Tuesday, May 17

Sometimes you have to lower your standards to raise your average

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I'll admit: when I'm drinking, I turn into a raving man-slut. The alcohol works its way down my body whenever I drink. It starts in my head with that rather pleasant feeling of slight ethereal vertigo. After that, it moves to my throat and tongue, making me desire even more alcohol. From the throat, it moves to the stomach, giving me mad munchies that only entire bags of Doritos and giant helpings of Kroger chicken nuggets can cure. Finally, we're in the crotch, which will dictate my behavior for the rest of the night. After about 12 AM or 12 drinks, whichever comes first, I'm on the prowl.
The problem with this is that by this time my brain and eyes have gone to sleep, which leaves my penis on its own to seek companionship. When my drunken eyes do function, they always present me with an alternate version of the person I'll wake up next to - it's like I have Twilight Zone eyes that can peer into a parallel universe and show me how the person could conceivably be considered attractive had things gone differently for them. My penis cares not; it only has one eye, and that eye has its beer goggle firmly in place by this time. It's time to get some booty.
One particular occasion taught me a very valuable lesson, which I will relate to you at the end of the following anecdote:

When my last serious girlfriend and I broke up, I immediately went out drinking. Nothing says "I'm over you" like ingesting quarts of hard alcohol and screaming at random people. I went to a frat on campus (the BFC, for those of you who read the G. I. Jack stories) which quickly reminded me of the joys of debauchery. I was standing in a room next to a couch with three girls on it, beer in each hand. I happened to look down and notice that the girls, apparently not seeing me as a very plausible prospect for their future bastard children, had begun making out with each other. Pretty soon hands were in naughty places, and a crowd was forming. A couple of guys tried to shove me out of my coveted spot right next to the Action Couch, but I wasn't going to have any of it. I firmly maintained my ground.
Bored with sitting on the couch and molesting each other, the girls decided to dance on a coffee table. While dancing, they were still making out and playing "Hide the Fingers in the Bra". A frat brother quickly jumped up behind one of them, forming a train. There was only room for one more person on that coffee table. Knowing that I had just broken up with my girlfriend and was really broken up (a.k.a., drunk), a friend of mine in the house demanded that I take that remaining spot on the coffee table. Being the complacent type, I quickly obliged.
Dancing on that table has to be one of the highlights of my party career. There were three girls on this table, hands all over each other, with me and another guy being bookends for them. They gradually moved on to touching me, making me put my hands in naughty places on their friends, and grinding into me in ways I had formerly only heard legends about. It was a phenomenal time.

Oh, how I wish I could lie to you now, Dear Reader. I wish I could tell you that I took all three of those girls home and had my way with them in succession while the other two watched in masturbatory envy. Sadly, this is not how things turned out.

After some time on the coffee table, one of the girls quickly left (in all probability to go barf). Her friends, in typical group-of-chicks-at-a-frat-house fashion, went to "go check on her". This left me with the not-so-pleasant aftertaste of disappointment that the unfulfillment of high hopes leaves in one's mouth. Add to that the fact that my penis had now completely taken all of the blood from my brain and was leading me around like a dog on a long, thick leash, and you can understand why I began to get both desperate and pissed. Feck.

I continued mingling in the party. I think at one point I walked up to a girl from my hometown and told her that she should give me a blow job. She was less than charitable in her response to my request. Prude.
I found another girl from my hometown who was a sophomore. I sort of remembered what she looked like in high school - blond, not a bad figure, came from a rich-type family. For some reason, my penis kept telling me that a freshman year of drinking, late night munchies and shitty cafeteria food had not affected her. Like the drunken idiot I am, I listened to my penis. My penis is not the greatest drinking buddy. If it were a real person, it would be the kind of friend who told me to drink burning tar when I'm drunk. Bastard.

I'm not too sure what happens next, but I know that somehow we are now making out in a shitty frat house bathroom. Various regions are being touched. She suggests we go back to my place. I agree.

Next memory: she and I are walking back to my dorm. The night is somewhat chilly, and since beer never keeps me drunk for long I'm starting to sober up. My brain wakes up and rubs its eyes. It starts trying to get my attention. My penis tells it to shut the fuck up. It's dark, and since my eyes haven't really adjusted or sobered up, I can't really get a good read on the girl.
We get to my dorm. I have considerable difficulty with the keys. We make it upstairs and to my room. By the time this all transpires, both my brain and my eyes have woken up and demand to know what sort of shit my penis has gotten us into (to give you another analogy, this would've been the part where my brain and eyes woke up to find that my penis had written "COCK" on their foreheads with permanent marker). My penis tells them to shut the fuck up again. Besides, we are in my room now, and there is touching going on. It's still dark. However, my brain has compiled a pretty good schematic on what sort of person we are dealing with based on tactile input. It doesn't look good.

We are undressed. I need to find something in my room, so I turn on the light, giving me my first clear, sober look at this girl.


My penis finally comes to its senses and runs away. My eyes are trying to shut themselves back off. My brain is smirking at me like the self-loving bastard it is and telling me that it told me so. Fucker.
The girl notices that my penis has run off, and is concerned. I stutter for a bit, trying not to make eye contact. Finally, I tell her that I must have some sort of whiskey dick. Yeah, that's it...whiskey dick. Also, I drank a bunch of cold medicine before going to the party. Silly me...ha ha. Oh well, c'est la vie, let's all go home.
She is really concerned, because "cold medicine and alcohol don't mix...are you sure you're ok?" I assure her that I am, in fact, ok. I insist that I walk her home. However, she is determined to finish what we started. Since I had gotten her off right before (what can I say, I'm a guy who firmly believes in the "ladies first" rule), she insists that she gets me off. Fine, whatever, if it'll shut you up you can do it. Just please don't make me look at you.
She sinks out of my line of vision. Thank God. My penis slowly returns. My brain keeps sending my penis images of more attractive girls so my penis can finish this job and we can all get the fuck out of here. The whole time, the Bloodhound Gang song, "You're Pretty When I'm Drunk" kept running through my head as a form of further mockery from my brain. After what seems like an eternity (she sucked at sucking), we're all done. Mission accomplished. Let's go.

I walk her back to her house (again, I'm the very model of chivalry) and drop her off. After an awkward goodbye, I head straight back to the BFC to drink this horrible experience out of my mind. The next morning is not a pleasant one for my brain, to say the least. Serves that bastard right for abandoning me when I needed it most. Fucker.

Now, at this point I was going to tell you what I learned from all of this. But I forgot. The moral of the story is, I guess, that I have an inverse correlation with my standards for poon tang and my BAC. Or maybe it's not inverse....whatever, one goes down when the other goes up. The other moral would be to never go out drinking without a buddy to pull you off of gross chicks - Scary Adam has saved me many a time from awkward mornings. I guess I'm more of a whore than most girls I know when I'm drunk - beh.

Go bring me a drink. I'll sleep with you if you do.
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