The Almost Threesome

Writer’s block is finally gone!  Enjoy!

One night in Vegas I almost had a threesome.

But it wasn’t the right kind of threesome.  If you know what I mean.

Alright, perhaps I should explain.  My buddy Tripod and I were at this bar off The Strip called The Beach.  The Beach was my favorite spot in Vegas until it closed down a few years ago.  It was a solid mix of tourists and locals, so it wasn’t a total tourist trap but there were still enough young out-of-town girls looking to make some poor decisions.  The staff at The Beach were all bikini-clad girls and board shorts-clad guys, so there was eye candy for all.  It had a giant dance floor right in the middle, with the entire upper level surrounding and overlooking the floor so you could ogle the girls if you didn’t feel like wading in.

The dance floor itself was hot and steamy, with a constant supply of bar napkins being hurled into the air and fluttering down upon the crowd.  The bikini girls behind the bar and working the beer tubs were also available for “body shots,” which consisted of them spraying dabs of whipped cream on their ass, stomach and cleavage, followed by a test tube full of weak liquor between their boobs.  It was nothing short of a hedonistic delight.

(On my first-ever trip to The Beach I was so drunk from drinking triple gin and tonics –known to the rest of the world as gin on the rocks– that when they announced a limbo contest on the dance floor I immediately volunteered.  I made it through the first round because I’m pretty sure the bar was still higher than my head.  The second round though, with the bar around my nose, I was so hammered that when I tried to lower myself six inches I somehow managed to fall flat on my face.  And so began my love affair with this magical place.)

On this night, Tripod and I were already well sauced when we got to The Beach around 9.  Like most Vegas bars, it really didn’t get busy until after 11, so for two hours we didn’t do much but drink and stare at the bikini girls.  But soon the place started filling up, and we quickly found out that there was a big NASCAR race in town that weekend.  I’m not a NASCAR fan myself, I have too many teeth to be accepted into that club, but surprisingly we found a couple of NASCAR girls that weren’t bad looking at all.  There were two of them, both blonde, and Tripod pounced upon them as only he can.  Unfortunately, we discovered they were there with two guys.  Two very NASCAR-y guys.  Shirts, hats, chew in the back pocket of their Wranglers, the works.  These guys couldn’t have been older than mid-20’s, but they were well on their way to being the stereotypical middle-aged NASCAR redneck.

Tripod was undaunted though.  He waded into the fray, chumming it up with the guys (I’m fairly certain neither of them had ever spoken with a Mexican before, and absolutely certain they’d never done shots with a 4’4”, 240-pound Mexican).  In short order Tripod discovered that one of the girls was indeed dating one of the guys, but the other (the hotter one) was single, although it was pretty clear that the second guy was very interested in her.  Retreating for a quick strategy session, it was determined that I should run interference on the guy while Tripod tried to work on the single girl.

And I tried.  Swear to God, I really tried.  But I could barely understand what these guys were saying.  Now, I’m no snob, I grew up in the Midwest, and I’m proud to say I’m a product of the “flyover states.”  But these guys were at a whole ‘nother level of redneckedness.  They said things like “fixin’” and “You better don’t.”  And they were utterly clueless when it came to football, which was really my only hope of distracting them.  (I had been looking forward to a heated debate of SEC versus Big 10 football.)

Eventually I realized I had little hope of distracting him, so I moved to Plan B.  Acting like I was stupid drunk (not much of a stretch) I stood between where Tripod and the girl were sitting and where the NASCAR guy was sitting.  Then I swayed and staggered, shifting from side to side in order to block his view while Tripod worked his game on the girl.  The guy would lean to one side to try and look around me, I’d pretend to drunkenly stagger a step or two in that direction to block his vision.  It was fun.  And effective.

But at some point the alcohol got the better of me and I wasn’t fully aware of what was going on, because the next thing I knew Tripod was telling me the four NASCAR people were heading to a strip club and he was going to tag along with them.  “I think I can nail her,” he said.

I may have been shitfaced, but I knew this was a bad idea.

“Dude, you can’t go off with them, you may never come back.”

Tripod assured me it was cool, the girl wanted him to come with them.  I told him that was irrelevant, the jealous guy and his friend may just decide to beat his ass and leave him in the desert.  But Tripod was adamant.  Details are sketchy, but I think I refused to go in hopes it would deter Tripod from going.  But that failed miserably and soon I was all by myself at the bar while Tripod was off in a cab to the strip club.

