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A Good Old Fashioned Pussyblock!

Illustration for article titled A Good Old Fashioned Pussyblock!

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


So, in high school there was this one shitty apartment everybody used to hang out at. It was one of those shithole apartments covered in dog shit, graffiti and empty 40 bottles. It was abysmal. In high school though, it was the coolest fucking place to party because of its lack of parental units. One night, I scored an invitation to said shithole.

I'm chatting up the guy who lived there- a guy who happened to be one of the "cool kids" at my high school. It was a costume party so he was dressed in a floral print dress and at this point in the party was super drunk, so I guess that's what gave me the confidence to go after him. We take a couple shots and things start heating up. We return to his bedroom. We're making out and about thisclose to penetration when we hear this pop immediately followed by a girl's scream. Okay. Whatever. We knew a lot of drunk idiots so this wasn't that weird of an occurrence. We keep going at it. A few minutes later my eyes started to sting like no other. I rub them a little bit, thinking I just got something in my eye but it doesn't get any better. Tears start steaming down my face and I'm starting to lose the ability to see. At about this time, I notice the same thing was happening to the guy.

We somehow got clothes on and stumble into the living room to find the entire apartment was hazy with gas. Everyone had evacuated onto the back porch. When we join the party, we find out some douchebag on military leave thought it would be a good idea to detonate his homemade tear gas bomb in the middle of the party and the gas had completely permeated the apartment. The guy I was hooking up with understands this but thought himself a badass and drunkenly declares that he can brave the tear gas if I can to finish hooking up. After a pause, I hesitantly agree and we walk back inside where the apartment is still just as filled with tear gas as before. I can hardly open my eyes. Immediately upon entering his room the guy keels over and vomits all over the ground. Needless, to say we didn't hook up that night.


That's a legit pussyblockin'!


Summer 2004 in the Midwest. I live in a group of apartments/condos that has a few buildings reserved for summer interns of a huge multinational company. My friends and I approach a group of females at a local bar and after awhile, find out that they are living in the apartment across the street from me for the summer. Pretty big coincidence considering that the town has more than 500,000 people in the immediate area, so I take this as a sign of fate. Two of the three ladies are from the general area and the other, let's call her "Elsa" is from Switzerland. Elsa is very attractive and has an incredible accent, so I am immediately smitten in my drunken haze. I am not quite falling down drunk, but in what I call a "window of opportunity" when I am engaging and charming. Elsa is smitten by my charm, but so is one of her friends who is not attractive and does not have an accent. We'll call her "Marge."

Politely as I can, I pull Elsa aside and we continue to talk at the bar. This is a good time to note that even when sober, I am awful with names. The more that I drink, the more awful with names that I become. I was corrected by all 3 girls on their names more than once. These were not simple corrections either - Katie vs. Kathy or Elizabeth vs. Liz or anything even close. This was me calling them each others' names, which girls do not appreciate. Yet each time, I offered an honest apology and was forgiven after a few laughs. After a few more drinks, we're very buzzed but not hammered and decide (as a group) to head back toward one of our places to hang out awhile longer.

We get back to the dark parking lot and Marge is not happy that Elsa and I are hitting it off so well. Evidently this is the norm for this group of roommates in the short time that they have been living together. As is the norm with my group of friends - they do nothing as wingmen to combat Marge the cockblocker who is drunk, unhappy and causing too much drama. This is the beginning of the summer and Elsa does not want a hostile living situation for the remaining couple of months, so she is trying to placate Marge and still quietly sneak off with me.

At long last, one of my friends steps up and asks the other two girls to take the two guys inside to use the bathroom. Elsa and I isolated at last. We make out a bit and then I try to charm her back to my place, a mere 100 yards away. In her beautiful Swiss accent, she says something to the effect of "as long as you remember my name this time" and we both share a laugh at this obvious formality. Mine was an awkward laugh because I could not remember her name to save my fucking life. Evidently she picked up on this and asks me directly what her name was in a non-accusing yet accusing tone. I am a deer in the headlights..."Marge?"

