Cockblocked By An Anal Fistula!

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


Late one Saturday night, I headed to a local tavern for a few beers before last call. "Jane," a very cute little bartender, was working the front bar. We'd known each other for several years; she had recently broken up with a long-time boyfriend and I'd been a free agent for about three months. The timing was perfect. Or was it?

We started doing shots together and I was firing down the 25 oz. mugs like they might run out of beer. The bar was fairly quiet so we had lots of time to flirt and inhale the shots. A Vicodin and alcohol buzz had already kicked in when they turned on the lights.

As I stood up to leave, Jane told me to go to the back of the room so she could pour me another beer. She said I should wait for her to close out her register and we'd walk a few blocks to her place to share "a nice bottle of wine." I was in! Finally! Then it hit me. I'd been eating Vicodin like Pez because I'd had anal fistulotomy surgery earlier in the week. What's a fistulotomy? The ass doctor makes an incision and inserts a plastic tube in the fistula (a fistula is basically an abscess). The tube forces the fistula to drain copious amounts of blood and pus out of your ass for about six weeks, then they surgically remove the tube. Yeah, it's gross. And painful.

Since no clothes were coming off that night, I sheepishly told Jane I had to take a rain check. No way I could tell her the reason why. About a month later, she started dating a douche with an Ed Grimley do and a fucking neck beard. They're engaged now. At least my fistula healed up.



I went to a college in the NC mountains known mainly for one thing: the upset of Michigan in 2007 in football. I watched the game at a bar close to campus, and the very small town was in full get-blacked-out mode. The bar may as well have been a double-wide trailer, but it was the best place to find a partner for a dirty reckless crotch-grooving. I was with my female friend she wanted me to meet a friend of hers. She took an instant liking to me, and I decided to go with it.

Fast-forward to the end of the night and she comes back to my apartment. All of my roommates were gone for the weekend, which I was later thankful for. We are on my bed sloppily making out and clothes start coming off when I suggest that she should give me an ol' bj . She turns dead silent, looks me in the eye and goes off on the most passionate feminist rant I've ever heard. I'm stunned and have no idea what to say but more importantly my boner-ship is losing blood fast. I start to drunkenly stammer out something but then she just belts out a loud cackle, falls back and off of the bed. She drags herself up and says she needs to use the restroom, so I assume that's it for the night and pass out.

I woke up sometime before the sun was up and went to get some water for my morning-after-drinking cottonmouth when I open my door and what did I see but my guest from the previous evening, naked, sitting on top of an open washing machine and passed out. Stunned, I just stared for a second, closed the door and went back to bed. Woke up much later to a washing machine with pee in it, and a dryer sheet for good measure.



Growing up in the D.C. area, my friends and I would often go downtown on July 4th for the big party in our nation's capital. As we got to high-school age, our parents trusted us to fend for ourselves, unsupervised. One year, we figured we'd toast America's birthday with a few Nalgene bottles full of liquor. Booze in hand, we were able to enjoy some furtive underage drinking while soaking up the wild, patriotic scene.

Our post-fireworks route back to the Metro station took us past an open plaza with a fountain at one end (Freedom Plaza, for any D.C.-savvy folk who care to know). The crowd was in a boisterous mood, and a number of people were playing in the fountain. So we joined them. Splish-splashing around, it was a free-for-all—no cops or squares there to spoil our party.

We met a trio of girls (hey, my buddies and I also numbered three, how convenient!), and we frolicked together in the water. They were excited to hear we had alcohol, and delighted in sharing it with us. At one point I glanced over to see one of my friends had convinced one of the girls to crouch down and lick his johnson right there in the fountain.

We told them that we were headed back to my friend's house in the Maryland suburbs (his parents were elsewhere that night). They were from northern Virginia, but game to continue the party. So we boarded Metro for the hour-long ride to our stop. I remember, through the fog of alcohol and the years that have passed since, it being a somewhat awkward, boring ride. We must have been out of booze, as we were not continuing the rager right there on the train. We had just met these three random lasses in a fountain-turned-wading-pool, and only had so much to talk about, being essentially strangers. We got to our stop and then piled into the car for the last 15 minutes of our journey.

Safely back at the house, we resumed partying activities and things were back in swing. One of my friends had let one of the girls change into a pair of his shorts, since I guess hers were a little wet from the fountain. I decided, in my drunken brilliance, that it'd be funny for me to don these skimpy, cheerleader-style shorts and do a little strutting around for the assemblage. (Growing up, these friends of mine had always had better natural game and more luck with girls; I was just a semi-goofy kid who saw here an opportunity to make people laugh.)

My recollection is that this routine went over OK, but my friends' version is that it had the girls mortified. Shortly thereafter, my friends paired off with two of the girls and went upstairs; they would both end up enjoying some dome piece from those kind Virginians. This left me downstairs with the third girl, a blonde and a good-looker at that. With it now just the two of us, I tried to lay my mack on her (a poor showing, I'm sure it was) but she feigned tiredness and just put her head down on the kitchen table, ignoring me.

As morning dawned, one of my friends had to make the hour-plus roundtrip to drive those chicks back to NoVa. Of course, we never saw nor heard from them again.

For a long time thereafter, my friends never missed a chance to remind me of that night when I put on a pair of girl's shorts and completely blew whatever chance I might have had with a random drunk girl we picked up in a D.C. fountain, while her two friends were upstairs practicing the art of fellatio on my lucky buddies.