‘Twas a normal Friday afternoon. Classes were skipped in favor of going to the gym, which inevitably turned into watching Gossip Girl reruns, which inevitably turned into napping. As I awoke looking more like Maleficent than I did Sleeping Beauty, I remembered: tonight was the night.
My roommate Steph had wanted to set me up with him for awhile. He was not so tall, not so dark, but definitely handsome, which was good enough for me. We carefully colluded how we were going to make him fall in love with me. Step 1: Take shots. Step 2: Introduce us. Step 3. She awkwardly drifts into the background. Step 4: Take shots with him. Step 5: Marriage.
With our plan intact, we made our way to the scheduled pregame we had with his fraternity. I was already a bottle of Yellowtail deep and feeling more confident than a 35-year-old washout who got the 9th rose out of 15 on the first night of the Bachelorette. We immediately made a beeline to the bankers, screaming “CHASERS ARE FOR PUSSIES AND LAFAYETTE!” We crossed Step 1 off the list. Then out of nowhere, he appeared. “Dean!” Steph said. “I want you to meet my roommate!” Step 2: complete.
As Dean and I made small talk, Steph took care of Step 3 like a motherfucking champ. Our conversation turned a little more serious than it would at your average natty-soaked cesspool-like gathering. I talked about why I’m really afraid to graduate, he told me about his parent’s recent divorce. The next thing I knew the pregame had cleared out. “Do you want to come to our party?” Dean asked. “Yes, but shots first” I responded as sexy as one can while tripping over themselves getting up from a couch. Step 4 was a gonzo.
When we got to the party we continued our intense conversations. The combination of the high-quality vino, the Adderall I snorted at 8pm and the warm shots of lighter fluid really put me on my A game. I was laughing at all his jokes, flirty-touching him in all the right ways, and using big words I hadn’t used since studying for my SATs. “Where did you come from?” Dean asked me, gazing into my eyes. “How come I haven’t met you until now?” I shrugged and he kissed me. “I want to take you on a date” he proclaimed. “You’re not like any of the other girls I’ve met at this school. I want to do it right with you. Will you go out with me?”
“Maybe.” I responded. Then I slipped into a blackout.
When I blacked in I was sans shirt, pants unbuttoned with Dean beneath me. We were ferociously making out like two 10th grade nerds who agreed they just needed to get it over with. He kept moaning and saying, “Yeah baby, yeah baby, you’re so hot, you’re so hot.” I made a mental note to think about whether this was weird or not later, considering we were only dry humping. Then out of nowhere, LITERALLY NOWHERE, I feel a giant, loud *SMACK.* I sat up, extremely startled, thinking this must have been the hand of God because THERE IS NO WAY THAT THIS KID JUST BITCH-SLAPPED ME ACROSS THE FACE. I sat there, tit exposed, holding my right cheek like some bewildered redneck child burnt the cornbread. “Oh my god” he pleaded. “I’m so sorry, but I’m into that! I can usually hold back and control myself but you just got me so excited and I—”
“No.” I said like a woman with a shred of dignity. “We are done.” I tucked my tit back in, picked up my shoes, and left. There were a lot of things I could take, but non-sexy corporal punishment was not one of them. I cared way too much about my perfectly non-bruised face than to have some New Jersey rich-boy with some SERIOUS mommy/daddy/pet/life issues fuck it up. After a horrible first S&M experience like that, I decided would never see Dean again.
We only hooked up three more times after that..
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Drunk but not in love
(@DrunkNOTinLove) is a die-hard Splenda addict who requires a constant supply of caffeine and male attention to make it through the day. After graduating with her degree in Economics, she now focuses her energy on adding a "Home" to her degree title by perfecting the "intelligent drunk," and conning a banker into marrying her one day. Originally from New England, she is a hardcore Boston sports fan, but only when boys are around. Almost all of her calories consumed Thursday - Saturday (and the occasional Tuesday) are from $7 bottles of Yellowtail Moscato, and in no way, shape, or form is she fazed by this. All forms of hate mail and date party inquiries can be sent to drunkbutnotinlove@gmail.com
@DrunkNOTinLove