Alone at the best bar in Vegas, I proceeded to drink even more and stumble around the place to check out the girls.  And did I mention I kept drinking?

It was sometime after 3 in the morning when I met a girl at the main bar, nursing a drink by herself.  She wasn’t anything special, skinny but without much shape, brunette with a cute face but a bad set of teeth.  But she had a couple tattoos poking out of her black tank top, which I always take as a sign of sluttiness.  I bought her a drink and we chatted for a while.  I discovered she was a stripper at a place I had never heard of in Vegas (which is to say, not one of the better strip clubs), but as I had never banged a stripper before I thought this would be a great opportunity.  I mean, twenty years down the road when I tell people “I banged a Las Vegas stripper,”  people aren’t going to interrogate me on how hot she was, they’re just going to be in awe of my prowess.

At last call I felt like things were still going well, and being in Vegas (where there are no rules) and being utterly hammered, I just went right in for the kill.  “So, you wanna go back to your place?”

“Maybe,” she answered.  I thought she was just being coy.

But then she dropped the bomb.

“I just have to check with my boyfriend first.”

A long, drunken pause as my mind tried to process this.  “Your boyfriend?”

“Yeah, he’s the DJ here, I’m waiting for him to get off.”

The look on my face must have been more confusion than disappointment.  She elaborated, “It’s cool, we have an open relationship.  I just need to see what he’s up to tonight, but I’m sure you can come back with us.”

Now, there aren’t many moments in my life where I regret drinking as much as I do (other than the hangovers), but this is definitely one of them.  My gin-soaked mind simply couldn’t process where exactly this was heading.

Does she want me to fuck her in front of her boyfriend?  Does she want him to join us?  Does she want to be double teamed?  Or does she want to double team me?

Had I been less hammered or had she been more hot I might have explored this further, asked the questions to ascertain what exactly was on the table.  But I wasn’t sober and she wasn’t that hot, so I quickly extricated from the situation.

And just as I was walking for the door, I got a call from Tripod.  He was in a cab, by himself, and so drunk he couldn’t remember what hotel we were staying at.  I told him, but then he admitted he also had no money to pay the cabbie.  “Well,” I sighed, “just have him come here and pick me up and I’ll cover it.”

A perfect end to a perfect night.  Tripod struck out, I struck out, and we went to bed alone.

Not all Vegas stories have happy endings.


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?


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?


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???

What’s Your Favorite Sexual Position?

My latest story is taking a bit longer than expected, so in the meantime, here’s a debate for you to chew on.

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!”


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?

An Easy Girl

Her name was Hailee.  She had a great body, long legs, nice ass, toned stomach and great breasts.  Unfortunately, Hailee had a face that could stop traffic.  She was in her mid-20’s but she had acne like the worst 16-year-old you’ve ever seen.  It wasn’t pretty.

I hooked up with Hailee one very drunken night when we all wound up at her place after the bar closed.  There were about a dozen people in her tiny studio apartment, playing drinking games until the wee hours of the morning.  Details are extremely hazy because I was drunker than three Indians on payday, but somehow as I was getting ready to leave I found myself making out with her.  (I think I made the first move but I honestly don’t remember.)  I took a step back into her apartment and kicked the door shut on my friends (the international sign for “get lost”) and we stumbled to her bed.

Once in bed I got her top off and discovered that her breasts were even better than they appeared under her shirt.  They were above average size for someone as skinny as she was, and so perfectly shaped I couldn’t be completely certain they were real.  (I consider myself a connoisseur of the breast augmentation business and can usually tell the difference with ease.)  And to top it all off, she had these spectacular eraser tip nipples that stuck out nearly a full inch.

I was so mesmerized by her rack that I was ready to forget about her unfortunate face and dive in… until my hand crept down inside her panties and found a string hanging out.


Well that sucks.  So we made out a little more, I played with her boobs a lot more.  I tried to get her to blow me but she wasn’t having any of it.  So I tried to get her to jerk me off but she was as inept at it as most girls.  So I passed out for a couple hours on her tiny bed before making the mile-plus walk of shame with no coat in the middle of December.

It might have been the coldest walk of my life.

