Based on a True Story

This is a tough story to write.  Not because it’s embarrassing like most of my stories, but because I have to be very careful to protect the identity of my friend, for reasons that will become obvious soon.  As such, I’m going to have to be really creative in changing names, dates, locations and cast of characters.

So, I can’t tell you how old I was when this story took place.  I can’t tell you if I was living in Champaign, Illinois; or San Diego, California; or End Of The World, Utah.  I can’t tell you why I was getting on a plane the next morning, because the sporting event I was heading to would make it too obvious.  I even have to give aliases to my aliases so no one can piece together who was involved in the story.

In other words, I can’t promise you that any of this story is actually “true.”  I’ve changed so many things it could probably best be described as “Based on a True Story.”

About all I can tell you is that it was my birthday, and I was catching a 7am flight the next morning.  Now, I’ve never been a big fan of my own birthday.  But, I’ve learned over the years that if I try to do nothing for my birthday, someone invariably tries to plan something on my behalf and it ends up sucking.  So I’ve started taking matters into my own hands and planning my own birthday party.  And by “party” I mean telling people what bar I’ll be getting drunk at.  If they want to come and buy me drinks, great; if not, that’s fine too.

So for this particular birthday I chose my local sports bar.  It was a weeknight so I didn’t feel compelled to go to some cool bar or club, and the waitresses and bartenders at this bar were hotter than anything we were likely to find out in the middle of the week.

My buddy Top Gun and I headed out early and started drinking probably about 6.  We flirted with the waitresses and watched whatever sporting event was on TV while drinking heavily.  I was knockin’ back my old standby, gin and tonic, while Top Gun was drinking either vodka tonics or red bull and vodka (sorry, my memory is a little hazy).  I thought we had an understanding that we would hold off on the shots for a couple hours, until other people started showing up.

Apparently Top Gun had no such understanding.

Top Gun was in the midst of trying to break up with his girlfriend of several years.  This had been going on for about two months.  He had had “The Talk” with her on at least two occasions, and both times she had completely lost it, crying and wailing and begging and fucking his brains out until he was powerless to go through with it.  A couple weekends before he had broken up with her on a Friday night, thought he was a free man, but as we were coming back from grabbing dinner and beers as prelude to his first Saturday as a free man, his roommate called to tell him the ex?girlfriend had been sitting on the front porch waiting for him for the better part of an hour.  We changed routes, headed to a bar to grab a drink and wait her out, but after another hour she was still waiting on the porch, crying, and Top Gun didn’t have the heart to put her through it anymore.  We went to his place, they fought, made up, fucked, fought some more, cried some more, fucked some more, and by Sunday morning he was more or less back with her. And I was out a wingman.

Now, Top Gun was a stand-up guy and hadn’t cheated on his ex?girlfriend through any of this, but he was at the end of his rope by now.  He wanted out.  Further complicating matters, there was a girl (we’ll call her Sweet Tits) he worked with who had been sniffing around him for several weeks.  Sweet Tits had invited herself out with us a couple times, gotten rip-roaring drunk with us, and then proceeded to throw herself at him.  To Top Gun’s credit, he had stayed faithful to the ex?girlfriend despite the new girl being hot and extremely available.

Sweet Tits had been texting him while we were drinking, and about the time a few more friends started showing up, she came strolling through the door looking smokin’ hot in a tight little dress.

Things were about to get interesting.

My friend Captain Caveman was on the scene now, and he was a fiend for shots.  We were knocking them back at an alarming rate.  Marlboro Men, Washington Apples, Sicilian Kisses, Jagerbombs, some other things I can’t remember.  I was quickly becoming a mess and it wasn’t even 9 o’clock yet.  And then Buddha showed up and ordered tequila, my old nemesis.

Bad news.

I have to be honest, there’s very little I remember about the rest of our stay at the bar.  I don’t know who was there, I don’t remember what girl I was trying to sleep with at the time that undoubtedly shot me down.  But here’s what I do remember:

At some point in the evening, after ogling Sweet Tits’ sweet tits for awhile, I leaned over and drunkenly draped my arm around Top Gun.  He was no doubt afraid I was about to become one of those emotional drunks that starts telling everyone what a good friend they are and how much I love him.  Not me.

“You know what I want for my birthday?” I said to him in my quietest drunk voice (which is probably just slightly below a roar).  “I want you to fuck the shit out of Sweet Tits!”

Top Gun looked at me quizzically, like this was the oddest request he’d ever heard in his life.  But then he shrugged, smiled, and just said, “Okay.”

A little while later, after Buddha and Captain Caveman had very nearly made me puke with their endless parade of shots, Top Gun appeared by my side with a shit eating grin on his face.  “Done,” was all he said.

It took a moment for it to register with me.  “Wait… what? … You mean? … No! … You didn’t! … You fucked her?!? … In the parking lot?!? … No!  Get the fuck outta here! … You fucked her?!?  Just now?!? … No fuckin’ way! … You really did it???”

I was babbling incoherently, and then I was high fiving and hugging him and dancing around like a fool celebrating a touchdown.  “That’s fucking great!”  I looked across the bar and saw Sweet Tits checking her makeup while she waited for a drink.  “That is the greatest birthday present ever!” I hollered, forcing Top Gun to tell me to keep it down.  “So you’re a free man now!  I’ve got my wingman back!  This is the best birthday ever!!!”

But the night didn’t end there.  Inspired by my friend’s bold parking lot fornication, I decided I needed to get laid myself.  Somewhere between wasted and blacked out, I decided it would be an outstanding idea to drunk text my ex-girlfriend, who lived about 45 minutes away.  I can’t actually remember the conversation that transpired, but here’s a rough simulation:

SWASS- Hey, it’s my birthday!  Wanna fuck???

Ex-GF- Now?

SWASS- Yeah!  It’s my birthday and I miss you!

Ex-GF- Really?

SWASS- Hell yeah!

Ex-GF- Where are you?

SWASS-  XXXXXX’s Bar

Ex-GF- That’s like 45 min away!  I’m already in my PJ’s!

SWASS- Don’t worry, I’ll find a ride up there.  But can you take me to the airport in the morning?

Ex-GF- What time?

SWASS- 5?

Ex-GF- WTF?  Are you kidding me???

SWASS-  But it’s my birthday!  And I miss you!

As long as we're "based on a true story," we'll say my ex looked like this

And it went on like this for some time, only with a lot more misspellings on my part.  When she finally relented I pulled the birthday card on Buddha and made him drive me all the way up to her place.

