Be Careful Who You Roofie

Another member of my Harem at that Southern California school I worked at was Prada.  Prada earns her name because of her obsessive love of expensive shoes and purses.  Don’t get me wrong, she’s not one of those stuck-up rich girls, she just has a weakness for designer accessories.  Hey, we all have our weaknesses and expensive hobbies; you should see my porn collection!

This is the story of how Prada met her husband.

After graduating, her first job in the “real world” was in a law office.  Her boss, Dead Wing, was only a couple years older than her and was fairly new to San Diego.  He didn’t know too many people other than his live-in girlfriend, so Prada invited him to hang out with us.  I don’t think at this point she had any romantic feelings towards him, but I guess I don’t know for certain.  She certainly didn’t mention anything of the kind to me.

Anyways, one Thursday night Prada drove us all to one of our regular spots, the Beachcomber.  Dead Wing was close to my age, a Midwesterner and kind of an asshole, so of course we immediately hit it off.  We had drinks, talked Big Ten football, knocked back shots with a few more drinks, did some NFC North trash talk, and had a few more drinks.  Prada wasn’t drinking as much since she was the designated driver, but she knows her football pretty well so she held her own with our discussion.  Tripod, a Californian through and through, was utterly bored with our Midwest talk and went off in search of girls.

Now, I should explain here that although I’m protective of my Harem I’m not like one of those caricature big brother-types who doesn’t want anyone having sex with “his” girls.  I’m all for people getting laid, especially my Harem.  But, that being said, they are still my friends, and I don’t want them making bad decisions and/or being taken advantage of.  And sleeping with someone’s boss (unless I’m that boss, of course) is generally a poor decision.  So, after a few more cocktails than I should have had, I thought it would be a good idea for me to get a little protective.

When Prada was away from the table I got all serious with Dead Wing and started lecturing him like I was his elder on how he should never “dip his pen in the company ink.”  I preached to him the importance of a professional work relationship (which would be hysterical to anyone who’s ever seen just how unprofessional I am in the workplace; after all, I’m the guy who asked at a sexual harassment seminar, “Is harass one word or two?”).  Dead Wing nodded and agreed and said all the right things.  “I’d never do anything like that,” he boldly proclaimed.  Feeling good about our man-to-man chat, I ordered another round of drinks and went back to talking sports.

Eventually we decided we wanted to hit another bar.  We all piled into Prada’s car and headed a couple miles north to a place called The Dog.  Prada was our designated driver, which means she had drank about half as much as the rest of us; in short, she was not exactly a sober driver, but she was by far the most competent of the bunch.  The Dog was a beer-only bar, but we three guys were drunk enough by this point that we didn’t care, so we just ordered a pitcher and got back to the business of getting hammered.

But then something happened.

We hadn’t been there 15 minutes when Prada started feeling sick.  By 20 minutes she was the drunkest one of the four of us.  At 25 minutes she was out in the parking lot puking her guts out while I held her hair back.


I was dumbfounded.  Prada’s no lightweight, she can handle her liquor.  And she hadn’t had more than seven or eight drinks all night.  Maybe she hadn’t eaten dinner or something?

Too drunk to play detective, I decided we just needed to get her home.  We called a cab, and since Dead Wing lived more or less in the same direction he agreed to go back with her and make sure she made it home safe.  Tripod and I weren’t ready to call it a night yet so we started working the phones to find someone else who might be in the area that we could party with and catch a ride home with.

The next day when Prada called me the first words out of her mouth were, “I think I did a bad thing last night.”

I just shook my head.  “You fucked your boss, didn’t you?”  Then, the next thing to enter my mind:  “That sonuvabitch looked me straight in the eye and swore he would never do that.  He fuckin’ lied to me. … I really respect that.”  Serves me right for trying to get all preachy with him.

“Wait a minute.  Doesn’t he have a girlfriend?”

I could hear the shame in her voice.  “Yes.”

As I drove her back to the scene of the crime to pick up her car, we tried to dissect what had happened the night before.  We couldn’t find any explanation for her sudden drunkenness.  She hadn’t had that much to drink, she’d had a decent meal at dinner.  She’d been more or less sober when she drove us to the second bar.  And then… boom.  Just like that, she was shitfaced like a freshman girl at her first frat party.

And then it hit me.

“Did he roofie you?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe.”

Now I was angry.  Like I said, I don’t care if somebody fucks one of my Harem, but if somebody drugged them, that’s a whole different story.

But as we continued dissecting the story, there were still more holes.  From what I know about roofies , or date rape drugs, or whatever you want to call it (which is admittedly only as much as I’ve read about Sebastian Janikowski’s life), they pretty much leave the woman knocked out cold.  The girl basically blacks out and passes out, and the predator than hauls them off and has their way with them.  Doesn’t sound all that exciting to me to fuck a girl that isn’t moving –I had a girlfriend like that once, it wasn’t much fun.  I was just starting to feel like the worst friend in the world for allowing her to get in a cab with that unscrupulous predator, when Prada said, “I don’t really remember, but I know I pulled him out of the cab and up to my apartment.”

