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.
“Caroline” from Austin, Texas
I went home with a man. It was obvious that he was very well off when we got back to his apartment. It was super classy, and I could tell he came from family money, and that, of course, made me only more attracted to him. We made out and then started having sex. He literally lasted less than 10 seconds. No joke. He left the room and went hiding somewhere in his massive apartment. I had no idea where he was, so I gathered my things and I left. I almost felt sorry for him.
When I got back to my apartment, I crashed into bed and heard an odd jingle come from my pocket. I reached in and pulled out a gold Rolex. I’m not a clepto, I swear, but a $5,000 dollar watch somehow found its way into my pocket. I didn’t have this guy’s number and he didn’t have mine.
He never attempted to contact me, and this happened more than a year ago. I assume it’s because he was so embarrassed about his “performance” during our brief companionship, but that should’ve worn off by now, right? I still have the watch and have no idea what to do with it.
Crossing State Lines
“Rachel” from Washington, D.C.
It was my sophomore year of college and I had returned back to school a few days early from winter break. Campus was completely empty, save for the few sorority sisters and fraternity gentlemen who had also returned to school in an effort to escape our families and drink in peace. We got a group together, pregamed, and set out for the bars. A few hours later, I was completely wasted, dancing to Backstreet Boys with a boy named “John,” and having the absolute time of my life. As the lights came on and the drinks stopped being served, however, I realized that something was wrong. I had a cranberry vodka in one hand and John’s hand in another–but I was missing everything else. My purse, which was holding both John’s and my phone, was nowhere to be seen. Adding insult to injury, everyone in our group was gone. I was alone in a bar with a boy and had no way out.
After calming my drunk tears over my missing BlackBerry, John convinced me that we would come back to the bar in the morning and find our belongings. In the meantime, however, he said we should simply go back to my house and go to bed. Okay, I thought. That sounds like a great plan. Except it wasn’t.
We arrived “home” and I put in my door code: 6-2-1-9. Nothing. I did it again: 6-2-1-9. Nothing again. It was on the third attempt that I realized since it was a new semester, our code had been changed–and I was too drunk to remember what it was. We banged on the door for what seemed like an hour, but every light in the house was off–and the light in my head was dimming quickly. I came to the next morning at about 7 a.m. I looked around and found myself in a twin sized bed…with John. Fuck. I nudged him furiously until he finally woke up.
“Where are we?” I whispered, not wanting his roommates or suitemates or fraternity brothers or whoever the fuck they may be to hear me.
“Uhhhhh. Do you seriously not remember this? We’re at my house.”
I looked around, more confused than ever. “John,” I paused. “This doesn’t look like Pike.”
“Are you fucking kidding?” He snorted, although I didn’t see the humor in the situation at all. “We’re at my parents’ house…in West Virginia.”
Apparently, in a state of drunken stupor, we took a cab from D.C. (where we went to school) to Charleston, West Virginia. I had to eat breakfast with his none-too-pleased mother and then sit in the back of her station wagon while she drove us the hour and a half trip back to school. We listened to gospel music the entire way.