Sex So Drunk We Flooded Her Apartment

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I looked into her emerald green eyes; unsuccessfully holding back my laughter, knee deep in toilet water when I facetiously asked, “So, do you want to finish?”

Independence Day has long been both one of my favorite holidays and movies, respectively. Seriously, try to watch Bill Pullman’s rally speech in front of the aircraft hangar and not get goosebumps; you can’t. How the academy didn’t acknowledge the artistry that was Will Smith knocking an alien’s lights out and following it with a cold blooded zinger like “welcome to Earth,” I’ll never know. Just like I could never comprehend existence without the 4th of July.

From shooting Roman candles and bottle rockets at my childhood buddies in the suburban streets of Delaware County — mixing in an occasional M-80 and miraculously never blowing off anyone’s digits — to sneaking piss-warm Yuenglings past our parents and getting wasted in the woods for the first time up in the Poconos, the list of fond memories I have on America’s birthday is seemingly endless.

However, I don’t think any recollection of my past will ever be so ingrained into the real estate of my mind as vividly as the time a sexual encounter led to an Orlando third-floor apartment mirroring a New Orleans residence, post Katrina.

It was the summer of 2011, back before every schnook with a pulse had a smartphone and was Periscoping how “turnt up” they were getting at the bar. No, this was the dark ages when everyone did it the ol’ fashion way: via Facebook status. Back when Rubén Amaro, Jr. was being heralded as a go-getter after acquiring a stable of stud pitchers; Ryan Howard still had a functioning Achilles; and the Phillies were not the laughingstock of professional sports: all insanely hard to imagine, I know.

I had been seeing this girl, who, if I’m being honest, I well out kicked my coverage with on a Sebastian Janikowski of five-years ago level. We had been texting on a fairly regular basis for about a month, but it was still at that blissful stage of a relationship where we weren’t quite dating one another just yet. That sublime point where she expected nothing of me other than to be able to get remotely hard come night’s end — and God bless her for even overlooking that on a few occasions.

Her birthday just so happened to be July 4, and this was the end-all be-all twenty-first: a pivotal moment in every sorority girl’s collegiate career. So on the 3rd, as I sat on the roof of my friend Quinn’s house grilling with a dozen or so buddies, shooting fireworks at one another (shit don’t change), and receiving a text that simply read “Devs tonight?”; I knew the night was bound to get sloppy.

Devs (rest its soul) was THE Greek bar at UCF. I can’t explain why it attracted our community with its smokey aroma, concrete floors, and faint smell combination of vomit, wells liquor, piss, and townie b.o., but damn it did we love that place. Wait a minute, it’s all coming back to me now. That’s right, it was that whole absurd drink-all-night-for-$5 deal they had going on, factored in with the I.D. check being as strenuous as U.S. citizens trying to cross the border into Mexico.

Free booze can be a dangerous game, but, to her credit, the girl could handle her liquor. Though the “21 tasks to do on your 21st birthday” sign shaped in an American flag her little made the night prior seemed like a daunting sight filled with nothing but alcohol related challenges, I never worried about having to babysit. My plan was to to stay the course, let her frolic around with her sisters crossing off items on the list, crush free drinks until midnight with the boys, and check-in to the game when my number was called upon.

Like clockwork, she stumbled over to our table around 12, and we shamelessly sucked face in front of all of our friends for what I can only imagine felt like an eternity in their eyes before she grabbed me by the hand and led me to our sober ride.

She lived in this student housing development that prides itself on being “green,” which essentially just means everything within the paper-thin walls of the apartment would crumple with even the slightest of breezes. That toilet never stood a chance.

Things were getting hot and heavy, and being the cock-laying casanova that I am — in reality, I was undoubtedly pushing rope at this point and exerting no physical pleasure on her end — I thought we should venture into the bathroom and watch ourselves go at it in the mirror. This eventually led to me getting gassed after maybe thirty seconds (this was when I was in shape, too), taking a breather by sitting on the toilet, and having her ride me.

It didn’t take long before the sturdy seat that was once supporting our weight shifted and the sensation of a geyser the magnitude of Old Faithful at Yellowstone National Park shot up my ass in the most painfully, violating moment of my life. I’ve never used a bidet in my twenty-four years on this planet, but I imagine it’s more of a tickling sensation and less of a feeling of being sodomized.

The bathroom quickly filled with water, spilling out into her bedroom and living room floors. My initial reaction was to turn the valve off; no dice. Minutes go by and the apartment is being submerged as we’re both frantically running around trying to shut off the water, piss drunk, mind you. In a moment of pure genius, I nonchalantly kick the toilet out of frustration and remarkably the power washer of a leak comes to a halt.

We both heave a sigh of relief. I looked into her emerald green eyes; unsuccessfully holding back my laughter, knee deep in toilet water when I facetiously asked, “So, do you want to finish?”


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