Since launching the new PGP site, we receive submissions each week regarding postgrad hookup horror stories. So naturally, we’re going to handpick the worst of the worst and show them to you. The names have been changed to protect the guilty’s career and personal life. Thou shalt not judge lest ye be judged.
If you’ve got a hookup horror story, submit it to email@example.com with “Humpday Hookups” as the subject, or submit your story using the submission form on the home page. All submissions will be made anonymous. Try to keep it under 500 words.
Drew from Charlotte, NC
I had been steadily hooking up with a girl that I knew from college for a few months, and we decided to rendezvous yet again after a long night of drinking. We both knew it wasn’t going any further than the bedroom, so we had fun with it. It had become my Saturday ritual: go out with my friends, get drunk, and then text Claire (that’s her name) to see if I could come over. It was just like any other night for the past few months.
I showed up to her apartment where she was having after hours with some friends. We snuck away to her bedroom as the party was dying down. We did the deed once and then I told her I wanted to have sex in the tub, but she wasn’t for it and just wanted to go again, normal style.
Suddenly, she lit up with an idea. She was house-sitting for a family friend who had a jacuzzi bathtub. She hopped out of bed, started getting dressed and grabbed her car keys. I got up, got dressed and followed her to the car. After getting in, I asked her how far away this place was. She said it wasn’t too far and we’d be there soon. She lied.
After a terrifying, 20-minute drive in which she ran two red lights and veered several times into what would’ve been oncoming traffic during normal daylight hours, we got to the house and let ourselves in. The place was out in the suburbs in a small housing development, tucked back in a cul de sac. It was only one-story, but it had four bedrooms and was actually pretty nice. The family was out of the country and wouldn’t be back for another couple of weeks.
We got into the master bathroom and fooled around while the jacuzzi tub filled up. After sloshing about in the tub and struggling to find a good position, we finally stood up and went at it, doggy-style.
I knew it was a bad idea from the jump, as it was tough to get good footing in the tub. It had a sliding glass door in front of it and Claire was leaning up on it.
Next thing I knew, she lost her footing and slipped beneath me, kicking my legs out from under me, causing me to tumble forward into the glass door, nailing my head and shoulder and crashing through the glass. I laid there, bleeding all over the bathroom tile as Claire shrieked and called 911. I legitimately thought I was going to die. The paramedics carried my naked, shredded (not in the fitness sense) body out to the ambulance, and we tore off towards the hospital, leaving Claire standing in the street in a robe.
I got sixteen stitches on my chest, seven on my left hand, four staples on the top of my head and had multiple minor cuts everywhere else on my body. Miraculously, none were on my genitals. I spent the night in the hospital. My chart actually said “sex injury” on it. However, I did get 20 Percocet out of the whole ordeal.
The story doesn’t end there. Claire and I had to clean up the bathroom the next day and replace the sliding glass door in the bathroom, which ended up costing around $750 dollars after installation.
Editor’s Note: Don’t drink and drive or have sex near glass.
Gretchen from Virginia Beach, VA
It all started with an attempt at “spring break.” However, as the post grad version, instead of scheming on towel boys on a beach in the Virgin Islands, I spent the first part of the week enjoying a relaxing but sedate week in Palm Beach, wearing all the Lilly Pulitzer I owned since I was in the one city in the world it’s appropriate at my age, and ended with me renting a car (using my AAA discount because I’m a fucking adult now) and driving up to visit a good friend and former coworker who lives in the hellhole of central Florida now known as Orlando.
My esteemed former colleague, and one of my favorite people in the world, was somehow without a cell phone that weekend, and arrived at the hotel bar two entire hours late. As I was personally polishing off a few old fashioneds (bite me, that’s what I like to drink these days) I caught the eye of two older gentlemen and struck up some conversation to pass the time.
After two hours of conversation and several cocktails with these gentlemen, my girl shows up. Cue me switching from intelligent conversation on the economy, our country, and politics, to squealing, jumping, spinning her around, and fawning over her. Given that my gentleman companions for the past 2-hours were at least fifty, they seemed to find this amusing, and immediately called a cab to take us all out to dinner.
Our first suggestion of tapas and sangria seemed to confuse our older companions, which was fine since we polished off the pitcher of sangria fairly quickly before I picked up the check so that we could head to a steak house, because the old dudes just wanted a 60 dollar steak at this point in their intoxication. “Cabbie, to the finest steakhouse in town!” The gentlemen ordered steaks all around, I kept up with my bourbon game, the boss of the two, who we’ll call Montez after his resemblance to the character in Workaholics, ordered for both of us because we “don’t look like we eat enough.”
At this point, the subordinate old dude, who I had assigned to my friend because she was late, literally fell asleep at the table. Somehow everything got switched up regarding who was flirting with whom, and Montez checks out my Lanvin boots, correctly guesses my shoe size, whips out a notebook, and asks for our addresses so that he can send the two of us a pair of Louboutins. I declined the offer because that’s just weird. My friend was not pleased with that decision. We put his subordinate in a cab, in hopes that Montez would follow suit, but no! He wanted to party with us. At that point, we were too drunk to consider this creepy.
We shut down Orlando bars dancing with each other, while Montez continuously ordered us shots of Patron. It was a glorious evening. Me, my girl, and some guy just feeding us nice liquor and cooing over how beautiful we are. What more could I ask for?! Naturally the after party extended to his presidential suite.
And that’s when reality got strong enough to overcome the drunken situation at hand. There I was, while my friend was bitching the bellhop out for not finding her bags quickly enough at 4:00am, with a four times married, vaguely latino dude, offering to pay my grad school tuition and buy me all the designer shoes, champagne, vacations on private jets, and chocolate covered strawberries that I wanted, if only I’d agree to come stay at his beach house twice a month.
I was just offered a job as a hooker. And for about 2 minutes, I considered it.
Think you can top these? Submit your hookup horror story to firstname.lastname@example.org with “Humpday Hookups” as the subject, or submit using the submission form on the home page. All submissions will be made anonymous. Remember, 500 word limit. If it’s over 500 words, it better be really, really good.