We've all heard at one time or another someone use the excuse, "I was so drunk, I can't believe I woke up to a troll in my bed! Tequila is never the right answer for Fun Fridays..."
And sure, "Accidental Lushing" is an overdone (and in my opinion, completely falsified reasoning to fall back on), but what about those horrific, purposeful encounters? My most shameful experience was not only drenched in liquid courage, it also doubled as a moronic experiment to test the boundaries of my dating limits.
I was trying to figure out where things were going with this guy I was casually seeing a handful of years ago (we ended up dating for four hellish years to which I can happily report I eventually dumped him off at a bus station and never looked back). He was charming, funny, and a nauseatingly cocky sonofab*tch who couldn't keep it in his pants. He even had the gaul to suggest we opt for an open relationship to which the sexual freedom would only be on his part and I'd just have to accept his goods and be set. With him concrete iin the belief that I was "too good and sweet' to ever date like him, a 'real' man"...Meaning, casual sex without all of that womanly emotional crap getting involved, I became hell bent on proving him wrong and decided to test myself on his theory. I bet you can see where this one is headed...
I targeted the assistant manager of one of the food departments at a retail chain I worked for. He was obviously interested in getting to know me, (other employees addressed me on this), and he was not at all close to the type I would date (a redhead, only kind of cute, and had a slight cross eyed look that deemed similar to that of a siamese cat). He was sweet, completely oblivious to my true intentions, and we knew nothing about each other. These factors made him the perfect specimen for my sexperiment. Like a typical average Joe without a clue, we met at a local bar for drinks before he upped the anty by taking me to an even dumpier dive where I continued to numb my emotional self with cheap beer and games of pool. Deep down, the good girl part of me who's regularly present, was drowning fast beneath the bad lighting and cigarette smoke wafting in the air in cloud like proportions. In order to shut my innocence up for one lousy evening and prove that I could be just as gutless as any ball toting male with a player card, I nodded in agreeance when he suggested we go back to his place.
I followed him in my car to his home down the road which laid out like a true blue bachelor pad—little to no furniture except for a huge tv, small couch, and a fridge loaded with even more beer. Only then did we finally get to actually talking a bit when he put his cards on the table and mentioned he was divorced with four kids. Four! I could have felt guilty for being there only to use him to spark interest in the loser I would actually end up dating, but with the drinks we had back at his digs, common sense was just another fuzzy object ignored over by my beer goggles. We ended up sleeping together and passed out shortly thereafter. When I woke the next morning, he tried setting up a future rendezvous, and I made up some lame reason to get me out the door and to never return.