It was a random Tuesday and my best friend just got screwed over by yet another fratfuck. She was ready to get way too drunk, dance on a few tables, and cry herself to sleep while cuddling a bowl of ramen noodles, and I was the one who was expected to accompany her on her escapade. Ugh I had to be irresponsible and encourage binge-drinking on a weekday? I was obviously in. This is usually how my stories begin.
This particular evening, I was so wrapped up in my duties as wingwoman that I had not even contemplated the idea of going home with someone myself. That being said, I was not prepared to get laid, and therefore had not exactly cleaned myself up for the occasion.
Of course, as it usually does, fate had other plans for me. A guy I had previously rendezvoused with just so happened to be at the same bar, so we struck up a conversation, which turned into a few more drinks, which turned into a “so are you ready to get out of here?” I thought “no big deal.” I’d figure it out as I went along. I could just make out with him and not do anything that requires him to see me naked. If anything I could have someone to cuddle with for the rest of the night. Perfect.
Except it was everything but perfect. I went back to his house, and holy shit the alcohol was doing its job because this sober six was now looking like a soft nine and the temptation was so real. I had to figure something out. I went to the bathroom, panicked, and there it was: a slightly grimy looking razor sitting on the bathtub. It’s like God wanted me to get laid, right? It’s not gross to use an unidentified person’s razor, right? Wrong on all accounts, dumbass drunken self. I went to pick up the razor and grabbed it by the blade, consequently slicing open my thumb in a manner that quite literally took off half of my skin.
If you’ve ever cut your legs while shaving (which I’m sure everyone has), you know that it doesn’t stop bleeding for hours. You could use an entire roll of gauze and it would still gush through. It’s basically like your own manmade waterfall, except out of blood. So you can imagine what my thumb looked like as I am standing in this disgusting frat bathroom with an impatient guy waiting in a bed outside. A modern day horror story.
Since frat boys are animals, there was no toilet paper to be found. I was standing at the sink praying to the hookup gods that the stream of water somehow would clot the bleeding. By this point, there was blood everywhere: the sink, the floor, even the mirror somehow. I’d been in the bathroom for probably fifteen minutes so this guy clearly thought I was either passed out or taking a shit, both of which are not ideal. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to go back to his room and ask for a Band-Aid.
I think that my sloshed mind purposely blacked out the conversation that followed because I can’t remember exactly what went down after. We ended up hooking up anyway, but the Band-Aid didn’t do much for me because when we were through and turned on the lights, there was blood streaming down my arm and all over his sheets. I would really love to hear how my I explained that one away. The kicker of this whole thing is that the next day the guy actually ended up asking me to his formal. Men.
Always shave before you go out. Never grab a razor by the blade. Also, make sure your tetanus shot is up to date because a few days later I had to go to the doctor when my thumb was infected as fuck. Tuesdays, man..
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