I’m pretty sure I passed out on the way up to her place, because I really don’t remember anything about the drive.  Buddha was a true friend and got me up there, waited patiently while I had to call her for the specific directions to her place, and finally dropped me off with an apology to my ex.  By this time it was close to 2 in the morning.  That meant two things: First, I had been drinking for somewhere near 8 hours.  And second, I needed to get up in about three hours for my flight.

So, not wasting anytime, I tried to get busy with her on a park bench outside her apartment.  When she refused me that we stumbled up to her apartment and went straight to bed.

Now, I’m sure you have all experienced Whiskey Dick before.  Well, this was Whiskey Dick’s evil cousin, Super Dick.  That’s when you’re hard as a rock but can’t climax.  Super Dick sounds like a great thing (“Hey, I can fuck all night!”).  But in reality, when you’re stupid blind drunk all you really want to do is cum and pass out.  It’s a cruel irony; you never last as long as you want when you’re sober, but when you’re drunk you’re like a machine.

I pounded on the ex forever.  It was the best cardio workout I’d had in weeks.  But there was no way I was going to cum.  The ex was moaning and groaning (she had to be faking it), telling me how much she missed me.  Finally, after an eternity, and when I felt like I might just puke if I exerted myself anymore, I faked my orgasm.

That’s right, I faked it.

Take that, ladies!

I rolled off her, told her how great she was, and before passing out set my alarm for 4:45.  Fifteen minutes before we technically needed to get on the road for the airport.

It’s amazing what two hours of sleep can do when you’re shitfaced.  I was still drunk when I woke up, but no longer a total trainwreck.  So, confident that Super Dick had passed, I nudged the ex awake, rolled back on top of her, and went at it again.

It couldn’t have taken me more than three minutes to cum.

In retrospect I feel a little bad, because even though it had lasted longer the night before I seriously doubt my performance had been anything to write home about.  But oh well.

So then the ex, bless her heart, drove my ass all the way back to my place to grab my bag, then drove me to the airport.  And all she got out of it was a beautiful sunrise.

In the aftermath of this epic night, the ex got the crazy idea in her head that we might get back together.  Thankfully I was gone for about a week so that helped a bit.

But the real story was Top Gun.  I think he felt guilty about finally cheating on his ex?girlfriend, even if it was barely more than a technicality.  He broke up with her, and almost immediately started dating Sweet Tits.

They were married a few years later.

Now isn’t that a happy ending?  And it was all because of me!  Of course, Sweet Tits has no idea about any of this, so we’ll have to keep it our little secret.

Who says I’m not a romantic???

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You Think It’s Break-Up Sex, She Thinks It’s Make-Up Sex

In a previous post, I admitted that I did not lose my virginity until I was 26.  Well, a little over a year after that I had my first girlfriend, Lacey.  At the risk of sounding like a total asshole, I never really liked her that much.  But she was into me, she was a fellow Illini fan in San Diego, and I figured I should at least experience a relationship so I’d have some idea what to expect in the future.  So I dated her for about four months.  This is the story about what happened next.

It was a chilly Friday night in lovely San Diego.  At the Division II school I worked at we were hosting women’s volleyball and men’s soccer at the same time.  Volleyball was ranked #2 in the nation and dispatched their foe in less than 90 minutes, so that by 8:30 I was beginning to get the wild notion in my head that I might actually get to go out and get drunk tonight.  After finishing up I went out to the soccer field to see where things were at.  Surprise, surprise, we were deadlocked in a 0-0 tie late in the second half.  (When I die and go to hell I’m sure it will be a neverending scoreless soccer game.  With stands full of foreigners and sell-out Americans trying to tell me how futbol is the purest sport.)  My dreams of intoxication were fading fast.

But then my buddy G-Man called me.  “Dude, what’re you doin’ tonight?”

“Well, right now I’m watching a bunch of soccer fags not score.”

“Dude, I’ve got twelve super-hot chicks on their way over to my place right now to pre-party, then we’re goin’ to Typhoon.”

“Damn you!” As most of you know by now, Typhoon was my favorite bar in San Diego.

G-Man replied with, “You remember that chick Meghan?  She’s gonna be there.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

Let me tell you a little about Meghan.  I’d only met her once, I couldn’t tell you a single thing about her other than the fact that she knew G-Man from college.  But I did know that she was hot.  Smokin’ hot.  About 5’8″, blond with blue eyes and a killer California tan, great tits and an ass that wouldn’t stop.  Everything about her was pure sex appeal.  Mind you, she might have been retarded or gay or even a communist for all I know, but just the opportunity to stare at her cleavage all night was more than enough to make me pull rank on my staff and cut out of the soccer game just as it was heading for double overtime.

(Sidebar: I’m sure there are some soccer fans reading this story, and I do not mean to offend, but honestly, is there anything dumber than the term “Sudden Victory?”  Not “sudden death,” no, that would be too manly, too aggressive, too much like real sports.  Sudden Victory.)

So as I’m slinking away into the night, hiding from upper management types that might question my decision to leave things in the hands of my borderline-retarded assistant, my phone rings again.  It’s the ex- girlfriend.

Since our break up, we had been on surprisingly good terms, mostly due to the fact that we had kept a pretty safe distance from one another, making it easy to avoid those tough “We need to talk” moments.

She was piss drunk at a friend’s party (a friend I’d love to sleep with, but that another story).  I told her I was heading out to Typhoon with G-Man.  “Ohhh,” she said, “I was going to go there but now I’m too drunk and I don’t have a ride.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” I answered, not meaning it.  We exchanged a few pleasantries and that was that.

Before I go any further, I should roll back the tape a bit.  After breaking up with Lacey I had sent an email to a couple of my closest friends explaining the reasons for my dumping her.  I won’t bore you with that lengthy diatribe, but I will quote the brilliant email my buddy Family Man sent me in response:

“[Single White Alcoholic], while all of these are valid reasons for a split, I’m willing to bet a nice bottle of gin that you will get to experience some good old fashioned break-up sex in the next 30 days. Scientific studies have shown that male/female relationships ending due to break up are closely followed by a one-time intense sexual encounter involving the split couple 94% of the time.  I’m sorry to say it’s a virtual scientific fact that you will have to experience some break up sex at least one more time in the near future.  The fact that it’s football season and both your favorite college football team and your fantasy football team are going to suck will ensure that September will be a very emotional time for you. Throw in your normal rate of alcohol consumption and a little bad judgment and you’ll be up to your ears in reason #4 [bad blowjobs] before you know it.

