That Time I Had The Worst Sex Of My Entire Life, Part I

That Time I Had The Worst Sex Of My Entire Life, Part I

I was in a weird place this weekend. I was coming off about three weeks of breaking things off with my latest Brad, and let’s just say mama was a little thirsty. Don’t believe me? Please see the following gems from my Twitter feed this weekend.

Yeah, it’s not great. In hindsight, I should have just gone home after posting these tweets. A smart, responsible, adult woman would have just enjoyed the evening with her friends and called an Uber home when everyone started to disperse from watching the Notre Dame/Duke game. So, was I a smart, responsible, adult woman?

Jesus, why do I even try anymore? NO. No I was not. My (gin soaked) lizard brain took over and it was laser focused on getting me laid. I believe this was partly because I hadn’t hooked up with anyone since Physics Brad, who I really liked, and I wanted to put some (sex) distance between us, and partly because I really enjoy the competitive gamesmanship of one night stands. And let’s be honest- three weeks is peak danger zone where you’ve gotten laid recently enough to remember what it’s like, but not so recently that it feels recently enough.

My friends and I had been out in NW D.C., but I wanted a bar closer to home. I called an Uber not to my house, but to a bar approximately .3 miles from my house in VA. To compound the issue, bars in VA close a full hour before those in D.C. Why? No one knows. I only had 45 minutes to make it from D.C. to VA and order a drink before last call, and another 20 minutes after that to find an appropriate Brad to take back to my apartment to “meet my dogs.” It’s nights like this one that make me wish I was less ambitious and more terrible at achieving goals I set for myself.

I arrived at my favorite Arlington dive bar and carefully scoped out a section of empty bar stools surrounded by two different groups of derpy looking men. A bartender came over to inform me he could only give me one drink before last call, which was just fine with me. I wasn’t looking to get any drunker, just laid.

“Ok,” I reasoned with myself. “It’s not weird that you came to a bar by yourself for 20 minutes. It’s only 1:15 a.m., you’re just not ready to go to sleep yet. You’re an extrovert! You like being around people! THIS IS PERFECTLY FINE.”

Ok, drunk Quinn, methinks thou dost protest too much. However, I decided if I stayed until last call at 1:30 a.m. without seeing any interesting Brads I would take myself home. I truly did mean this. However, literally not even a full minute after I sat down and ordered a drink, I felt a looming presence beside me.

“Hey, is my hat under there?” a tall attractive man who vaguely resembled a thumb asked me.

It turned out that his beanie was hanging on the hook right in front of my bar stool.

“Wow,” he said, turning to me and blinking slowly with a mild slur. “You’re really pretty. Like so pretty.”


I’ll spare you the details of our conversation because it was literally so painful that even drunk me was bored. I just want to assure you that he really was very attractive- tall, very in shape, shaved head, strong jawline, very thumblike. Just my type. How terrible was the conversation you ask? Here are some of the highlights of the glaring red flags I remember blatantly ignoring:

“I think I’m going to try out for the Redskins next year. I’m 35 now so I feel like I’ve got like three good years left in me physically. They’re the worst team in the league anyway and I was really good when I played, so I feel like I could definitely do it.”

“Oh I didn’t play in college. I actually didn’t go to college. But I was a beast in high school. I was even bigger than I am now. I just like… CRUSHED people.”

“I lived in American Samoa for a while as a kid. No, my dad wasn’t in the military, my parents just sent me to reform school for two years there.”

I wish I was making this up, but I swear to you these are all real things that he said. Clearly this was a bad idea. You know it. I know it. I even knew it then. I remember literally doing a cost benefit analysis with my drunk self about whether or not getting laid was really worth this much terribleness in one person.

Unfortunately, I have the curse of eternal optimism. It sounds great in theory, but really what it means is that I lie to myself with positive platitudes when I know something will be terrible in an effort to justify it or make myself feel better about it. I really wanted to believe that an attractive, fit, older guy had to have something going for him (also I was real thirsty), so like an idiot I took him home.

Image via Shutterstock

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Quinn Truflais

Formerly known as Queen of The Garbage People. Functional title still stands. Dog owner, whiskey drinker, Star Wars fangirl. #DoingItForTheContent

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