Bottom Feeding

There is a point in every big college party when desperation sets in. It doesn’t occur after some douchebag hooked up with the girl you wanted. It doesn’t occur after beer bonging a 40oz of OE on top of six beers. Or when people begin to filter out. Or an hour after that. The point arrives sometime after 3 a.m., when all the good-looking people have already made their way home, probably to fuck. This place is desolate and even shameful at times. It is a place where bottom feeders dwell.

My fraternity was beginning the new school year with its biannual “Ruck Fush” party to celebrate the recruitment of a new pledge class. This was always one of the biggest parties of the year. Being the only off-campus fraternity house, rules didn’t control our behavior. We had sex with the rules.

I began drinking my traditional 40oz of OE a little after 10 p.m.—sometimes I drank a 40 of Steel Reserve, but this was only on nights when I was broke and thought I might need those extra 30 cents later. After a half-hour of sipping on my beer, I was still sober. As I walked through the crowded hallway, I felt a pinch on my muffin ass. Excited, I turned around quickly. The results were dreadful. She was a round mound of rebound. She wasn’t fat, but she was plump and ugly with dirty blonde hair and a head as round as a basketball. In the middle of her compass-drawn head were two large eyes staring jarringly into mine. She looked like a character from South Park. Fuck! I disgustedly turned away and continued walking. For once, I would like a hot or even cute chick to pinch my ass and suggest “going somewhere.” Why do the ass-pinchers always have to be homosexual men or beastly girls?

I really have nothing against ugly chicks. Although I prefer not to hook up with them, I think of them as human beings with feelings and values. Most of them are actually cool. But it freaks me out when they start liking me. It makes me feel conscious of hurting their feelings. There is a certain order in the universe when it comes to the correlation between females’ attractiveness and being cool. Hot chicks can be lamer than fanny packs and almost always get their way, but they end up confusing themselves with the drama they don’t even realize they create. Ugly chicks have to be cool because it’s the only way they’ll ever get anything. I wish statistics could find a way to reverse this trend.

When I was in kindergarten, a girl named Jade called me ugly. Yet she continued to play with me, so I continued to pursue her, and she continued to reject me day in and day out.  She always turned down my “I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours” idea. I ultimately went 0 for 365 with her. I never forgot that feeling of being intoxicated on false hope. Being led on by a dumb bitch at the age of five can do a lot to man’s soul. Since that awful year of suffering, I promised myself to never be like Jade. While I am friendly to ugly chicks, I never venture anywhere near “flirty” or “playful.” That way, feelings don’t get hurt, and the world is a happier place; and uglier less cool guys still have plenty of moist caves in which to bury their clubs.  

But on this night, I was drinking, so things change.

Over the next four hours, I became exponentially more smashed, striking out all over the place—in the hallway, on the dance floor, on the porch, in the bathroom line, in the smoking area, at the bar, in the back units, on the couches. I was so used to being successful at my own parties that I was becoming noticeably angry that my game had run cold. Before long, I was 0 for 35, and the clock had just surpassed the 3 a.m. mark. I had two choices: Bottom Feed or bust.

The round mound of rebound stood alone in the doorway. The once overflowing living room now consisted of six leftovers: me, South Park, and two couples making out on separate couches. That’s it. As I gazed skeptically at South Park, the light from the disco ball splashed her in a most mysterious way. Suddenly, she didn’t look too bad. Her breasts were supple; her stance was sexy; her face was less round; and her eyes were seductive. That was enough; I moved in. While other guys feasted on fresh party pussy in a nearby house, apartment, or dorm, I was still shitfaced back at the party, making one final attempt on the last remaining crumb.

I don’t recall what I said to her when I approached—it was probably something stupid like, “So is that a barrette or a scrunchy?” I only remember being reminded about how she pinched my ass, and how it was “about time” I came and talked to her. In less than a minute, we were hand-in-hand walking back to my room. Bottom feeding is the real deal.

When we got to my room, we found one of my roommates passed out with the lights on, shoes too. While it is a sin to let such an act go un-chiefed, I was already preoccupied with a bigger task: boning South Park. My bed was only six feet away from his, but since my other roommate had not yet moved into the upstairs loft, I turned off the lights and took South Park upstairs.

