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So I Found Out Who Banged My Formal Date

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who banged my formal date

Read part one of this two-part story here

It’s late in the 4th quarter of my collegiate experience and I’m in a DeMarcus Cousins-level rage. I explode into the hallway, slamming open doors, smashing bottles, and yelling for general attention without regard for my checkbook or future eligibility. Matt, the one kid I am certain could not have fucked Katie due to his known status as a sniveling micropenis-laden fuck, meekly opened the door to his room.

“Siblings?” We briefly make eye contact as I continue my search of what had apparently become a ghost town of a frat castle. “Are you ok, man?”

I pause.

“Matt, you’re good bro — I found a rubber under my bed. If I’d found a thimble, I’d crack your bitch ass like Humpty Dumpty, but we both know you’d have no practical use for a Magnum.”

With a resigned acceptance, the sort that results from years of drunken women regaling your fraternity brothers with stories of how your “little penis was seriously this tiny” (complete with the requisite hand motions), Matt went to close the door.

“Wait, Matt.”

He pauses.

“Where the fuck is everybody else?” I asked.

“Everybody else? You mean those of us that weren’t thrown the fuck out last night for claiming mid-thrust that the venue was racist?”

“Racist? Christ. I can’t imagine where I was going with that…” My headache is returning.

“I can’t get into this right now with you, Tiny Tim. Can you just tell me where I can find the cocksucker that fucked my girlfriend?”

Matt, apparently summoning the testicular fortitude to respond to these unwarranted verbal assaults of mine, steps into the hallway.

“Well, technically, wouldn’t the real cocksucker here be Katie? I think she’s in your room, bro.”

Realizing he had just said this to the lone member in the history of our chapter to have received an unprecedented two-year blanket ban from intramural sports for “conduct unbecoming of a student,” Matt’s smirk quickly faded as I lurched toward his dickless torso like a crocodile attacking an unsuspecting riverside antelope.

The asexual fuck narrowly escaped — still half a chromosome away from full-on female anatomy, and apparently reveling in my hazy recollection of the prior evening’s happenings. His smirk, however, got me thinking a bit, clearing a portion of the green, bubbling scum hardening atop the pond of my mind.

They’re not home because they’re still at the venue, as we had rented, and I had personally contributed financially toward, a block of rooms in the hotel above the club. Barring Inspector Gadget go-go-expanding genitalia, or the invention of teleportation, a vast majority of the usual suspects couldn’t possibly have done the deed with Katie. Not with her here, at least.

And then it hit me: there was one other person in the house that night, someone that not only knew where Katie was this morning, but also that I had left. Mongoloid Greg, complete with his patented shit-eating grin and unwarranted self-confidence, who had already accosted me during my attempted early morning re-entry into my room. Greg was banned from chapter functions after last semester’s manatee incident at the city aquarium (I’ll discuss another time). He was here last night, the only swinging dick in an empty home. It had to have been him.

I’m Stevie Wonder blind with rage, half convinced Greg must’ve Bill Cosby’d Katie into it due to his offensive appearance and generally pungent odor, when his anvil-shaped head became visible on the main room couch.

“GREG!” I tumble down the stairs, barely conscious as I hit the floor. Taken down again by the idiotically slick wooden stairs and my always sock-covered feet, I’m sprawled across the floor in the pose of a chalk outlined murder victim.

“Christ, Siblings! Are you alright!?” Greg approaches my near lifeless body. “Siblings?”

I start to gather myself as he helps me to my feet.

“Man, we’ve got to do something about these fucking stairs” he says as I’m still shaking the cobwebs from what was likely my latest entry in a long line of undiagnosed concussions. “Can’t you just not wear socks? I never fucking slip barefoot.”

“Greg, we’ve talked about this: I don’t want to see those cloven hooves.” I motion to his feet as his smirk returns, reigniting my fire of rage.

“But that’s not the issue right now.” I shove him in the chest.

“What the fuck, bro?” He pushes me back.

“I know what you did to Katie, you fuck.” The pushing is idiotically going back and forth so that neither of us actually ends up anywhere but where we’d originally began the conversation.

“Okay, man.” He starts laughing. “It’s really not that big of a deal, is it?”

“Not that big of a deal? So you fucking admit it!”

He shakes his head and smiles.

“Yeah, man — I admit it. I didn’t think you’d care that much, honestly. It wasn’t meant to be disrespectful.”

“Not meant to be disrespectful?” I shove him against the wall.

“Jesus, man! Okay, I’m sorry!” He’s oddly surprised by what seemed to be a reasonable level of anger on my part.

“My fucking bad, dude! Seriously!”

“Your bad? Yeah, it’s your fucking bad, buddy. Like it was mine when I fucked Courtney.” His beloved ex; the kid kept a shrine of her hidden in his room even years after the fact.

“You did what?” He’s clearly shaken as I continue holding him by the collar of his fucking Real Madrid jersey, attire that only further angered me.

“While you were with her, before, fucking after… I’ve spent more time inside her than an actual classroom during my time at this school, you fuck.”


Katie has reappeared, fully dressed after our scolding shower separation.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?” She screamed.

“Katie, I know you fucked him last night!”

Greg pushes me away.

“I did what?!” He looks sincerely confused.

“Last night, you fucking liars! He already admitted it, Katie!” I shrieked.

“Admitted it? Are you fucking kidding me? I have never touched her! Wait… did you really fuck Courtney?! You asshole!”

Regret is washing over me in an awesome wave.

“Then why the fuck did you apologize to me?”

He pulls out his phone.

“For this, you fucking asshole!”

He puts the phone in my face. His Snap story plays, detailing my removal from the club and Katie’s hysterics.

“This is what you were apologizing for? Seriously?” I look to Katie. “You didn’t fuck anyone last night?”

Katie starts walking down the stairs towards me.


She removes a phone from her pocket. Quickly I realize it was mine I had left charging in my room.

“But you did.”

She hands me the phone as the screen illuminates several texts from last night’s conquest, the last ending succinctly with “come back and fuck me again.”


She slaps me and heads for the door before I can muster a single other word, literally jogging my memory of what had happened.

“Honestly, man, stay the fuck away from me.” Greg, in a rare moment of maturity, refrained from rightfully assaulting me as he made his way up the stairs. “You’re a real piece of shit. You know that, right?”

Greg’s door closes as my anger fully erodes into humiliation and remorse. The condom, the source of this entire debacle, etched into my mind’s eye as reality smacked me in the fucking head with Adrian Peterson’s switch.

Last night’s conquest again illuminated my phone when I put it all together: the first session of our home and home series, the result of an infamous tequila Tuesday, had occurred during a less than ideal period of the month for my companion — prompting me to uncharacteristically whip out a condom.

“I’m going in like Moses,” I remember saying to her. “It’s been a while since I’ve worn a raincoat.”

I regret that decision and all the trouble is resulted in, but I’ll be damned if that’s not a Hall of Fame line.

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Siblings of Mark Wahlberg

Sorry Mom & Dad. Follow me to prevent my suicide: @SiblingsOfTFM

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