The Swiss accent did not sound as nice when it says "you've got to be fucking kidding me" as she storms back to her own place. No amount of drunken charm was going to get me out of that one, so I just walked home like the pathetic self absorbed asshole that I am. Who can't just remember a simple name? That's the worst feeling - immediate acceptance of failure. I never saw Elsa again.

Repeat their name back to them the first time they tell it to you. REPEAT IT BACK, DAMMIT! That's rule #1 of any motivational speaker!

The Hurler:

I had just finished grad school and was living with my boy Pat. One night I got a call from my friend Cate, who had just graduated with me and was friends with a girl I had sloppily made out with at a party a couple weeks prior, Betsy. Cate says she and Betsy want to meet up, so Pat and I agree and we head to the bar.

I was nervous about seeing Betsy again, because after our atrocious public makeout session, she caught me in a lie having something to do with saying I was going to a baseball game when I was actually seeing my ex. (yes, as you will see, I'm an absurd retard) After that, Cate informed me Betsy was rather pissed and I made no effort to get back in her good graces, because of exams…and my general laziness with women. Also adding to my nervousness was the fact Betsy is insanely hot.

So we meet the girls and Pat immediately starts chatting up Betsy, because we both think she hates my guts. After a couple drinks and some shots, Betsy starts interrogating me about why I hadn't called her, why I was a lying douche, etc. I had assumed she had written me off, so I was thrilled to learn I had actually been swimming in her head the whole time. Within an hour, Betsy and I are back in sweet-sweet love and Pat, having sensed the shift, had begun chatting up Cate and was getting along swimmingly. At some point, Betsy and I skip out and walk back to my house.

(At this point I must inform the reader of two things: (1) I am a noted lightweight and (2) I sensed previously and had heard rumblings that Betsy was a prude.)

Once in the door, we commence heavy, handsy making out and quickly move it to my bedroom. Apparently (and thankfully) straying from character, Betsy lifts her little sundress right over her head and I have her out of her panties within minutes. Front door to naked in less than 10 minutes?!?!? I AM SO EXCITED!!!

So after a little more kissy/licky/grabby, I start for my move: the always useful muffdive. Now I had sensed I was pretty hammered during the walk home and during the bit of foreplay, but on the way down to start in on "my move", it hits me like a ton of

I bolt out of the bedroom, into the bathroom, and blow unholy chunks in to the toilet bowl. I sound like a combination of a tyrannosaurus rex and a dying gorilla when I hurl, so the sound was likely filling every corner of the house. The rest is a blur. I have a slight memory of making it back to my bed. Betsy was not there. Cate came in at some point, asked if I was ok, and said they were leaving. I did not realize I was that drunk and did not see it coming...any of it.

The next day, Pat informed me of the totality of the evening...

Pat and Cate got home 5-10 minutes after Betsy and me. They are on the couch making out when he asks if she wants to go back to his room. Cate gives him the Heisman. Pat, being a dirty bastard, stands up, excuses himself to the kitchen, and calls "the steady 7." (She was his steady booty call.) It is at this point Pat hears my goofy ass bolt out of my room and violently lose my dinner. Five minutes later Betsy, fully dressed, walks out of my bedroom, sits on the couch, and tells Cate she wants to go home. They call a cab. Not two minutes later the steady 7 pulls up. Pat greets her outside, walks in, and the following interaction occurs: "Betsy. Cate. This is the steady 7. Steady 7, this is Betsy and Cate. Had a great time tonight ladies, you know how to let yourselves out." Straight to the bedroom.

Cate later told me the cab took 30 minutes and they sat there listening to the steady 7 scream "Jesus fucking Christ!!" over and over and over for a good 20 of it.

The kicker is that to this day Pat swears when Betsy came out of my bedroom, he heard her say to Cate, "I think my vagina just made him throw up." That had nothing to do with it. Betsy smelled amazing and had a beautiful hooha, from what I remember. I am just a sad, sad lightweight.


Dawww horsefeathers!

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