Although this piece of brilliant illumination was fresh in my mind, I wasn’t really considering it at that moment.  I was just thinking about a great night of drinking with G-Man and staring at the beautiful angel Meghan.

I raced home, took two shots, made myself a fat Red Bull and vodka for the shower (sippy cups: they’re not just for kids!), and raced out the door.  Along the 15 minute walk to the bar, sipping on another cocktail, I got a text from Lacey: “R U at Typhoon?”

Oh Lord.  I should have lied, but being new to relationships (and break-ups), I fired back a quick “On my way,” to which she responded “I’m trying to find a ride but everyone is drunk.”

I got to Typhoon and found G-Man so drunk he could barely stand.  “Been drinking since 4,” he announced, putting his arm around me.  “I’m toast… Come on, let’s do shots.”  We knocked back some Jager, then he said, “Come on, let’s go find Meghan.”

We found Meghan and her friends in a corner of the bar.  She was almost as hammered as G-Man.  G-Man immediately seemed to sober up (he’s a world-class wingman) and with absolute clarity introduced me to her, even though we’d met before.  He raved about what a great guy I was, how good of friends we were, everything to set me up as well as possible.  Then he gave me a quick look, a conspiratorial smile, and told her, “And he’s a huge Lakers fan.”  Then he disappeared.

(For the record, I am NOT a Lakers fan.  I don’t even particularly like the NBA.  What a guy.)

Meghan took my hand extra affectionately and started talking some nonsense about her Lakers.  I stepped right into character, talking about the Purple and Gold like they were my favorite team.  I lamented the loss of D-Fish; talked optimistically about Lamar Odom; reminisced about countless smackdowns laid on the hated Sacramento Queens.  I was on top of my game.  And the best part was she was so drunk I had free rein to ogle her marvelous breasts to my heart’s content.

G-Man hadn’t been lying about there being a dozen girls in the group, so I didn’t get to spend as much time with her as I would have liked.  They drug her off to the dance floor, and while she was dancing G-Man and I drank more.  And it was just about that time that Lacey started calling.  “We’re on our way there.  Don’t leave!”

Shit.

How to handle this one?  I knew I was getting too drunk to juggle.  Without a solid solution, I decided to immerse myself in more booze in the hope that it might spur some ingenious plan.

The alcohol didn’t help, but G-Man did.  When Lacey walked in I turned to him with a look of confused desperation, to which he just patted me reassuringly on the shoulder and said, “She’s the bullpen dude.  You hope you don’t have to turn to your bullpen, but it’s there if you do.”

Wiser words have never been spoken.

Lacey arrived with one of her law school friends and some random dude she knew from somewhere.  I had met him once before but had been drunk at the time, and upon learning he was a Michigan grad I’d rudely ignored him.  This time I gave him an aloof handshake and continued to ignore him.  I was friendly enough to Lacey and her other friend, but I was definitely focused elsewhere.

At this point the night begins to get fuzzy.  Meghan came back our direction and I was talking to her, probably too drunk to even think about whether Lacey was noticing.  As it turned out it wasn’t necessary.  Apparently the Michigan guy was trying to make a move on her.  Had I known this my reaction would have been, “Great, have at it.”  But instead, while I was diverted, G-Man took it upon himself to bitch Lacey out for “pulling that bullshit” in front of me.  He ripped her up and down, tearing her apart not only for bringing another guy around to “make me jealous,” but a scumbag from a rival school on top of it.  Stumbling drunk and slurring his words, G-Man then threatened to beat the Michigan guy up.

G-Man was so effective Lacey came up to me apologizing for her behavior, and I just nodded drunkenly, telling her it was alright (it would be several days before I pieced things together enough to know what the fuck she was talking about).  It was nearing last call and Meghan was about to puke, her friends carrying her to the door, and I realized I’d missed my chance.

So, with sad reluctance I walked out to the mound and called for the bullpen…

And it was just that easy.  The Michigan boy disappeared, the other friend drove us to my apartment, and drunken sloppy monkey sex ensued.

In the morning there was that agonizing awkwardness, that terrified sense that at any moment she would say something like “We need to talk,” or “Does this mean we’re back together?” or “Wow, you’re a lousy lay when you’re drunk.”  But fortunately she was in even worse shape than I was, half sick with a hangover and trying to piece together the previous night’s events.  She didn’t even remember how she had gotten to my place.  I just laid there in a hungover stupor, trying to put off getting up as long as possible.  Somehow I lucked out and her friend returned to pick her up, so I was free to stay in bed and sleep off my hangover.

But in the aftermath things definitely got more awkward between us.  Lacey’s law school friend informed her about G-Man’s threatening to beat up the Michigan boy and she wasn’t happy about it.  I refrained from making an issue of why G-Man felt compelled to take such action (i.e. the Wolverine was trying to get in her pants) because that would have required more talking, and because it would have implied that I cared who she slept with.

The next day I saw her at the bar during the Bears game, and thankfully she waited until after the game to start in again, but she still wanted to complain about the way I had been treating her since the breakup.  Then, not 15 minutes after she had walked out the door, she was texting me apologizing and inviting me to dinner with her friends.  I turned off my phone and took a nap.  I may not have known much about relationships, but I knew things were going to get a lot worse before they got better.

As a follow up to the weekend’s events, I had to email Family Man to concede our bet of a bottle of gin.  And I also had to ask him a question:

“You said it was a 94% probability of a one-time break-up sex… what are the odds of it happening more than once?  Others have said that break up sex can be some of the best sex ever… was this not the case because we were so hammered, or is there just no hope whatsoever of ever having good sex with this girl?  And what are the odds of us staying at least civil enough that I don’t have to find another bar to watch the Illini’s next seven losses?”

...Or is it?

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.

WTF???

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.

The Legend of Elizabeth Reid, Part II

If you need to catch up, read Part I here.

CHAPTER 3 — THE FIRST TIME WE SLEPT TOGETHER

Summer, 2001

Elizabeth called me the next day.  We met up on campus a day or two later and I took her around to find her advisor, get her school ID, that kind of stuff.  I hooked her up with an interview to be a marketing intern for our athletic department.  Then we did lunch and I blew off the rest of the day to show her around San Diego while she completed some errands and chores for her moving process.

