Welcome to Great Moments in Drunken Hookup Failure, where we showcase three heartwarming true stories of drunken love gone horribly awry. Off we go.
Before we get to the stories, a couple notes if you want your story to make the cut here. One: Use proper punctuation and capitalization. I'm not gonna edit something you were too fucking lazy to type out on something other than an iPhone. Two: Use paragraph breaks. Sending me a 1,000-word block of copy makes my head hurt. Three: Any story that talks about your hookup being fat or consistently referring to some girl you met as a slut or whore gets 86'ed. Immediately. You're here to make yourself look bad, not your companion for the evening. Go ice another bro or something. I have no use for you. Now, let's get to the poopy hookups.
I had been dating this very cute young girl here in New York City for a couple of months and we really hit it off.
It was a Friday night, i got off of work and went to a work sponsored happy hour. These things are done quarterly and with a neverending tab, the beers, shots, and carbombs started to flow. I stayed a couple of hours and was nicely drunk before I stumbled off to find food in Union Square, and found one of my favorites, Chipotle. I ordered the usual 3 soft taco's, chips and guacamole, and a Corona.
I got a call from my girlfriend who was leaving happy hour with her girlfriends and she wanted to meet at her place on the Upper East Side. This sounded great, as it was nearing 10 PM, I was drunk, full and content with the night.
Maybe because of the booze or adrenaline, I didn't notice the category 5 storm building in my stomach. I arrived at her place and we began fooling around, not only was this great, but she had just started taking the pill and we now could enjoy the pleasures of coitus without a raincoat. As we concluded the usual steps to intercourse, and began to proceed to sex, she told me to stop. I asked why, and she said I needed a condom. I asked her, why, since she had just started the pill and condoms were a thing of the past. She told me the pill takes 2 weeks to kick in and until than, we would have to continue the usage of prophylactics.
I was upset and dejected and told myself we could just fool around without sex. Five minutes later, I realized the impossibility of this task and the fact that this night was destined for greatness, and something small like this wasn't going to stop me from my goal. I threw on my clothes, did the old reliable tuck in the waistband and said I would go to Duane Reade to pick up a pack of condoms. I storm out and get in the elevator, where I notice faint rumblage from my stomach and I proceed to push out all the gas I was holding in while I was hooking up.
As I do this, I blow a huge fart but towards the tail end it turns into a massive shart. I get the sweats as I pace back and forth in the elevator, deciding what to do. I stick my hand down my pants to confirm my worst nightmare and realize I am in some serious serious trouble.
I duck walk out her apartment building to Duane Reade where I purchase the condoms and ask to use the restroom, to rid myself of the evidence and clean up. They say they do not have a restroom, which I find dubious, since the employees have to go somewhere and begin to panic as to my next course of action.
PAUSE: I fucking hate employees who do this. Listen lady, I wouldn't ask to use the bathroom if it wasn't urgent. Don't LIE to me. I hate that. Anyway, back to the story:
I can simply Houdini and go home, citing getting sick, or something else and live with her wrath or I can go to her apartment, clean myself off and consider hiding the evidence. I decide this is the best course of action and go to her apartment, sweating nervously. She opens the door wearing nothing but lingerie and I curse myself for stuffing myself on Chipotle and booze.
She starts kissing me, as I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. Once in the bathroom, I realize my predicament, there is no window, she lives with 3 other drunken girls and literally no place I can hide my stink-filled undies, not to mention the splatter art that is my ass cheeks.
I clean myself as best I could and return to her room where she is laying there waiting for me. I kneel down as not to spread the oil spill in my pants and start to notice the stench slowly filling the room. I panic, kiss her, and say I have to go, that I have just got to go. The look of shock on her face was terrible. I came up with a lie in my panic that I have Krohn's Disease and MUST go home to take my medicine immediately and ran out the door, leaving a gorgeous girl in lingerie begging for me. I hailed a cab and sat in my own feces the 90 blocks to my apartment. She called me once I was home and asked if Krohn's was contagious and if she needed to get tested. I explained that no, it was hereditary and I got it from my mom and had to keep up the lie for the remainder of our relationship even informing my mom when they were set to meet.
Not only did I not get laid, I had spent 15 dollars on the unused condoms and had to sit in my own filth with semi blue balls for a 20 dollar cab ride, and had ruined a nice pair of underwear.