But the story doesn’t end there.  A few weeks later a man named Blackout moved to town.  Blackout and I immediately hit it off and became drinking partners.  A few weeks into his arrival in Utah we were shitfaced at a bar and he was lamenting the lack of available females in this godforsaken wasteland we call home.

“You want some ass tonight?” I asked.  “I can deliver it to your door!”

Blackout hadn’t known me for very long, but it was long enough to know I’m no ladies man.  So he was skeptical.  But as we were piling into our designated driver’s car I pulled out my phone and shot a text to Hailee.  It took about two minutes and three texts to have her lined up.  Our sober driver swung by her place, picked her up, and dropped the three of us off at Blackout’s apartment.

Once there, I helped myself to a beer and hung out for about five minutes, just long enough to make sure everything was going smoothly.  Then I feigned like I needed to get something at my place (I lived in the same complex about a hundred yards away), said I’d be right back, and went home to bed.

The next day I asked Blackout how it went.  “Good, I think.  I don’t really remember.  Don’t think I fucked her, but you’re right, she has a great rack.”

But the story still isn’t over.

A couple weeks after that we once again found ourselves at Blackout’s apartment after a long night of drinking.  This night was an absolute trainwreck; I don’t remember where we were, who we were with, or how we wound up at home with Hailee in tow.

Here’s what I do remember.  Blackout was sitting in his recliner chair, chugging a beer.  I was on the couch chugging a beer.  Hailee was on the end of the couch, between us, chugging a beer.  It was cold out and she had on this long sweater that was almost like a dress, hanging down so low it practically covered her ass.  She had some kind of black tights on that probably would have shown off her ass quite nicely were it not for that sweater.  After the three of us had chilled for awhile, Hailee got up and went to the bathroom.  And when she came back she wasn’t wearing her tights!

I was bewildered.  Hammered and bewildered.  She slid past me on her way back to her spot on the couch, and as she did I could just see under her long sweater that she wasn’t wearing anything else.  Just a bare ass and an uncaged beaver.

So… what do you do in a situation like this?  She didn’t say a word, just sat back down between us and started drinking her beer and staring straight ahead at the TV.

Is this what you're looking for?

A million thoughts were racing through my drunken head.  What the fuck is going on?  Does she want us to take turns on her?  Does she want to get tag teamed?  Is she just totally fucked in the head???

I wanted desperately to confer with Blackout about this situation, but obviously that couldn’t be done with her sitting there.  Even worse, he was so fucked up he wasn’t even aware that she was now sitting in his living room with no pants on.  I was frantically trying to get his attention without alerting Hailee, leaning back in the couch and trying to make eye contact behind her back.

'Cause this ain't happenin'!

Now, I’m not going to say that I was down with the idea of having the wrong kind of threesome.  But I will say that I would have loved to have that conversation.  “So… you want me and Blackout to both fuck you?  At the same time?  Exactly how would you like this to work, which hole do I get?  Oh, and by the way, are you completely out of your fucking mind?!?”

But, alas, Blackout was totally out of it.  Short of me standing up and boldly announcing that there was a pants-less, classless, respect-less whore in his living room, nothing else was going to get his attention.  (In retrospect that’s exactly what I should have done.)

After what seemed like an ungodly length of time (it might have been just 5 minutes, but in my state time doesn’t have much meaning) Hailee huffed angrily, got up and stormed back into the bathroom.  The moment the door shut I whispered, “Dude!  That crazy bitch isn’t wearing any pants!  I think she wants us to run a train on her!’

Blackout stirred the tiniest bit, as if deciding whether this interested him, but then he slouched back in the chair and told me I could have her.  About that time Hailee came out of the bathroom, but instead of re-joining us in the living room she just helped herself to Blackout’s bed and passed out.

“Dude!” I whispered again, “She’s in your bed!  I think that means she wants to fuck you!”

Again, a half-stir out of Blackout, but then he shrugged and curled up in the recliner chair.  “You go for it.  I’m just gonna sleep here tonight.”

Now my bewilderment was making my head spin more than the booze.  “You want me to fuck her?  In your bed?”

“Sure.  I’ll clean the sheets tomorrow.”

To my great shame and embarrassment, I must admit I actually contemplated this.  I stood up, walked into the bedroom, as if to assess the situation.  I might have even called out to see if she was awake, I don’t remember.  But she didn’t stir, certainly didn’t say, “Oh, Single White Alcoholic, come fuck me in Blackout’s bed!”  So I decided the best course of action was to go home to bed.

