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Humpday Hookup Horror Stories: Oh My God, We’re Back Again

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The smut gods smiled down upon us this week. An internet relic has risen from the dead. There were two fresh Humpday Hookup Horror Stories sitting in my inbox this morning. If you’ve got a hookup horror story, send it in using our submission form, and be sure to select “column,” or send it to brian@grandex.co. All stories will remain 100 percent anonymous. Try to keep it under 500 words. Thou shalt not judge lest ye be judged.

Swamp Thing
“Kenny” in St. Louis, MO

I was at the Lake of the Ozarks last summer staying at a buddy’s family’s lake house for Memorial Day Weekend 2014. It was a boys’ weekend, so there were no wives, no girlfriends and nobody’s parents. It was perfect. McGannon’s a Missouri guy, so he knows all about the debauchery that happens at the lake every holiday weekend, especially at Party Cove. Party Cove at the Lake of the Ozarks is THE original Party Cove.

We set off on our voyage to Party Cove on Saturday afternoon. I was already hammered, sitting at the bow of the boat, wearing a captain’s hat and catcalling anything wearing a bikini. We dropped anchor in a prime spot smack in the middle and roped up with the massive line of boats that served as the Midwest’s largest floating shitshow. I zeroed in on a lady (I pegged her for about 32-34 years old) who was dancing by herself on the deck of a Sun Tracker and handed her a beer. We grinded all up and down one another. It was a disgusting display of drunken horniness. I won’t lie. I’m ashamed to this day.

The hours fly by and next thing I know, it’s time to head back. I snatched up my lustful, drunk, desperate 30-year-old and escorted her back to our boat which would take us back to the house where I would then engage in dirty lake sex with a complete stranger.

So we pull up the anchor, and if you’ve never seen what sits at the bottom of the biggest party cove in the country looks like, prepare yourself for this disgusting description. Thirty-year-old is helping me pull up the anchor and it starts making its way to the surface. It’s covered in this disgusting black tar/sludge/grime that’s mixed with bottle caps, Mardi Gras beads, and I shit you not, a condom. We’re all freaking out at how disgusting it is and we start lowering it back into the water to wash it off, when drunk 30-year-old grabs a handful of this muck and smacks it right in the middle of her chest. This stuff smells like pure human shit. She’s just cackling with joy and we’re all looking on in horror. She locks eyes with me and sprints directly at me and splatters me with the goo, like she had on a dynamite vest loaded with E. coli and typhoid instead of C4 and steel wood screws.

We’re all gagging and trying to get away from her as she’s tracking this crud all over the deck of the boat. We finally scoop her up and toss her into the water and signal to her friends to come pick her up, and I hop in the water to wash myself off. Sobered me up real quick. I sat in silence in the back of the boat, covered in a towel, questioning my decisions that day as the sun set behind me.

Liberal Arts
“Lonny” from Boston, MA

I went to a small liberal arts school in the Northeast. I’m 6’4″, and I have about as much ethnicity as Larry Bird’s elbow. Clearly the next step is to stick my dingus into the melting pot. I meet an Indian (dot, not feather) girl in a dark and dirty frat basement. Nothing happens initially, but I invite her over a few days later to watch TMNT. There’s no reason whatsoever that she should have any idea what that is, because she is actually from India. She accepts.

I pull out the Jager, and because I’m an RA, I’m also a terrible lightweight. Her boobies are out. I accept. Fast-forward. As we’re preparing to begin formal relations, I black out around 1:30 a.m. At 3:05 a.m., I regain consciousness, and we’re just fighting the physics of this girl’s black hole vagina. The best analogy I have is that it was like I was trying to fit myself inside a tightly closed fist and then trying to fit that fist inside of a 4’11” brown girl. The last memory I have is turning to her, saying, “I think it’s broken,” and falling asleep — leaving both of us completely unfulfilled. I don’t remember ever being fully inside, but I unconsciously boned toward her for a solid two hours. We didn’t really try again after that.

I stopped picking up girls in frat houses after that. I did, however, meet a freshman while investigating a date rape in my dorm. She was cool. I am the worst.

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