Drunken Sex...The Unofficial Olympic Event  

misterthirdshift 34M
1 posts
1/1/2006 11:08 pm

Last Read:
3/5/2006 9:27 pm

Drunken Sex...The Unofficial Olympic Event


Having just survived another year of holiday carols, food, and schmoozing, I feel obliged to reflect on the one thing that everyone has, or will, do at some point in their lives.

I speak, of course, about that all dangerous activity of drunken sex.

Don't get me wrong, it can be just as fun (if not moreso) than sober sex, but the challenges are unique.

First things first, you have the foreplay. It starts at the bar/party, whatever the occasion may merit. Some small talk, the arm around the shoulder, and maybe a kiss or two (even some groping if you're lucky) -- it's all part of this rite of passage. But unlike when your sober, the foreplay is not awkward because of unfamiliarity. Instead, the awkwardness occurs from a sheer inability to string together words and actions in a logical order.

For example, you typically want to say "I want to kiss you" before trying to kiss someone...however, when you're drunk, this occasionally gets inverted, so your stating your intentions after the fact. Yes, I've done this...I was nearly slapped for not asking first, but it surely breaks the ice physically.

The walk from the bar/party to the apartment is the next event in this heptathlon of sexuality. Wavering back and forth across the pavement, with your arm wrapped around your prospective partner, it's not hard to find yourself in a snowbank if not cautious. The best way to prevent this mishap is to call a cab, or if that's not an option, is to pause frequently to get your equilibrium back. A good excuse, like "Look at how beautiful the night sky is" tends to provide ample justification, and it makes you seem far more romantic than that last double of Cuervo.

Once inside, getting out of your clothes becomes a near-Herculean task compared to when sober. Belt buckles seem like deadbolt locks, and zippers are stuck as if it was super glued shut by a prankster. And don't even start about socks -- for something that so gracefully slides onto your foot, it's so damned hard to take off when drunk, like it refuses to quit the symbiotic relationship it has formed with your calf.

And then comes the big event itself -- sex. Or some semblance thereof, because let's face it. As a guy, if you're several drinks in, whiskey dick has locked its evil claws onto your genitals, and simply will not let go. If anything, the more desirable the partner, the worse a case of the WD you're handling. But for the sake of argument, let's assume you get to at least 3/4 mast. The next step (if you roll this way) is to attach some latex to your sagging member. Hand/eye coordination having been lost around the third game of beer pong, you rely on feel, and typically end up making a balloon poodle before getting the condom on properly. And then finding the Promised Land itself is next to impossible unless you've got an airport runway to work with. And even when you've made your way in, stamina having been lost thanks to Jack and Jim, you're lucky to make five minutes of worthwhile anything happen. Luckily, if your partner is anything close to what you're like by this point in the night, she won't notice because she'll have fallen asleep while you made balloon poodles.

So as advice to those looking for love in all the wrong places, I give you this. If you plan on drinking and fucking, assign a designated fucker. That way, at least someone will go home satisfied.

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