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story by julian casesar cover art by corey davis collages by carla aaron-lopez illustrations by corey davis




My favorite moment, (well... besides the actual fucking part) is watching the woman get dressed. Voyeuristic impulses aside, I think the way a woman gets dressed the morning after a first encounter can be particuarly telling. If she’s rushing out of your bedroom with a distinct lack of interest in making eye contact, you probably want to spare yourself further embarrassment and delete her number. But if she enjoyed herself, whether communicated directly or through artfully suggestive body language, you’ll know it. If she really enjoyed herself, chances are, the first thing you’ll feel when you wake up is a soft hand on your dick. Whatever the response, a certain level of awkwardness is expected; regardless of how sexually liberated the women I’ve fucked are (or claim to be), they are still from a culture which dedicates prime time television hours to a show about teenage pregnancy, has politicans actively trying to cut funding from Planned Parenthood and subtly (and not so subtly) discourages any open discussion about sex (especially for women). So while advertising campaigns are selling products loaded with innuendo and the story lines of reality shows like Real World or Jersey Shore largely revolve around wanton casual sex escapades, the sexual culture of America as a whole is still very puritanical. As of 2007, the average male between the ages of 30-44 will fuck seven women in his lifetime; subtract this by three 4

for women in the same age range (these are median numbers). The average 18 to 29 year old American will fuck two pedestrian times a week. The United States ranks sixth in terms of overall promiscuity (essentially the frequency of casual sex encounters) in countries with populations over ten million behind countries like Germany, the Netherlands and the Czech Republic. Sentiments about America’s descent into amoral sexual decadence are greatly exaggerated. Mix in some slut shaming, sprinkle a little double standard and you can understand why numerous Americans opt out of the casual sex with a relative (or complete) stranger experience after one or two instances, if they ever go down that road in the first place. Obviously, I’m not one of those people. In fact, it would be fair to say I’ve spent a significant amount of my young adult life having casual sex, which, according to American sexual culture at least (even now), means I’ve had a lot of sex outside of monogamous relationships. I find this distinction extremely limiting. Often, the standard narrative on casual sex is, while it can be enjoyable, it is ultimately hollow and meaningless. This collection of nights I’m surprised I remember isn’t an attempt to challenge that notion... I’m a hard drinking, chain smoking, hedonistic asshole who likes

telling amusing stories, not a social revolutionary. The list of people, significantly more qualified than I, who are (rightfully) challenging America’s often irrational and nonsensically backwards views on sex and sexuality is long (while simultaneously being too short). “Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everybody I’ve ever known.” Fans of author Chuck Palanhiuk will immediately recognize this line from his book ‘Invisible Monsters’. This is a sentiment I wholly agree with; ultimately, I am, from my parents to family members, friends, significant others, fuck buddies and one night stands, an amalgamation of every single person I’ve ever intimately (using this term very broadly) interacted with. Treating my first (or second, or third and so on...) one night stand as meaningless experiences would be a lie. My first casual sex encounter in New Orleans springs to mind immediately during the multiple day MDMA bender which leads to the initial brainstorming of this essay collection years later. If the encounter goes poorly, it’s entirely possible my feelings towards casual sex could be colored in a negative way; and maybe I’m writing about how fucking someone you only met a few hours ago is the worst fucking thing anyone could ever do.

This is what comes to mind when I read that Palanhiuk quote. I am the combined effort of everyone I’ve ever known (and more specifically, everyone I’ve ever fucked) so in their own unique way, my casual sex experiences have shaped me just as my longer-term relationship successes and failures. Please note The Morning After isn’t in any way, a recommendation or endorsement of a particular lifestyle. I understand the way I choose to live probably doesn’t work for many people; fuck, maybe it doesn’t even work for me and I’m just too fucking dense to realize it yet. For some people, this collection may be an exercise in what not to do as it applies to sex and relationships. Others may be encouraged by my stories to do some experimentation of their own. Regardless, I always have and always will suggest people design their ‘romantic’ (like ‘intimate’ earlier, I’m using this term very broadly) lives on their own terms, whatever the fuck that means. Finally, since I usually see this disclaimer in a number of essays I’ve read that use personal anecdotes, understand while The Morning After is based on actual events, certain names, dates, locations and other minor details are changed, slightly adjusted or outright omitted to protect those less shameless than I am. And because in nearly every story, I’m either drunk, on drugs or both, I would be a fucking liar if I claimed to remember absolutely everything that happened down to the very last detail. 5

Fear & Loathing In New Orleans


“So I have some bad news... I just started my period.” Under normal circumstances, this isn’t bad news to me. In fact, it’s excellent news, the kind of news that improves my day. Under intense circumstances, like the time my partner of three years is nearly a week late despite us never fucking without a condom, news like this is so exciting, I’m almost tempted to blow a load inside of her as means of celebration. Hearing a partner tell me she has started the monthly biological process in which her hormones kick into overdrive (leading to peculiar cravings and an umm... let’s say ‘temperamental’ demeanor), her stomach wages a small mutiny and some concoction of blood and unidentifiable discharge oozes out of her pussy for several days, I’m ecstatic to learn I won’t become a father. You have to appreciate the little things you know? In this particular situation however, this is terrible, horrible fucking news. I’m here in New Orleans, two years after Hurricane Katrina on a ‘vacation’ of sorts. Many of the surrounding areas as you drive into the city still look like a scene out of those apocalyptic ‘end of the world’ documentaries they show on the History Channel all the goddamn time.

Where cars, commerce and civilization used to be is replaced by an unnerving stillness and silence. It feels like I’m flying into a fucking ghost town. Despite this, the city’s astonishingly shitty, pothole riddled roads and the constant uneasiness you experience being in a place with a crime rate so high, mother fuckers get jacked on a routine basis, even on the nicer side of town where I’m staying... I really fucking love New Orleans. The food here, provided you don’t get stuck in some bullshit tourist trap restaurant, is absolutely and consistently incredible. The party scene is certainly as advertised. None of this is what truly sells me on how strange and unique of a city New Orleans is; walking into a Rite-Aid one day is what does the trick. It is here where I discover... they sell liquor at the goddamn pharmacy! There’s a bottle of Goose, Crown Royal, Patron, you name it. Not only do they sell liquor at the fucking Rite-Aid, you can buy the good shit. Come on... how can you not love a city where you can bring a bottle of Belvedere, a box of condoms, a bag of Sour Patch Kids (a personal favorite) and Plan B (or a recently filled Penicillin prescription because I mean... it is New Orleans) to the register all at the same time? 7

Needless to say, I’m here to enjoy myself. Part of my enjoyment included spending quality time inside of my close friend of several years, Riley. And then she has to fuck things up by dropping the period bombshell on me the second she opens the front door of her student housing apartment. A major reason I endorse the practice of having intimate friends, I mean, besides the fact it’s fucking awesome to be great friends with someone you can also share a bed with (while also understanding it doesn’t mean either of you want to be in a relationship with one another) is for situations like this one. Sure, I can probably find some rich sophomore from the suburbs willing to live on the edge for an evening with the eccentric black man visiting from Atlanta. But I’m only here for two nights and unlike the girl I have yet to meet, I know what I’m getting from Riley and more importantly, I really fucking enjoy what I get from Riley. There may be no pussy like new pussy but as we all learn over the years, not all ‘new’ pussy is ‘good’ pussy. So with my best laid plans to get laid dashed, I need to come up with a new one. As I’m pressed for time, the nearest doughnut theory is being implemented; luckily, Riley doesn’t give a shit if I fuck any of her friends and even luckier, she has numerous attractive friends. The first friend I meet, a cute, bookish redhead, is already a winner. Definitely 8

too type A and overtly polite to be tolerable in the long run but with those gorgeous, pear shaped hips, she’s perfect for an evening. Initially, she’s generally cordial towards me but seems to warm up to my sarcastic demeanor and dry, dark sense of humor. I like where this is going... Until she casually tosses a reference about a boyfriend into the goddamn conversation. Immediately, my heart (heart, dick... same thing right?) sinks. Damn... I really thought we could have had something special. My id reminds me the boyfriend is a mere formality, particularly when the girl also mentions she isn’t thrilled with the state of her relationship. Under the proper circumstances, you know, late night/ early morning, a comfortable setting, numerous well timed jokes and several vodka/cranberries later, she would likely be happy to pretend her boyfriend didn’t exist for several hours. But I cannot bring myself to create that scenario; not out of some sense of morality but because I’m lazy. I would have to spend a large part of the evening weakening her resolve, listening to her bitch about a relationship I could give a shit about and assauging her guilt to enable her to rationalize her behavior. That’s a lot of fucking work for a girl who could just as well end up crying at three in the morning about how her boyfriend treats her like crap, takes advantage of her and wanting to just cuddle with me so she can fucking feel better.