One of Elizabeth’s best qualities is that anything that takes more than a couple hours has to involve drinks.  So around 3:00pm we headed to a pizza joint by campus for a beer.  One 32oz beer turned into several, which then turned into about 6, and next thing I knew it was pushing 8 o’clock and we were both wasted, talking shit to a couple guys watching soccer on the TV.  (“Hey, aren’t there any real sports on?  Like synchronized swimming or pro wrestling or something?”)

It was a great night.  I was so into her that I didn’t even realize I had reverted back to my old loser ways, pining over a single girl and being happy just to be in her presence, even if I wasn’t getting any closer to landing her in the sack.  In short, I had rolled right back onto “Friends Boulevard,” with little chance of getting onto “Lovers’ Lane.”

But I still felt like I was making progress.  Thanks to my connections she scored her internship with the athletic department, so she was definitely in my debt.  And over that next week we started spending more and more time together.  We made plans to go out the next weekend, where I would introduce her to one of my favorite bars, the Beachcomber.

So Saturday I was sitting at home around 8:00, having dinner and watching TV.  I was supposed to be meeting up with Elizabeth around 9:30 at the ‘Comber, but she called me early, utterly wasted.  “Hey!  We got a head start!  I’m at a bar with my new roommates, we’ve been drinking since 4:00!  We rode our bikes and we’re heading over to the Beachcomber right now, why don’t you meet us there?”

I decided to play it cool.  I wanted her to wait a little while, let her know I’m not just at her beck and call.  Plus, I wanted her to get even more drunk and hopefully drop her defenses.

Tripod had already bailed on me for some reason, so I decided to roll solo rather than try to call in backups.  I hit the Beachcomber about 10:30. Elizabeth was absolutely smashed, as were her new roommates.  The three roommates were all guys, which should have been a red flag I guess, but they seemed cool enough and none of them seemed a particular threat to my target.

At the end of the night two of the roommates were trying to hook up with some girls, so they threw their bikes in someone’s car and left Elizabeth with just one other roommate to ride home.  Mind you, it was a good five miles from the bar to her place, and she was obliterated.  I spent ten minutes trying to talk her out of it, saying this had disaster written all over it.  I begged, pleaded, scolded, cursed, everything I could think of, but she was hell-bent on riding home.  I got a big hug and a disappointing little kiss and she was off.

Defeated and annoyed, I started walking off towards my car.  Another night, another failure to close the deal.  I was just beginning to question what the hell I was doing in virtually the same position I’d been in twice before over the last seven years, when Elizabeth rode by me on the street, wobbling uncontrollably on her bike.  She got less than a block in front of me before crashing into a curb.  Her front tire popped on impact and she very nearly went ass over teakettle before awkwardly plopping down on the curb with her bike sprawled out beside her; how she didn’t kill herself I’ll never know.

Seizing the moment, I came to her rescue and we threw her bike in my trunk and I gave her ride home.  Which got me in the door, where we plopped down on the couch in the living room and had another drink.  Her couch was the most comfortable I’ve ever seen; it was massive, big enough for two people to sleep side by side.  It was a blessing and a curse.  On the one hand it was a great spot to make my move, not nearly as cramped as trying to make out on most couches; but on the other hand, it was so damn comfortable that Elizabeth, in her drunken state, was fading fast.

One of the roommates had apparently been successful in his quest, because we could hear him just fucking the living shit out of some girl in his bedroom.  It was very amusing and just a little bit of a turn on.  I was just starting to move in for the kill when Elizabeth drunkenly mumbled, “Good night,” and passed right the fuck out on my shoulder.

Are you fucking kidding me?  Here I am, laying on this couch with the girl of my dreams passed out next to me.  I’m drunk but not drunk enough to just pass out.  She absolutely reeks of alcohol.  My arm starts falling asleep; my shoulder (already sore from working out) feels like it’s going to pop out of its socket.  I’ve got to take a piss.  And in the next room I can hear “Oh shit!  Oh shit Eddie!  Oh God oh shit oh god oh shit oh oh oh!!!”

And that’s how I spent the next four hours.  (Not the sex part, that only lasted 15 minutes or so.)

Sometime around 5:30am I finally managed to free myself to take a piss and shake out my arm.  I should have gone home right then, but I foolishly thought I still might be able to get some action, so I went back to the couch.  In her sleep she immediately crawled back into my arms and mumbled, “Marco, you’re awesome.”

WTF???

“I’m not Marco.”

She stirred a little and looked drunkenly up at me, smiled, and said, “Oh, sorry honey, I’m on crack.”  Then she wrapped me up a little tighter and passed out again for a good two hours.  It was near 8 in the morning before I finally got home to my own bed.  I slept all day.

Well that’s just great.  Apparently she’s dreaming I’m someone else.

I don’t know how I get myself into this shit.

CHAPTER 4 — OPERATION: CUSTER’S LAST STAND

Fall/Winter, 2001

The next four months were a whirlwind of drinking and futile attempts to hook up with Elizabeth.  The girl had the uncanny ability to make me feel like I had a chance, like life was great and we’re having a spectacular time and we might just have been meant to be.  And yet, when the night ended I always wound up just retarded drunk with nothing to show for it but an occasional half-assed kiss.  My frustration had reached near-epic levels.

We spent the night together one more time during that stretch.  It was a Thursday night and we were out until 4am just getting plastered (gin and tonics and shots of Yukon Jack, a truly awful combination) when we stumbled back to her place.  I went straight to the bathroom to take a piss and by the time I was done she was already crawling into bed.  I stood there drunkenly debating my next move –going home was at the top of my list of choices– when she called me to join her.

I crawled into bed alongside her but she already appeared to be passed out.  So once again I laid there, awkwardly contemplating my next move, when she drunkenly mumbled, “Can I ask you a question?”

As most of you guys know, after “We need to talk,” and “Is that as big as it gets?” this is probably the most terrifying thing you can hear from a woman.  So I warily answered, “Ummm, sure.”

“Why don’t you put your arm around me when we sleep together?”

Now, there are a million different ways I could have responded to this.  “Because I’m trying not to poke you with my boner,” would be one way.  “Because I’m a sad lovesick little puppy dog,” would have been the most truthful, I suppose.  But in the end I decided to call her bluff with, “Do you really want to have this conversation right now?”

She mumbled something incoherent, then reached behind her and literally pulled my arm around her before immediately passing out with me spooning her.

