Welcome to Great Moments in Drunken Hookup Failure, where we showcase three heartwarming true stories of drunken love gone horribly awry. Off we go.
I asked out a U. Chicago undergrad in the uni library one day, and when she stood up I found she was about 6'1", a full three inches taller than me. So, okay, new territory, but I'm down. We go out for ice cream, walk down to the beach, everything's going great. I invite her back to the apartment to listen to music, and she obliges. On the way back, she reveals that she had a freak collapsed lung in high school (in typical U. Chicago undergrad form, while doing calculus homework) so she's never been able to smoke any kind of substance. Well, lucky her: I had just baked a half-ounce into a single tray of brownies. She flashes that look of unbridled excitement, and all points to a fun night.
We eat a small bit of brownie together, and within a half hour, I'm melting into the couch. (These are some potent fucking baked goods.) She, however, is not feeling anything. I tell her, in my inebriated state, "Yeah, go ahead, have some more." Sure enough, she does, and eats way too much of them. But what do I know? I'm already fucked up. Another hour passes (I find that she kisses like my 7th grade girlfriend) and I'm sobering up and ready to call it a night. She stands up and isn't feeling too hot, like she's drunk or something. I figure that as long as she gets to my car, I'm good. But of course, she gets to my kitchen door, braces herself against the doorway, and says, "I'm going to pass out right now." So I'm walking behind a girl who, again, is three inches taller than me, probably outweighs me, and sure enough, she turns, drops to her knees, and goes down face-first into the cast-iron oven door. (Like the sound of punching a frying pan.) She's now snoring on the floor, face down, and I, still high, am surprisingly cool about it. I grab her under her armpits and try to get her sitting up. After about twenty or thirty seconds, she snaps to, looks up at me, and in total earnestness, says the worst thing anyone's ever said to me on a first date: "You're not going to do anything to me, are you?" NO!
Two hours of sitting on my couch hugging a garbage can and she finally fucking crab-walked through my apartment (standing up made her dizzy, apparently) down to the car. Needless to say, there was no date #2.
So after high school graduation, five of my friends and I decided to go on a trip all across Europe. Naturally, I had to persuade my mom to get on board. A typical Jewish and neurotic mother, she was convinced I was going to be stabbed, raped, and robbed at some point during the trip. (This was also around the same time the marketing and trailers for Taken kicked into full swing, so that didn't really help the process.). Anyways, I finally got my parents' permission if I promised to check in every day with my whereabouts. Needless to say, after 18 years of being badgered by my mom's paranoia, some of it rubbed off on me.
While in Barcelona, we met a group of French girls in a bar near the beach. As the best French speaker in our group, I acted as the bridge between our two groups. I quickly hit it off with one of the girls (I think her name was Astrid, Astrig, Asterix – something super French.) She agreed to accompany us to the beach while her friends headed back to their hostel. Eventually, after a few more drinks, we were making out on the beach as my friends headed to a different bar. When this girl offered to head back to her hostel, I told my friends and assured them I would meet up later.
We arrive at the girl's street, and after a fight with the cab driver over the price of the ride, he speeds away. Unfortunately, my shoes were still in the back seat (I had taken them off to stretch my toes.)
After a couple more minutes of a drunken makeout session outside her door, the girl invites me up to "share a few drinks with her friends." This had to mean a threesome at least, right? She was European, after all. I had seen all those crazy pornos. Unfortunately, I watched a lot of TV as well, and, suddenly, all the negative images associated with movies like Hostel and Taken kept popping up. My mom had really brainwashed me. Who knows what kind of murder gadgets and gizmos these mysterious women kept hidden in the bowels of their death chamber of a hostel room? The big pansy that I was, I rebuffed her advances, muttered something about Liam Neeson, kissed her goodnight, and tried to make my way home.
Drunk and mentally rattled, I naturally got a bit lost on the way back. I ended up stumbling through the streets of Barcelona, barefoot, for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, I made it back to our hostel, where I racked my brain to come up with a better story about my missing shoes. I was the laughing stock of the group for the rest of the trip. At least Taken ended up being a pretty sweet movie.
I was home for Christmas break during my first year in grad school. My hometown is a small town in Iowa. I met up with a bunch of high school friends at a bar (seeing as none of us had our own place from which we could host anything) and what else are a bunch of guys gonna do when visiting family over the holidays.
My friends and I proceed to engage in hours upon hours of drinking. Two girls came up and started talking to me. So I chat with the two for some time. Eventually, my friends come over to ask me if I need a ride home. The attractive girl steps up and says, "We'll give him a ride." I shoot my friends a look and say, "looks like I'm covered." I continue talking to the girls and learn that the girls are both students at the college where my father teaches. I asked why they were in town seeing as it was Christmas break and they said that they had to be there for their sport (or something along those line—I was pretty drunk and didn't really care why they were in town).
Anyway, I pay my tab and the girls suggest we go back to their place. They live in a typical dorm, private bedrooms and shared hallway common bathrooms. So the attractive girl leads me to her bedroom. Being the gentleman that I am, I oblige. As soon as the door closes we make a beeline for the bed. The clothes are immediately removed in drunken fashion and heavy groping/sloppy making out ensue. Having been drinking for some time, I find that I have a wicked case of whiskey dick. My solution is to go down on her while "encouraging myself" to performance conditions. After some time, I feel myself up to the task. At the foot of the bed I get upright onto my knees, lean back so as to maximize initial first thrust, and proceed to fall out of the bed to the floor. Of course, I fell on my head. Embarrassed and head spinning, I ask the girl where the bathroom is, so that I can wash my face so as to try to sober up. I walk into the bathroom naked and wash my face. I walk out of the bathroom and I can't remember which door I had come from. As this was a women's dorm and me being a naked-ass man not knowing how many girls might still be in the dorm, I decide it wouldn't be very smart to try random doors in hopes of finding the right one (I could envision myself trying the wrong door to find a screaming girl as she looks upon a drunk, naked stranger. So my solution was to wait in the hallway, hoping that the girl would wonder what was up and would find me. Alas, that didn't happen. Our designated driver, happens upon me, finding me completely naked in the hallway with only my hands to cover my junk.
Designated driver asks if I need a ride home. I say, "Yes, please. But can you show me the room where I left my clothes?" I got the look that you would expect to get, but do get led to the appropriate room. I apologize to the girl (who is almost passed out at this point) and collect my clothes. It was a very awkward drive back to my parent's house. The next evening at dinner, my father tells me that he and my stepmother had watched Sideways the night before and proceeds to tell me what an asshole Thomas Haden Church's character had been in it. I decided best to not opine on the subject. The end.