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

Another week, another dastardly pro athlete stealing your precious trim.


A few months ago, a couple of buddies and I went bar hopping in Chicago. This was the weekend after the Blackhawks had won the Stanley Cup. So Chicago was rocking. In our drunken state we decided it would be a good idea to call some girls to meet up with us, including one that I had been working on for quite some time. I really don't remember exactly what we said, but somehow they had agreed to come down and meet up with us. When our female friends had arrived, I immediately began working on the girl, and for the first time I was beginning to have some success. By about 2:30 we were both more than a little tipsy and began to make out. Things looked like I was in for a good night.

Unfortunately, this was before we were greeted by celebrities. It was right around this time that the bar we were at was graced by Patrick Kane, Adam Burrish, and Kris Versteeg of the Chicago Blackhawks. It was quite obvious that this was not the first stop on the bar tour for these 3, and they were embracing all of it.

Burish and Versteeg were very pleasant drunks and even let us by them a round, and talked to us for awhile. Patrick Kane had other things on his mind. It couldn't have been more than 20 minutes that Kaner had already moved onto my girl. Although I don't consider myself hideous looking, I don't ever envision myself beating out Patrick Kane for a girl so I tried convince everyone to go to a different bar since it was going to be a zoo here. Needless to say, this did not go over well. We stayed at the bar until about 3:30, the same time Patrick Kane decided to take my girl to her apartment. I was cockblocked by a Stanley Cup hero.

The one positive about the story. When Patrick got to the apartment with my female friend, he tried to convince her to give him a blowjob. The girl declined and was then kicked out of the apartment moments later. At least the night wasn't a total disaster.

So true. If you can't get laid, then no one should. Always my motto! By the way, Kane looks like he's 11 goddamn years old.

The Lifeguard:

About 7 years ago my friends and I were in the midst of a serious Irish car bomb obsession, which I realize is obnoxious. Every night turned into a competition, not about who could drink them the fastest, about who could drink more of them. One night we were out at the Bull's Head Tavern in NYC, around the corner from my apartment at the time, and after round #6 I started talking to a pretty blond girl. At least I thought she was pretty, I have no idea, this was after 6 car bombs. We went outside to have a cigarette, and next thing I know we're making out pretty furiously. It was freezing outside, so there was even plenty of groping/fondling for warmth. Great times.

At some point her friends come outside and I can tell that they're extremely pissed. Apparently the girl I was making out with (who had a weird name that I cannot, for the life of me, remember—it's been driving me crazy ever since—let's call her Trixie.) had to catch an 8 AM flight back to her college in Vermont. Her brother also had an early flight in the morning back to his college, and he had gone missing from the group. They all lived in NJ and he was supposed to be their ride home that night. No one could find him and he wasn't answering his cell phone. I couldn't have cared less, and surprisingly Trixie didn't seem all that concerned either, so we continued making out while her friends kept making phone calls and giving me dirty looks.

I decided to cut myself off from the car bomb competition (my friend won, if you could call it that, at 9...that number was never topped) and invited everyone back to my place for drinks/etc. Trixie was all for it but her friends were freaking out. They had just found her brother, but he was passed out wasted in his car and none of them were in any condition to drive. It was about 3 AM at this point so there were no trains running back to NJ or anything. Quite frankly I was pretty happy about the whole situation, figuring all these folks would have no choice but to come stay at my place, and I'd be known as the nice guy who let them all crash and helped them out of a jam, and my reward would be getting it on with their friend all night.

So we all started walking back to my place but suddenly one of the friends gets a call, has a whisper-y conversation, and decides we should all stop in some bar along the way first. Sounded like a fine idea at the time, so Trixie and I saddle up at the bar and order some drinks. The make-out session continues with some pretty heavy petting, until I realize someone's tapping on my shoulder. I look up and see an old lady standing there, seemingly ready to kill me, which at the time I thought was rather odd.

"Mom? What are you doing here?" Trixie asked, confused.

Yes, there she was: Trixie's mom, a 50-something year-old lady wearing a winter coat over her nightgown, clearly having just been woken up in the middle of the night, standing behind us at the bar. Apparently Trixie's friends, not knowing how they were getting home, and afraid that their friend was going to go home with some weird dude (me) and miss her flight, called Trixie's mom at 3 AM to have her drive in from about an hour away in NJ and pick them up (by the time she arrived it was closer to 4 AM) and drive them all home.

Needless to say, her mother wasn't thrilled.

"Let's go!" her mother snapped. "NOW!"

In my post-car-bomb/happy-to-be-hooking-up state of euphoria, I remember being really excited about meeting her mother. I'm always terrified of girl's parents, and in that severely delusional moment, I felt like I had already broken the ice with her and we were old chums.

"Hi! Nice to meet you!" I said and stuck out my hand for her to shake.

If looks could kill, I would have spontaneously burst into flames and blood would've started shooting out of my eyes.

Trixie could only let out a quick "sorry" to me before she was whisked away by her mother and her friends, who half-gloated, half-gave me the finger on their way out.