So... scratch that one. To say the next couple of friends I encounter underwhelmed me would be a generous understatement. There’s nothing about delusional, trustafarian hippies that inspires my penis into action. By the next afternoon, while eating surprisingly delicious granola I discover in Riley’s room while waiting for her to return from classes, I’m contemplating defeat. I start to resign myself to the likely possibility of returning back to Atlanta, head sunk in shame because I didn’t end up with my dick in some nubile coed. Another reason why I prefer intimate friends... I’m too fucking uninterested in the ridiculous game we play between the sexes to have to constantly cycle through partners. I know, the obvious solution to this problem would be entering a relationship... but what’s the fun in that? I’m pretty sure I involuntarily shoot Riley a cold glance when she comes home after class. Yes, it’s not her fault; Mother Nature decided to insert this in the blueprint and I’m sure, like every other woman on the planet, if Riley had things her way, this whole bleeding out the vagina thing wouldn’t occur. She should be climbing her lithe, naked body on top of me instead of plopping her bag on the floor and telling me how her day went. Riley tells me she’s inviting her current boy toy over later along with a friend she

wants me to meet. She assures me it’ll be worthwhile; I’m skeptical but my only other option is to sit on Riley’s bed reading the books I have and continue eating her delicious granola. So I figure, what the hell... Law of Averages dictates Riley has to have at least one fuckable friend, right? Right. I need a drink... The boy toy arrives to Riley’s dorm room first. He’s short, maybe 5’5”, with curly brown hair and olive skin. Hispanic I’m assuming. I’m also assuming, judging by his polo shirt and distressed, light rinse jeans, that he’s probably a douchebag. I’m not exactly one to talk but this isn’t about me right now. We’re polite to each other but very clearly not interested in interacting with each other in any serious manner. I fade back into my books and laptop, hoping they’ll be too busy flirting to notice my removal from the conversation. Suddenly, there’s a knock of the door; I perk up. She walks in. Riley was right... she just might be worth my while after all. There’s something about voluminous, slightly untamed curly hair I find incredibly sexy. Straight hair has never really done much for me. It doesn’t ‘say’ anything; either your hair naturally falls that way or you spend upwards of thirty minutes in front of the mirror with a hair straightener. 9

Sure, curly hair can merely be the illusion of hot rollers and salon quality hairspray. But it also invokes questions. Was she rushing this morning? If so, why? Scrambling out of an unfamiliar bed? Disoriented from a brain rattling hangover? The best part is, even if this is all bullshit I made up in my head (likely) there’s something about slightly unkempt hair that makes a woman looked freshly fucked... which I’m totally into. Her name is Jessica. She’s about the same height as the douchebag though a shade darker in skin tone. Jessica is ethnically ambiguous; even after looking at her for about ten minutes, I’m unable to determine what parts make up the whole. She is attractive though; not in that I would probably do some really stupid shit to get in her pants kind of way but if I fuck her, I’ll feel pretty good about myself in the morning. For awhile, everyone is just chatting with one another but in the back of my mind, I know the ‘pairing off’ point is inevitable. Before we arrive at that point, I suggest we head to the nearest liquor store to pick up some alcohol. Remember, this is New Orleans; the same city where you can purchase a handle of Ketel One at the goddamn pharmacy. So I’m not surprised when Riley informs me there’s a liquor store mere steps past the campus of Tulane that’s open much later than a place offering bottles of assorted spirits to college students probably should be. 10

Why don’t we have anything like this back in Atlanta? Our walking Benetton ad enters the liquor store which reminds me of the corner bodegas I used to frequent as a kid in Brooklyn. Come to think of it, as I notice the narrow aisles packed with an array of candy and snacks, the thick fortress of bulletproof glass in front of the register and the Middle Eastern gentleman behind it who I’m fairly certain is contractually obligated to be suspicious of our every move, I think this is simply a bodega that happens to sell hard liquor. Is there anywhere you can’t get alcohol in this goddamn city? I have yet to determine if New Orleans is the greatest place I’ve ever visited or the Sixth Circle of Hell. Noticing my suburban, upper middle class associates aren’t particularly thrilled about being in a shady convenience store in the middle of the night in a dangerous city, I quickly make a few purchases. In no time, we’re making our way back to the safer, insulated, collegiate environment from whence we came. I’m not really sure what the fuck I was thinking. I went into the store contemplating various alcoholic combinations which would simultaneously lower Jessica’s inhibitions without her ending up sloppy, passed out and useless by four in the morning. And I fucking come up with... a bottle of gin, a liter of OJ and a two liter bottle of Sprite?

Am I fucking serious? Last I checked I’m not James Bond or an aging New York socialite; so what about the prospect of drinking gin sounds appealing to me? And orange juice? Am I hungover at one in the afternoon, chain smoking and drinking coffee desperately hoping the combination makes the world remotely bearable? I suppose I could make Screwdrivers; oh wait, except for the small detail of needing vodka for those instead of this bottle of fucking Bombay Sapphire. Fortunately, I’m in a room with three college students... they’re more interested in how quickly this concoction will get everyone naked and mostly indifferent to the taste and quality. By the third round, the pairing off begins. Riley and her douchebag are curled up at the head of the bed, exchanging increasingly forward innuendos with one another. Meanwhile, Jessica and I are at the foot of the bed getting better acquainted. Ever have a conversation with someone that just... worked? There aren’t any awkward pauses or transitions, every witty remark delivered lands perfectly and the exchange is so seamless, time rapidly slips by with you barely noticing. We began sitting upright and now find ourselves laying down, our bodies, our eyes, our lips mere inches apart from one another. We’re so locked into our conversation, our bed mates shifting their coupling to the floor and even under the bed, mostly escapes our attention; the fumbling, moaning and heavy

breathing coming from behind us is an afterthought. Eventually, Riley and the douchebag resurface; her hair is wild, his collared shirt is disheveled. Both have the freshly fucked afterglow radiating off their faces. After sharing a laugh with Jessica at this sight, I pour everyone another round. Riley takes a moment to compose herself before noticing just how comfortable Jessica and I have become with one another. She casually mentions Jessica having an incredible body; I’m unable to decide this for myself as Jessica is wearing fairly loose fitting clothes but I’ve valued Riley’s discernment and taste for quite some time now. My interest is piqued... Riley then proposes a suggestive idea, inviting Jessica to take a shower with her. She accepts giddily and before the men in the room can fully process what’s about to happen, they are giggling to each other in the hallway, towels in hand, heading to the communal shower on their floor. This moment might be the first (but certainly not the last) moment I realized some of the seemingly contrived scenarios in porn actually occur in real life. I have no fucking idea why we never join them in the shower. I mean, there is some fear of getting caught but let’s be honest here... it probably wouldn’t be the first time that person walked in on a shower orgy in progress. It is college after all. 11

Instead, the douchebag and I sit there, awkwardly engaging each other in a mundane conversation neither of us really want to have. We’re instantly relieved when the ladies return, their hair still damp and white towels wrapped tightly around their bodies. Secretly, I’m hoping Jessica’s towel will unravel while she awkwardly puts on her pants and bra but I have no such fortune. It’s pretty late now, at least six in the morning. After Riley escorts the douchebag out of her room with a hug and a kiss goodbye, she decides to get ready for bed. This is the impasse moment; either I execute properly, prompting Jessica to invite me back to her dorm room or I fuck it up, we go our separate ways and I pathetically sink into Riley’s bed wondering what could have been. Jessica mentions something about wanting to go on the roof to watch the sunrise. At this point in my life, I’m pretty fucking indifferent towards nature; I could really give a goddamn about watching the sun slowly crawl its way above the Western Hemisphere horizon like every other morning. Can’t we just skip to the part where I’m inside of you already? I’m not exactly known for my ‘better’ judgment but even I’m smart enough not to allow my general disinterest in nature ruin my chances of getting fucked. So I agree to join Jessica and we quietly exit 12

