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Just to salvage this thread, I will share two stories: The Story of the First Time I Got Drunk and The Story of the First Time I Laid Pipe.
To emotionally involve all you true believers, I will start out by enraging you. I have lied to you about there being two stories. There is, in fact, only one.
When I was a far, far younger man, I was very interested in the musical arts. Unlike most far, far younger men who are interested in the musical arts, I was actually at least mildly talented in that field of endeavor. I earned the relatively rare honor of performing with an orchestral ensemble comprised of students in the region of the state I lived in as a freshman, which was being directed by an individual who was, at the time, kind of a big deal with the music department at West Virginia University. The first two days of the two week endeavor involved tryouts for seating, and I was chosen by a panel of the regional band instructors and the aforementioned university guy to be 1st Chair, 1st Trombone, which ruffled a lot of feathers and turned out to be something of a BIG DEAL. At least I think it was a BIG DEAL, because it seemed to have pissed a lot of people off.
I didn't care, except that I got to sit next to this smokin' hot redhead senior from some other school. Even though she obviously hated my guts, I didn't care about that, either, because she was fun to look since she dressed like a whore. This was really impressive, because dressing like a whore in the 80s actually meant something, and I appreciated her efforts.
OK, I'm lying, I did care, and I thought it was pretty swell, and I was generally pretty full of myself because of it. So don't blame the prostitute for being mad that I took 1st Chair, because I did a fair bit to rub it in.
Anyway, Mr. WVU ran a summer music program, and because he was impressed with my awesome, invited me to attend the program (my parents had to pay the room and board costs, but he got the actual educational part of it waived). So off I went to WVU right after my freshman year, all of 14 years old, to spend a month tooting my own horn.
I was way behind a lot of the other people there, because my school didn't offer a lot of the material these guys had covered, and I was generally looked down upon and not liked very much because of it. I compounded a lot of this dislike by catching myself up to the average knowledge level and pissing people off by showing them up, which made them look really bad since I was the cockstain waste-of-space that didn't know WTF he was doing four days before.
I had turned a lot of that around by the third week, mostly by putting some douche-nozzle on his ass the second week. So I was feeling pretty swell and getting along well, and one of the guys invited me to sneak down to the floor under the one we'd been staying to party with the Spanish exchange students (college kids!!!!!) who were making their own wine coolers.
Spanish people obviously know what they're doing when it comes to making wine coolers in trash cans, because I didn't even taste the booze. I got pretty messed up. So messed up that I missed my cue to head back up the staircase and get let in so I didn't get caught.
After staggering up the stairs, I realized that I had indeed missed the train, and laid down at the top of the stairs to wait and see what would happen. I did this hoping to get lucky, and because I was entirely too wasted to walk back down the stairs and take the elevator up even if there hadn't been some supervisory element sitting around the elevator doors checking on what we were doing in our comings and goings.
After a bit, one of the girls came up the stairs, and she sat down next to me and started asking the sorts of questions you might expect, such as:
"Is anyone going to open the fucking door?"
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
"You're not going to puke on me, are you?"
I responded as best I could, which I guess you could term as a conversation, and eventually, I'm supposing out of boredom and not because I was cool (which I wasn't in that state, I assure you), she says, "You want to make out?" Though I'm sure she said it with much cooler wording, and was very nonchalant about it, like, "I have to run by the cleaners, do you have any sex there you want me to pick up?"
While I would like to think I said something very smooth at this point, I'm fairly certain that whatever it may have been was lost in the slurred and mumbled affirmation in regards to her query.
I was not expecting anything more than some groping and tongue, but as it became evident just how bored and very tired of waiting for the door to open this girl was, clothing began to migrate away from the places where clothing normally resides in polite society. At some point, between sheer joy of "I am touching boobies" and not being able to breathe because this chicks tongue was jammed so far down my throat, my metabolism kicked in and started dealing with the alcohol problem. With the wine-induced cognitive fog lifting, though a little more slowly than her skirt, I realized that she had come to the conclusion that the door was not going to come open, and she was free to do what she wanted with relatively little fear of being discovered.
I should add at this point it was becoming clear, even to my chemically befuddled brain, that what she wanted was to jump up and down on me like a trampoline.
So she did.
By the time exertion and time had killed the last of my inebriation, I had gotten a bit carried away with myself, and as I finished, I found myself standing up holding her against the stairwell wall with her legs pushed back into her chest. She had a look on her face I would like to say I will never forget, but to be honest have. I just semi-recall thinking that she was either amazed or scared shitless by my behavior/performance...or maybe both.
We sat on the stairwell in absolutely awkward silence for at least another half hour before her roommate came looking for her and found us. She didn't...and wouldn't...talk to me again after that, nor would any of her friends. I never found out her name. All I remember about her was that she played viola, had a thing for plaid mini-skirts and striped socks, and was either way behind or way ahead of the trend of putting stripes of color in your hair.
All in all, I would've rather banged the redhead that dressed like a whore. I found out later in life that having sex with people you don't like, especially if they don't like you, allows you to do things to each other that you wouldn't do to people you like that are absolutely amazing. Bet she would have left me crippled.
Your Pal,
Jubber
AKA "The Gun"
AKA "ROFeraL"
World Renowned Mexican Forklift Artiste
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