Welcome to Great Moments in Drunken Hookup Failure, where we showcase five heartwarming true stories of drunken love gone horribly awry. Off we go.


Super Bowl weekend, I rolled up to a bar for a friend's birthday party. While there, I met an inviting temptress who hit it off with me right away. She looked spectacular, yet I was floored when she revealed to me she was 39. I'm 27, so it's safe to say the cougar hunt was on.

I brought my A-game and scored the digits, which led to much flirting and late night phone calls. We finally arranged to meet this past Saturday (l'm sending this e-mail the day after while it's still fresh in my mind). I met her out a swanky lounge, downed a couple scotches, and we arranged to drop off my car back at my place en route to our next drinking destination.

When we got back to my place, I lit a couple scented candles on my nightstand to set the mood and we were off to the races, passionately engaging in rough yet abbreviated foreplay, leading to the ultimate prize. After 20 minutes or so, it became quite hot but I noticed a foul stench building in the bedroom. She then let out a shriek (of joy? pleasure? no ... definitely not) and I looked to my right. I saw thick columns of white smoke and scorched fabric pieces floating about. MY BED WAS ON FUCKING FIRE.

In our intense stripdown, we accidentally tossed a pillow on top of the candle and her sweater on top of that, leaving a trail of scorched fabric to the bedsheets and blazing debris all over the room. I quickly beat the pillow down to put it out, threw it in the sink, and ran her sweater under cold water. I ended up with blisters and burns on my right hand, where I attempted to transport the blaze away from the love nest.

After spending some time attempting to rebottle that magic, it became clear that getting back in the mood after your bedroom is burning is quite like trying to sweep milk back into its carton.

"I think I better go," she said.

I attached a picture of the scorched pillow. Hope you can use it.


Junior year of high school, and I've just gotten my driving privileges which I assumed meant a completely new world of hookup opportunities. There's a girl in the senior class with a smoking body that I had been flirting pretty hardcore at school with but never gotten past second base with because the makeout sessions were always occuring in a stairwell or the band room. She agrees to go out on a date to the movies. I'll never forget it, because it was the weekend "Speed" came out, which I was dying to see, but she wanted to go see "When a Man Loves a Woman." Fine, I think, sounds like a love story/romantic comedy - that can only increase my chances of hooking up, right?

We are one of only three couples in the entire theatre, and we sit on the very back row. Her hand is in my crotch before the previews are over. A few minutes into the movie, we realize that it is no love story, but an emotional drama about alcoholism. Turns out the girl's father was an alcoholic, as was her first stepdad, and let's just say neither were ideal fathers. It suffices to say that my crotch went the rest of the movie unmolested. We get back in my car so I can drive her back to her car. As we sit there, she's telling me the story about how she can never trust men because her mother's husbands were such scum. She's getting really worked up, and I'm now more worried about her lashing out at me than I am getting her top off. Just as her rant is reaching a crescendo, she reaches in her purse, and starts to pull out something shiny. Thinking is must be a gun to off me right then and there, I reach for me door handle, slip the door open, and almost decapitate myself trying to leave my vehicle before the automatic seatbelt went back (this is 93/94ish, remember). Turns out she was just pulling out her keys. Yep, first date, and also last date.



I was a senior in high school and had a new girlfriend that was a junior. So down stairs in my sex basement one afternoon after school we are hitting it hot and sloppy. Now, my parents weren't supposed to get home for a couple of hours from work and we had the house all to ourselves, so we decided that completely naked basement sex was the way to go. Now my couch that housed all of this debauchery was facing the opposite wall from the stairs that led down to the basement. As I unassumingly was being serviced my girlfriend, the time that I was about to spooge was quickly arriving. My Dad had made his way down the stairs to the back of the couch without our knowledge. I was at that pivotal point of "orgasmic point of no return". My father witnessing the act, soon starts to make his presence known. It went a little something like this.

Dad: HEY!! What is going on?

Me: Oh, Shit!!

(Meanwhile my girlfriend, on her knees, freezes, and looks up at my Dad and then, BLAM!!!! 3 ropes of sticky goo hit her right on the chin like an early 90's Peter North film)

Dad: Get Up!!!! Get your clothes on. Get upstairs!! Get your clothes on!!!

Me: Get the hell outta here!!!

Her: Oh, My god, get me a tissue!!!

Me: Dad, GO AWAY!!!!!!

My Dad leaves the scene and I get all of my clothes on and go upstairs to talk about what the fuck had just happened. He was outside smoking a cigarette; here is all that was ever spoken of the incident.

Me: Do you want to talk about this?

Dad: (Drag of cigarette)

Dad: I don't need you…

Dad: (Exhale of cigarette)

Dad: ..havin' sex…

Dad: (Drag of cigarette)

Dad: …in my basement.

Dad: (Exhale of cigarette)

Me: Deal.

That happened 10 years ago and nothing was ever mentioned to my mother or the girlfriends' parents or anything. He just kept it bottled up for a decade, to date. I told that story to a bunch of friends and sisters and brother-in-laws and my groomsmen (who have heard it before) toward the end of the reception at my wedding recently (did not marry girl in question). As I had about 15-20 people crowded around me while I was telling this story my dad walks up behind me as soon as I am demonstrating the money shot portion of the story. He recognized the situation and just smiled.

You should totally start a Twitter feed: Cocks My Dad Blocks. It'll be a CBS sitcom within five months.


Things are going well and we end up going back to her room.

I try to escalate things, but oh wait she wants a fucking massage.

No joke, I gave this woman a 45-minute massage. I was sweating the whole time and could barely feel my fingers, forearm muscles, etc. afterward. After that, she went to bed.

That is horrible. Am I the only person who nearly dies of exhaustion after seven seconds of giving someone a massage? It's horrible, backbreaking labor, and trying to get a decent angle to give someone a massage while you are both lying down is awkward and painful. You massage lovers are a scourge.


So we are on her bed and just going at it. Well I decide that I want to flip her over and do it doggie style. Not having my bearings all set due to massive amounts of Irish Whiskey, I stumble and fall off the bed. That wouldn't be so bad normally, except for the fact that I landed on the space heater, which was set to high. Because I had drank so much, my reaction time to get off the heater wasn't as lickety split as I would have liked it, and I ended up getting severe burns on my back and side. After swearing and putting some lotion on the burns, I passed out with out even finishing sex. I woke up in the morning in terrible pain. I had passed out on my side and the burns had oozed into her sheets and then the ooze/blood/puss had dried and the sheets were stuck to my skin.

It was so bad and in such and awkward spot on my back and side that I actually had to ask her to pull them off. She was furious that I had ruined her sheets. I went to my car and grabbed my check book which I kept in case of emergencies and quickly wrote her a check for 100 dollars to cover the sheets.

I still have scars on my back and side from where I got burned by that damned space heater.

It bones like burning!