 stitiches.
I once went home with a guy who seemed great. He came to a Friday show at the Fort Lauderdale Improv then came back for the Saturday show. After the show, he asked if I'd like to come with him to his hotel. It was within walking distance from my own. I figured I could just leave if he was married or worse, boring.
The hotel was really expensive, really modern. The kind where it looks like the employee lounge on the Death Star. I tell a few stories on-stage about dating women in college. (Thanks, Vassar!) But the stories boil down to the fact that men at Vassar were so effeminate you may as well just date women any way. The stories do not at all imply, "I'm down for full-contact scissoring after this show wraps up."
Things got weird on the elevator. Keys were programmed so only certain ones gained access to the 6th floor. The reason became apparent as soon as I exited the elevator. The 6th floor was at that very moment hosting the largest Hard Swap Swingers Convention in South Florida. Hard Swap means you're cool with going down on another woman while another guy you're not in a relationship plows you from the back. Soft Swap is when you're only cool with fooling around with another girl while your husbands sit in a corner and presumably high-five each other. I know these terms because he explained them to me then handed me a pamphlet about "The Lifestyle." Because swinging is like joining Am-Way but with more pussy-eating. I asked if he'd get me a Caffeine Free Diet Coke while I processed this information. Caffeine Free because nobody drinks that shit. What's the point? It tastes like battery acid and there's no caffeine buzz. He'll be gone forever trying to find it. Caffeine Free Diet Coke is the unholy grail.
Once he was in a hotel room, I immediately pressed the elevator back down. I could see people fucking right out in the hallway. It looked like Brazzers.com if all the actors had torsos made out of pudding. Sorry, Buddy. I stopped eating pussy once I hit the Poughkeepsie city limits.
New Year's Eve is a great night for a comic. You don't have to make dumb plans. You have an excuse to work and work is a party. I hosted at the DC Improv on New Year's Eve so my night was set. I was finished my work just after midnight.
There was a large group of recent college grads seated near the front. I seemed to have a nice rapport with the group going all night and one of them told me, "Meet us after the show." And gave me the address of a house party. In the fluroscent lights of a DuPont Circle apartment, I could finally see Elyse was a stacked brunette who seemed up for the cup. We danced for a while. Her friends talked about how "Elyse needs this…" Great. Me too.
I was staying at a hotel paid for by the club. I asked if she wanted to go to her place. Big mistake.
We were in bed and clothes were coming off relatively slowly. She said, "Let's make this passionate." I guess passionate means, "Don't touch my pussy." After a few minutes she leaned over her bed and brought out a photo album that was 6 inches thick. "I have to show you my photos from London." Ugh. I looked at them with her for a few minutes while she talked about her "A-MA-ZING" semester abroad in a place where she didn't even have to speak a new language. We got back to making out. Pants are off. We are giving each other novice handjobs. This is happening!
"Wait, " Elyse says as she leans over the other side of the bed, "I have to show you my summer in Australia." As she pulled out another, even bigger album from a place where she still wouldn't have to bother to learn a new language. She got to the second page and I was asleep.
I woke up a few hours later and she was asleep next to me. I gently slid out of the bed and found the door. I took a picture off their fridge so I would have something to show someone I sexually disappointed some day.
Exactly one year later, I was working Helium in Philadelphia. I went home with a buxom redhead. We got right down to brass tacks and she had me in her mouth as I said, "This is soooooo much better than last New Year's."
She was like, "What? So you do this every year? You need to leave."
Tried to explain the photos but to no avail. Boomerang cock-block!