Sports News Without Fear, Favor or Compromise
Sports News Without Fear, Favor or Compromise

Cockblocked By Creationism!

Illustration for article titled Cockblocked By Creationism!

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



There wasn't one this week (at least not when I looked today), so I figured I'd throw my hat into the ring with a sad tale from my past.

Back in the early aughts, I was in college at a large Midwestern university on year 5 of my "why do in four years what you can do in six" plan for undergrad. The thing for all the fraternities, sororities, and any decent-sized organization on campus to do in the fall was have a Barndance. For those who were not blessed with a campus that had this tradition, basically a group would rent a barn not too far away from campus, fill it full of Milwaukee's Best kegs and the finest bottom-shelf liquor based punch they could make, charge $20-something a person to their members and friends to shuttle them out there and back on rented buses, and it was all you could drink until the kegs and bottles ran dry.

Nobody knows how this tradition started or how the county sheriff continually to turn a blind eye to thousands of college students being ferried across the corn-swept plains to get completely shit-faced in some rented barn 20 miles away from campus. I didn't quite understand the appeal of drinking in the country because that was something we did in high school when we had to hide our debauchery from parents, but most of the other students weren't from small towns so I guess this was a novel concept to them. Everyone was dressed in their best flannel and jeans/slutty cowgirl attire, there were hayrack rides, a fire, and plenty of fields to get lost in. Looking back on it now, it's a miracle nobody ever got hurt, lost, or murdered, but all anybody saw at the time was a guaranteed hook-up festival.

Anyway, I had been dating my now-wife for about 6 months, we were both in the same co-ed organization that happened to host one of these barn dances. We get our tickets (which also included a bota bag to fill with whatever supplemental booze we wanted to take with from home), put on our flannel, hopped on the bus, and away we went. She had been drinking heavily from the get go, finishing half of her bota bag before we even got to the barn (rookie mistake, drinking the backup booze first instead of drinking the booze you had already paid for), and continued to keep going strong once we arrived Throughout the night, we proceed to get drunker and drunker, which culminates in us full-on groping next to the fire, much to the disgust of the people who were drunk and just wanted to stay warm. She leans over and tells me in no uncertain terms that yes, we are going to be boning tonight, we just need to figure out a secluded place.

Being young, dumb, and drunk, I decide that if alcohol got us this far, then more alcohol can only expedite the process, so I head back to the barn for refills. I should have taken her with me, because when I come back, she was still at the fire, but now in a full-on philosophical discussion with the farmer who owned the barn. He was a right wing nutjob who believed in young earth creationism, and she is a non-theist socially liberal woman who loves a good debate. The scene I come back to is her very emphatically debating the finer points of Farmer Bob's wingnut beliefs about the role of women in society and how we've fallen from god's favor. Despite my pleas that leaving the fire area and getting busy in the field would be the best insult to him, there is no way she's giving up the argument against someone so illogical. She continued to be wound up about it for the rest of the night until she passed out on the bus ride home.

I remain convinced to this day that if there is a god, then he sent his faithful servant Farmer Bob there as punishment for my many misdeeds that semester. Mission accomplished, asshole.


Freshman year of college, I've had a pretty good amount of sex with one girl, my girlfriend for a couple of months in high school, but I've never gotten a blow job (she thinks it's gross, but likes when I go down on her). My old girlfriend not giving me oral has made me want it that much more, so much that I'd prefer it over having sex. I'm pretty accomplished at having an orgasm just from dry humping when my ex-girlfriend had her period. It doesn't bother her, so it never bothers me and I figure it's better than having blue balls and thus a useful talent.

So, back to freshman year, it's about three weeks in, I've made out drunkly with a couple girls at different parties, but no luck sealing the deal. I'm at a small frat party, hitting it off with this girl Tracy. We're in a dark corner of a dance floor in a frat house, making out. Someone says the cops are outside, so those of us (most of us) who are underage boot out the back and hide behind the garage and down the street. Tracy has a really good fake ID, but is nervous about having to show it to a cop, so we start walking away, a little further than everyone else. We walk by a dark detached garage with the door open and a car in it.

