I Drunkenly Sent A Screenshot To The Wrong Person And It Completely Fucked Me Over

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The following is loosely based on an actual TFM reader’s submission. I cannot confirm the validity of this reader submission, and have written it solely based off of the general claims of the submitter. It is in no way my own experience. If you would like to have your Total Frat confession covered by an anonymous freelance writer, email me at siblingsofmarkwahlberg@gmail.com.

I realize I’m moreso the Johnny Chase than the Vince of my family. My twin brother, Matt, was a fucking stud in high school; varsity quarterback, homecoming king, he even finger blasted a student teacher junior year after homeroom. The guy was the Dennis Reynolds “Golden God” of our town, except his reign was a reality, not an imagination.

I, on the other hand, was the personification of the Milwaukee Bucks’ regular season performance: chronically average. Somehow, while he got the looks, the height, and even the bigger dick, I sported a stellar 2.7 points per game average only outdone by my borderline 3.0 GPA. Some nights I could literally hear him living out my sexual fantasies through the wall our bedrooms shared, as I sat wondering what the fuck happened in utero.

Anyway, it was New Year’s Eve senior year and one of my brother’s slams, Katie, to whom I regularly jerked it while fantasizing she’d mistaken me for my twin (unfortunately we are sickeningly fraternal), was melting down like Mickelson at Winged Foot while Matt inserted his Zeus-like digits in and out of assorted female party goers.

As sad as it sounds, my brother’s garbage slam remained my literal treasure. I thought about her all the time, nearly asking her out after Homecoming earlier that year before Matt drunkenly pulled her into the storage room of our basement. It was like watching the “deluxe” version of POV cuckold porn.

So when drunkenly, and with the intention of making Matt jealous (though he couldn’t have cared less, as he probed more pussy than a gyno), she asked to be my new year’s kiss. I obliged, pathetically excited due to my perpetual state of virginity.

As the ball dropped, so did mine. We made out most of the night thereafter, culminating in what had to have been the worst attempt at fingering she’d ever experienced and about two-thirds of a dry hand job before our inexperienced drinking ended our romantic evening in puke and tears. It was magical. Reality set in for her back at school. Again, she chased my brother’s cock like the pot of gold at the end of his cum-covered rainbow, and I was forgotten.

Fast forward three years and I’m getting off work, headed straight to the bar. Things had changed quite a bit for me. I’d gotten my teeth fixed, hit the gym, and had ridden the coattails of my high-level Greek affiliation to a steady stream of sixes and sevens.

I found my friends in our usual spot, ordered a round for everyone, and began my nightly descent towards drunken stupor and likely regret. As the night progressed, however, I swore a familiar face beckoned on the horizon, though, at first, I couldn’t figure out who it was. I asked my friends if we knew this girl. Maybe an Alpha Phi? Did we pregame with her sorority last year? I knew I had seen her before. Then it hit me. Katie, my long lost New Year’s love, was here, on my own turf. With that sort of home court advantage, I had to make my move.

After the necessary pleasantries, and her drunken admiration of my now non-Steph Curry-like physique, we slammed shots while playing the “you touch my pocket, I slide my hand down your lower back” game. Through all of this, I’m live-texting the entire thing to my brother, now the backup QB at a perennially awful, but still DI school as he implores me to take her home.

She, however, got a little too drunk, and was “rescued” by her sorority sisters. Still a major win, though, as we exchanged numbers, openly discussed our limited experience with each other’s genitalia, and planned to meet up the following night for what I could only imagine was her chance to finish the job that was two-thirds completed that fateful high school night. I went back to my friends to boast, buying a celebratory shot before the alcohol overwhelmed me, then headed home for my jerk, pizza, jerk, and sleep ritual — also known as Thursday night.

All night, my friend Carl, who had seen Katie and was basically hard at the fact my fingers had been inside of her (at one point, he even requested a sniff), and I traded grotesque texts relating to our supposed sexual desires towards Katie. We made the TFM Babe Of The Day comments look like fucking nursery rhymes. I screenshotted an unusually disgusting exchange, highlighted by my desire to “use my tongue to clean the dingleberries from her asshole like they were Nerds candies” and Carl’s “I’d eat my own cum out of Katie’s pussy if she’d let me” proclamation. Perhaps my personal favorite highlight was, “I’d lap up Katie’s Bloody Mary mid-cycle if it got me a second date,” which I sent to my brother, who I knew would appreciate the depravity.

After my inevitable pass out, I woke with the sort of hopeful outlook only the discovery of large sums of money or unexpected grade A pussy could give a man. Until, of course, I looked at my phone. It contained a simple, concise text from Katie: “Will, please never contact me again. I do not know why you found any of this to be funny or in any way acceptable, but I have told my parents and campus security about it, and will not hesitate to contact the administration of our school if you ever attempt to speak with me, or about me, again. Please respect my wishes, I will now be blocking your number.”

I was paralyzed like Steven fucking Hawking as I scrolled the text thread realizing my mistake: my innocent screenshot meant for my idiot brother in my phone was sent to the newest edition to my contacts… “Matt’s Katie.”

Don’t drink and text, guys. You might just lose your dream slam. And maybe end up a sex offender.

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