We Didn’t Have Sex And Yet He Still Stole My Underwear

Flickr / Sugree Phatanapherom
Flickr / Sugree Phatanapherom

It was a typical game day, that Saturday afternoon in Small College Town, USA. My friend dropped me off at the local watering hole (a free standing sports bar, with the parking lot full of pick-up trucks, frat tents, and students drinking away their troubles) so I could meet up with my friends for a few drinks before the football game. I found my posse in the sea of people and proceeded to the inside bar.

This bar is typically full due to its close proximity to the football stadium and its iconic drink known for getting you fucked up, the Jet Fuel. Today it was especially packed because it was Homecoming. People headed to the bar were smushed in there so tightly, the people receiving their drinks could barely get out.

“Hey. You getting a Jet Fuel?” a voice said next to me.

“Two, actually.”

We chatted for a few seconds, exchanging names and frustrations about the extensive wait time until a path opened up in the clusterfuck of sweaty bodies.

“I’ve got you.” He dove straight for the bar.

Just as fast as he disappeared, he returned, holding six of those delicious game-day staples. He handed me two. Having just gotten to the tailgating scene, I was not as far into the liquid courage as others were so I downed the first one to catch up. He led me out the door, repeatedly grabbing my ass. I was so far out of my element, not even the periodic table could find me. I lied and told him I needed to take the other drink to my friend. He insisted we exchange phone numbers so we could meet up later (something I had no intention of doing).

Jump ahead a few hours, a few drinks and a few flirty drunk texts.

Back in the bar, he and I found ourselves standing in line again getting another (definitely unnecessary) round of drinks. This boy and I ended up leaning against the pool table sucking face. I could hear my girlfriends catcalling me from afar. If that wasn’t enough embarrassment, security tapped my guy on the shoulder and said, “I’m jealous dude, but you can’t do that here.”

OK…sure, we’ll just go find an other place. Oh! An abandoned tailgate behind the bar? Why not?!

He sat down in a folding chair and we started to do our thing. He kept whispering in my ear how badly he wanted to fuck me. Being not that sexually experienced, I was hesitant to go home with him. I walked him back to parking lot where I knew my friends would be so I could consult with them. We all agreed that I had no reason not to trust this guy (even though I also had no reason to trust him).

I had no idea where his house was, but according to him it wasn’t “that far.”

8:30PM: I called my roommate to tell her I wouldn’t be coming home. We started walking. We made a few pit stops here and there (for making out and then some).

Three hours later and three miles in, we are closer to my house than his. The thoughts of just going home and forgetting this whole night ever happened crossed my mind. He had hyped up how intensely he was going to do me that I was convinced to press on.

We rush into his room and immediately ripped each other’s clothes off. We fell onto his bed and began the usual foreplay.

BANG BANG BANG…on the door. He told me to go hide in the bathroom. Why? I’m still not quite sure. His roommates start screaming at him for leaving them at the bar and then a silence fell over the room. I heard the door close, so I came out and we continued.

Two more hours of agonizing frustration pass because he can’t get hard enough to stay in. Why did we try for TWO HOURS? I could say I was determined. I could say I was so horny and desperate that I was willing to try anything. I could make up any excuse, but none of them would be true except that I was too naive and liquored upped to understand “whiskey dick.” NOUN: when you’ve had too much to drink and have a girl back home and can’t get it up to perform the deed. (Isn’t Urban Dictionary awesome?)

Anyway, we gave up trying. He threw me a T-shirt and we went to bed. When I heard him wake up and walk into the bathroom I took the opportunity to get up and put on my underwear. They weren’t with my dress or my boots or my purse. I noticed that my bra was gone, too. I was exhausted and decided to find them in the morning, so I crawled back into bed. When he came out of the bathroom, I asked him if he knew where they were and he said no. He walked out of the room.

That was the last time I ever saw him. Around 3AM, a guy opened the door and offered me a ride back to my apartment. I got up to get dressed, this time turning the light on. I searched high and low, going in the closet, the hamper, under the bed, and even in his dresser to find my missing clothing. They were gone and I accepted that fact right then and there. I put on my dress and walked out of the pigsty that was their house. Once in the car, his friend told me that the guy I had been with all night was so blackout drunk, he had no clue who I was or why I was in his bed.

I got the worst strep throat that next week. I was unsatisfied, sick, and robbed. While I sat bedridden I had a lot of time to think. I could have prevented all of this from happening. I saw the red flag when he kept grabbing my ass. I heard the warning shots when his invitation to go home with him was crude and made me uncomfortable. I was given the chance to cross the street and go home.

But then I thought, he’s a college junior who can’t hold his liquor and needs a girl’s used panties to get off and I didn’t feel so bad for myself anymore. So DJ, if you’re reading this, enjoy my lingerie. I hope your hand makes you happier than you made me. TC mark

Related

More From Thought Catalog

blog comments powered by Disqus