I knew something special was in the air that night as my second 4Loko began drizzling down the side of a red solo cup I had quickly rinsed with lukewarm water in the bathroom three minutes prior. “You guys down for one more game?” I asked my peers with conviction as I needed to prove to everybody in the room that, yes, I am not the best at hucking die, but if you give me the task of drinking liquid and flipping a cup, I will out hardo everybody. I WILL remind Britney that her cup wasn’t 1/3 as full as mine, or Amanda that she CAN’T use two hands and that she IS a cheating, lying bitch that Jack uses as a cumrag. I could hear in the sighs and “I guesses” that they were being good
friends dividends of Fall Semester Dues and would hesitantly agree to tickle my fancy with one more round.
The gentleman’s pregame was finished; it was time to go to a friend’s off-campus house to drink plastic handle vodka and watch sorority girls belt out UCLA featuring 24 hrs. And who would captain our 2015 Orange Tinged Ford Explorer? That would be Jocelyn, the twice-divorced, Marlboro Gold smoking, 57-year-old Uber Driver who loves two things: Trump and her dogs.
Upon arrival, I take a big swig to lubricate myself from social pressures I make up in my own head and immediately throw up the Blueberry Crisp Cliff Bar I ate for dinner in my mouth. This pregame is virtually the same thing three days a week. Same people (for the most part), same girls that hang around (for the most part), and four to five kids from out west verbally jousting ’til death to be DJ press-play for the next hour.
The Uber driver to bars hated us like a green-haired girl hates Ben Shapiro. Not in the “oh fuck these kids” kind of way, more like in the, grinding her teeth as the kid off a qweeb argues why Dwayne Wade was a more effective scorer than Allen Iverson kind of way. There is a member of this Uber XL car ride (which I never have and never will pay for) who is coked out of his fucking mind, yet I still found a way to be the sweatiest person in the car. Fuck me! We pile out, slipping and sliding, getting mud all over the Red Mazda cx5, having no regard for the fact that whoever ordered that Uber is going to get an irate phone call from their Dad tomorrow. 90% of the line for the first bar is underage; 75% of that number gets in. And honestly, with the advancement in Fake IDs, you almost gotta feel for the bouncers; how the fuck are they supposed to know better?
But just as Red Lights by Tiesto drops, I become absorbed by the most beautiful thing in the whole god damn bar, a loose cigarette available for sale, complimented by a crack lighter (red or green-my choice). After what becomes a seven dollar Venmo and a stimulating conversation with Mark, a middle aged man who offers me a mint and comments on the robust features of the girls that are around tonight, it’s time to look like an inflatable man at a used car lot on the dance floor. Is it that I win her over with my apology for being white and horrible at dancing, or if it’s because I make a joke comparing the girl that bumped into her, spilling her drink, to a fat Piper Chapman, but I got a laugh? After I buy her a drink, which she promptly spits back half of, but I will end up drinking the rest of, I win her friends over by telling them, “there really aren’t many girls as funny as you guys.”
In the Uber, she’s fondling my penis but also implying she would kill (possibly blow me) for a puff bar right now. Immediate add stop: 7/11. She will make many comments about my room’s cleanliness, and we will run the cat and mouse game where I say, “it’s not really that bad, is it?” We are kissing now, it’s drunk and sloppy, and both parties resemble a dog eating peanut butter out of the jar. I’m about to secure this “Victory Royal” when I realize I have no condoms on my person (because I’m sexually active, not because they were filled with water for a Tik Tok that I made and got too insecure about to post), so I have to borrow one from a suite mate, who congratulates me on conquest, and comments on my raging erection.
Back to the sheets, we weave our way under the covers, and I eat her out (because I’m an unselfish lover), and she will tell me I’m doing a good job by ripping the mango puff bar that I am -$2.07 in the bank for. I try to put the condom on, drunk and struggling with my penis, which resembles a hose getting the last drops of water out of it, leads me to make a “how do you even work these damn things anyway” subpar joke. Oh boy, it’s on now. I am thrusting a 40% erect penis in a drunken stupor with passion; with the drunk confidence we both have, we both think that this is the best missionary sex that anybody has ever had. Her titties (which she will tell me later that she has been contemplating piercings) are jiggling like a fat 8 year old on a trampoline, and I am thinking about the hot girl from Disturbia to maintain this half boner. I’m too drunk and too lazy. This has become unenjoyable at this point, and I am questioning why I spent so much money to make this happen. But I don’t want her to think she’s not attractive, so I suggest doggy style and put on a performance of a lifetime. Sexual, you might ask? NO. I become a Juilliard, Classically Trained actor. I have to navigate and approach how I will fake an orgasm and throw the condom to the other side of the room without her noticing the lack of “specimen.” I have failed this mission before, and particularly with girls that weren’t the best looking, it’s a dangerous game. The orgasm I fake, at the moment, 100% has me convinced that if I really went for it, I would have been the lead in my 8th grade’s class play. Somehow, as always, because I’m an average-height-and-not-a-quarter-of-an-inch-shorter-than-national-average-KING, I accomplish this seemingly impossible task.
The next morning, I wake up with tiny light green socks-SCORE- and the girl has left due to my snoring. Accessing the damage: a fraternity tee shirt lost, some period blood on my bed, and an empty puff bar- an ideal Saturday night.