Since launching PGP a few weeks ago, we’ve received several submissions regarding postgrad hookup horror stories, so naturally we’re going to show them to you. The names have been changed to protect the innocent. Thou shalt not judge lest ye be judged.
If you’ve got a hookup horror story, submit it to Brian@Grandex.co with “Humpday Hookups” as the subject, or submit it through our website by using the menu right below the featured posts.
Cara from Washington, DC
I used to work on campaigns for a living. It is a gypsy lifestyle where you make a laughable amount of money. You work seven days a week, you don’t sleep, you eat like shit, there’s literally no time for exercise, and absolutely no time for a relationship. Suffice it to say, it’s not a job that you can healthily sustain. Most campaign staffers are in their early to mid twenties. Sleeping with your coworkers is a fireable offense.
I was working on a senate campaign in a swing state during a non-presidential year election. At the time, I was working in the state capital, directly under the campaign manager. Because we were in a big city, we had access to a ton of interns, all of whom were still in college and went to school about ten minutes away from our office.
All of the headquarters’ staffers were young; I think our oldest staffer was twenty-seven. This meant that while we worked insane hours and wanted to kill ourselves on an hourly basis, we were still at an age where we thought drinking after working a 19-hour day was a good idea. We frequently took our interns out after work to show them that we still had it, and because we felt bad that we didn’t pay them.
On one particular night, we were out with about ten of our interns. I don’t know if they were all twenty-one, but they were all at least eighteen. Let me repeat, they were all at least eighteen. We got to the bar and immediately ordered everyone a round. One round turned into another round, and so forth and so on. Before I knew it, we were ripping tequila shots and everyone was nearing a fun little town known as blackout city. After a while, we had staffers dancing on tables, an intern vomiting in the bathroom, and a candidate that had to be picked up by his wife who was none too happy to see the state of his staff.
At last call, a few of our interns decided that we should all post-game. This seemed like the best fucking idea I’d ever heard. About eight of us, a mix of staffers and interns, left the bar and hailed a cab. That is the last thing I remember.
I woke up the next morning at a disgustingly early hour. I had the worst case of cottonmouth I have ever experienced. The room was spinning, my head was pounding, and I was certain I was going to vomit. I opened my eyes to see that I was not in fact in my bedroom at my apartment. Oh, no. Posters of Megan Fox and beer lined the walls. Dirty laundry scattered the floor. A passed out roommate was in another bed in the same room. And then I saw them: fraternity letters. Fuck.
I quickly looked over to face the body I was sharing a twin-sized bed with. It was one of my interns. Oh. My. God.
I jumped out of bed and started to get dressed at fucking lightning speed.
“Hey you,” he purred, before patting the mattress, an amateur attempt to get me back into bed.
I looked at him in pure horror. How old was he? A senior? A junior? Oh god, anything but a freshman. I was too young to be a cougar. Hell, I hadn’t even gone through my first divorce yet.
I searched for my shit and replied to his endless chatter with one-word answers. As I went to turn the handle of his bedroom door, I looked back at him, square in the eyes, and said in my sternest voice: “If you tell anyone about this. You’re fucking fired.”
It was wrong. It was immoral. It was illegal. But I said it anyway. And to his credit, (if you’re reading this, and you know who you are, thank you) he kept his mouth shut.
As I opened the door, he smirked and said, “Hey boss, don’t let the guys give you too hard of a time.” And so I proceeded, well in my mid-twenties, to walk of shame out of a fraternity house.