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It was your typical run-of-the-mill Monday. Actually going to every class I had that day really took the life out of me and I was looking to bounce back like Big Sean with booze and, well, more booze. When I pulled into the driveway of my off-campus house, I was hoping to see everyone home cracking into a cold thirty-rack. To my surprise, there was only one car in the driveway.
When I walked into the house, I heard three voices: one from my roommate Brian, his girlfriend Molly, and Molly’s friend Sammy. Now Sammy is what Frank Reynolds would describe strictly as a “whoore.” She likes to have sex but, more specifically, sex with about 90 percent of my fraternity. She’s like the cougar in Blue Mountain State that makes her rounds at the Goat House. It’s kind of like a rite of passage to bone her when you get initiated.
At this point in my college career, I had yet to go through my encounter with Sammy, and kind of didn’t want to simply on principle. I’ve heard the stories and know from experience that anywhere my fraternity enters, it never ends up looking the same after we leave. I could only assume the same was true about our friend Sammy.
I sat on the couch between Molly and Sammy and saw they had been drinking cheap vodka and cinnamon whiskey, but had nearly finished both the bottles. In an act of desperation, I asked if I could polish off both bottles for them. They agreed and I took the one and a half shots of back-washed liquor down my throat.
This must have given Sammy and Molly’s drunk brains a very stupid, stupid idea. They pointed to the top of the shelves lining my kitchen and said, “If you’re really trying to get drunk, why not drink those?” Like any respectable college house, we had a graveyard of miscellaneous liquor bottles encompassing our kitchen and parts of our living room. It was more like a trophy room for us, each bottle representing a night of drunken mischief that was accompanied by a story that we all knew by heart, but liked to hear time and time again anyway.
Each of these bottles had at least a sip of liquor left in them, but the sheer number of bottles would quantify to about eight shots worth of the most disgusting mixture of room-temp liquor this world has ever seen. I agreed and started consuming small amounts of tequila, whiskey, vodka and whatever else I could get my hands on. Some of the more expensive bottles didn’t taste as bad as expected, but the cheap, college-student liquors we all frequent on a regular basis were like drinking battery acid. I could see the disgust in Molly’s face after I finished the final drop of this Fear Factor-esque challenge. But, like Joe Rogan encouraging his contestants to finish eating an entire serving of elk penis, Sammy was cheering me on to the end.
When I sat back down on the couch, Sammy immediately jumped in my lap and was whispering some nonsense in my ear. All I could focus on was the spinning in my head, the knots in my stomach, and the smell of cinnamon whiskey barreling out of Sammy’s mouth. She started moving her hand around the zipper of my jeans when I realized Brian and Molly were still sitting on the couch, stunned after witnessing what I had just done, and disgusted after watching Sammy prey on me like a hawk attacking a drunk field mouse. Sammy didn’t care, she started dry humping me like a stripper and I knew I had to relieve the awkward tension in the room. I scooped her up like Forrest Gump carrying Lt. Dan out of the Vietnam jungle and brought her to my room.
What I experienced next was the most sickening sexual experience of my life. Not only was my stomach filled with a poor man’s jungle juice, but I was basically dunking my beef into a disease marinade, with most of those diseases belonging to kids I called my brothers. I had reached my new all-time low. But I am now Eskimo bros with the vast majority of my chapter. That, my friends, is a disgusting bond that will never be broken..