I Was Busted For Having Sex In My Parents’ House In The Dumbest Way

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By 12:30, the party was winding down even further and I was looking to make an inconspicuous exit (before someone asked me to pick up more beer). I considered ghosting, as that’s the best way to leave a party. But a girl, whom I’d lost touch with a few months prior, texted me just as I was heading for the door. She was a slight-of-frame and pale ginger with a gravity-defying rack who had been on my to-do list for the better part of a year. And though I’d sworn off redheads, three or four shots of Admiral Nelson told me to go for it. I said my goodbyes and broke for the door.

She told me she had just split from her fiancé a few days ago and was looking for a drink or three to distract her from her naked finger. The ex-fiancé was a jealous, controlling, and borderline emotionally abusive man who forbade her from contacting me. But, the forbidden fruit is often the sweetest, and she sought me out days after they called off the engagement.

She was a year or two out of school but still worked on my campus, so I suggested a divey place within walking distance. To my surprise, she offered to drive, and within minutes, her Cavalier rolled in front of the house and we ended up driving to a nicer place on the outskirts of the city.

A little over an hour later, I was four drinks deep and she hit her limit of one and a half vodka-crans, so I took the check and we left. As we piled into her car, I realized the disappointing party I had left was, at that point, probably just a few wasted brothers drinking. As such, I asked if she minded taking me back to my parents’ house, a few miles east. She obliged. It gave her an chance to vent some more and I was afforded the opportunity to sleep in a nicer bed and put away some real liquor again.

After a brief 20 minute drive, we were pulling up to my parents’ house. Just as she parked the car, her headlights dimmed and the car sputtered to a quiet death. I don’t pretend to be a car enthusiast, but I knew right away it was an alternator issue, and she wasn’t leaving in anything other than a tow truck.

I called AAA and they gave us a 45-minute estimate, which was 43 1/2 more minutes than I’d need for what I anticipated happening next. All the lights in the house were off and we needed only be quiet for the duration of the brief wait and AAA would take her home. What started as a pretty unfortunate scenario seemed to turn completely in my favor: I got drunk, got a ride home, got it in, and didn’t have to take her home. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Having been engaged for the previous three years, my busty friend was eager to take her clothes off in front of someone new (and better looking). Within three minutes, we were on my family room floor in a heap of haphazardly strewn jeans, belts, shoes, and flecks of serrated gold foil.

What followed was a painfully amazing five or so minutes.

Like an escaped POW who had survived on only water and a half bowl of rice a day for years, her appetite for pleasure was insatiable. She sighed and screamed, scratched and gouged and moved and contorted in animalistic ways. She dug her nails deep into my arms and shoulders and counter-thrusted with latex-shredding purpose. Shortly into the session, she sat up and shoved me backwards, knocking me to the ground before perching on top of me and taking complete control as I pleaded with her to keep her voice down.

The encounter was pretty brief – as most are – and we spent the remaining half hour or so sorting our clothes, checking phones, and taking a post-coital shower.

As our 45 minute timeframe passed, the AAA driver called and said he was nearing the house. We met him outside and he stepped out of the truck. He was a younger guy – maybe a few years older than me, and confessed he was at the tail end of a long shift. I looked at the car, gave him my best prognosis, and he nodded.

“Yep, sounds like an alternator. Where am I towing it to?”

“She said her parent’s house. Her dad’s a mechanic.”

“Sounds good,” he said, smirking as he eyed my friend adjusting her jeans and flipping her wet hair over her other shoulder as he climbed back into his truck. We moved my car out of the way and, with emergency lights still ablaze, the driver backed the truck up to her dead Cav.

I expected the lights and beeps would wake someone up, so my eyes remained fixed on the front of my parents’ house. He got into position and dropped the flatbed with authority. I cringed. The bed hit asphalt and the driver climbed back into the truck and backed it up further. The sound of the bed scraping seemed deafening, but somehow still wasn’t loud enough to wake anyone up. Yet.

With some give and take, he maneuvered his truck into its final position and prepared to load the car. He hopped out of the cab and up to the bed, picked up the tow hooks and cast them down to the end of the bed, where they hit the steel with thunderous impact. The sound of the hooks and chains hitting the bed echoed between cars and houses, and one-by-one, bedroom lights illuminated and porches lit up.

“Pretty loud job, huh?” I shouted over the din, my eyes widening. “You might wake someone up,” I continued, hoping he’d hear my tone, see my body language and lay off the obnoxious, garish behavior.

“Heh, this ain’t my neighborhood. And this is my last call of the night, anyway.”

My worst fears came to fruition. The porch light of my house flashed on and two silhouettes appeared in the window, watching the scene unfold. My phone vibrated in my pocket, though I didn’t dare check it.

Soon thereafter, my friend and the one-man Stomp concert were on their way. Maybe we only woke up my sister and her friend I hoped as I descended the driveway. I walked back into the family room and nothing seemed amiss, so I laid on the couch and watched some reruns of SportsCenter until I drifted off.

Hours later, I heard my mom’s voice and woke to see her standing a few feet from me.

“What happened last night? Did you break down or did someone hit your car?”

“No, I wanted to come back early for break and one of my old coworkers was dropping me off. Her battery quit on her just as we pulled up. I used my AAA to tow her out,” I said smiling, putting my hands behind my head. Bad move on my part.

Sporting an old Greek Sing tank top, I put my collage of bruises and gouges on full display.

“What the hell happened to you? Your arms are covered in finger marks and bruises and — wait, who did you say was over?”

I was busted. Shouldn’t have come home.

“A coworker — a friend of mine. These? They’re from the party last night. I — I can’t really tell you how I got them. I mean, I don’t really remember how I got them. So, if I can’t remember, I’m sure it’s not a big deal.”

“Uh huh,” she said dismissively as she walked away.

I sunk back into the couch to the sound of her footsteps leaving the room. A few minutes later, my sister entered the room. She grinned from ear to ear.

“Fun night, huh Kramer? I thought you swore off redheads.”

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