Things were not working out the way I had planned them.

Thank God for Kurt Kittner

An entire football season came and went in pretty much the same manner.  I partied hard, drank harder, and tried like hell to break through to Elizabeth.  All I got for my struggles was a lot of hangovers, some disapproving looks from superiors when I showed up to work disheveled and smelling of booze, and the occasional fully clothed spoon session with her.  I tell ya, were it not for the dual miracles of my alma mater’s run to the Sugar Bowl and Da Bears’ NFC North crown I probably would have been damn near suicidal.

We had made plans months earlier to roadtrip to Phoenix to watch our alma mater play Arizona in basketball.  ‘Zona had knocked us out in the Elite 8 the year before in one of the nastiest, roughest, worst officiated basketball games I’ve ever seen.  (That game came awfully close to making my list of the most Devastating Losses in my life.)   We had lost a lot of talent from that team, and any logical look at reality would have said this year’s team wasn’t going to beat Arizona, but I was still boiling with hatred from that heartbreaking loss, and so I had deluded myself into believing that passion and bitterness alone would make it a contest.

I should have just stayed home.

I had decided that this would be it with Elizabeth.  The final straw.  The last gasp.  The hail mary.  Given my passion for military history, I gave the pursuit a military-style operational name.  Operation: Custer’s Last Stand.  Kinda fitting, right?  I planned everything to a T.  While most of the older alums were staying in downtown Phoenix, near the arena, I got us a room right by Arizona State’s campus –long regarded as the top party school in America– figuring we’d go out after the game, just the two of us, get blitzed and see what happened.  It seemed like the perfect plan at the time.

Well, I knew I was in trouble when I talked to Elizabeth the night before the trip and she was starting to feel ill.  When I picked her up the next morning she was feeling worse, so I could already see my plan falling apart.  We stopped at a Walgreen’s to get some drugs, both of us futilely hoping to head off the inevitable, but it just wasn’t meant to be.

By the time we hit Phoenix five hours later she was starting to feel pretty miserable, but to her credit she was still fighting the good fight.  She insisted we hit a drive-thru liquor store before we even found our hotel room so we could have a case of beer for the room.  We would have a couple hours before the game and she wanted to get liquored up.  This, of course, played right into my plan, so I assented.

But when we got to the hotel things started to head south.  Her throat hurt so bad she could barely drink her beer, stopping after two.  We both showered and changed and headed for the game, far less buzzed than I had hoped for.

I could write an entire novel about how badly the game went, but I’ll do my best to refrain.  Bad shooting, no hustle, no toughness, a demoralizing loss in front of a crowd predominantly cheering for those obnoxious cocksuckers from Arizona.  We all left the arena in a pretty somber mood. Elizabeth’s health was like a barometer of our team; as the game went on she felt worse and worse.  By the end of it I knew my mission was a total abort.

We stopped for a quick dinner and went back to the hotel, where she promptly crawled into one of the beds and went to sleep.  I seriously contemplated leaving her there while I went exploring the ASU bar scene.  (I still kick myself for not going.  It almost makes me cry to think how close I was to The Library, one of the most infamous college bars in all of America.  The bartenders and waitresses there are supposed to be legendary.)

It was one of the worst nights of my life.  Her fever was giving her chills so she had the heat cranked up to near hellish levels.  I laid in the other bed stripped down as much as I dared, sweating and stone sober, trying to figure out how I could possibly have so little luck with this girl and, more importantly, how the fuck our basketball team could be so goddamned soft.

The next morning I had to roust her from bed at 10:30 to make our check out.  She looked like absolute shit but of course said she was feeling better.  Just in time for us to head home.  For my part, I had slept maybe two hours all night because it was so fucking hot in there.  I swear I sweated out 5 pounds, and I made sure to grab some water for the drive back since I was pretty sure I was dangerously dehydrated.

Once again, I wondered how I could possibly keep getting myself into this shit.  Clearly, something had to give.  With a heavy heart, I decided to give up the chase.

For Part III of the story, please go back to my early post The Girl With the Glasses.

And like all great stories, this one will drag on longer than it should.  Part IV coming soon…

The Legend of Elizabeth Reid, Part I

I can’t tell you this story all at once.  It’s not just that it’s so long, but it’s also painfully pathetic.  Hopefully if I wedge it in between some other good stories, maybe an occasional sexual conquest, I won’t seem like such a sad pathetic loser.  But it’s a truly epic story, covering over a decade of my evolution from shy loser teenager to the drunken reprobate you all know and love.

CHAPTER 1 — THE COLLEGE YEARS

Late Summer/Early Fall, 1994

The University of Chief Illiniwek

I was 18 years old, an incoming freshman with a bad haircut and the beginnings of a pudgy gut brought on by the end of a not-so-illustrious high school football career.  It was the first day of class, my very first collegiate class in fact.  It was a math class, and so insanely easy that to this day I still wonder how I managed not to get an A.  Shy slacker that I was, I sat in the back of the classroom.  Before long, a very attractive young girl came and sat next to me.  She was extremely friendly and introduced herself as Elizabeth.

Elizabeth was gorgeous.  About 5’8”, she was tall and thin with an athlete’s body, and long straight brown hair that flowed down her back or fit perfectly into a ponytail in the back of her Chief Illiniwek ball cap.  A cute face with a freckled nose and vibrant eyes that smiled every bit as much as her mouth, so that her face seemed to be perpetually lit up with joy.

I was instantly smitten.  So much so that I barely even noticed that she talked nearly non-stop, and so fast that it seemed she couldn’t have time to even catch her breath, let alone allow someone else to get a word in.

We hit it off immediately.  We talked all through class everyday, had lunch together after class on a regular basis.  We shared a passion for sports, both our own school and the Chicago Bears (and, I would later find out, our beloved Chief Illiniwek).  It was Elizabeth who first introduced me to the wonders of skipping class for absolutely no reason at all, a skill that would come in very handy (although somewhat costly to my GPA) over the next four years.

It was like destiny.  High school had been rough for me.  I won’t bore you with my long sad story, but I didn’t have a lot of friends, never had a girlfriend and generally didn’t have much of a life.  But I had dreamed that college would be better.  A fresh start, a chance to reinvent myself.  And who could have scripted it better than to meet a smokin’ hot chick on the very first day, in my very first class, who was clearly into me?