The next day Blackout had no memory whatsoever of the incident.  When I recapped it for him he was just as intrigued as I had been.  “Do you think she wanted us to gangbang her?  Dude, that chick is nuts!  We should probably avoid putting anything inside her.”


The 26-Year-Old Virgin

While I’ve certainly never claimed to be a great ladies man (have you read my stories???), I’m ashamed to admit that, outside of priests who have taken a vow of celibacy, I’m probably in the absolute last percentile of how long it took me to lose my virginity.  And my first instinct is to spend the next 2000 words making excuses for why it took me so long to get my dick wet.  But that would just be whining like a little bitch, so instead I’ll steal a line from The 40-Year-Old Virgin as way of explanation:

“It just never happened.  When I was young, I tried, and it didn’t happen.  And then I got older and I got more and more nervous because it hadn’t happened yet.  And I got kind of weirded out about it.  Then it really didn’t happen.  And then, I don’t know, I just kind of stopped trying.”

Seems as good an explanation as any.  I’ll expound upon it only with this: I come from a family that doesn’t drink alcohol.  I’ve never seen my Dad have even a sip of alcohol in my life (his father dying in a drunk driving accident that he caused from the passenger seat might have had something to do with that).  I’ve seen my Mom have about three strawberry daiquiris in my whole life.  Drinking was never part of our family culture, and so my older brother never drank either.  Without good solid alcoholic role models it took me a long time to find the joys of the hooch.  I think it was senior year in college before I ever got drunk.  And it wasn’t until I moved to San Diego and met my boy Tripod that I finally became a full-blown alcoholic.  By that time I was about 24 and pretty much a wreck with the opposite sex, so it would still take another two years before I finally broke through to the promised land.

This is the story of that night.

I was out drinking with my buddy Sandpaper on a lazy Saturday night.  One of those nights where we just didn’t feel like getting all dressed up, driving out to the hot spots in town, droppin’ a wad of cash, so we opted for our neighborhood dive bar, a place called the Hearth House.  The place was a shit hole, but it was less than three blocks from our apartment and the drinks were so outrageously strong you could get shitfaced for pocket change.  (One night I ordered a double gin and tonic, just to see how strong they would actually make it.  The bartender gave me a tumbler full of gin with a few ice cubes, not even a splash of tonic.)

This was back in 2002.  You might recall that was the height of the Golden Tees craze.  I don’t like to brag, but I was pretty goddamn good at it too.  (I think never having played real golf before gave me an advantage; I would try shots no legitimate golfer could fathom on a real golf course.)  I also focused my complete attention of the game when playing.  While I would usually be drunkenly ogling hot ladies while hanging with my friends, when playing Golden Tees I was focused like the ninja.  Other than talking shit to my friends and dancing around celebrating Great Shots Points I was oblivious to the entire bar.

Maybe it’s the theory of girls going for jerks, or only wanting what they can’t have, or some such shit, but whenever I was in full-on Golden Tee mode girls would actually show interest in me.  A few times before I’d been hit on by total strangers while working my game.

But this night would be the stuff of legends.

I’m not gonna lie, she wasn’t cute.  Average height, average body, brown hair, decent rack, ass a little too big for my taste (just like her belly).  And it took me awhile to realize it, but she had a bit of a mustache too.  Not a terrible one, but the kind that women nowadays have the sense to wax because, let’s face it, NO guy likes that.

She came up behind me while I was lining up for a big approach shot on the back nine.  She started rubbing my bald head and I was nothing but annoyed as I short-armed my shot and missed the green.  I was already starting to turn and say something rude to her when Sandpaper, sensing opportunity, jumped in and started working her like a used car salesman.  Within moments he had ordered a fresh round of stiff drinks for us all, pulled her friends over (both of her friends were hotter than her), and soon it was a small party by the Golden Tees game.

I don’t remember when I actually stopped caring about the video game and started thinking about getting laid.  It was probably a couple holes after Sandpaper had stopped paying all attention to the game and I was beating him sufficiently that it wasn’t even fun to talk smack anymore.  So we started letting the girls take some shots for us, all the while plying them with more alcohol.