Riley’s room, walk down the hallway and push through the door leading to the rooftop. To my surprise... it’s fucking freezing up here. That cloying, almost unbearable New Orleans humidity I’ve become (begrudgingly) familiar with is replaced by a bone chilling cold I’d be more prepared for if I were back home in New York. Jessica and I huddle close to one another to retain body heat; I have her place her hands in my coat pockets to keep them warm. There isn’t much said between us as we watch the sun become brighter with every passing minute and in my mind, this was probably the most positive sign this night would end exactly how I want it to. Two strangers, watching the sunrise pressed against one another being completely comfortable with each other in relative silence. Even a monster like me, notorious for my emotional distance, can appreciate the romanticism in this situation. There’s some fifteen year old girl reading a Twilight book right now pining for a moment like this and I’ve gotten the pleasure of experiencing it. What happened next is, at this point, inevitable. We kiss for the first time while the sun, now well into the clear blue sky begins to warm our skin. Jessica and I return inside, quietly entering Riley’s room to determine our next course of action.

Oh... and to retrieve Jessica’s bra which she realized had been left on the floor. I locate it, whispering the measurement, 34D, to her with a smirk on my face. She really needs wear more form fitting clothes; I’ve interacted with Jessica for hours now... why am I just now discovering she has a nice rack? She grabs her bra from me, smiling coyly, sliding it up her shirt and snapping it together in one fluid motion. And then she invites me back to her dorm room. The magnitude of what is about to take place doesn’t really hit me until we’re in the elevator of her student housing building. To this point, I have made significant progress in terms of varied sexual experiences but this would be my first one night stand. This would be the first time I found myself in a situation where the initial ‘impression’ meant everything because it would be the only impression Jessica would ever have. Realizing this fucking terrifies me. What if she thinks I fucking suck? Or I come way too early? Or... well, who fucking knows what else could go wrong? I probably shouldn’t even be this goddamn anxious about the whole thing. Jessica will likely remember this experience for what... a few days? Maybe a week or so if I’m a quality fuck? I should just be happy I’m getting what I want, and deal with whatever happens. Only I can’t bring myself to think like that...

Maybe it’s about ego... Okay, fuck it, it is about ego... The reason is immaterial really; the bottom line is I simply cannot bring myself to be indifferent about the pleasure of a woman sharing a bed with me. I don’t say that to paint myself as someone who’s ‘thoughtful’ or noble in any way... in my mind, it’s simply the correct thing to do. If someone wants you to fuck them, it only makes sense you fuck them as well as you possibly can. Anyone reading this who has either been a Resident Assistant at Tulane or has fucked a Resident Assistant at Tulane (like me) knows their dorm rooms are pretty fucking nice. Riley lives in a single so cramped, I feel like I’m violating her space every minute I’m there. Jessica’s room by contrast is nearly twice the size of Riley’s and more importantly, it comes with a view; there’s a nice sized window near her bed offering a glimpse of the city. We fuck and both of us enjoy ourselves which makes me extremely happy. I want to go ahead and get that out of the way since that’s least interesting part of the end of this story. First, Riley was absolutely right... Jessica’s body is fucking incredible. My feelings about a nice round ass, which Jessica certainly has, is fairly common knowledge. But what I’m really a sucker for and what is, in many ways, largely responsible for my ability to recall a one night stand that occurred years ago in vivid detail, is hips. 13

The fastest way into my heart (heart, pants... it’s all the same thing) is a spectacular pear shape. I am in concert with Freddie Mercury when he mused, “Fat Bottomed Girls, you make the rockin’ world go round...”

she’s as eager to fuck as I am) and after scouring her room for about five minutes, she manages to find one condom she just so happened to procure a few days ago when someone was handing them out.

Next, even after the drinks, extensive conversation, the cuddling, watching the sunrise together, everything, this tryst came extremely close to not reaching the proper conclusion.

Whoever that student is at Tulane, and whichever student currently continues such a fantastic tradition... thank you and keep up the excellent fucking work.

And all because my stupid ass forgot My favorite part about this entire to bring any goddamn condoms... story (besides the actual sex) is the brief conversation Jessica and I have Fortunately, Jessica is a rather gra- directly in the midst of foreplay. It’s cious host (meaning, at this point, probably 6:45 in the morning.


Jessica informs me she has a Chemistry class at 8:00 am and she has absolutely zero intention of missing it. Meaning whatever is to take place, we have about an hour to execute.

headboard the second I finish coming. Contraceptive disposed, hands washed, clothes on and by 7:55am, Jessica, in what is more a Walk of Pride than Shame, leads me out to the quad, kisses me goodbye and walks off to her ChemNow some of you might view this pub- istry class. lic service announcement of sorts as a mood killer. But to me, this is one of Still fairly disoriented (no sleep, ‘drunk’ the sexiest things I have ever heard a rapidly turning into ‘hungover’) I’m unwoman say. I’ve made the mistake of able to remember Jessica’s directions to overstaying my welcome after a night of get back to Riley’s room. Totally unincasual sex and this is an error I have no terested in roaming around Tulane’s exinterest in ever repeating. I appreciate pansive campus at eight in the morning, Jessica’s candor and make it a habit of I stop a passerby who either finds me asking women directly when they prefer amusing or thinks I’m an asshole. I get the fuck out of their personal space. “Hey, can you help me out? I just fucked If it’s five in the morning and you pre- one of your RA’s and I’m trying to get fer sleeping alone, I will politely excuse back to the (name I can’t remember) myself to brave the civilians preparing building.” Like a proper college student, for their daily commutes. If you prefer he hardly flinches and gives me directo skip any morning after conversation, tions. only the memories of the night before will be what’s left of me the second you Quietly or at least as quietly as possible, open your eyes. I enter Riley’s room, strip down for the second time in about an hour and sink Or, if you’re like me and check out time into her bed. The second I rest my head is 11am (potentially extended to 2pm if on the pillow, she slightly comes to life. you’re particularly fantastic) I’ll be walking out of your front door by 10:45. “Where did you go?” She asks in that raspy, barely awake voice. In my mind, just because two people want to fuck and nothing more, doesn’t “In Jessica’s room.” mean proper etiquette should be abandoned. In fact, in circumstances like one “Did you fuck her?” night stands, it’s probably more essential than usual. “Yeah.” 7:51am... I remember this because I am “Good...” And with that, she turns over so committed to meeting our agreed and goes back to sleep. terms, I check the clock on her wooden 15

Disaster Area


Tonight is going to be one ‘those’ nights... The kind of night where I run into my functional, upwardly mobile neighbors at eight in the morning, surrounded by a cloud of cigarette smoke and morally suspect behavior. The kind of night when my responsible friends half jokingly tell me they have bail money (just in case) and text me to see if I’m alive the following day. It is fellow troublemaker, good friend and mastermind behind Heroes x Villains, Disaster’s birthday. Normally, names are changed to protect the reputations of those who aren’t as shameless as I am. In Disaster’s case, however, there is no reputation requiring protection; to paint him as anything other than the caustic (albeit, charismatic) bastard and creative genius he is would be doing him an egregious disservice.

