Have you ever had a one-night stand? I never have. At least, at the ripe old age of 30 I hadn’t.
My friends, two of the sluttiest drunks on the planet (one of whom is the curator of this blog,) decided one sleepy Wednesday that it was time for me to spread my wings (or legs I suppose) and venture into the world of meaningless sex. I hadn’t really lived, they argued. Did I think I was better than them? They met my reluctance with bullying, and name calling until I relented.
I knew I had made a terrible mistake the moment I stepped into the home of the 22 year-old that I deemed the best looking guy at the bar. Never the less, I felt obligated to proceed with my friends’ challenge. The 22 year-old ripped my clothes off and marveled at how incredibly hot I was. To paint a picture, it was winter and I hadn’t been laid in a year, so my Sasquatch legs were in full bloom. Also, he was cheap, and wouldn’t turn on the heat, so in turn, I refused to remove my socks.
At some point in his life, some other dumb slut must have told him he was hung, which resulted in him making sure I was “ok” every time he thrusted his cocktail weenie my way. When it was finally over, I sprang out of his bed, eager to get dressed and get the fuck out of there. That’s when 22 year-old informed me that he had hidden my clothes and that we would be cuddling ALL NIGHT.
As I lay shivering throughout the night, with only my thin cow socks and a small-penised clinger to keep me warm, I accepted that there is no God, and that my friends were evil schadenfreude bitches that would pay dearly if I ever found my pants. It was the longest night of my life.
When I was finally released in the morning I met the slutty drunks for breakfast, where they spent the entire meal heckling me for being such a whore. I drove home, turned the heat on full blast, and took a shower, relieved that the nightmare was finally over. That’s when I got the text requesting that I “cum over.” Which was tempting and all, but then it wouldn’t have been a one-night stand.
 Yes, I definitely think I am better than them.
 It was a Wednesday night in December, at a dive bar that doesn’t accept credit cards, in a town with a population smaller than my checking account balance.
 Slutty drunks
 INSERT SOCK PHOTO HERE
 You may be wondering why I didn’t get up and look for my clothes once homeboy fell asleep. I tried. He had an angry Great Dane that held vigil over the bed all night, and went bananas anytime I so much as thought about moving. It was very Cujo.