The girl (we’ll call her Suzy, because that was her name) was clearly into me, and after a sufficient number of Hearth House megadrinks I was starting to warm up to the idea of fucking her.  I swear to God, I actually remember the drunken rationalization that went through my head:

No, she’s not hot.

But you’re a 26-year-old virgin and you’re getting dangerously close to dying alone.

Did you think your first time would be with a supermodel?  Would you even want your first time to be with a girl you actually liked?

Oh look, she has a tongue stud.  That always looks fun in porn.

You just gotta get one out of the gate.  Get yourself in the game.  Once you’ve bagged this 4 there will be a world of 10’s ahead of you.

So I decided to go for it.  All in, balls to the wall.  With Sandpaper as my wingman we put on the full court press for the rest of the night.  By last call we were all a retarded drunken mess.  One of the girl’s boyfriends had appeared on the scene, and one of the bartenders also appeared interested in one of the girls.  (I can’t remember if it was Suzy; probably not.)  We were in the parking lot, all discussing what to do.  The girls lived at an apartment complex not too far away with a swimming pool.  But they had no booze at their place, and neither Sandpaper nor I had any swim trunks.  Conferring with Sandpaper and confirming that we were in it to win it, I told him to keep everyone there in the parking lot.  Meanwhile, I jumped in my car and careened drunkenly up the hill to our place to snag booze and swim trunks.

I came screeching back into the parking lot some ten minutes later, we rounded everyone up and headed in a caravan of vehicles for the girls’ apartment.  I don’t think there was a sober person in any of the four cars.

By this point I was approaching drunken blindness.  Details at the apartment complex are sketchy at best.  It was a huge place, and numbered in no discernible order.  I remember wandering around forever looking for their apartment, having no luck whatsoever, finally finding them at the pool and having Suzy walk me to their place so we could change into our trunks and make cocktails for everyone.  It had to be past 3 am by this time.

At this point I have to make a public and formal apology to my good friend Sandpaper.  In my haste back at our apartment I had only been able to find one pair of swim trunks.  I frantically searched the mess of my bedroom, looked through his bedroom, couldn’t find anything.  Somehow I found a pair of women’s soccer shorts.  Don’t ask me how they were in my room (this was long before I crashed and burned with the smokin’ hot women’s soccer All-American Coconut; I’ll tell that story some other time).  But however they found their way there, in my drunken state I remember holding them up, thinking to myself, “Sure, these will fit Sandpaper,” and running out the door with them.

Well, they didn’t fit Sandpaper.

The poor guy looked like an extra on the set of Hoosiers.  They were so short and uncomfortable he looked like a complete buffoon.  He was pissed at me too.  But, being the good friend that he is, he sucked it up, strode out to the pool with his moose knuckle on full display, and dove into the pool.

Again, details are sketchy because I was getting drunker by the minute, but I remember making out with Suzy in the pool for lengthy stretches of time.  I remember one of the girls went to bed, leaving only the girl with the boyfriend.  They had been fighting about something, and now the boyfriend was passed out on one of the deck chairs.  Sandpaper, meanwhile, was trying to keep the girl occupied so I could work on Suzy.  But as some point I remember him coming over to me in the pool and saying something along the lines of, “That chick just grabbed my junk!  I think she wants to fuck someone to piss off her boyfriend.  This is gonna be a great night!”

Finally, sometime around 4:30 (totally guessing here), Sandpaper and I decided it was time to head home.  I have no idea what happened to the other girl and her boyfriend.  I just remember being back in the apartment with Sandpaper and Suzy; he was rounding up our shit to leave and telling me it was time to shit or get off the pot.  So I asked Suzy if she wanted to come home with me.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“I know it’s not a good idea.  But do you want to come home with me?”

(I swear to God I actually said that.  Who knew I had that kind of asshole game in me???)

“Will you bring me back in the morning?”


And that was all it took.  We piled into my car, Suzy and I getting in the backseat to make out while Sandpaper chauffeured us home. Cheers again, Sandpaper, you should be in the Wingman Hall of Fame!

Now, I should explain here that I had a crappy little Pontiac Sunbird at this time in my life.  It was about a ’94 model, had over 100,000 miles on it, and was on its last legs.  It had a 4-cylinder engine that whined when you stepped on the gas.  Sandpaper thought this was immensely entertaining, so as I was making out with Suzy in the backseat he was repeatedly stomping on the gas pedal as hard as he could to hear the engine whine.  He did that the entire ride down the highway, stomp on the gas pedal, giggle as the engine made the sound of a dying animal, then take his foot completely off the gas and coast a few seconds before doing it again.  In the back of my mind I knew this wasn’t a good idea, but since I could literally see the end of my virginity in sight I just didn’t give a fuck.  I had bigger fish to fry.

