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I awoke to the sort of unrelenting regret that my final semester of college had grown me accustomed to, a sort of melancholy déjà vu of poor decisions and sullied reputation. There, next to me in this foreign room, lay a mascara-ridden imposter impersonating my girlfriend . As the ringing in my ears began to fade, illuminating last night’s near blackout in my seemingly lobotomized mind, I realized the error of my ways: last night was formal, but this was not my date.
This woman was not all that unfamiliar. She’d been a side effect of a raucous tequila Tuesday last semester, which eventually led her to an early morning departure from my room. Apparently, last night was the second half of our home and home series, though this away game left me a decided underdog in my quest to reclaim my girlfriend, wherever the fuck she was.
Naturally, my phone was dead. I had no idea what time it was, but the sun was up so I figured the odds were stacked against me in my pursuit of a stealthy re-entry into my bedroom, preferably with my clearly under-appreciated significant other still sleeping peacefully. This was, of course, not at all what happened.
I stood slowly, gathering my strewn-about belongings while sleuthing my way towards a clean exit.
My heart nosedived towards my bowels as my host repeated my name. I’m frozen in the doorway, semi-convinced my lack of movement nor response would confuse her into believing this was all just an extremely disappointing sex dream.
“Where are you going?” she repeated herself again, apparently now fully conscious. I slowly turned back to the bed.
“Um…” I said, recoiling from her appearance now that alcohol wasn’t morphing my perception.
“I have to… uh… return some videotapes.” I bolted towards the doorway.
“You what?” She was understandably perplexed.
“Videotapes. Have to go.” I’m out the door.
“Siblings, are you coming back? Let’s get breakfast!”
I faintly heard her last desperation heave at daytime bonding as I was already halfway down the steps towards the street. This was, really without doubt, the beginning of an unenviable situation. There were so many loose ends, and I had no idea how I even ended up playing house with a soft 4 after what would likely be my last Greek formal.
First, I thought, I need to just get home and assess the damage. Though it was less than a mile, the trek back to my place felt like a third-world odyssey for clean water, my head nearing combustion with each swaying step. Finally, in the distance, our house became clear. It neared with each passing moment, my personal oasis piercing my Sahara of poor decisions and unavoidable consequences.
I took a moment to gather myself, wiping the billowing sweat from my brow as the tequila-tinged perspiration acted as a sort of natural pomade, slicking my hair back like a recession-era Patrick Bateman as I entered our home. Fortunately, it seemed as if no one was yet awake — a common side effect of past formals — and perhaps aided by the fact I still had no idea what time it was.
“Holy fuck, Siblings! You’re alive!” Greg, the consensus choice for “most regrettable bid,” came lumbering out of the kitchen just as I’d begun to experience some much-needed relief.
“Bro, I’ve never seen anything like last night. Where the fuck did you go?” Greg had the sort of shit-eating grin on his face that had me wondering if the question was rhetorical.
“I honestly have no idea, Greg. Do you know where Katie is?”
“You blacked out?” He smirked again.
“Kind of. More of a green out.” This meant that all you can remember is the overdraft texts from your checking account.
“I need to get some sleep. Is she up there?” I motioned to the hallway housing my room.
“I think so. She was hysterical when they threw you out.” Again, the douchebag is smiling.
“When they what..?” I’m honestly confused.
“Shut the fuck up, Siblings. Come on.” I shrug my shoulders in response.
“You and Katie… the women’s room?!”
My mind is racing.
“So? That’s a classic move.” I start walking upstairs, while Greg is in a state of full-blown laughter.
“I’ll let Katie tell you the rest.”
Mercifully I had escaped the house Neanderthal, ideas for excuses, apologies, and possible remedies of my self-sabotage streaming across the windshield of my brain with each completed step. I opened the door slowly, almost squealing with relief-ridden joy at the site of a still-sleeping Katie in my bed. I tiptoed towards the edge and realized Katie was fully nude, likely the side effect of an evening of heavy drinking, angry texting, and generally praying for my demise. I began to undress and search for a portion of the bed her sprawled position left untouched.
Though I’d attempted to lower myself into the bed slower than I lower my balls into a hot tub, Katie began to fidget about, blinking her eyes like a newborn chick.
My college version of blackout shades — old comforters over the bay window in my room — created a sort of daytime darkness in the bed.
“Yes. Hi! I’m sorry. Let’s get some sleep.” She abruptly sat up, readying for what I assumed would be a barrage and likely a dumping.
“No, let’s get some breakfast. I’m starving.” To my utter disbelief, she said nothing as to my prior conduct as she sprung out of bed.
“Come on! Let’s take a shower” she says while strongly insinuating she will make it worth my while in between the third-degree burns of female preferred shower temperatures.
I had, in my mind at least, been the beneficiary of some sort of divine intervention. It was too good to be true, I thought.
“Katie, seriously… You don’t want to talk about last night? I mean, I was…” She abruptly cuts me off.
“No. I’m sorry, you’re sorry… It was stupid. Let’s just move on and not talk about it… Ever.”
This reaction had me ready like R. Kelly at recess as I followed her towards the bathroom.
“Wait,” I said.
Remembering my phone was dead, and that it was an NFL Sunday, I went to quickly plug it in. The charger however, was nowhere to be found. I could hear the shower running when I saw the tip of Apple’s latest shameless money grab of a “lightning cord” protruding from under the bed.
I bent down, pulling out the rest of the cord when an instant of shimmering light caught my attention. I reached further under, feeling for what I assumed was a Pop Tart wrapper, when I saw it, ripped open and still fresh with lube: a condom wrapper.
I stormed towards the bathroom.
“Katie!” I throw the wrapper in the shower.
“What the fuck is this!?” Even as the boiling water corroded her skin, she turned pale as Casper.
“Um… It’s… Uhhh… It must be yours, obviously” she stammered.
“It must be mine? Are you fucking kidding me? You know I haven’t used a rubber since LeBron was in Cleveland!”
“He is in Cleveland!” She screamed.
“The first time!” I retorted.
In that moment, I realized what had happened: someone in this house, from my fraternity, had fucked my girlfriend in my own bed.
And they were going to pay for it..
Read the conclusion here