She grabs my hand and pulls me in to start making out again. She grabs my hand and pushes it down her pants and tells me not to go inside but to stay outside and rub in small circles. My old girlfriend never talked dirty, and Tracy is, so even though I'm really drunk, I'm at full mast. After a little while she tells me she can't have an orgasm standing, so we lay down on the hood of the car. She's talking dirty into my ear and tells me that she's going to give me the best blowjob I've ever had after she has an orgasm.

I'm so drunk, and so thrilled, thinking how great college is going to be. I'm kind of beside her and grinding on her hip. As she starts to orgasm, I get so turned on that I just can't stop myself from firing a huge cum tomahawk in my jeans. She catches her breath and starts sliding down to my crotch.

There's no way I can let her unzip me and see the mess I've made, so I make up this awful story about a girl I was friends with in high school getting taken advantage of and performing oral sex on a guy when she was drunk and really regretting it later. So I say why don't we hold off for tonight because you've been drinking. She kind of gives me a look, and probably knew it was BS (I'm a horrible liar), but says fine, let's go back to the party.

We walk back, and this is about twenty minutes later, and the cops really came and kicked everyone out. The frat had some pledges driving freshman back to campus, but they got most people back already and no one left wants to drive us home. So, I have to walk a couple miles back to campus regretting that I still have not received oral sex, with a girl who is annoyed, all with a huge wet spot on my jeans. I start dating my future wife a few weeks later. Anytime I see Tracy on Facebook I feel regret and shame, but mostly regret.


I worked as a bartender at a steakhouse in Peoria, AZ around 2005. One server in particular, Brittany, was pretty and slim and had the most disproportionately huge tits I had ever seen on a woman. God knows how many ribeyes fell to the floor every time she would parade through the kitchen in just a thin tank top post-shift.

We would flirt often, but she flirted with every guy in the place, constantly, despite having a loser (by all accounts) boyfriend. After a few months of this, one night a few of us headed to our after-work dive to get a little sloppy. Brittany quickly mentioned that she was newly single and ready to party. Within an hour the two of us were headed back to her apartment and I couldn't believe my good fortune. There, with more vodka and fewer clothes (unequaled; I haven't had access to a bust like this before or since), everything's going great, right?

Early on in the throes of passion (fucking) I hear a repeated scratching sound coming from her front room. CANNOT BE BOTHERED, I think, but it persists. I finally call her attention to it.
She may as well have been absentmindedly filing her nails as she says, "Oh, that's my ex-boyfriend trying to break in."

And he does. This guy, Lance, was a known tweaker (West Valley stand up!) capable, in my mind, of just about anything. He's now in the apartment, banging on the bedroom door, unleashing violent, bloody threats towards Brittany and anyone she may be with. My fight or flight response has never been more Frost-ian in its clear delineation of two paths — stick around and "protect" her (no one dies on my watch!) or GTFO. As she stands naked and screaming for him to leave, I choose GTFO.

I throw on my clothes, mumble some lame apology, and throw down the screen off of her SECOND STORY window. I am prepared to make the drunken 14-or-so foot jump into the softest cactus I can spot because I'm scared shitless. In my haste, I somehow did not notice that his yelling had stopped. I have one leg out the window when Lance pulls around the building's corner, looks straight up at me, and offers (an admittedly badass), "And where the fuck are YOU going?"

I lurch back into the bedroom, play it up like I was going to stay the whole time (NO ONE DIES ON MY WATCH!), and basically set up a barricade on the door with chair, like in a movie.

CUT TO: roughly an hour later, Lance is content to leave with Brittany's purse and takes off in her car. After a convincing amount of time has subsided, she calls her dad as I remind her of my heroism. Dad shows up at 3:00 am to a frantic, crying daughter, a lamming Bobby-from-Salton-Sea who has his baby's car and money, and a disheveled, defeated me that was clearly there to sex his daughter in the first place. I walked home.

Soon thereafter, Brittany left for the Middle East on a nurse's contract to tend to wounded soldiers. Those tits saved lives, I'm sure of it.