I wanted to try to track her down after that, but this was before the days of Facebook and Myspace and all that. Oh yeah, and I couldn't remember her name. Her mom seemed nice though.

I bet.


Sophomore year, a catholic college, 1990. One girl I working on, call her Abby, was actually a transfer but she might as well have been a freshman - new to the school, and a little shaken up because she had to transfer once. We found ourselves both a little tipsy one night and we're finally getting clothes off (finally!) but she's also saying things like "I hope I'm doing the right thing" and "I hope this isn't a mistake." I'm trying to be reassuring all the while, but still keeping things moving along . . .

Then her bra comes off and I couldn't fucking believe it, Abby had the most amazing and HUGE natural rack I had ever seen. Unfuckingreal. Of course being the idiot I was at 19, I said something like "wow!" or "holy shit!" or something of that ilk. Really moronic. Mood breaker. She had been wearing a lot of sweaters and turtlenecks and now I finally knew why - she was embarrassed by her breast size and was trying to hide them (and hide them she had been doing). Lesson: Never, ever, ever make a girl feel weird about her body. Big, big mistake.

That night might have been sunk but I'm trying to rally and I'm actually doing some quality fooling around with her when of all things the freaking fire alarm goes off. That's game, set, match, there's no way I'm recovering from that. She dresses and doesn't come back up with me after.

Pick up the story a year later, it's a weekend, I've got a buddy from home visiting and we run into Abby at a party (give the size of my school, you ran into the same people a lot, not ideal but it is what it is). She's got some drinks in her and is feeling frisky. I actually tell her I can't go off with her because I'm with my friend (plus I figure she'll never want to really fool around significantly anyway) but she tells me she'll make it worth my while and takes a tug at the front of my jeans. I abruptly blow off my friend (who drove 80 miles to see me for crying out loud) and go off to my room to seal the deal.

Abby's taking my clothes off and in quick order is giving me a combo HJ and BJ. In the midst of all this, she stops for a second and sort of whispers "does that feel good, baby?" or something like that.

Idiot me, I decide I wasn't sure exactly what she said. I mean I knew most of it, but I guess I wanted a clarification. So fucking stupid. I say "What?" I can't explain where that came from, it just came out.

Now Abby really stops, and looks up at me, and it was like the lights were turned on and her parents were watching us at the foot of the bed. Mood is dead in the water. I tried to restart the car, no go.

Takeaways: Never, ever, ever risk breaking the mood. Don't start conversations in the middle of something good. When they want positive feedback, give it to them in the simplest form possible.

Abby isn't even on Facebook, apparently. I pine for a look at those melons again, even in a soccer mom sweater now. I had so many chances. Blew it, blew it, blew it.

Yup. Talking ruins everything.


The summer after my freshman year in college, I went to visit my then girlfriend. Upon my visit we went to a party at her friend's house. Since there would be alcohol, I suggest we just spend the night there—I could have sex on a futon made of sandpaper if necessary. She shrugs off the idea and says she would be ok to drive. "I'll only have one or two…"

Well, she has a lot more than one or two.

I have my fair share to drink, but am much more coherent than her. I again suggest we spend the night, but she insists on driving home. Despite my best efforts to promote safe driving, and realizing that my window for vaginal penetration is shrinking (It was just a matter of time before she threw up), I begrudgingly agree to leave. I am able to wrestle the keys from her, however, which is a small victory for my manhood and MADD.

Now her car has a stick shift. I had driven stick once, so I wasn't a complete newbie. It's about a fifteen-minute drive, and I'm driving slowly and carefully. I stall twice out of her friend's neighborhood, but the car settles nicely for me on a straight road. Shannon is now feeling a bit frisky. I can only assume this wave of horniness stemmed from her confident boyfriend escorting her to safety. She begins to rub my crotch, and then unzips my pants.

Ok then…

As she travels south, my acute focus relents a bit. I stall out a couple of times, but fortunately, it's late. There is only one car behind me.

And it's a cop car.

When the speed limit is 40 mph, I suppose a car stopping/starting the last quarter of mile is just cause for a pull over. And he does just that. When I see the lights flash behind me, I push Shannon off of me and pull over on to the shoulder. I quickly tuck my now very flaccid penis into my pants and try to act calm. Shannon does not. She bawls hysterically, while banging her hands against the dash board like a crazy person.

The officer walks to the car, flashes his light on us, and sees Shannon freaking out like a losing team in Williamsport. Without being questioned/interrogated, she spills all. "We had been drinking. We shouldn't have driven. Please don't tell my dad," etc, etc, etc. I'm screwed.

The cop asks me to step out of the car, gives me a breathalyzer, and I promptly blow a respectable and tidy .095.

I get a DUI, no orgasm, and a verbal lashing from my father who received the news at 3:30 in the morning.

If I have to disclose my DUI as a result of road head on job applications, I would rather have run over a gypsy.

I really, really need to learn to drive manual transmission.