Not an alias of my own creation, ‘Disaster’ is a nickname given to him by close friends for his uncanny ability to make already fucked up situations ostensibly worse. His behavior on a regular basis could easily be described by the following adjectives: ‘reckless,’ ‘irresponsible,’ ‘dangerous,’ ‘socially (and morally) reprehensible,’ to name a few. Disaster embodies everything about the ‘bad boy’ archetype parents warn their daughters to stay away from... of course, this warning generally falls on deaf ears. I know I will have to prepare for anything; I may end up somewhere random, there may be any number of controlled substances around and I may easily find myself in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room with little memory of how I got there. My kind of night? 17

Goddamn right it is... It begins with the standard weekend routine: a couple of drinks at my apartment, a few shots and a few more drinks at a close friend’s house. Once we arrive at what we consider the proper level of intoxication, we’re off to one of our favorite bars for even more spirits. Around my fourth Jameson and ginger ale, I receive an unexpected phone call from ‘Brooke,’ a casual friend I’ve wanted to fuck ever since the night I watched her drunkenly shake her amazing ass for a captivated audience a year ago at some place I don’t remember the name of. This desire slips my mind until a couple of a weeks ago. I run into Brooke at some after party where I spend a majority of the time wondering why the fuck I’m even here. The sight... the fantastic sight of Brooke’s luscious ass hanging out of the lace boy shorts she is walking around in causes me to wonder no more. I don’t know what my chances are but I know I want to find out. I’m outside, drunk with a cigarette dangling from my lips, listening to Brooke frantically ramble on about being lost in some neighborhood suburban white girls probably shouldn’t be driving in. I direct her to the bar and immediately buy her a strong drink upon arrival to ease the nerves (and they say chivalry is dead). Last call rolls around, so we stumble 18

out of there and into another bar that’s slightly more relaxed about its operating hours. Time for another drink. Eventually, this bar closes and Brooke agrees to join me back at my close friend’s house to consume more alcohol. At this point in my life, I understand I’m gambling here. As the night goes on, it becomes increasingly apparent Brooke is mutually attracted to me. So an increased level of intoxication increases the potential for sloppy drunk sex at my friend’s house. More alcohol though, also increases the likelihood of Brooke throwing up, passing out or being otherwise incapacitated. Even worse, is the possibility of the battle between a skyrocketing libido versus a slowing, alcohol soaked bloodstream, more commonly known as whiskey dick. Fuck it... I’m too fucked up to seriously process any of this so I’m just going to continue pouring us shots of whiskey and see what happens. After a few between Brooke and I, the whiskey is finished. This is problematic... I consult my friend who is out on the patio with us watching our journey of alcoholic hedonism. He mentions something about bottles of Southern Comfort and brandy tucked away in a cooler out here. The only problem is these bottles have been out here the entire summer. Brooke’s eyes meet mine... do you really think we are deterred by this information?

Not a fucking chance... Multiple shots of Southern Comfort later, I’m on the phone with Disaster to see where he is. To the surprise of no one, he sounds nothing resembling sober; I’m amazed he’s even coherent at this point. About 45 seconds into our conversation, I realize it’s pointless because I already know where to find him. Off to our next destination. A friend of mine, one of the few neighbors I make eye contact with (let alone speak to), drives me and Brooke follows behind us. Whatever sliver of my rational mind still operating points to the likelihood of hating myself in the morning for bringing these bottles along... I am unmoved by this logic. We arrive at a small apartment complex whose residents appear to carry on the traditions of Andy Warhol and the Factory Kids, albeit in a significantly less glamorous fashion. It is a fucking mad house here; candy colored rave kids with MDMA coursing through their brains are sitting in the street. Someone else is wandering around like an extra from the Walking Dead, muttering about someone giving them acid. ... And then there’s Disaster. Champagne bottle in hand with the girl he’s fucking walking next to him, intermittently feeding him molly from a small Ziploc bag. I follow Diaster into the apartment. The living room is a large

open space, littered with drugged up hipsters. I’m not really into this so the plan is to continue drinking until either something interesting happens or I no longer give a fuck what happens. Back outside with Brooke, we take turns drinking Southern Comfort straight from the bottle... until she gets a very familiar look on her face. You know the one I’m referring to; that unfortunate moment when you realize your body and your desire to consume alcohol are no longer on the same page. She throws up right on the sidewalk. Brooke wipes her mouth, gathers herself and takes another shot of Southern Comfort as if nothing happened. Disaster’s girl joins us outside and offers us some molly. It’s around four am; if I take this now, I’m likely to be awake for another four or five hours, something I wouldn’t be particularly happy about. There’s my ‘rational’ mind again... fuck him. Without a moment of hesitation, Brooke swallows a capsule and I follow behind her. In about thirty minutes, we’ll be in Wonderland. I’m searching the apartment for Disaster now and find him with a small group of people in a side room. Somehow, he’s still conscious... all right, maybe he tried to stand up and his legs immediately buckle from under him. But he is still conscious. 19

A minute later, I’m in another room with Brooke and a completely different set of people, all wide eyed gazing at the colorful, varying patterns of iTunes visualizer on the television. There’s several of us on a Queen sized bed. Mesmerized by the television, I lose ten minutes... or has it been five minutes?

Perhaps this is the origin of our conversation. Well that and the fact we’re minutes away from broad fucking daylight which manages to escape our attention until now.

The MDMA has kicked in...

Most of the details of our conversation are absent from my memory. Here is a producer/DJ and a writer, high as fuck on an assortment of controlled substances discussing creating art that transcends our respective mediums while church bells ring in the background.

I don’t know why Brooke and I decided to walk outside to smoke when we pass a few people lighting cigarettes in the living room. But somehow, our original intention gets sidetracked by us making out up against a lamp post. No idea how this began or who initiated. “That was probably a long time coming wasn’t it?” Brooke has that look in her eye, the look when a woman makes it clear how this night is going to end provided you don’t do something incredibly stupid to fuck it up. No words are necessary. Eventually, our mouths pull away from each other and we finally have that cigarette. Somewhere in the last twenty minutes, even more Southern Comfort is consumed; I’m smack in the middle of an alcohol and MDMA haze. Lucid still, surprisingly so I can admit but my concept of time and spatial intelligence is almost non-existent. It takes a moment before realizing I’m in the middle of a conversation with Disaster. How neither of us aren’t passed out somewhere is beyond me. 20

How long have we been standing in the middle of the goddamn street anyway?

The night is coming to an end... it’s probably seven am and by now, even the pill popping ravers are passing out all over the living room. My neighbor who drove me here, had to wake up for work about now, so they left after dropping me off. Brooke lives north of me along the same highway and is all too willing to drive me to my apartment. MDMA is filtering out of my brain. After stumbling out of Brooke’s car I realize, for the first time in hours, how fucking drunk I am. We share a hysterical laugh when we see a familiar face in the parking garage... my neighbor who is heading to work. Here they are, off to be a productive member of society while I’m just getting home with a woman in a tight dress barely covering her ass. My neighbor simply shakes their head incredulously and gets into their car; af-

ter years of glimpses into my lifestyle, nothing I do really shocks them anymore. Maybe a minute passes after I open my apartment door before Brooke and I pick up where we left off at the lamp post and are pressed up against a living room wall, rapidly dismantling each other’s outfits. Everything that happens from this point on flashes through my mind like a series of stop-motion montages. Here we are on the wall and the next minute, Brooke is spread eagle on my couch with my face buried deep in her pussy. She leads me by the hand into my bedroom... I climb on top of her... Wait... what the fuck am I doing in the bathroom? I glance down... You’ve got to be fucking kidding me... this is not fucking happening right now. My flaccid dick is unmoved as if to say, “Come on, you cannot possibly be surprised by this. You were already pushing it with the obscene amount of whiskey floating through your bloodstream and then you decide to add MDMA to the equation. What about the side effects of alcohol and drugs do you not understand?” How long have I been in here? Fuck, I need to pull my shit together; I’ve wanted to fuck Brooke for too goddamn long to succumb to whiskey dick.

Mind over anatomy motherfuckers... fuck you whiskey dick. Oh shit. Fading... need to get a fucking condom on right now. So close... goddamn it, dick don’t fail me now. In! Fuck... sort of. More like 50%, but as long as I don’t pull out too far for several strokes, I can get to 100%. Or maybe 95%... at least, I hope. Despite everything, all of that goddamn whiskey, the capsules of molly, sleep deprivation (it’s like ten am at this point), hunger and dehydration, we somehow manage to fuck two consecutive times before passing out. A couple hours later, I’m awake again to walk Brooke downstairs in the same tight dress that was on my living room floor five minutes ago. Chances are, I’m still under the influence as I crawl back into bed. One of the last things I see before closing my eyes is the gum Brooke was chewing earlier stuck to the side of my dresser. I laugh and wonder how Disaster’s night ended. I check my phone and there’s a text message from him that reads, “Human centipede...” There he is...

