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If you’ve got a hookup horror story, send it in using our submission form, and be sure to select “Column.” All stories will be made anonymous. Try to keep it under 500 words. Thou shalt not judge lest ye be judged.
Back To School
“Tim” from La Jolla, CA
After working my ass off at a mid-sized bank in the Midwest for three years, I finally got the opportunity of a lifetime, working with an investment firm in San Diego. I had always wanted to live in Southern California, because one, women, and two, weather. Working with the bank, I had accrued a nice little nest egg for myself and would be making a very handsome salary at my new job, so I decided to splurge and set myself up in an affluent neighborhood. #blessed
I finally got settled into my new home and had made some new friends through work. One night we all went out to dinner at a Mexican restaurant. We noticed a table of good looking ladies eyeing us and bought them a round of drinks. After the meal was done, we went over to their table and made our introductions. We took them out to the bars with us and danced all night. The girl I ended up hitting it off with was a total stunner. She was mixed race and had an amazing body. I had her pegged for at least 22. I asked her where she went to school, but she just kept giggling.
I went in for the kill early. I didn’t want to mess around and wanted to get down to business with this chocolate/vanilla swirl. She playfully pretended she didn’t want to, but finally said yes and we were off.
I laid the charm on real thick on the car ride back to my place. I’m not a guy who tries to impress people with his money, but she kept asking me how much money I made in a year, which I thought was pretty rude and immature. So I finally broke down and told her my estimated salary, which then led to her asking why I didn’t drive a nicer car than an Acura. Again, rude and off-putting as shit. Acuras are really nice, especially for a 25-year-old that paid for it himself, you little brat.
We got back to my place and she finally acted like she was impressed for once. I was thinking about sending her on her way for being such an uppity bitch, but I hadn’t gotten laid since moving to Cali, so I figured I’d let her stay.
We made out on the couch and got drunk. Things were going well until she got up to go to the bathroom. I noticed her purse was open on my coffee table and her wallet was out, with her ID in the clear. Curiosity got the best of me, so I took a look at it. I felt the color drain out of my face as I looked at her DOB. She was 17. I also found a high school student ID, a senior portrait of some football player and a fake ID. It was a dead giveaway. I had been swindled by a minor.
She came back to the couch and started undoing my belt. I was not privy to California’s age of consent laws, but my conscience had taken hold of me and I pushed her away. She started undressing and oh god, the temptation was unbearable.
“No. We can’t. We can’t,” I said. She then laid into me with a torrent of curse words and threw a tantrum that would make Gloria Cleary look like a well-behaved child. When I tried to get her to put her clothes on, she refused. She certainly was acting like a 17-year-old.
All that changed when I confronted her about her age. Her game was up. I loaded her into my car and dropped her off at her parents’ house around midnight. She tried to give it one last stab.
“My parents are in Hawaii. You don’t want to come in and just talk to me?”
Nope. All of the nope. There are not enough nopes in the world.
I got back to my place and did some research on the age of consent in California. It’s 18. Use your conscience, kids. Use your conscience or end up in a California state prison.
Trapped In The Closet/Bathroom
“Emily” from Clearwater, FL
One week over the summer, I went home to my parents’ house during what happened to be a big golf tournament in their golf community neighborhood, featuring tons of hot golfers from all over the world in their early twenties. Score. Naturally, my friend and I were all over that shit and immediately tried to find out when there would be some high-society golf party. Luckily, we ended up at one of these parties. It was an Australian invasion. I was one out of 3 girls there, surrounded by 30 metrosexual Australians all taking turns hitting on us.
The night started out pretty tame until we all decided to take golf carts to the neighborhood pool at one in the morning with buckets of beer, but since it was the night before they all had to leave, a lot of them left the pool by 3:30 to pack up, since their flight was at 6 in the morning. That left 2 of my friends, myself, and an Aussie for each of us. It turned into a 7th-grade style make-out sesh in the pool (one of my friends was hooking up with her guy somewhere in the playground, sex offender much?) and my guy was particularly horny but I wasn’t trying to have sex 14 feet away from my best friend, who may or may not have already been getting some.
However, I wasn’t NOT going to hook up with a hot Australian golfer, so we decided to take my golf cart to his host family’s house (which turned out to be a mansion that would later on become a fucking maze), snuck upstairs to his bathroom and got in the shower. Luckily I had the sense to stop having sex with him, but while we were in the throes of lustful passion, there was a knock on the door, followed by a “Ryan, are you almost ready to leave?!” While I was quietly panicking, he was quietly trying to get me to finish him off (ugh, men) and I jumped out of the shower to put my clothes back on. Meanwhile, the owner of the host home was still knocking, and Ryan had to jump out and start packing his stuff while I was hiding behind the bathroom door crouched in the corner. A couple minutes later he comes back in, gives me a kiss, and says “Good luck getting out of here!”
I don’t even know what was running through my head at that moment, but all I knew was that he was leaving me to fend for myself and make it out of this house without being seen by the host family. I ran over to the window and watched a car leave the garage, but then I heard the wife of the house say goodbye to them and then rummage all over the kitchen at 5 IN THE MORNING. Who does that? As if it wasn’t already bad enough, I hear two little yippie dogs running around too. I’m pacing back and forth on the top floor of the house, trying to remember which way I even came in. Do I go down the stairs? Do I jump off the balcony? Holy shit. I take my shoes off and tip toe down the stairs, but I hear the wife watching TV in the living room which is Lord knows where. I finally make it down the stairs after what feels like fucking eternity, and I see the front door to my right. I start making my move when the little fucking dogs see me and start barking and running towards me, biting at my feet. I’m trying to make them go away when I look up and the host lady is looking at me, dead in the eyes from across the living room. I turn around, make it to the front door (which of course is locked) unlock it while the little shits are still biting at my feet, and make it out the door. I’ve never run so fast in my entire life. And the cherry on top is, I drove right by all the golfers on my way home.
Respond
Story A) Hats off to you, man. Many a man would not have had the strength to say no. Aesthetically speaking, there is virtually zero difference between 17 and 22. I’m sure I would have done the same but damn that sucks.
Story B) Horror story? You mean, best bar story to tell for the rest of your life?