It didn’t take long for my naïve mind to start plotting and scheming.  I managed to swing it so that we had to work on an out-of-class project together.  We went to the library to do research (who ever heard of researching math???), where we spent more time talking and laughing than studying.  One day, after mustering up all my young, pathetic courage, I decided it was time to ask Elizabeth out.  After a research session at the library, walking her back to her dorm, I prepared to make my move.  As she talked on and on about some such thing, my heart pounded in my chest as only a sad, lonely young boy’s can.

I paused to catch my breath.  My heart was racing so hard I could feel it throbbing in my temples.  I felt like I was having a heart attack.  Sweat was breaking out on my brown.  Could she hear my heart pounding?

She’s still talking.

I took another deep breath, attempting to collect myself.  Alright, kid, time to step up to the plate and take a swing like a man.

She’s still talking.

This won’t be that hard.  You know she’s into you.  Just dive on in.

She’s still talking.

Like shootin’ fish in a barrel, bud.  Fish in a barrel.

She’s STILL talking.

Time to make your move.  Let’s go!!

Somewhere in the back of my mind, the tiny one percent of my brain that had actually been listening to her incessant talking, alarms started going off.  “…yeah, my boyfriend is coming down to visit this weekend.  I’m, like, SO excited….”

My heart dropped, nearly tripping me as it splattered on the pavement in a big red messy splatter.  I couldn’t breathe.  It felt like the time that 240-pound fullback had run me over in high school football.  I stopped in my tracks, trying to regain some semblance of composure.  I fought the urge to dive into oncoming traffic.  Elizabeth started to turn back to see why I was slowing.

With a poise I never knew I possessed, I picked up the tattered remnants of my heart.  Stuffed it back in my chest, took a deep breath, flashed her a disarming smile, and finished escorting her back to her dorm.  Then went off by myself to sulk in self-pity.

Spring, 1998

Three and a half years passed.  I was a senior now, sporting a buzz cut that would soon begin showing the unmistakable signs of male pattern baldness.  Basketball had just won their first Big Ten championship in 14 years, and our football team seemed sure to break their nation-leading 17-game losing streak next season.  And personally I was finally coming into my own.

I still don’t remember where it happened.  It might have been a bar, possibly Kam’s, and that’s a pretty good bet since I spent most every weekend there (even though I still wasn’t much of a drinker).  Others have said it was on the Quad, between classes, and that’s a possibility, though it doesn’t make for as good of a story.  But whatever, one day in the spring of ’98, I ran into Elizabeth.  I, of course, recognized her immediately.  If anything, the years had made her even more beautiful.  But amazingly, Elizabeth remembered me too.  Even my name, which she cried out with true joy as she embraced me and then broke into a long dissertation on the good old days of freshman math, and what she had been doing since then, and how life in the sorority was, and how tough this last semester was for her, and on and on and on.  The girl still knew how to talk.

After catching up on old times for awhile we both agreed that we should get together again, and soon.  We exchanged numbers  –some have insinuated that this was the first time I ever actually got a girl’s number, but those reports are exaggerated— and vowed to call each other.  But over the next week we played phone tag (this was before cell phones), then Elizabeth had a busy schedule that prevented us from getting together.  Days turned into two weeks before we finally managed to set a lunch date.

It was Friday.  I arrived at the little deli a good five minutes early, as only a lonely, lovesick young man can, waiting around impatiently for her arrival.  She showed up a good five minutes late, as only a hungover sorority girl can.  Her hair was a mess, her clothes were a mess, she was pale and sweating from a night of binge drinking.  But she still looked good to me.  She refused to eat, saying she would throw up if she did.  This put me in the unenviable position of eating in front of her while she watched.

But it actually worked out for the best, because it allowed me a mild diversion while she rattled on and on and on about God knows what.  When I finished eating, I calmly leaned back in my chair on the patio of the deli and eyed my prey.

You see, in the three-plus years since I’d first met Elizabeth I had grown not only balder, but older and wiser too.  Mind you, I still hadn’t actually had a girlfriend, hadn’t really gone on anything resembling a date.  But I had spent enough time around girls that I was no longer a shy and terrified little boy.  My heart no longer pounded, my brow no longer broke out in sweat.  I was cool and collected.

She’s still talking.

And as far as I was concerned, this one would be a cakewalk.  She had been into me three years ago, and if not for the high school sweetheart I was certain she would have been mine.  And the fact that she remembered me –even my name—all this time later was only further proof.

She’s STILL talking.

There was no need for that initial panic this time, because first contact had already been made.  It wasn’t like three years ago, when I was going to have to make the first move.  This lunch right here essentially was a first date, right?  So it was just a matter of laying back and playing my cards right.

Holy Jesus, she’s still fucking talking!

If you’ve read this far, then you surely know what’s coming next.  So I don’t need to go over the part about the small sliver of my brain that was actually listening to her endless blabbering about some such trivial bullshit.  I don’t need to go over the part about the sirens going off at the key phrase, almost a direct quote from three and half years ago: “My boyfriend’s coming to visit tomorrow.  I can’t wait….”

My heart held up this time.  Although disappointed, I took it well.  Besides, it wasn’t over yet.  A little prying told me that it wasn’t the same boyfriend as before, so that was a good sign.  I’d just have to wait out the storm, be ready to spring my trap when the moment came.  Use my charm to drive a wedge between her and the absentee boyfriend.

We figured out that we would both be at Kam’s the next night, so we went on our separate ways.  Saturday night came, and after six-plus hours of partying (again, I wasn’t the alcoholic you all know and love yet, so “partying” is a relative term) I found myself in the basement of Kam’s, not even thinking of Elizabeth when she appeared before me with an entire crew of friends.  She introduced me to everyone, including the boyfriend, who was so unspectacular and insignificant that to this day I can’t remember a single detail about him.

My confidence raised, I played it cool and spent most of the night partying with my own friends.  But at the end of the night we met up on the street outside Kam’s and we both assured each other that we would call and get together again.  She gave me a big hug in front of the irrelevant boyfriend and we parted ways.

For reasons that are still not altogether clear, we never did get together again.  I honestly don’t remember, but I never saw her again the rest of college.  One night during the winter of  ’98-99, in the midst of our basketball team’s spectacular 11th place finish in the Big Ten, I thought I saw her at a game.  I pushed my way through the hoards of students only to discover it wasn’t her.  The dream was dead.

CHAPTER 2 — SAN DIEGO

Summer, 2001

Over The Line weekend in San Diego.