Okay... manual stimulation with one hand, finger banging her with the other to stall for time. Come on, you can do this. Wait... wait... I think I got it! .


head vs. head



I have a problem. Okay... it’s likely apparent I have an assortment of issues. This one though, is serious... Worse than once flirting with drug addiction, battling manic-depression and my litany of emotional shortcomings. Making this discovery caused an existential crisis, leading me to question my effectiveness as a heterosexual male (wouldn’t be the first time but let’s move on). I’m almost ashamed to admit this... and I’m not ashamed about anything. I’ve spent a lot of time in denial, trying desperately to remedy this horrible malady and failing miserably. Now, I’m finally in the acceptance stage of the five stages of grief and am attempting to make peace with this.

It should be simple, right? A nice ass or a gorgeous rack along with a pretty, drunken smile should be enough to get me in the mood. But no... I have to factor her personality into the equation? What am I... a fucking woman? There are a number of discoveries you don’t want to make during the various stages of sexual intercourse. This includes but certainly isn’t limited to: any questionable sores, blisters or discharge unrelated to arousal or orgasm. Discovering that your feelings towards a woman’s personality adversely effects your sexual prowess can be added to this list. This character flaw reveals itself to me on two separate occasions and I have to admit... that shit is fucking embarrassing.

I... I... Can’t fuck women I don’t like...

Every minute around Courtney without my dick in her mouth feels like an eternity.

I feel so much better now that I’ve gotten this off of my chest. And yet, I still feel like my inability to fuck women indiscriminately does a massive disservice to my gender.

She is the worst kind of idiot; the kind who reads some Nietzsche and Kant in her intro Philosophy class and now talks like some ‘enlightened’ asshole who’s solved all the mysteries of the universe. 23

Courtney’s shallow intellectualism impresses her vapid friends and gentlemen who are more interested in those amazing tits nearly spilling out of a too small bra than with whatever drivel comes out of her mouth.

or even shortly after we fuck... in fact, she practically encourages me to.

Worst of all, she is smug; all too quick to turn up her nose at those she believes are intellectually inferior to her.

And those men would probably kick my ass after realizing I squandered the whole thing because I’m a fucking pussy.

Take it from a prick like me... if you’re going to be smug, have the fucking talents to match the attitude. Otherwise, you’re going to make people want to stick their heads (and yours) in a rapidly spinning food processor; which is precisely what I feel like doing whenever I’m around Courtney while her clothes are still on.

But... I just can’t fucking do it anymore. High, drunk, sober... good mood, bad mood, neutral mood, I simply cannot tolerate being around this woman a second before anything sexual takes place and not for a second after it ends.

But those goddamn tits... that pouty mouth and the incredible things she can do with it.

I take great pride in my sexual performance; it is my personal belief everyone should. I will never claim to be the greatest fuck a woman has or ever will have, but I can say with confidence I consistently produce quality work.

I mean, this woman sucks dick like there is a check waiting for her as soon as the director yells ‘Cut!’ After draining every drop of semen out of you, (and believe me, she always makes sure she does) Courtney glances over you, all listless and bleary eyed after an incredible orgasm, with a proud, beaming smile on her face. She is an ideal intimate acquaintance; well, besides the fact that she is a pretentious bitch. Often, Courtney invites me over after we stumble out of different bars at the end of the night. More importantly, she never gets upset about me leaving at five in the morning 24

Needless to say, a lot of guys would jump at the chance to be in the situation I find myself in.

Sadly, my disdain ends up manifesting itself in the sheets.

To me, it comes down to respect and common human decency; if someone is willing to share their body with you, the least you could do is make it worth their while. So after consecutive lackluster performances with Courtney, I’m beginning to think I lost my edge. Have I already peaked? Burned out too quickly? Granted, I’m a late bloomer, having lost my virginity at 18, so I’m only a few

years into my sexual career but I haven’t exceeded more than two weeks since then without it.

with a handful of sandy blonde hair in my hand as Courtney’s head bobs up and down in my lap.

Maybe my dick needs a break?

Physically, I’m all about it...

Maybe this is all in my head; after all, Courtney seems to be enjoying herself, but by my standards, I’m not cutting it.

Mentally? I’m already plotting my escape and I haven’t even come yet.

Riley comes into town about a week after my existential crisis and I’m anxious. I don’t show it, but in the back of my mind, the pressure is on; a mediocre performance would deal a massive blow to my sexual confidence. I would rather have a moment of celibacy to pull my shit together than be bad in bed. Turns out my anxiety over the diminishing of my prowess was a little premature... Glancing over Riley’s naked body sprawled out across my bed in post-coital ecstasy, I discreetly breathe a sigh of relief. It appears I haven’t become sexually incompetent. If that’s not the issue then, what is? After yet another goddamn mediocre performance with Courtney, I’m left searching for answers. One day, it finally hit me, albeit under unexpected circumstances. I never anticipated having a life altering epiphany while getting my dick sucked at four in the morning. But here I am on my back, drunk, eyes fixed on the ceiling

After months of this, I finally realize it doesn’t have to be and honestly, shouldn’t be this way. There’s no reason I should be this eager for a blowjob to end; that would only be excusable if Courtney was scraping her teeth across my dick like a fucking cheese grater. I mean, she’s over here stroking, moaning, slurping, even purposefully gagging a bit... meanwhile, I’m just hoping this semen I’m about to spray into the back of her throat takes some of this alcohol in my bloodstream with it. I really want to be sober enough to drive home after this. A few days later, I tell Courtney I’ve lost all interest in continuing our arrangement. The minute the conversation ends, I feel relief. My dick, the shortsighted motherfucker he is, isn’t happy about this... And with fairly good reason; this is the first time I’m at zero in the potential pussy department since I started having sex. No exes still amenable to fucking, no intimate friends, no casual sex acquaintances... nothing. I serendipitously meet Charlotte (more on her another time) about a week later. 25

Another scenario solidifying my belief I’m afflicted with some horrible defect involves a sheepish and awkward elementary school teacher. We meet at an after hours gathering of sorts: I have friends who, during the balmy summer nights in the South, like to take MDMA and go skinny dipping, capping off the evening with sexual acts of varied and numerous configurations.

But whatever works for you sweetheart... as long as these ‘pretty’ hands can play with those pretty tits later, I’m all good.

I’m still tipsy from my night at the bar so my usual resistance to pools is already weakened; by the time I realize how many women are floating around topless or completely naked, it dissolves entirely.

This doesn’t appear to stop her from shooting ‘fuck me’ glances from across the room as the nightcap moves on to the host’s apartment. Though they don’t go unnoticed, the host, who I fucked a couple of weeks previously, is not so subtly inviting me to her bed.

A minute later, I’m naked myself, intermittently downing some vodka straight from the bottle... I have absolutely no idea why I’m participating in any of this. I spot her drifting towards me... All right, that’s not entirely accurate. I’m actually focusing on a pair of small, exquisitely shaped tits bobbing slightly above the surface of the water. She nervously says hello and then confesses she floated over here to tell me... I have really pretty hands. Pretty hands? How the fuck do I respond to this? Personally, I don’t see it. They’re relatively small for someone my height (5’11”). Second, they are cracked and weathered from nearly ten years in the restaurant & service industry. 26

Our pairing will have to wait however; a gentleman far more aggressive and eager than I, is hovering around this freckled, fair skinned lady whose name escapes me for the remainder of the evening.

I feel it appropriate as a guest to indulge someone kind enough to share their home when they propose a tryst. Months pass and somehow, Mia (thankfully she found me on Facebook avoiding the awkward “What’s your name again?” if I ran into her) remains in my orbit. Eventually, we exchange numbers, talk a few times, and when I suggest she join me for a typical weekend night of debauchery, Mia gleefully agrees. My overall experience with Mia, which, in a recurring theme at this point in my life, lingers on for much longer than it should, reminds me of my disdain for ‘good’ girls. I am pro sluts... Give me a woman I can exchange threesome stories with... a woman who will put your dick in their mouth at a

moment’s notice because they’re drunk, or they’re just horny and feel like it.

(Mia placed a lot of emphasis on the affectionate part)

A woman who walks into a bar, openly declares the person they want to take home, and shamelessly stumbles out with them after last call.

