The following story is loosely based on a submission from one of our insane readers.
It was three days before formal when she set my world ablaze with words of sheer heartbreak: “I can’t keep doing this if we aren’t official.” My response, “I mean… I can,” was the nail in our sexual relationship’s coffin.
I was newly completely single at both the best, and worst, possible time: formal season. I needed a “fuck you, look at her, you must be so jealous” date with just hours of notice. Nothing turns a girl on like smuggled drink tickets and outrageously inappropriate party bus behavior, so this kinda task is generally a no-brainer.
But something had changed. I was striking out left and right like I was Stevie Wonder at the plate when finally I conceded and asked Ol’ Reliable: Katie, the woman I loved to fuck and hated to see. Katie was the kind of girl who made parts of you (read: frock) tremble with excitement as your brain recoiled in disdain. She was arrogant, kiddie pool shallow, inexcusably rude, and toyed with young men like the frequently absent father she undoubtedly has. On the bright side, though, she had great tits and no gag reflex. I sent the invite the classiest way I knew how: a drunken text.
Through what I pretended was good luck, but knew in reality was her shared intention to anger her ex with my Greek affiliation and known exchange of bodily fluid, I awoke to a loving “sure” response. I knew this would be a historic challenge, as even after repeated penile explorations of her oral cavity, this remained the only orifice she had ever allowed me to breach.
I tried everything, from the cutesy “want to match?” prom bullshit she rebuffed like a GDI’s dance request, to the eventual understanding I would have to do what had served me best in three full years of college: say things I do not in any way mean, but with complete sincerity and overwhelming confidence. It was like I was in Organic Chemistry all over again, except this time the only reaction I was hoping for would take place between Katie’s legs.
The whole thing was a complete cluster fuck the moment it began. Katie had officially broken things off with the apparently on-again boyfriend literally hours before the pregame, and had shown up looking like Amy Winehouse halfway through a bender; left nipple hanging out, “sad” mascara running eyes, the works. The whole thing was a disaster. To my shock, and consent-based relief, she was amazingly sober, as her several hour tirade against her boyfriend prevented pre-pregame drinking.
I got her calmed down with a litany of compliments, spewing more bullshit than all the Sanders/Clinton debates combined. After a while she had finally loosened up and allowed her cunty and unwavering perception of glory to shine, throwing Regina George-style quips at fellow partygoers. She was, and continues to be, the most abhorrent individual I have ever put my dick anywhere near. And with my track record, that’s saying something.
Almost immediately after arriving, I’m “I can feel the music” hammered and stammering about like a newborn fawn. Katie is outside on the phone, no doubt engaged in her boyfriend’s last ditch effort to secure the closure of her legs for the night, probably with a promise of “we will fix this tomorrow.” I’m drunk and sexually frustrated, a known recipe for disaster, so I pull a Katie and text my “let’s be official” ex a swooning, poetic love letter text reading: “fuck, I miss your pussy. you’re so hot babe wow.”
For some reason, I’m guessing her attempted thirsty Thursday drowning of sorrows, the text was actually well received. We arranged a 1 a.m. reintroduction of genitals back at my room, guaranteeing tonight’s nut, and tomorrow’s regret. Except, sadly, things in my life are just not that simple.
Katie came back down like a hurricane, grabbing my face and kissing me like I had just returned from war. Perplexed, I quickly realized my assumption was wrong: the call wasn’t the “we will work on it” peace treaty, but instead a pompous declaration of sustained independence. She was single, and, seeing as she’d previously ingested about a gallon of my mini-mes, I had a serious shot at something here.
What I had forgotten about, however, was the professed love and prior engagement with my ex. Katie and I are going at it in the coat room like drunk monkeys when the DJ booth rings in with the news: it’s time to head out to the bus. She’s straddling me the entire ride home, whispering shit in my ear that made the Hub sound like a nursery rhyme as I tested the structural integrity of my pants.
We get to my room and I’m like an animal. This is sex without feeling, driven by a sort of mutual hate but unwavering attraction. It’s primal, like a caveman, but with the requisite consent and consideration (but not usage) of protection.
Somehow I’ve avoided whiskey dick, and, not wanting to allow science and insecurity to thwart this likely one-time opportunity, I skip the pleasantries (read: I did not go down on her) and went in for the real thing.
“WHAT THE FUCK?” a voice shrieked.
I freeze as if my mother had walked in mid-jerk.
There it was again, and it was a familiar voice. Katie turned to the door.
“Who the fuck are you?” she asked.
“I’m his fucking girlfriend!”
For the first time, I understood the merits of suicide.
Katie hopped off of me.
“You text me you love me while fucking some slut?!” my ex belted out.
“You texted her while you were with me?” Katie added.
I sat up, and Katie slapped me. In this moment, I collected my thoughts.
“Fucking answer me!” Katie squeals.
I compose myself.
Can’t turn back now.
“There’s plenty of room for three.”.