Back at our place Sandpaper went straight to his room and shut the door, making himself invisible to give me my moment.  Suzy wanted to smoke so we had to make a stop at our patio before retiring to my messy bedroom and heading straight for the bed.

It wasn’t pretty.  She wasn’t pretty.  She had a pierced nipple, which I’ve always had a thing for, but that was about it.  I have no doubt that I was one of the worst lays of her life too.  It’s not that I was too quick; this wasn’t the typical teenager getting laid for the first time and blowing his wad in 30 seconds.  No, this was a 26-year-old man who had never done ANY of the shit he’d seen in porn for the past eight years and trying to check it all off the list in one night.

I went down on her for about two minutes.  Then I asked her to blow me.  But that didn’t last long either because I desperately wanted to stick my dick in her and make it official.  I wrapped my dick up with a condom for the first time.  (Side note: I can’t even guess how many condoms I bought between the ages of 18 and 26, futilely hoping that someday I would have need for one.  Dozens?  A hundred?  God only knows.  Is there anything sadder in this world than knowing you couldn’t use a condom before it hit its expiration date?)

Once inside I rolled through all the positions I could think of.  Missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl (only to discover my dick didn’t bend quite that way, ouch!), doggie, some kind of half-spoon thing I had seen in a porn once.  She must have thought I was a hamster on crystal meth.  When I finally came I just collapsed on the bed beside her, thinking to myself:


By this time it was after 6 in the morning and the booze was beginning to leave my bloodstream.  I was exhausted but I figured I should try to get one more fuck in while I actually had a real live female in my bed.  She wanted to smoke first, so we went back to our patio, where she smoked while I tried to put just enough moves on her to convince her to let me bang her again.

Unfortunately, our patio faced the sunrise, and once she saw that she was enthralled.  She kept saying how beautiful it was (our patio overlooked a strip mall and a Costco, it was most definitely not the romantic sunrise you’re imagining).  Suzy made me sit and watch that fucking sunrise with her for another 20 minutes before I finally managed to coax her back into bed for round 2.

And round 2 was only mildly better than round 1.  I wasn’t quite as ADD about trying every position in the book and we actually fucked for a solid while.  But then there was a moment where it felt like the condom had come off, I freaked the fuck out, and even after pulling out and seeing I was indeed still protected the moment was lost.  It was time to take Suzy home.

Remember how Sandpaper had been fucking with my car the whole way home?  Well, as I was driving Suzy back to her apartment in the shameful light of morning, my engine started overheating.  I practically had to coast into her apartment complex.  After the obligatory kisses and promises that I would call her (I never did), that this wasn’t just a one night stand (it was), I sent her on her way and drove about half a block away from her place before I had to stop and let my engine cool down for 20 minutes before I could start making my way home again.

I had to stop three more times on the drive home.  It took over an hour to go less than five miles.  My car was fucked.

But you know what?  I didn’t care.  I had become a man!!!!!!

I got back to my place and slept until about 5pm.  Then I made Sandpaper follow me while I took my broken down car to the repair shop.  (It would end up costing me $1500 to repair.  Thanks, Sandpaper.)  While driving me home he offered me a hundred dollars to call Suzy up and have her come over that night and fuck her again.

“Nope,” I answered, “it’s time to turn the page.  That door is now closed.  I’m a new man.”

In the immortal words of Mike Gundy, "I'M A MAN!"

The Slap

My girlfriend has forbidden me to tell anymore stories about her.  But she has granted me a special exemption to tell this doozie.  (I think she felt so guilty that she figured she had to let me write it.)  So here goes…


This summer we took a roadtrip from End Of The World, Utah to attend a wedding in San Diego.  Since she had never seen that part of the country we decided to drive.  With summer construction it took us a good 13 hours, and in our haste to make it and get off our asses we skipped dinner to motor through, pulling into my friends’ place (the infamous Dead Wing and Prada) around 10 or 11pm.

