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Guys Being Dudes: One-Night Stand

Guys Being Dudes: One-Night Stand

I been gettin’ dirty money, Jordan Bel-foooort… rang out into the nearly-empty bedroom as he rolled over in the dark to slap the “snooze” button on his space grey iPhone 6s Plus.

In the process, he knocked over a lukewarm Natural Light sitting on the nightstand, spilling it onto his clothes he had worn to the bar the night before that were in a pile on the floor next to his bed. After trying three times, he finally shut the alarm off, effectively setting a timer to go off again, in 9 short minutes. He audibly groaned and shoved his head under the cool pillow. The same noggin, in fact, that was already pounding with the aftermath of a night filled with Jagerbomb shots, Red Bull vodkas, and credit card-roulette.

“Did I even pay my tab…or did I leave my fucking card at Stacks again?” he thought to himself, as he flopped around under the comforter, trying to find a comfortable spot.

The sun was barely starting to peek through the blinds in the window. As he rolled over, he noticed for the first time, in the brightening sunlight, a shape lying underneath the blankets to his right.

He did an old fashioned double-handed face rub and slowly came to the realization that somehow, that brunette from Stacks had made her way back to his apartment. He smirked to himself, as he was sure they had to have done a little bit of the white man’s overbite, and he was even more sure that it was probably the best she’d ever had in her life.

What to do next? He could gently wake her, maybe try and trick her into telling him her name in some casual way, because he sure as shit didn’t remember it. Or, he could ever so gently give her a romantic “poke” in the back. That was the answer. It was always the right answer. No better way than to have this chick added to the roster than to give her a little morning action before he had to meet the boys for their 9:00 a.m. tee time at the club.

He scooted closer to her unmoving body, ready to seal the deal and bag an infinite number of future 2 a.m., “Sup?” texts, but as soon as he got close enough to touch her, she leapt out of the bed. “What the fuck?” she exclaimed, running a manicured hand through her bedhead. “Wooooow. Wow. Wow, just wow. Where the fuck is my phone? My purse?”

“Heeeey,” he crooned, “hey, don’t worry about it. Just come back to bed. What’s the matter?” He really didn’t care what was the matter, he just wished she would stop being so irritable and come back to bed, anyway. But she was already pulling on her boots from the night before, because apparently she had slept in all of her clothes.

“Yeah, so, my friends dared me to go home with the douchiest guy at the bar last night, and I was supposed to ditch you and get an Uber as soon as we got back to your place. But I was really fucked up and about to throw up into my own purse, and you said you would buy me pizza from Antoine’s. Which obviously…you didn’t.”

With her head on a swivel, she took one long look around the messy room and visibly shivered.

It all was coming back to him now. Too many Long Island’s and Pitbull hits blaring out of the speakers at the bar last night had left his brain fuzzy, but he could just barely remember piling into the Uber Black he ordered to impress this chick only about 5 hours before.

“Yeaaaaah…well, hey, last night was fun, right?” he said in a tone that insinuated that they had seen each other’s genitals.

“Ha. Think again, buddy. Gonna have to come up with some other story to tell your douchebag friends.” And with that, she scooped up her iPhone and threw it into her black Longchamp.

“Uber’s here, gotta run. See you…never.” She took three long steps to the door, shoving her blue-mirror Ray-Ban aviators onto her face as she went. She grabbed the door handle and flung the door open, hanging a left in the hallway headed toward the front door. Before it had shut behind her, she stuck her head back into the doorway.

“By the way, put some fucking sheets on your bed. Your apartment is fucking disgusting.”

As the door slowly closed behind her, he laid still in the unkempt bed watching this shit show of a morning unfold as his brain was still trying to get back to neutral. All he could remember was Kyle trying to arm wrestle him at the bar, telling Miss No-Name about his latest trip to Vegas and his run-in with Johnny Manziel, and a brief glimpse of a bottle-service girl bitching at him for tipping $25 on some huge tab he was sure he got stuck with.

He sat up slowly, cursing under his breath as pain shot through his head once again. He grabbed his phone off of his nightstand as the alarm went off again, yanking it off of the charger.

“I been gettin’ dirty money, Jordan Bel-foooort…”

He slid his phone open, turning the alarm off for good, and pulled up the most active group text, The Boys. He was 42 messages behind, all ranging from 12:30 to 7:30 a.m.. The chat consisted of mostly drunken rambling and nonsense, with a couple reminders from Forrest about the impending 9 a.m. tee time. The latest text was from his college buddy, Chase, who had moved to the city around the same time as he did a few months ago after graduation.

It read, “So…did you get any or what?” accompanied by a gif of Will Ferrell in Wedding Crashers humping the air with his arms around two women in the funeral scene. The message had multiple “Ha-Ha’s” and a couple question marks from the other guys. He squinted one eye shut and started typing his reply.

“She was an absolute dragon. Now, who’s picking me up for our tee time? Daddy’s still drunk.”

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Taylor

Texas native and Alabama grad with a Drake problem. Going to law school, but don't tell my future employers you saw me here.

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