The Secret Life Of A Straight-Edge III

Read part 1 here and part 2 here.

So there I am, trying to do the Right Thing™ and drive two extremely drunk girls home from a college party at 2am in my 4-speed, 2-door, hatchback Dodge Omni of Virginity when, in the words of almost any jaded Hollywood executive, “Wackiness Ensued”. The beautiful girl in the front seat, Front Seat Girl (FSG), had come to the conclusion that I was cute and so needed to be thanked for driving them home by receiving a patented “Best BJ Evah”, while the pretty girl in the back seat, Back Seat Girl (BSG), had stripped off all her clothes and thrown them out the window in an attempt to cool off her overheated body. And right about now you’re wondering how any of this could be bad.

You optimistic fool.

Let me show you why my life is cursed. You see, FSG had managed to expose my tighty-whities by getting my belt and zipper undone when she froze completely and uttered the three little words no sober person EVER wants to hear an inebriated person say, “I feel funny.” As soon as she uttered those words my rational thought process, which until that very moment had been stifled by my heretofore repressed libido with wild ideas like, “Threesome”, “Orgy” and “Huminah-huminah-huminah!” came roaring back into action like a herd of wild rhinos.

“Holy crapoly, Libido! She’s gonna hurl all over you!”
“What?!”
“FSG just said she felt funny.”
“Oh, that’s OK then. Maybe she’s has a thing for telling a joke before getting busy…”
“Are you fricking kidding me?!”
“Hey! I’m not the thinker around here, you are!”
“That’s right, and I’m telling you we need to get her head away from our lap!”
“But she’s so close!”
“Yeah, too close.”
“Can’t we ask her to hold it in for a few seconds? That’s all it would take. I swear!”
“And what do we do when it all comes back up? Hold our breath?”
“Dammit! She was gonna blow me!”
“She’s gonna blow you, alright. In a BAD way!”
“I fricking hate you.”

By the time my internal conversation concluded, FSG had come to the same realization that I had and she muttered another three words even more frightening than the three she had already said. This time she said, “Hold my hair.” Let me just say here and now that I am still amazed at the reaction this evoked from BSG, who until that moment had seemed oblivious to the action taking place in the front seat of the car, not more than 3 feet from her. Suddenly, BSG went stone-cold sober, reached forward, grabbed FSG’s hair and held it out of the way.

That’s when FSG turned into the little girl from the Exorcist.

Imagine the scene; a guy with his pants open, a girl in the seat next to him with her face in his lap and another girl with her hand on the back of the first girl’s head. If it weren’t for all the vomit coming out of FSG’s body it would have been one of my favorite fantasies come to life.

And, OMG, the smell…

The amount of chunky, steaming, stinking fluids that FSG pumped onto my lap, the floor, the door and, I swear to heaven above, the entire dashboard of my car was astonishing. Even more amazing was that when she was done, when I was literally sitting in a puddle of puke as streams of vomit trickled down my legs to form squishy pools inside my shoes, FSG sat up and didn’t have a drop of puke in her hair!

I remember wondering at the time if I should applaud.

When we reached the dorms, BSG and I managed to manhandle FSG into her room and into bed. Of course this was after I gave BSG my shirt so she could at least pretend to not be completely naked. All the while FSG was insisting that I come inside with her so she could ‘make it up’ to me with a night of wanton sex. By this time even my overactive libido had had enough, so I politely refused and left her alone to sleep.

I don’t think she even noticed when we left.

I walked BSG back to her room where she confessed to me that even though she was still a little drunk (no-duh!) she still thought I was cute. I told her that if she still felt that way in the morning that she should come talk to me about it. Leaving her a note with my room number on it, I left and went home to wash my privates for about half an hour. My clothes I threw away, including my one-month old shoes. I vowed never to be the designated driver for another college drinkfest ever again, went to bed and fell into a blissfully uneventful coma for the night.

Oh, I bet you’re wondering whatever happened with me and BSG.

Well, the very next day I awoke to a knocking on my door. Waiting for me outside was a man of enormous size and density. To tell you he was on the football team would not do his physical presence justice, better to say he was the football team. And if I said he was upset it would be as if I described the ocean as ‘wet’ which, while technically correct, would still be so very, very wrong that you’d probably hit me. It turned out that this gargantuan man was BSG’s long-term boyfriend and he had come to my room courtesy of the note he had found stuffed in my shirt pocket that I had left with BSG the night before. He wanted to discuss the amazing connection between my laying eyes on BSG again and my ability to continue breathing without the help of a machine. I had never thought that there was a connection between those two disparate things, but rest assured that Mr. Reason helped me see the light so fast I swear I saw spots for a week.

The Mighty Geek, loser is as loser does.