The Krohn's Disease lie really makes it. Did he spend the rest of the relationship bugging his eyes at all times?
So it's the summer of 2002 and I come home from college all pumped up for a long summer of A's baseball. They won 100 games the year before and were looking good again that year. I also come to learn that my friends had found a new bar downtown that would become our go to spot for the summer. This bar would also become the go to spot for a bunch of the A's who lived in the area. Most notably, Eric Chavez, Mark Mulder, Tim Hudson, and one Barry William Zito. We ran into those guys a number of times during the summer and for the most part they were all right.
So one night a girl we knew was going out to the spot for her birthday and my friend is all about it. I can even count how many times "I'm so in there" was said. The whole time at the bar he's chatting her up and she seems to be into it. At one point the numerous beers start hitting us so we hit the bathroom where my friend again tells me how in there he is.
We come back from the bathroom to find my friend's target talking some huge floppy haired dude. Shocked, we huddle and plan our next move. Another friend of ours leans in and asks our girl friend if she's ok and this ensues...
Her: "Oh yeah, meet my new friend Barry"
Us: "Barry, who the fuck is this guy?"
Barry turns around: "Hey guys, I'm Barry Zito what's up?"
Me dumbfounded: "Uh nothing....I have you and huddy on my fantasy team and you're killing me"
Barry: "Sorry bro. We'll try to do better."
Needless to say no hooking up happened. In fact the A's cockblocked everybody that whole summer just by showing up. Nothing like getting CB'd by your favorite baseball players.
I like that Zito was able to ruin your shit simply by introducing himself with his full name. Oh hi. I'm Barry Zito. AND YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT THAT FUCKING MEANS, SHITHEAD.
I was living down in New Orleans last year, and Easter weekend some of my friends, Patrick and Anthony, came down from DC to visit. I take them over to Port of Call with my roommate Rob for the best damn burger in the world, naturally there's a line out the door so, being New Orleans, we buy six packs at the local corner shop and sit out under a tree in the middle of Esplanade. Six packs down and our names get called, and Patrick immediately starts taking advantage of the remarkable price differences between New Orleans and DC, buying huge mystery drinks somehow made potable despite a cornucopia of liquor. The drink is called Neptune's Monsoon, it was maybe 30 oz. tall and I doubt anyone who has ever had one knows what's in it. But anything goes well with those burgers and baked potatoes, so we had three each and left the place bombed, stumbling through the Quarter looking for an empty bar to play pool in and avoid tourists on Easter Eve.
We end up at some bar on Toulouse Street, can't remember the name, but its more of a local place, pool tables, people drinking high life, deep-fried PB+J with bacon. We play a couple games and yell at some middle-aged people trying to enjoy a quiet night before Easter, at a bar as we are in New Orleans, before Rob pulls up a chair and passes out on the felt of the table.
Patrick is by this time hitting on some girl at the bar, decently cute and she seems into him, so naturally we start giving him shit. He brushes us off, scolds us, and turns around to continue his conversation.
At this point the Easter Bunny walks in, fully decked out costume, takes his mask off, and starts talking to the same girl. Knowing how much girls like bunnies, Patrick is demoralized, and is effectively cock-blocked by the Easter Bunny.
Head down and ashamed, he walks back to our table and pulls up a chair, waking up Rob, who, upon seeing the bunny mask propped up on the bar, says "Watch this," and lunges for it, grabbing the bunny head and flying out the door. In shock, and unable to catch him (he was training for the half-marathon), I run after him, leaving my two friends from out of town stunned. Rob, from sleeping to sprinting in 15 seconds, runs through the Quarter and into Treme, I dive into a convenience store and hide. The Easter Bunny, now headless, goes running after him, but loses him fast, and spends the rest of the night stalking up and down Bourbon Street looking for a masked man, and looking patently ridiculous in a furry white costume with no head. We meet up in Treme and spend the rest of the night hanging around the outside of the Quarter, taking pictures with hot drunk girls who just love a bunny mask. I don't think they love the bunny body nearly as much. The night ended with Rob waking up our skittish friend wearing the mask outside his window at 4am, tapping on the glass with a giant cleaver.
Fool! All you needed to do was hand out eggs and candy, and you would have had females riches beyond your wildest dreams!