This is your standard issue bone sesh. It doesn’t matter if you’re plowing atop of a narrower hard copy of Charles Dicken’s Great Expectations known as a dorm room twin mattress or on the hepatitis-ridden red tile floor of a Denny’s bathroom, beer sex is generally going to be the same no matter what. And much like that orphan reject Pip, you’re going to deliver anything but great. Her orgasm might as well be called Estella, because it’s just not going to happen.
You’re a rapper a decade past his prime playing a frat party. You’ll solely stick with the hits — missionary, doggy, and cowgirl — not move as well as you once did with that twelve rack of foamy drafts and two crunchwrap supremes rumbling around in your stomach, and constantly worry about shitting the bed.
Beer sex is the equivalent of going to a water park. You’re going to get wet, slide out of a hole more times than an adult rightfully should, and potentially even leave your shirt on before diving into the pool. Sure, it’s enjoyable in the moment, but you’re not going back home and telling your friends about how incredible of a time you had at Typhoon Lagoon swirling around a giant toilet bowl.
Sloppier than a trailer park abortion clinic during an employee manwich and chili potluck and as memorable as the day after pill you forgot to have her take. Welcome to parenthood.
Turning an otherwise unexciting night in with the significant other binging on episodes of the same sit-com you’ve already seen three times into some grade-A, uncharacteristically enthusiastic head and “let’s try something new” relationship sex. Perhaps some back door action? Yeah, she’s down.
After spending fifteen minutes looking for something to lubricate your piece to ease the penetration of her dirtstar, you both say “fuck it” and try to go in dry with the same success rate of trying to screw in a nail into a concrete wall with a basic Phillips head. After uncomfortably inching forward and chipping away like Andy Dufresne with a rock hammer, it’s finally in. But a few slow thrusts full of “ow, ah, no” and your dick feels like it’s being constricted and digested by the inside cardboard tube of a paper towel roll. The blood flow to your downlow drops faster than a baby girl in an Indian dowry fire pit, you give up altogether, and awkwardly lay next to one another in silence until you realize you crawled through a river of shit and certainly didn’t come out clean. You wash up, she pretends to be asleep, and you never speak of it again.
Pure, unadulterated hate fuck. It doesn’t matter if she’s an innocent freshman you just met that night or your ex-girlfriend that tossed your pledge brother a handy on the back of the bus during formal, you’re going to treat dat ass like an Olympic Badminton bronze medalist: with no respect. Third place out of the twelve people on the planet that play the sport? Yeah, not impressed, shuttlecock.
You’ll either pound it out from behind in a minute, or spend an hour doused in sweat, pulling out her extensions, and pushing rope before realizing it’s just not in the cards for the night.
Tequila, Vodka, Rum
The freaky, go-to spank bank one-night-stand where you vastly overestimate your own abilities and performance — even trying to pull off that suspension move you picked up from a Peter North video. You’ll remember the encounter fondly, with the perception that you’re a pipe laying casanova, while in reality, she was just nauseous throughout. Maybe that’s why she let you finish on her face. Her brain was so rattled from motion sickness that she wasn’t thinking straight. But who cares about things like reality? In your mind, you rocked her world. And perception is reality. Not to mention, the reality is you still blew a load on her face either way. Count it.
You spent too much time pretentiously talking hops and will have to brew your own pale ale by night’s end..