Hey Drunk College Guy, Can I Have Sex With Your Butt?

popped collarBy Tuck Brocker, 5th Year Undergrad Senior

To all the Nobel laureate semantic savants who can mentally solder a connection between drinking alcohol and relinquishing sexual consent – – can I buy you a PBR and fuck your ass behind the dumpster? That was rhetorical, you’re drunk, I’m doing this. I mean, I know I could just stumble into your unconscious drunken fanny later and save myself the four-to-twelve bucks it would take to get you past approbation, but I have swim practice to get to, so let’s get this uncontested nonconsent show on the road.

I mean, I’m not gay or anything, but I’m drunk as well, and I reckon I could squint and make your pale college turd cutter look like a boyish facsimile of Krysten Ritter’s, if I tried hard enough. That is until I make it actually look like a baby’s teething ring that fell in fry oil, amirite? But you’re cool with all of that, you’re over the limit, pal. What a world we live in.

We’re not going to have a big to-do if you awake tuckus-up with grass stains on your knees and a ruddy, rubicund, gravel speckled crater where your man-pussy used to be, right? It’s not worth all that; I’m such a promising young man. I’m pretty sure we all shared a secret handshake and agreed to all of this: we don’t ruin snow white all-american futures by recklessly throwing the r-word around. Not at this green-walled institution of higher learning and partiality. Man, I bet your butt feels like a vice hug from a mentally disabled care bear. Now, bottoms up!

Oh, shit, I made a pun! Hahaha…  Seriously, though, ¡Arriba, abajo, al centro, pa’ dentro!

One in three college men get shitfaced on a regular basis. I hope it is the one on the left.

One in three college men get shitfaced on a regular basis. I hope it is the one on the left.

I remember when I was a kid, my Dad would tuck me in, ruffle my hair and tell me that my eyes’ happy-go-lucky twinkle and my welcoming smile said I was meant for fraternities, trophies, ribeye steaks, and embarrassingly nepotistic favors from judges.  “Now get out there and fuck anything that doesn’t move, son.” That’s about to be you, guy. Because I like to grill steaks. I guess I’m a pretty remarkable guy like that. So you’re basically asking for it.

What’s most important here is that we maintain my appetite, my enthusiasm for life. I work hard at enjoying cookouts and sports and legacy scholarships and unconscious hump holes, you wouldn’t want to ruin that over what amounts to your regret that you got wasted. Chances are, for all you or even I know, you were on board with it the whole time anyway. You’re not going to go all “John Doe” on me and ruin this winning smile over that. No, drink up and get well blinkered, buddy, because if you’re passed out, you won’t fight back and my daddy can make the case that violence wasn’t involved. Even though I unilaterally inned your out door, with nothing but a meager handful of beer spit and a hazy self-assurance of somnolescent carte blanche.

I’m only going to be up inside you for like 20 minutes of action, and you won’t even know until after, so what’s that worth to you? I await your fawning gratitude.

  • oldchuck

    You, sir, are truly pissed. Can’t say that I blame you. You are also a pretty vivid writer. Respect for your anger.