“You what?!?  So he didn’t take advantage of you?!?  It was the other way around???”

“I told you I did a bad thing.”

And then, once I had decided that Dead Wing wasn’t really a date-raping scumbag, my thoughts immediately turned to my favorite subject: me.  “So let me get this straight, it took you less than two weeks to fuck your new boss?  Meanwhile, I was your boss for four fucking years!  What the fuck, Prada??”

At this point, I think it’s only fair to give some time to the accused.  Here is Dead Wing’s recollection of the incident:

SHE attacked me in the cab and was kissing me and grabbing me in inappropriate places.  And the thought that crossed my mind as she led me up the stairs of the condo was, “How many guys has she led up these stairs?”  I often refer to it as the “Reverse Walk of Shame.”  And how when I was about to put a rubber on she grabbed my dick.  I said, “Hold on, I need to put a condom on.”  She then started to pull me inside her.  I said, “No condom?”  She put my dick inside her and I said, “I guess not!”  I then said the prayer that every guy that goes bareback with a girl they don’t know says.  How he prays that his dick does not fall off by morning and how he hopes he’s not celebrating Fathers’ Day next year (or sitting in the waiting room of Planned Parenthood staring at a picture of Sarah Palin.)…  During our drunken sex romp she said, “Cum on my tits.”  This was the moment I knew that I wanted to marry her.  (If that’s not a Hallmark card I don’t know what is).  I was also happy that she gave me a blow job, which I did not get from my then girlfriend.  All I kept thinking was, “That bitch needs to be cheated on for not giving me a blow job in two years!”  She told me that she would give me one on our wedding night.  My response was, “I am not marrying a girl that has not given me a blow job.  Because, if you suck at it (no pun intended) I would be filing for divorce after our honeymoon.”  I’ve always wondered why that relationship did not work out.

I won’t bore you with the long-winded version of all that transpired from that point.  Here’s the Cliff Notes version:

–The next time I saw Dead Wing I gave him my best hard-ass look and said, “You lied to me.  Looked me straight in the eye and lied to my face…  Well done, very well done.”

–Tripod and I did still interrogate him thoroughly, and only half-jokingly, about whether he had roofied Prada.

–Dead Wing swears he never slept with his then-girlfriend again after that night.  I don’t know if that technically absolves him of cheating, but it is kind of romatic.  Kind of.

–Prada and Dead Wing started officially dating shortly after that.  They were married a few years later.  A couple nights before their wedding, I was at a BBQ for friends and family.  The Catholic priest who was to marry them was a family friend of Prada’s and a cool guy; he, Dead Wing and I cannonballed an entire bottle of wine together.  But, he was still a priest.  So when Dead Wing asked me, in front of the priest and all the family, to tell the story of how he and Prada had met, my face went totally blank.  Dead Wing still laughs about it to this day.  As he tells it: “You looked like you were thinking, ‘You want me to tell the priest  how you drugged and defiled your future wife???’”

–While interviewing Prada and Dead Wing for this story I uncovered a few more gems.  For instance, this memorable line from Dead Wing: We went to lunch that same day and she was telling me about her problems with men and I thought, “This girl would be perfect for me, if she was not so fucking crazy and could keep her pants on.”  Little did I know that I would be hip deep in her 12 hours later. 

–Or this classic: When I told you I wouldn’t fuck her I meant it.  I honestly had no intention of doing it.  But when you have not had a BJ in two years and a drunk girl starts making out with you and grabbing your dick in the back of a cab, pays the cab fare before you can grab your wallet, leads you upstairs, grabs your dick and throws it inside her bareback, I am not sure how many men could turn that down.

–And, saving the best for last: I am writing this while Prada’s parents are in the same room with us.  It took every ounce of willpower not to say, “Prada, when I was fucking you the first time did I cum on your tits or on your tramp stamp?”

How can I top that?  I might just turn this blog completely over to Dead Wing.



  1. Holy shit. AMAZING!!!

  2. Move over Romeo and Juliet! I love the “reverse walk of shame!”. This just proves that your friends are as sick and twisted as you are.

  3. You can NOT drop this blog while you have stories like this. More, please.

  4. […] Be Careful Who You Roofie […]

  5. When are we drinking together?

    • I used to have two very good friends in Manhattan, but now that they’re gone I doubt I’ll ever set foot in your city again, sorry! If you ever find yourself stuck in northern Utah gimme a shout; we’ll grab a 3.2% beer before you slit your wrists!!

      • Would you consider coming to NYC if Jewel played Madison Square Garden? 🙂

      • What’s the small theater underneath the Garden? Where they have the NFL draft I think? Maybe if she played there. She’s not really a arena performer.

  6. I think the theater is called the Paramount. A quick check of Jewel’s website reveals she is not touring anytime soon. Oh well, will have to find another excuse to come to NYC. How about bars that stay open to 4am and serve actual alcohol? 🙂

    If you like Jewel, check out an artist check by the name of Ani Difranco. She is not much to look at (the whole bohemian lesbian thing) but damn can she write and sing.

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