Translation: “As long as you don’t do anything really fucking stupid, you’re getting laid tonight.”

The late Gianni Versace once mused, “You dress elegant women. You dress sophisticated women. I dress sluts.” And I fuck them... I know, I know... with age, my taste for unscrupulous women is supposed to diminish according to polite society. ‘Sluts’, by conventional standards, are for those experimental, debaucherous college years and the post-graduate era when you’re desperately clinging to the last vestiges of your youth. Sluts are a mere diversion from the primary goal: finding a more upstanding person you can settle down, start a family and enjoy years of domestic bliss with. Perhaps one day I’ll have some startling epiphany and want something resembling a ‘normal’ life... but I doubt it. I bring Mia to a friend’s house for our usual pregame routine. She is every ounce of shy and awkward I remember her being the night we met in the pool. Being the excellent host I am, I figure this is nothing a few drinks can’t remedy. By the end of the first, Mia is significantly more relaxed; while I’m making her second drink, she cautions that she becomes ‘very affectionate.’

By the second drink, the reasons behind her warning become increasingly apparent. The ‘fuck me’ eyes she sent my way from across the living room the night we first met are already on display and it’s barely midnight. Mia starts touching me constantly; brushing a hand against my arm, placing her hands against my chest whenever I tell an amusing anecdote and hugging me what seems like every five minutes. If I bristled at women being “too easy,” Mia’s behavior would be replusive. But the way I see it, she (for some reason) believes I’m really fucking awesome; who am I to get upset about it? We take Mia to one of my favorite bars. By drink number four, Mia’s libido is in hyperdrive. She’s all over me... and I say that with the smallest amount of ego an arrogant asshole like me can muster. We’re making out on a leather couch a stretched arm away from the DJ playing in front of us. By the fifth drink, Mia is passed out on a couch near the pool tables? The general manager of the bar, who I’ve gotten to know from being a frequent patron, comes over to let me know Mia’s round trip to the bathroom makes an emergency landing. 27

I walk over past the pool tables, near the backside of the bar and there she is; passed out in the fetal position with her skirt nearly pulled up above her waist. Well this is just fucking great... only five drinks in and I’m going to have to carry this bitch out of here. It’s barely 1AM.

I realize I don’t have any actual ‘interest’ in fucking Mia at this point; I’m merely doing so because she’s readily available to me. If I’m one hundred percent honest with myself, if it wasn’t for Mia and those tits floating over to talk to me, I wouldn’t have even given her a second thought.

This is yet another reason why I don’t fuck with ‘good’ girls.

That’s not a slight because she really is a fantastic person... just not for me.

My friend helps me carry her out of the bar and we make our way back to his house. At some point during the brief drive, Mia comes to, fully realizes what happened after I explain to her why we’re in the car and starts profusely apologizing for the remainder of the drive.

Whenever I spend time around her, again, probably more than I should have (a habit I really need to fucking break), I feel like a fucking puppet, albeit a charming and highly entertaining puppet, performing subversive vignettes as a diversion from her otherwise pedestrian life.

The first question in my mind when we pull up to his house is, “Now what?”

I know there are a lot of ‘bad boys’ out there who probably relish the opportunity of playing this role for the good girl who wants to spend a little time on the dark side...

Mia appears more functional now than thirty minutes ago; perhaps there’s a chance I can still manage a fuck out of this evening. Or Mia may just stumble into my friend’s house and pass out on his couch. She doesn’t but she does make herself comfortable. Meanwhile, I ask him for blankets and the necessary contraceptives in case things work in my favor. And as it turns out, they do. Despite getting ahead of herself earlier, Mia’s libido remains in high gear. I should be ecstatic about this... Why the fuck am I not ecstatic about this? 28

I’m not one of them. Then, there’s the matter of Mia not being particularly talented. I’ve had my share of socially inept women and in my experience the awkwardness doesn’t extend into the bedroom. In fact, the shy, nerdy types have routinely been among the sexual encounters that still remain fresh in my mind over the years. My encounter with Mia is fresh in my mind, albeit, for very different reasons. Without getting into unnecessary and explicit detail, the fact Mia is a terrible

kisser. (seriously... what fucking woman is a terrible kisser?) basically explains everything you need to know. But, as it tends to do, especially while under the influence, my dick has long since taken over my decision making. Despite initial struggles with whiskey dick and general disinterest, I’m able to end the night how I wanted to. Well... sort of. The combination of my laziness and her eager willingness, rears its goddamn head again just like with Courtney. I fuck Mia for a few months, until my inevitable breaking point where I promptly remove myself from the situation. I suppose I can take some solace in the knowledge Mia enjoyed our time together... or something. Since then, I’ve made it a point to be less of a goddamn idiot about my psychological ailment. I now (very begrudgingly) accept the reality that “attractive and more than willing to spread her legs for me” isn’t a legitimate enough reason to fuck someone. Yeah, I know... fucking bullshit. But, if I want to actually, you know, enjoy my sexual experiences beyond the few seconds cum is squirting out of my dick, my inability to fuck women I don’t like is just going to be something I have to deal with. 29

The Greatest Wingman Of All Time


I’m not particularly impressed with my ability to get laid. Perhaps if I reflect on this again in fifteen or twenty years I may have a different opinion, but I’m skeptical. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve been fortunate enough to share a bed with several attractive and exceptional women but I attribute this to sheer luck more than actual talent. Basically, I think my sexual successes stem mostly from chance encounters I manage not to fuck up. The Law of Averages is on my side... I spend a significant amount of time in bars and nightclubs, where people have congregated in the hopes of having drunken, indiscriminate sex with strangers since the creation of such venues. So the fact I have my share of drunken, indiscriminate sex with strangers shouldn’t be a particularly Earth shattering revelation. What I am proud of though, is my exceptional ability as a wingman, a talent I believe is significantly underrated. In the individualistic, race to the top, America that would put a smile on Howard Roark’s face, everyone aspires to be ‘the Man.’ To be very good or even exceptional simply isn’t enough; we must not only be ‘the best,’ we must tower like the Masters of the Universe we are, over those who are inferior to our greatness. Only the Fountainhead isn’t based on a true story...

The reality of modern life is socially dynamic and highly interactive; chances are, you won’t spot a beautiful woman alone at the watering hole. More likely, you’ll find her amongst equally attractive women, with a less attractive friend or worse, in a large group flanked by male ‘friends’ who secretly want to fuck her as much as you do. There are numerous obstacles potentially standing between your dick and a woman you’re lusting after; an effective wingman (or woman, which is even better) assists you in eliminating them. The wingman role often requires sacrifice and is mostly thankless. There are occasions when I flirt with the less attractive friend or feign interest in the drivel spewing from the mouth of the annoying friend in support of a peer. Once, I made scrambled eggs (with cheese) at four in the morning to placate a woman while her friend followed one of my aces upstairs to his bedroom. But like most of my favorite moments in life, the zenith of my wingman career to date happens completely on accident; what begins as an attempt to aid one of my friends in dealing with a woman who instantly shapeshifted into a stage five clinger, ends up turning into a night that would go down in the annals of wingman history. It begins when I receive what feels like a rather unsettling message via Facebook from a woman that a friend of mine, let’s call him Blake, fucked the weekend prior. 31

Having seen her around several times, I know they are friends but it is immediately clear from the content of this message, she appears to have very different ideas about the nature of their relationship. She describes her intent to ‘surprise’ Blake by showing up to his house over the rapidly approaching weekend. Two things: first, ‘Sarah’ lives about an hour and a half away from Blake. Second, It should also be noted, Blake explictly explained he has zero interest in entering a monogamous relationship with her or anyone else. Blake later informs me that she asks about coming to see him over the upcoming weekend prior to sending me this message and he stresses it wouldn’t be the best idea due to family obligations (and because he just doesn’t fucking want to see her). Somehow, Sarah manages to interpret all of this information as a sign that a surprise visit is the best course of action and she hopes I, one of Blake’s closest friends, will not only endorse her decision but assist her in keeping this a secret. Sarah is incorrect. Immediately, I message Blake to inform him of her intentions. As I anticipate, he is not thrilled. His hope is that Sarah will eventually come to her senses and just not show up. This would be wishful thinking. 32

