It’s Friday, finally! And a three-day weekend to boot! In the spirit of the rabid happiness that accompanies the Friday before a three-day weekend, today I’m going to recount one of my weirdest stories. My philosophy in life (and sex) is usually “it’s not that weird,” but trust me…this was weird.
The story begins, typically, at some random college party. Hoards of overworked, hormomally challenged students were crammed into the basement of a former frat house, sweating so profusely that the walls glistened with residual humidity. This is where I spent a portion of my four years in college – dodging flailing limbs, fighting dehydration and looking for love. I didn’t find love, unfortunately, but what I found was better.
On this particular night what I found was a drunk gentleman that I vaguely knew from a couple of classes. I thought he was nice (on the rare occasions that I thought of him at all), and we wound up talking for a little bit. Finally, my capacity for overbearing bass lines having diminished to nothing, I told him I was going home.
“Oh, okay,” he said, “I’ll walk you home.”
“Uh…” I faltered a bit since “home” was a dorm room about a minute away from the party and I was tired and growing increasingly cranky as my sweaty clothing slowly fused with my skin, but I decided to seize the day (or night rather) and allow this guy to walk me home.
One and half minutes later, we were in front of my dorm room door.
“Well, thanks!” I exclaimed brightly, “Guess I’ll see you later!”
He just stood there, looking massively confused by the whole thing.
“…Bye?” I said, trying to be forceful but not tactless.
“Hey can I just get some water?” He blurted suddenly.
I opened the door with a sigh, knowing that I didn’t really want to hook up with him but that, given the time of night and his level of intoxication, it was going to be next to impossible to herd him out of my room. As I got him some water, I resigned myself to the fate that he would be staying over and my roommates would undoubtedly laugh in my face the next morning.
After he finished his water, I said I was going to bed and he lumbered loudly into my bedroom behind me like a drunk piece of construction equipment. I turned around and told him, straight up, that there would be no funny business. I was going to bed, and we could cuddle, but I wouldn’t hesitate to punt him out of my room if necessary. He blinked his understanding. I was growing tired of his reticence and his apparent inability to leave my room.
Cuddling went well for all of one minute, and then his hands started roaming around. I coughed pointedly, too tired to make a scene but unwilling to let myself be groped by this mute person. He stopped for a second, and then he went for it. In an unprecedented move, he stuck his finger aggressively into my bellybutton.
My bellybutton.
My breath caught in my throat as I tried to stifle my laughter. ‘What the hell is this?’ I thought to myself. ‘This is not a thing.’
He continued to root around in there, as though searching for buried treasure or old lint. I wanted to offer him my laundry hamper, seeing as there was plenty of lint in there, but I worried that opening my mouth would kick off an unstoppable bout of manic laughter.
I was torn. Half of me wanted to snidely say, “Hey – by the way that’s not what a vagina is.” The other half of me just felt bad and appreciated the energy with which he was attacking exactly the wrong part of my body. He was accomplishing nothing for me, but by golly he was doing it with enthusiasm!
Eventually, after having crushed my giggles to the bottom of my lungs, I took a deep breath and informed him that I was too tired to continue. His hand mercifully left my abdomen and he more or less immediately passed out. I wasn’t so lucky – I lay awake, cramped on my twin extra-long bed, wondering what just happened. Either he knew something I didn’t, or he was a drunk idiot and I’d just been handed a perfect stand up joke. I went with the latter.
The best part of this story is the part that doesn’t involve me. The next morning, I got out of bed at 10 to meet a friend for brunch. I awkwardly informed him that I was leaving, but that if he wanted to he could stick around. He said no, he’d head out shortly after me. I didn’t have time to wait for him to collect his shoes, so I gave him a goodbye arm pat and walked out.
According to my roommate, when she emerged from her room twenty minutes later, he was passed out on the couch in our living room. She’s a good sport, so she let him be and left to get milk. Upon her return, he was still passed out in our living room, but had moved to a different couch. He was apparently Goldilocks-ing around our dorm, looking for the perfect fit. Eventually he staggered back into my room and fell asleep once again on my bed. I’m not sure when or how he left, but when I got back later that evening he was finally gone.
This is what you’d expect to pick up in the humid basement of a former frat house. There was no fairy tale prince. Instead, I brought home a bellybutton-loving, idiotic bed nomad. Lucky me.
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