I have very fond memories of college. The following story is not one of them.
By that, I do not mean I don’t have fond thoughts about it, I mean it isn’t a memory. Allow me to recount what I can remember about my very first (and last) alcohol-induced blackout.
Back in college, I was a bit of a lush. And sadly, the biggest problem with me being a lush is that I can’t hold my liquor. The likelihood of me vomiting in public or just passing out cold on a typical weekend night was about 50/50.
Nevertheless, I’d try to keep up with my friends. After three or four drinks, they’d have a nice little buzz going — but I’d be shitballs drunk. So during the first hour of the party when I’d hop onto tabletops and perform the running man like a coked-up MC Hammer, people just thought I was a fun-loving gal.
The night of the Big Blackout commenced at a fraternity party. I was in a sorority (shut up), and my sisters and I were most enthusiastic about getting our groove on with some hot Beta Alpha Something boys. I borrowed my roommate’s very little, little black dress and some big ol’ hoop earrings and was ready to par-tay.
The theme of the event was “Shots Around the World,” which meant each room featured alcohol from a different country. Go to the Japan room, throw back a kamikaze. Head over to Russia, shoot some vodka. You get the idea.
I had traveled halfway around the globe before I crossed the border into Mexico. Once there, an Asian guy in a sombrero handed me a jumbo shot glass filled with Cuervo Gold. I tossed it down my throat, only to have it come right back up into my mouth a second later. It hadn’t even taken the form of vomit, it was just the straight tequila, as if my stomach were saying, “Sorry, at capacity. Eject.” Stubborn and wasted, I decided to show my stomach who was boss and forced it back down.
That was the last thing I remember.
Cut to the next thing I remember: waking up next to a boy, in a dark room, in a twin bed, wearing nothing but a Red Sox sweatshirt and my thong.
I studied the boy, lying unconscious next to me, to see if I recognized him. I didn’t. I then took a gander around the room and noticed another boy in a second bed, plus two more boys passed out on the floor.
Holy motherfuck! How the fuck did I get here? Where the fuck is here? Who the fuck are these people?
For a moment I contemplated whether I’d been the guest star in a gang bang. However, my vagina didn’t feel particularly sore, so I ruled that out.
But orgy potential aside, my thoughts were focused on a more pressing matter: I had to pee. Bad.
I could have very well been a prisoner of war in an underground Al Qaeda bunker, but at that moment the only thing that mattered to me was locating a clean toilet. In all my days as a collegiate wino, I had never, ever wet the bed, and I wasn’t going to start in front of these strange bedfellows.
I snuck out of bed quietly so as not to disturb my possible rapist. I fumbled around, but didn’t see a bathroom door anywhere. I opened the front door and realized exactly where I was: a dormitory. Oh, for the love of God. I was a senior, for crying out loud.
I tiptoed down the hall, ass cheeks flapping in the wind, till I found the lavatory and urinated for a good five minutes. When I returned to the hall, all the doors looked exactly the same. I tried to open one, but it was locked. Then I tried another, and another. All locked. Evidently, dorm doors lock automatically, just like a fucking Hilton.
Swallowing all pride, I knocked on a door. A chubby fellow with a full head of pubic hair answered and let me in without a word. He lumbered back into bed and I realized I was in the wrong room. Fucker.
I exited and knocked on another door. This time, a thin boy let me in, turned around, and then collapsed back onto the floor. I did a body count. Two boys in bed, two on the floor. Correct room.
Should I Stay or Should I Go?
Now that I’d relieved myself, I was able to direct my attention to the situation of being in a dorm in my thong at 3 a.m. with four strange males. It was dark and I couldn’t find my roommate’s dress and heels anywhere. I considered my options:
- Wake someone up, demand my clothing and hightail it out of there.
- Leave as-is, hope like hell no one would see my naked ass and tell my roommate a wannabe cross-dressing mugger forced me to trade clothes with him.
- Go back to bed with the strange boy and deal with it in the morning.
Naturally, I chose #3.
I figured, if they were sociopaths, terrorists or scientologists, they seemed to be out for the count for the time being, and I really needed to catch some Z’s. Or maybe this was just a tequila-related hallucination, and in the morning I’d wake up in my own bed.
So I climbed over the boy I’d woken up next to, burrowed my way under the covers and drifted back into my drunken slumber, hoping for the best.
Categories: True Story