How Trying To Score A Threesome With My Girlfriend’s Little Went Horribly Wrong

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Nice Move

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I read Wally’s column alleging the torturous blue ball-inducing sabotage known as “cock blocking” to be a myth, and, while I agree getting “cock blocked” is often the crutch of insecure men after a vicious denial, I can PROVE its existence.

It’s 2014 and I’m a junior knee deep in a mess of a “relationship” of sorts with a vapid sorority girl. This woman, aside from the moist welcome mat between her legs, was one of the most unfriendly and blatantly rude people on the planet. She made Paris Hilton look like a bastion of intellectualism, showcasing a refusal to venture out of the shallowest depths of the kiddie pool that is materialistic obsession. It was like if Jaws invaded a country club.

But, she had incredible tits, the kind of silicone mastery that warrants an annual Christmas card and gift certificate to the plastic surgeon responsible. She was also well known in the Greek community, and, in my embarrassingly immature state (that I claim to have grown out of (half-heartedly)) the admiration of my aesthetically-less-fortunate brothers made the conquest worthwhile.

Anyway, the “problem,” aside from unrelenting pompousness (she once anointed herself the “Princesse” (yes, with the “e” on the end) and claiming others had likened her to Margot Robbie) was her supermodel of a little. This girl was so sexy that I couldn’t stand to be in her presence without sweating, but my vicious significant other had me avoiding her like PGA golfers are avoiding the Zika virus.

Until one night, conveniently hours after her breakup, my girlfriend got Boosh-level inebriated and needed hair pulling back assistance. As our school has yet to adopt the “gender neutral” bathroom idea, naturally her little followed her into the restroom to assist my girlfriend in her stomach purge.

I continued drinking to a point of excess. I was hoping my girl was ok from a health standpoint, but also had a renewed sense of freedom, as nothing makes women crazier than a committed man. In the words of Johnny Drama, “Pussy can tell you’re on a hot streak, bro.”

I’m enjoying myself thoroughly when my girlfriend’s little taps me on the shoulder.

“I really need to take her home, she’s throwing up.”

As a gentleman, I offer to take her, but she insists it isn’t a problem. She has class early in the morning and is behind on whatever stereotypical show we’ve all heard echoing through the halls while sneaking in and out of sorority houses.

I, in my drunken state of distasteful overconfidence, saw this as my opportunity to probe the situation (in more ways than one) with the little. I decided to go back as well, offering up my apartment instead. The little agreed, and, from her reaction and lack of hesitancy, I started to realize something could be transpiring. Or maybe I was just fucked up.

Either way, I was going to find out.

We get home and put Cruella Deville to bed, after which I assume little is leaving. But she lingers, almost as if asking me to give her a reason to stay. Realizing what might be happening (after an impossibly awkward pause), I tell her I’m opening a bottle of wine and ask if she wants to hang out for a bit.

She says yes, and, as we’re out of the shitty white sugar water seemingly every woman craves, we opt for cocktails instead. We’re sitting there drinking and chatting when she asks if I want to watch a movie, preferably “something scary.”

We settle on The Strangers, which, side note, is, in fact, fucking terrifying.

“Turn the lights off,” she says. I’m legitimately starting to believe it’s not just the alcohol that has me thinking this could happen.

We’re not even twenty minutes into the movie when she asks if I want another drink. I respond affirmatively. She stands to grab my glass, but instead straddles me. We get literally face to face, peck like baby birds, and she pulls back.

“We can’t,” she says as I’m harder than Bill Cosby looking over his medicine cabinet.

“Why not?”

She kisses me again.

“Because she’s your girlfriend and my big. We’ll both be fucked if anyone finds out.”

“I want to be fucked.”

She smiles.

“You know what I mean.”

“Nobody will know.”

She kisses me again.

“I have an idea.”

What followed was perhaps the most exciting listening experience of my life as she regaled me with her interest in girls, and, to my utter shock, requested we subvert any issues by asking my then girlfriend, when not drunkenly ill of course, for a three-way.

We decided formal was the perfect opportunity, spending the next several weeks text fucking through Snapchat aliases and trading the kind of deplorable fantasies usually accompanied by a credit card number and per-minute fee. But this was real, organic, and fuck — I actually really liked her.

She said she had always been attracted to me, recounting the night I first met her, wherein I ended up going home with her big for the first time, not knowing I had a shot with her. A massive fuck up.

The day finally arrived. After a largely uneventful formal spent shaking in anticipation and nervousness, we finagled our way back to my place. The three of us were all happily drunk and outwardly flirtatious.

I turned to my girlfriend

“Baby, let’s go to bed.”

She smiled suggestively.

“Now?”

“Right now.”

She motions with her eyes to her little, as if to say that would be rude.

“She can come, too.”

I swear her hazel eyes were replaced with raging flame emojis.

“What the fuck, Siblings?”

I turned to her little, who I hoped would at least take some of the blame.

She shrugged.

“Ew, Siblings. Are you serious? That’s not funny.”

Here I was presented with two options: 1. take the blame on my shoulders alone and deal with what was an inevitable break up anyway, or 2. throw the little under the bus.

Shockingly (with my track record of total douchebaggery), I chose option one.

The next weekend, assuming after sliding back into the little’s snap texts I’d be able to slide into her, I was rebuffed.

“Seriously, Siblings, I’m sorry. But she’s fucking crazy, and the whole house has basically balled you at this point. I just can’t, at least not right now.”

There I was, with enough built up sperm to flood the Sahara — but my window had closed.

If that’s not cock blocking, I don’t know what is.

Image via Shutterstock

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