We promptly started drinking.  It was my girlfriend’s first time meeting Prada and Dead Wing and I had been a little nervous of how everyone would get along.  You know how it is the first time your new girlfriend meets your friends, you worry about it way more than you should and it ends up being totally fine.  Same thing here.  Dead Wing and I started knockin’ back a refreshing gin and tonic, while Prada and my girlfriend went for a bottle of wine.

Before long, they opened a second bottle of wine.  Meanwhile, on an empty stomach I was beginning to feel a little buzzed after just one oversized and overpoured G&T.  It was going to be a good night.

I should probably explain here that my girlfriend can drink with the best of ‘em.  I mean, she can put ‘em away like a champ.  We haven’t actually had a drinking competition (I’m too old for that, plus I don’t think drinking should be a challenge; as long as everyone gets fucked up everyone wins) but I’m quite certain she could outdrink me.  She does, however, have one weakness: when she gets truly hammered she blacks out completely.  I’m not talking a spotty memory like most of us.  No, her mind just goes blank.  So, she often does or says things while intoxicated that she has no memory of, and many times she amazes even herself at the shit she does (i.e. saying we might be soul mates after knowing each other less than a month).  When this happens, she refers to it as having an alter-ego.  She even has a name for her alter-ego: Trixie.

This was definitely a Trixie night.

It started when she decided to invite herself into their hot tub.  Not that anyone minded, this was a splendid idea, and it actually made me feel good that she felt comfortable enough around my friends to do so.  So we all got into our suits and piled into the hot tub, pausing only long enough to refill our drinks.

It was a warm night and before long we were all rotating back and forth from the hot tub to the refreshingly cool swimming pool.  And the girls were cracking open a third bottle of wine.  We were all having a grand time.

But Trixie doesn’t have a very long shelf life.  When she comes out to play there’s only a short window before she is completely obliterated and the night is over.  On an empty stomach and after a long day on the road she went from drunk to sloppy to obliterated in the blink of an eye.  It was time to go to bed.  So I helped her out of the pool (almost losing her into the deep end), walked her into the house (almost losing her through the screen door) and into the guest bedroom, and let her fall onto the most comfortable aerobed I’ve ever slept on.

Of course, before we could go to bed we had to get out of our wet swimsuits.  My girlfriend was no help whatsoever, so I had to untie her bikini (yes, it was the infamous Buffalo Sabres bikini) and pull it off her while she laid half passed out on the aerobed.  With that job done, all that was left was to get out of my own swim trunks and I could pass out.

Now, at this point I would like to remind everyone that I had been in the pool for some time.  You’ve all seen the Seinfeld shrinkage episode, right?  It happens.  It’s nothing to be ashamed of, everyone’s dick shrivels up when it’s cold and wet.

Well, as soon as I pulled my trunks down my girlfriend stirred and lifted her head just enough to give me a look.  Then, with a look of drunken disgust on her face, she said, “I don’t like it.  It’s small.”  As if that wasn’t insulting enough, she then reached out and slapped dismissively at my shriveled cock and balls.  Not hard, mind you, it’s not like she hurt me.  No, this was worse, because it was so dismissive, as if my penis were completely irrelevant.

I began to mutter something along the lines of Costanza’s shrinkage speech, but she was already passed out.

So, what did I do next?

Well, let me tell you.  With my pride wounded there was only one thing to do:

I fucked her.


She was basically passed out when I climbed on top of her, but I quickly brought her back to semi-consciousness with my crude, rough, drunken advances.  I pounded away at her while she more groaned than moaned, still not entirely aware of what was going on.  I knew I was too drunk to cum but I didn’t care.  This wasn’t about pleasure.  This was about restoring my manly pride.  And after I had satisfied myself that I had proven my manhood again I rolled over and passed  the fuck out out.

The next morning she awoke with a start, half jumping out of bed.  “Why am I naked?”

Not quite sure how I felt about the previous evening yet I gave the most simple answer.  “We had sex.”

“Oh… Was it good?”

I waited about a day and a half to finally tell her what had happened.  She was horrified.  Absolutely mortified.  But she also thought it was pretty fucking hilarious.  And, to be honest, once I had gotten over the initial shock, I thought it was pretty damn funny myself.  And after she spent the next week apologizing and reassuring me that my penis was perfectly decent, we reached an understanding that we could all laugh about this, the latest of Trixie’s antics.

Guess I'll never have to read this book...