For those of you who don’t know, Over The Line is a bizarre form of 3-on-3 beach softball.  It’s played on the sand in a long, narrow strip (not a diamond), with ghost runners and all kinds of other crazy rules.  The Over The Line Tournament on Fiesta Island draws over 1500 teams annually, men and women, from all over the world for its two weekend tourney.  But the real reason to go isn’t the game, it’s the drunken beach party that goes along with it.  Over The Line might be the last place on earth where sexual harassment is not only tolerated but actively encouraged.  Men walk around with stickers to stick on the hot, scantly clad women; the really clever ones get stickers from a grocery store that say “USDA Prime Cut” of “Ripe- Ready to Eat.”  Mardi Gras-style beads are also in abundance, which the girls will flash for (or sometimes they’ll flash you just for asking nicely).  Cameras are an absolute must.

In just two years in San Diego I had become a grizzled veteran of OTL.  I knew all the tricks: where to park for the shuttle bus (just school busses rented for the weekend), how big a cooler to bring and what to stock it with, etc.  I had even learned just how much sunscreen I needed to protect my now completely bald head.  So Sunday morning I loaded up the cooler, picked up my boy Tripod and headed for the shuttle pick-up.  Tripod, all 4’4″ and 220 pounds of him, was my best friend and the ultimate wingman.  Girls are just drawn to him, and he has the engaging personality to make them cut loose and get wild in a hurry.  As we loaded onto the school bus for the ride over I saw someone in the seat directly behind me.

I knew instantly.

But I was too shocked to say anything.  With my bald head and a goatee I felt confident she wouldn’t recognize me, so I was glad my sunglasses hid the fact that I was openly staring at her in disbelief.

Now, the shuttle bus to OTL is an extremely friendly, outgoing place.  People are in such a great mood, looking forward to a day of drunken debauchery out in the San Diego sun.  Everyone likes everyone, kind of like the way all the kids at Disney World share the same eager anticipation.  So eventually people started passing around beers to their newfound friends.  I accepted a Dos Equis from someone and made my move.

“You’re Elizabeth, right?”

Across the aisle of the school bus, Tripod was looking at me with skepticism.  Tripod is the popular one in San Diego.  He’s one of those people that knows someone everywhere he goes, especially ladies.  And, of course, how can anyone ever forget a man like Tripod?  I’m just a run-of-the-mill Midwestern white boy livin’ in Tripod’s world.  I never know anyone, especially not a chick this hot.

“Yeah!  I thought you looked really familiar.  You’re… wait a minute… I want to say… xxxxx?”

***You didn’t really think I was going to give away my secret identity did you??***

Turns out Elizabeth had just moved to San Diego, where she was starting grad school at the same school I happened to be working at in the athletic department.  She was positively thrilled to find a familiar face this far from home, and working for the athletic department where she hoped to find an internship no less.

The two of us and all of our assorted friends spent the day at OTL drinking and having a rousing good time.  (It’s important to note here that Elizabeth is now drop-dead gorgeous.  And in a bikini, well, words can’t describe it.  Just amazing.  She had dyed her long hair blond and was now almost beyond comprehension.  In-fucking-credible.)  Beers flowed, shots flowed, sunscreen flowed.  Stories of the old days made Tripod laugh at what a goober I used to be.  (That little fucker still takes credit for turning me into the Single White Alcoholic you know and love today.)  I tried to make up for these unflattering stories by showing off my beer bong skills, which are quite good, and my shotgunning skills, which are quite bad.

Elizabeth got my number and promised to call later in the week so I could take her around campus and see if I could help her out with an internship.  As we parted ways she gave me several drunken hugs and kisses on the cheek, still rambling on and on about how amazing it was that we ran into each other 2000 miles from home.

It seemed Destiny had given me another chance.

To Be Continued…

 —

Coming in Part II: The First Time We Slept Together

Free Agents of Love

I have always contended that being in a relationship is akin to being a Restricted Free Agent.  The problem with this argument is 1) Most women don’t know what the hell a RFA is, and 2) Even most people who understand the NFL’s CBA can’t quite grasp the concept of someone in a committed relationship being a “free agent.”  So, for the sake of both women who don’t understand free agency and men who don’t understand relationships, here is the definitive comparison of relationships to the world of professional sports contract negotiations.

#1) When you’re single, you’re an Unrestricted Free Agent (duh).  This is the most obvious analogy.  When you’re single you’re free to pursue any team (i.e. piece of tail) you want to fall in the sack with.  Whether that team is interested in you is a different matter.  Occasionally a truly coveted asset will find themselves a UFA (at the end of a long contract, or due to a parting of ways with your old team), but usually if you’re an Unrestricted Free Agent it’s because nobody thinks you’re worth a whole helluva lot.

#2) When you enter into a relationship you become a Restricted Free Agent.  Although you are technically with someone, you are free to explore other options, you just can’t act upon them without giving fair warning to your partner.  In other words, the person you are dating has “right of first refusal.”  Although you are not locked into anything (you can be free as a bird with one simple break up conversation), societal norms and common decency demand that you inform your current partner of any outside offers and give them the chance to match that offer.

“Matching” an offer can take many different forms.  Maybe your partner isn’t fulfilling your needs– mentally, emotionally or sexually.  Maybe you have a chance with someone so ridiculously hot and out of your league that this will be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.  Or maybe you’ve been offered a chance at a threesome.  These are all perfectly legitimate reasons to consider signing up with another team.  But remember, you have to give your current team a chance to match the offer.  And who knows, maybe your girlfriend will surprise you and match your threesome just to keep you under contract!

#3) Sometimes, after a lengthy courtship and months or even years of dating, there comes a point where you have to make a drastic decision on the course of your future.  It’s put up or shut up time.  You either have to walk away from the relationship or move to the next level.  That next level, of course, is getting engaged.  This is the equivalent of the Franchise Tag.  In football, teams can slap the Franchise Tag on a player and lock them up for one more year, during which time the player gets paid very handsomely (the average of the top 5 players at his position), and they are unable to look elsewhere or even talk to another team for that year.

The only difference between getting engaged and the Franchise Tag is that both parties have a say in getting engaged.  One person proposes, the other either accepts or denies.  With the Franchise Tag a team applies it to a player and there’s nothing they can do about it for one year.  But other than that they’re identical.  When you’re Franchised or engaged, there’s really no way out.  Breaking an engagement can be done, but it’s a long and painful process.  It will require alienating not just your partner but all of his/her family, all your mutual friends, everyone that bought you an engagement gift, etc. etc.  In other words, the “fans.”  For all intents and purposes you’re locked in for about a year.