Despite present company, a girl with massive tits you want to bury your face in for an uncomfortable period of time and the moderately attractive, hipster blonde girl here to ‘surprise’ Blake, he and I are having an extensive conversation over text message. Mostly about how fucking awkward and ridiculous this all is. What sort of mental gymnastics did this girl perform leading to the conclusion visiting the person you’ve spent time with on occasional weekends and fucked maybe a handful of times unprompted is a quality fucking idea? Blake isn’t particularly impolite to her but the tension on the patio is palpable. It’s time for more vodka. After pouring yet another Jack & Coke, Blake receives a phone call that fundamentally alters the course of the evening in a way no one on the patio anticipates. The voice on the other end belongs to Michelle, a prototype scene girl with dark hair, gauged ears and a pierced face who’s barely north of 18. She is also fucking wasted... and suggests to Blake that he pick her up so they can fuck, an idea he isn’t opposed to. Only, there’s one glaring problem... all right, two glaring problems. First, Blake can barely stand at this point, let alone operate a motor vehicle. The second problem is well... currently sitting across from me on this fucking patio. Even if some miraculous moment of sobriety occurs and we pick up Michelle...

then what? Bring her back here, adding even more awkward to the equation? After Blake repeatedly reiterates there’s absolutely no fucking way he can drive anywhere, the conversation ends. A couple minutes later, Blake is messaging me about a flurry of messages Michelle is sending him, rambling on about how she plans on finding a way over here. This prompts him to pour himself another strong drink and I decide to join him. Neither of the women have any fucking idea what may potentially happen. Blake and I are furiously messaging about the possibility of Michelle showing up. I mean... she won’t actually make it right? She’ll probably throw up or pass out and not even remember anything about tonight. We agree it is highly unlikely Michelle will step foot on this patio. You know what happens next right? The patio door flings open and there’s Michelle... so fucking loaded, she nearly crashes into the table. I quickly scan the room for everyone’s reaction: girl with the tits just appears confused, Sarah looks as if she is beginning to realize tonight isn’t going to proceed the way she wants it to. And then there’s Blake... momentarily paralyzed with what I imagine to be a combination of shock, panic and drunk.

Michelle stumbles over, gives Blake a hug while not so subtly draping her entire body on him. She’s wearing a black tube dress the length of a long t-shirt (perhaps a generous estimation). It’s immediately obvious there is no strapless bra and it’s probably fair to assume there isn’t any underwear present either. Clearly overwhelmed by this clusterfuck of a situation, Blake does the only rational thing a highly intoxicated person can do... walk away from it. As fast as possible... He bolts from the patio, through his front door and by the time I find him, Blake is halfway down the street shaking his head in complete disbelief. I successfully convince him to at least return to the driveway where he proceeds to sprawl out, arms spread, flat on his back while repeatedly asking what the fuck is going on. At this moment, I felt it was my duty as a friend to do the only thing I can; get this man a goddamn beer. I crack open his and mine while expressing complete (drunken) confidence in our ability to find a successful resolution to this situation... But he has to get up from the driveway first. Upon attempting to help him up, I remember two crucial facts: the first, is that I’m built like a West Indian refugee. The second, is Blake looks like he’ll be starting his freshman year as outside linebacker for USC. 33

And he’s plastered drunk which, according to the First Law of Intoxicated Thermodynamics, makes everyone at least twenty pounds heavier. Basically, I have no fucking business trying to pick him up. Somehow, I manage, though both of us nearly crash head first into the goddamn garage door. I swing the front door open and with one of Blake’s arms draped over me, attempt to navigate us to his bedroom as quietly as possible. Instead, we end up ricocheting off the walls like fucking ping pong balls, but fortunately, I don’t think the women outside noticed. Blake falls flat, face down, near the foot of his bed. It’s dark, but with the light coming in from the hallway, I notice a certain someone already under the covers. Michelle, with the blanket carefully placed right above her tits, flashes me a drunken smile. I know that’s my cue... Exiting the room, I close the door behind me; and in an intoxicated stroke of genius that amazes me still years later, I lock it. I sort of pace around the living room for a moment to stall for time before opening the refrigerator and getting another beer. I put a cigarette between my lips and brace myself for whatever emotional shit show awaits me on the patio. What awaits me is two pairs of eyes and 34

complete silence. I sit down, light my cigarette, and begin playing with my phone in an attempt to avoid further eye contact. The first pair of eyes wonder what the fuck is going on; the other pair appears to be vacillating between every stage of the Kubler-Ross model before settling on stage II... Anger. Sarah violently ejects from her chair, flings open the patio door, and stomps down the hallway to Blake’s room. Like passing a car crash, me and the girl with the tits are unable to react in any significant way; all we can do is watch the carnage unfold. If you’ve never pissed a woman off before, I’m not sure I can verbally articulate the demonic, brain rattling scream the female gender can produce. But if you’re an asshole like me and you’re reading this, then the sound coming from the depths of Sarah’s diaphragm as she pounds on Blake’s door requires no explanation. Tits and I still don’t speak a word to each other; beer cans being picked up and the exhaling of cigarette smoke is the only conversation between us. That and the screaming and repetitive banging coming from the inside of the house. Not until I hear Sarah feverishly attempt and fail to open Blake’s door do I realize what fucking amazing foresight I had to lock his fucking door.

While this is going on, I can’t help but wonder what the fuck Blake and Michelle must be thinking even if they’re already in the midst of sloppy drunk sex. I wonder if this is a momemtary or permanent buzzkill for them or if they’re so fucked up they hardly notice the meltdown taking place just outside of the bedroom. After what feels like an uncomfortable period of time, it sounds like Sarah has finally given up. She eventually makes her way to the patio and I sink into my phone again to avoid eye contact; after all, I am Blake’s co-conspirator in this entire thing, so I wouldn’t be particularly surprised if her displaced rage ends up directed at me. Sarah struggles to hold back tears and Tits sends me a message asking what the fuck she can do to at least... I don’t know, prevent Sarah committing suicide or first-degree manslaughter. It’s at this point where I suggest what would end up being my second accidentially brilliant idea of the night: get her really fucking drunk until she passes out. Whether it’s an ill-advised idea that typically backfires (at least, in my personal experience) it’s highly likely most of you reading this have attempted to drown your problems in a bottle of your favorite alcohol. It could have a lot to do with the fact I can hardly see straight but it appears the idea of mostly erasing this night from her memory would be something Sarah is highly interested in.

Via another message, I remind Tits there’s still a bottle of tequila in the kitchen, and instruct her to continue to pour shots until Sarah loses interest in being vertical. She agrees to this and convinces Sarah to join her in the kitchen. I finish my beer and light another cigarette, this time in relief, as this insane fucking night seems to finally be coming to an end. Somewhere between the tension, the banging, the screaming, the crying and the overall awkwardness of this entire situation went the majority of the buzz I built up over the course of the night. So by the time Tits comes outside to let me know Sarah has passed the fuck out after four double tequila shots in rapid succession, I’m ready to go the fuck home. I shake my head while walking out of the front door, for numerous reasons. The first is obvious, the second is in disbelief because it’s almost fucking daylight, and the third is that the only reason why I’m even involved in this shit storm is to help a good friend get laid. I didn’t get any pussy or even potential future pussy, for that matter. The only thing waiting for me the following day would be a hilarious phone conversation and an unwelcome hangover.


This Is Your One Night Stand On Drugs


“So tell me something about Nicole?” I have yet to formally meet her until this moment in my apartment. I barely remember what she looks like until going through several Facebook pictures the night before, which isn’t quite the same as seeing someone in person. The first thing I notice when I greet Nicole in the parking garage is her height... she’s a lot shorter in reality than my memory of her. Nicole’s face is very pretty, prettier than those pictures would indicate. I’m trying very hard to overlook the terrible outfit she’s wearing. I mean... her tits are pushed up, which I always endorse, and she’s wearing leggings, so her ass looks incredible, but goddamn, this outfit is really dreadful.

spend more time talking to Nicole’s equally blonde, slightly less attractive friend, and for reasons that escape me, I give her my number. As the Law Of Unintended Consequences would have it, Nicole got my number from her friend, began messaging me, and suggested we hang out. And now she’s in my apartment. “What do you want to know?” Nicole asks, almost suspiciously. “Tell me anything...” “Well... my fiance was killed in a car accident...” As someone who prides themselves in being mentally prepared for practically anything anyone could ever say to me, I must concede... I did not fucking see that coming.