We hooked up. In my drunken haze, I had found enough good features on her for things to get to this point. Mouths were kissed; boobies were nibbled; vaginas were fingered; and penises were sucked. Then something happened. I should have known at the time that what happened next would foreshadow my entire sexual existence. After sucking on my dick and bragging mid-suck how she could deep throat and that she had “mad skills,” she tried something new. She lowered her head and began licking my chode. Mind you, I was still relatively inexperienced at hooking up with below-the-nutsack-lickers, so it was a big step in the kinky direction for me. “Whoa,” I said, laughing, “What are you doing?”

“I’m freaky,” she replied. I let her continue, keeping my legs grounded and un-spread. I suddenly realized the chode-licking felt good. At the time, I didn’t even know what a rimjob was. I had never even seen it in a porno, girl-on-guy that is. The chode-licking came to an uneventful end, and I was ready to fuck. I retrieved a condom from my wallet and started to rip it open when she stopped me. “Wait, I don’t know,” she uttered.

“What’s wrong?” I asked

“I don’t know. If you fuck me then you won’t call me again.”

“What are you talking about? Of course I will.” I tried my hardest to make my response sound sincere, but she had to have sensed the lie.

“I don’t know. Can we go back to my place then?” she asked.

“What’s wrong with here?”

“I’m not having sex on the floor. Let’s go to my bed; I’ll feel more comfortable there,” she said, a distinct finality in her voice.

I had a decision to make. It was already five in the morning; my penis had been sucked for so long now that it was beginning to become soft and bored; I was tired as hell; and though I was still drunk, my subconscious reminded me that this girl was gross.

I laid down beside her and allowed my brain to break things down:

Best-Case Scenario:

-We fuck; she is good at sex.

-The lighting in her house reveals a new hot feature about her I hadn’t yet seen.

-She has a hot roommate who meets me in the morning, thinks I am cute, and I screw her a month later after a party.

Worst-Case Scenario: 
 

-We don’t fuck.

-We do fuck, but she is a pile of crap in bed.
-She wants the lights on the whole time, and new disgusting features are revealed.

-She eats a burrito.

-A dog breaks into the room and proceeds to rape my leg and toss my salad.

-I fuck her up the ass; shit gets everywhere; I am thrown out because it’s “my fault.”

-Her giant meathead boyfriend barges into the room and kicks the shit out of me.

-She asks me to take a dump on her chest. I agree to it. I have smelly nightmares for the next two decades.

In the end, I went home with her. I secretly thought I’d be cooler if I was able to tell all my bros that “I got laid last night.” Sadly, this is what goes through the mind of every heterosexual sex-deprived college kid. We are all insecure buffoons when it comes to our inability to get action.

Thankfully, none of the worst-case scenarios came to fruition. But neither did any of the best-case scenarios. In the early morning light, the sex ended as I suspected it might: I went soft after only five minutes, causing her to feel unattractive, which led to her sucking me off and reluctantly swallowing my cum to preserve any sexiness she may have thought she had established.

A little after six in the morningI walked into the living room and ran into her roommate. Her roommate was a UCI cheerleader who had brought home Hercules, one of my muscle-bound fraternity bros. We joked later that day about our respective disastrous nights: He had apparently been the unwitting victim of hooking up with a chick going through an emotional break-up who “wasn’t ready to start having sex yet,” while I had hooked up with a girl who, upon sober scrutiny, did not have ONE good feature. Eyes don’t count.

The drive back home was a gloomy one. Yes, I had gotten laid, technically, but I wasn’t proud of it. This was the poignant reality I had made for myself. At least now that I am older, I don’t have to live through such distressing times. I no longer dwell with the bottom feeders in the wee hours of the morning. I no longer have to impress anyone with my sexual experience to feel adequate. But it is times like these that I begin to see the benefits of having a girlfriend. The single life can be lonely, sexless, and sometimes even disastrous, but this just adds to the value of “settling down.” Sometimes people need to feel low. People need to feel used. People need to be sexless. People need to have unfortunate nights. People like me.