If you’re happy with this arrangement, great.  This is just the first step to a long term deal.  If you prove your worth to your mate, then you’re ready for the next step…

#4) Marriage is the proverbial Long Term Contract.  Unless you’re a celebrity or you were drunk in Vegas, there’s no quick and easy way out of marriage.  Even if everything goes to total shit within two weeks of getting hitched, you can count on a couple years of pain and suffering before you can finally break out of that multi-year deal.  Basically, you’re stuck.

Now, I don’t want to make it sound too terrible.  Most marriages, like most Long Term Contracts, are mutually beneficial to both sides, make both parties extremely happy, and bring years of joy to not just both parties involved but their “fans” too.  But the fact remains that you’re locked in.  Don’t even think about looking to greener pastures.  To do so will only harm your relationship irrevocably and damage what should be the best years of your playing career.

#5) The Long Term Contract is important for another reason too.  Most all athletes will at some point suffer a serious injury that threatens their career.  A long term deal gives you security that you won’t be left without a team, alone and penniless.

In the Game of Life, pregnancy is that serious injury.  It’s a season-ending and possibly career-threatening injury.  How’s that, you ask?  Simple.  For women it’s fairly obvious: pregnancy ravages your body for at least 9 months, and some women just never recover their looks period.  On top of that, emotionally it makes you a wreck.  And lastly, having a kid is like tying a ball and chain round your ankle; any man who isn’t the father is going to view that excess baggage with a wary eye before jumping into any sort of Long Term Contract.  Not saying it can’t happen, but the deck is stacked against you.

For men, the damage to your body isn’t as severe (although who doesn’t know a man that let his workouts go to shit as soon as he was a daddy?), but the emotional component and the baggage of being a single dad are just as prevalent for a man as a woman.

So there you have it.  Everything in sports is a life analogy.  Or, more precisely, everything in life is a sports analogy.  Now get out there and find your Long Term Contract!

Edit: It’s been brought to my attention that the final line of my post (the “get out there and find your LTC.”) could be construed as gushy, sappy and I-want-to-fall-in-love-ish.  That was not my intent at all.  Remember, this is the guy who’s been single for over 98% of his life.  I’m not good at relationships, and what’s more, I do not believe AT ALL in trying to force one.  When it happens it happens.  That last line was just my normal, typical smart ass sense of humor.  I apologize if I made anyone feel like I was pimping for Hallmark.

Soul Mates

The longest relationship of my entire life lasted 4 months.  The second (and only other) lasted 2 months.  So in my nearly 35 years on this earth I’ve been single for approximately 98.5% of it.

But this weekend I decided to take the plunge again.  (You can tell how fucked up I am when I refer to “the plunge” not as marriage but merely dating.)  While I was home for Christmas I met a girl at the bar on Christmas night; we hit it off, had some epically bad drunk sex the next night, then followed it up with some pretty damn good slightly-less drunk sex the night after that, and stayed in touch after I flew back to the third world country known as Utah.  We texted for awhile, started talking regularly, and started making plans to get together for a weekend to see if this was worth pursuing.

There was one minor hiccup along the way.  One night she drunk texted me that she thought we might be soul mates.  Needless to say, this freaked me the fuck out.  But I try to be a rational person, I’m fully aware that people do, say and text dumb things when they are intoxicated, and I try not to hold it against anyone.  Lord knows I’ve sent some asinine drunk texts in my time (although most of mine involve unique places I’d like to insert my penis or deposit my semen).  So, while I told her I fully intended to mock her mercilessly for as long as possible about her faux pas, I didn’t take it too seriously and was willing to move past this incident.

The weekend together was a success.  We’re very comfortable around each other, always laughing and having fun; we share a lot of common interests, she got along great with all my friends, and the sex was outstanding.  All in all it was a great weekend and we both decided that, despite the distance, this was something we wanted to pursue.

Of course, as usual with me, there had to be at least one more hiccup.

She claims that, while in the midst of one of our many bouts of passion, I uttered the three most dangerous words in the English language.  That’s right, “I love you.”  But here’s the problem: I have no recollection of this!  And we weren’t drunk.  I feel like that’s something I would remember, don’t you???  I mean, it’s not a phrase I just throw around!

I asked for some clarification.  Was she sure she heard me correctly?  I say a lot of things while I’m penetrating a woman.  Was she sure it wasn’t something like, oh I don’t know, “I love the way your pussy grips me”?  Or, “I love your tits”?  Maybe “I’d love to cum down your throat”???

She was quite adamant it was none of those things.  She said it wasn’t a big deal; that, just like her “soul mate” text, she understood that sometimes things just come out in the heat of the moment.  As long as I didn’t really mean it this early on she was ok with it.

Well maybe it doesn’t bother her, but it sure as hell bothers me!  I’ve been racking my brain ever since, trying to remember, trying to determine what could have possibly happened.  The lack of alcohol makes me about 99.999% certain I couldn’t possibly have uttered the most dangerous phrase in the English language.  So what other possible explanation could there be?  After a lengthy discussion with my buddy Gotham last night I’ve come up with two likely possibilities:

1) She’s delusional.  This one scares me.  I’ve dealt with crazy girls before.  (Hell, I have a stalker living a hundred yards from me right now.)  This girl doesn’t seem like the crazy type, but they rarely show their craziness right away, so it’s something I have to consider.  Plus, I have to consider the fact that if she isn’t crazy and didn’t hallucinate it then that means that I’m the crazy one hallucinating about not saying it.  And although I’m clearly fucked up in the head, I’m not ready to admit to being totally insane just yet….

2) It’s a ploy.  Is it possible that she didn’t like the power I held over her due to her foolish “soul mate” text, was tired of the good-natured jokes at her expense, and needed a way to get back on a level playing field?  Could she have made up the “I love you” incident to put me back on my heels, place me on the defensive, to give her an adequate comeback whenever I try to play the soul mate card?

If that’s the case then it would be one of the most devious and diabolical plots ever hatched.  A truly bold move to reposition herself in the hierarchy of the relationship, a desperate gambit to claw her way back onto equal footing.  And I would have to admit that I respect that immensely!  I can only tip my hat to her and say Bravo.  Bra-fucking-vo!