I’ll just try my best to ignore it; this wouldn’t be the first aesthetic failure picked up off my bedroom floor in the morning (and unfortunately, it likely won’t be the last).

My initial thinking is to immediately suppress any facial reaction...

I meet Nicole under similar circumstances as nearly every other woman I have encounters with, at some cramped dance party, with an assortment of intoxicants coursing through my body.

Typically, when people share intensely personal matters with me, it’s about their subversive kinks, less than stellar parents, or history of drug abuse.

As mentioned earlier, I didn’t actually ‘meet’ Nicole; I don’t really consider yelling drunken nonsense over pulsating electronic music while the person on the receiving end stares at you blankly as a proper introduction. That’s the extent of our interaction. I

All right, really my initial thinking is, why the fuck did Nicole tell me this?

Never anything like this... My second thought is I need another fucking drink... And a third... And a fourth. Final thought... seriously, how the fuck am I suppose to respond to this? 37

Snarky comment to diffuse the obvious tension and quickly change the subject? No... I’ll likely only come off as a callous asshole. There’s always the self-serving, sympathetic bullshit route, only it strikes me as ridiculously disingenous to even remotely act as if I have any possible idea what Nicole is experiencing.

About ten minutes later, a friend invites me over for a drink or three, so I bring Nicole along. She’s noticeably awkward the entire time we interact and this increases exponentially when we’re around other people. Nicole sits in near silence the entire time, so I decide it’s probably best we don’t stay very long.

Fuck it... I’m just going to fucking be honest... “Nothing I can say will achieve anything other than make me sound like a fucking moron... so I’m just going to pour us shots instead.” Appearing almost charmed at my ineptitude at being comforting, Nicole accepts my offer and we knock back shots of vodka with relative ease.

Nicole is feeling adventurous after a number of drinks; so upon returning to my apartment, she tells me she’s willing to give Ecstasy another try.

Eventually, we move to less macabre subject matter, including my comfort zone, drugs. We both express an appreciation for marijuana and Nicole confesses to a propensity for abusing benzodiazepines (like Xanax or Ativan). I discuss my enjoyment of MDMA which reminds Nicole of her first and only experience with Ecstasy... it is not a pleasant one. She was given four pills, in my opinion an excessive amount of a first time user, one with a mescaline base. This misadventure sours Nicole on MDMA, so when I casually suggest she give it another chance, she is understandably hesitant. I recommend we have a few more drinks in the interim while she decides. Nicole agrees, so I pour another round. 38

Of course, I am more than happy to accomodate her. Marijuana smoke fills my living room as we await the chemically induced blast of serotonin to fill our brains. When Nicole begins marveling at the texture of a throw pillow and the carpet, I know this experience will be significantly more pleasurable than her last. Intoxicants often distort our sense of time or at least our linear concept of it. Minutes and hours go by without any discernable pacing. Somehow, in between listening to music and gaping at iTunes visualizer while I play with Nicole’s hair, daylight begins creeping through the windows. We never discuss sex, either explicitly or implicitly but even without the hindsight I possess now, I think it’s accurate to say we both know fucking is inevitable. With an ever increasing amount of light seeping into the living room, we decide to go to bed...

But first I need to use the bathroom. Having taken care of that, I walk into the bedroom to see Nicole standing in front of my dresser still fully clothed. “That’s an impressive collection you have here...” she says. I’m puzzled. She takes a step back... You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. There’s a stack of at least five (and I’m likely being kind) empty condom wrappers right there on my goddamn dresser in plain fucking view. Why I allowed so many to accumulate in the first place or didn’t think to remove them before my guest ends up in my bedroom is fucking beyond me. How the fuck am I going to explain this? I’m too high on a variety of intoxicants to think of anything that doesn’t make me sound like a total asshole. So I go with the honest route again...

Fortunately, my idiocy isn’t stopping me from getting laid. My shirt, her bra, our underwear quickly form a disheveled pile on my floor. As we climb into bed, Nicole asks me one final question: “You’re not going to think I’m some whore are you?” I sincerely and quickly answer ‘No’, which is the truth. I never have and never will, think ‘less’ of a woman because she decides to fuck me the first night we spend together. But her question makes me curious: I wonder how many of my casual encounters think about this? I wonder how many of them have said in their minds, “I cannot believe I’m doing this, I bet he thinks I’m the biggest fucking slut and won’t even remember my name afterwards.” Considering our culturally reinforced guilt towards sex, I’m certain Nicole isn’t the first to think about this, only the first to vocalize it to me.

“There’s not really anything I can say that’ll make me look good,” I confess. “Hey, at least I know for sure you use them,” Nicole responds. I am pleasantly surprised to recieve such a rational and understanding reaction. Then again, considering studies suggesting 44% of men between the ages of 20-24 don’t use condoms, I can see why my collection might be a welcome sight. 39

Back To Bed


I don’t like the term ‘Walk Of Shame.’ Sexual shame is one of the more damaging remnants of our culture’s puritanical past. There should only be shame if the sex is terrible (which should belong to the offending party), but if everyone enjoys themselves, what the fuck is there to be ashamed of? But I’m not naive to the very different world beyond the decadent, morally ambiguous one that exists within the walls of my apartment. I see the dismissive glances of judgmental neighbors after arriving home at nine in the morning with the smell of last night’s debauchery clinging to every part of me. And I’m not in a small, form fitting dress, five inch heels and last night’s makeup... So I do the most polite thing I can, given the circumstances; I pick my black skinny jeans up off the floor, throw on a black t-shirt, slip on my combat boots and accompany my guest back to her car. We share one final embrace and one last kiss.

If past experiences are any indication, we will repeat this scene (and everything else leading up to it) on at least a handful of occasions. Perhaps we will become acquaintances, or close friends; maybe we’ll go on to date each other, eventually entering into a relationship. It’s also entirely possible I will never see this woman again... she will only exist as another empty condom wrapper and a memory that will inevitably fade over time. I never rationalize my hedonistic pursits. I consume illicit substances to get high, not to discover the meaning of life. Conversely, I never have sex with the intent of ‘finding’ love, I just really enjoy sex. But each base pursuit of pleasure provides new insight. My experiences with sex (and drugs but more on that another time) expands my worldview in unforeseen ways. Regardless of how the story ends and believe me, it isn’t always amicable or pleasant, each provides an increasing understanding of how people work. 41

I think this is where I confess to being more wise because of all of this... But what the fuck does that mean really? I don’t make many of the mistakes chronicled in this collection of essays anymore; I just make different ones. I throw away empty condom wrappers more regularly and strictly fuck women I can tolerate being around while their clothes are still on. Is that wisdom? Does this mean I have relationships figured out? Hardly, and I’m not sure any of us do, despite the musings of Nicholas Sparks, Elizabeth Gilbert, Stephanie Meyer and countless others. The only thing I may have figured out is that people are simultaneously complicated despite being universally connected to one another.


“All of life is an experiment. The more experiments you make, the better.” I agree with Emerson; the best ‘advice’ I can offer about relationships is to experiment. Talk to the person who makes you nervous. Ask the person you keep locking eyes with from across the room out on a date. Break ‘the rules’ and fuck that person you’re in lust with on the first night; I met a (now married) couple who didn’t even know each other’s names the following morning. Act out your wildest fantasties; theory may end up being better than practice or reality may match your fantasy in surprising ways. Fuck, date and flirt outside of your comfort zone... you might discover more than you expect. Try. Fail. Try again. Fail again and then fail better. I think that’s the only way you’ll ever find what you’re looking for... whatever the fuck that is.

@Exit_The_Void @GreedmontPark

Greedmont Park presents The Morning After  

What runs through your mind when you wake up with debilitating hangover, in bed next someone you met in a bar several hours ago? Over the co...

Greedmont Park presents The Morning After  

What runs through your mind when you wake up with debilitating hangover, in bed next someone you met in a bar several hours ago? Over the co...