Spring Break, Freshman Year. After six months of incessant bouncer pleading and VIP table acquisitions at Miami, I decided to celebrate my scholarly reprieve with a pilgrimage to the Bethlehem of Bro-dom in the Big Ten, The University of Wisconsin. Oh, how I longed for the stress-free nightlife and cholesterol-laden cuisine that was I thought to be so inherent to a rah-rah school.
After about twenty minutes at a frat party on the wood-tucked Madison campus, I became painfully aware that the banal conversations about the ongoing basketball season and the endless beer pong tournaments were not as spiritually invigorating as I had hoped.
So, like any ambitious man unfamiliar with his surroundings, I proceeded to get schwasted off a stray bottle of Svedka someone had left on a window sill. Within minutes, I found myself plunged into some Duke Basketball-bashing while facilitating keg stands. Go Badgers, indeed.
It was then that I saw her.
The sparkle in her eyes gave me hope, the rate at which she was putting the red plastic cup of vodka to her lips sealed the deal. It was on, like Dominique Strauss-Kahn.
She was a slighly zaftig Jewess who I had known through assorted social gatherings of yesteryear. She had thickened a tad. Fair enough I suppose, as she must have been fattening up for those unforgiving Wisconsin winters.
In what seemed like minutes, we stumbled up to her dorm room, groping through the darkness to find that Twin XL cot that would become our matrimonial bed, and proceeded to make out. This alleviated the particularly cold streak that I was in at the time, needless to say, I was embarrassingly...eager.
Let's put it this way: I'm pretty sure my condom was on before her shoes were off.
As I began my routine of Evan Krumholz's patented digital manipulation (I mean finger-fucking, kids.), my amorous companion began to emit some slight gurgling noises, like the purrs of fat Himalayan after being fed her Friskies.
"Gross" I thought, "But I guess I'm doing a good job."
I proceeded onward. M'lady began to espouse some curious nasal grunting.
"It can't be that good, I didn't even curl upwards yet."
Halting immediately, I looked her in the eyes for the first time during the exchange.
HOLY SHIT, THE BITCH WAS SLEEPING. SHE FELL ASLEEP IN THE MIDDLE OF DOUGIE-TIME.
The questions began to flood my mind.
"What drugs could she have possibly taken?"
"Was my fingering that mundane?"
"How can we both possibly sleep comfortably on this Twin XL?"
With condom-wrapped erection in tow, I was left utterly hopeless.
Or was I?
After weighing the legal implications, I arrived at a solution that could leave her in slumber and me out of prison:
Listen, I don't recommend spooning with an unconscious girl while masturbating into a condom, clutching her breast like some sort of sexual stuffed animal; but like Bill Clinton or Charlie Sheen in 10 years, I believe I will be forgiven.
Plus we banged the next day, who else can say they got laid 1.25 times in one weekend?
The End
