Making sense of my adventures with women, one disaster at a time.

1 + 1 = 0

My two-week vacation had been going well. I fucked a hottie in Tahoe; I got everything I wanted for Christmas; I won money in Vegas; and one of my farts made a girl puke. So on the final night before school commenced, I decided to party for one last hurrah.


Dane, Wong, and I headed out to bar called “District” in Orange. The bar was shaped like a rectangle, a dance area in the back, and a table area on the entrance side. I had actually criticized Dane and Wong before we arrived because most bars in Orange sucked. But I was wrong. I liked the place from the start.


After consuming several beers and taking two jager-bombs (I regret taking these. I couldn’t sleep, and I can still feel the Vitamin ECX50, or whatever it is, running through my veins.) I was in game mode, going from girl to girl.


Somewhere after my sixth drink, I was at the bar ordering another beer when I sensed two early-20s blonde girls eyeing me. The girl closest to me had incredibly white-bleached hair.


Me: Is your hair bleached?

Her: Yup, I’m a lemon crotch.

Me: What’s a lemon crotch?

Her: Not fire. Lemon.

Me: Ahhh. You’re Irish aren’t you?

Her: Yeah, 100%.


I had never heard the term “lemon crotch” before, but I liked it. Although I am indifferent to both, for some reason a lemon crotch sounds much tastier than a fire crotch. Lemon Crotch and I talked for a bit, but I kept saying the term “lemon crotch” repeatedly because it was fresh. She didn’t mind. She enjoyed that I enjoyed her lemon crotch. 


As the three of us talked in the table area, I realized that the other girl was hotter. She looked almost exactly like Becca from my Tahoe trip—short, slim, blonde, hazel eyes, and an amazing ass. Dane and I made eye contact from across the bar. He had been stuck with Wong and a group of eight fat girls. Relieved, Dane made his way over and joined our circle. As Lemon Crotch and Dane talked, the other girl, Steph, began talking to me.


Two minutes into talking, the flashing began. Both girls brought their cameras, and both girls annoyingly took pictures every five seconds. I hate these types of girls. Any girl who finds humor in looking at arbitrary pictures of shoulders, teeth, ears, collarbones, and bottoms of chins should be exiled at a Chuck E. Cheese and not allowed to leave until they have amassed 10,000 tickets. I could understand if they were on vacation, but they lived five minutes away. Twelve pictures per minute was unacceptable. But they were both cute, so I acted amused.  


The girls went to the bar to order drinks, giving my eyes time to shed the flash spots. After the girls ordered their drinks, they walked straight to the dance floor. Dane and I remained patient. We knew they were coming back.


They didn’t come back. As they came off the dance floor, they walked past Dane and me. After five more minutes of waiting, we noticed other guys moving in. The guys were unsuccessful, but something had to be done. I knew that Steph was into me, and I was pretty sure Lemon Crotch was into Dane, so this had to be some sort of test. Fuck it. I went in. “So what’s with you guys trying to act all cool now?” I half asked, half said to Steph.


Without hesitation, Steph said, “So Lemon Crotch thinks I should make out with you.” Steph began kissing me before I even had time to respond. We made out blatantly in the middle of the table room in front of everyone. We stayed there for ten minutes. She had one hand on the back of my head, the other hand on her camera, which was still going flash-crazy from up down left right diagonal. Lemon Crotch was going flash-crazy as well. I didn’t care. Making out is fun.  


After ten minutes in the middle of the room, we moved to the wall. I looked over and saw Lemon Crotch and Dane making out.




After another ten minutes against the wall, the girls took a potty break. “We’re going to go dance. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll find you later,” Steph said. I believed her.





I hang out with Dane. We drink. We are patient. The girls come back. We make out more. The lights turn on. We say, “Hey, Dane lives like two blocks down the road (a lie). Let’s go party there.” The girls agree. They follow us. We get back to Dane’s place. We get beers from the fridge. We separate. Dane and Lemon Crotch go to Dane’s room. They fuck. Steph and I stay on the couch. We fuck. Satisfaction for all.



In another universe, that happened. But instead of being patient and waiting with Dane, I got greedy. Sitting alone and staring at the dance floor was a hot 40-year-old cougar dressed like Cruella Deville. I gave myself a good seven minutes of free time before the girls got back. I couldn’t let this cougar go to waste. My eyes glazed over, and I approached.


Me: So is that jacket from 101 Dalmatians?

Her: Uh, no. There’s no spots. It’s zebra stripes.

Me: Are you sure? That jacket looks mysteriously familiar.

Her: Yes, I’m sure.

Me: I like your nails (They were white and red acrylics with sparkles on the tips.). Are those striped or spotted? I can’t tell.

Her: They’re sparkled. They’re good for scratching.


I asked her a few more absurd questions, and she tried her best to play hard-to-get. But her interest was obvious. She was clearly educated in sexual body language and had probably read like ten chick-lit books on “how to attract men.” She would cross her legs towards me to show interest, look down at her legs and realize she was being too obvious, then she would cross them the other way; then I’d ask her an intriguing question like, “Is your hair naturally that color?” and she’d involuntarily cross her legs toward me again; then she’d notice she was giving herself away, so she spun around in circles in her chair to try and portray mystique. She finally gave up on her overflowing domain of unnecessary dating knowledge and dragged me by the shirt onto the dance floor. 


I danced with her apprehensively, looking over her shoulder constantly scanning the room for Steph. In my intoxicated state, my thought process broke down as follows:


Optimum outcome:


Steph doesn’t see me dancing. I get Cruella’s phone number. Then I tell her my friends are leaving. I have sex with Steph. I call Cruella a few days later and have sex with her.


Probable outcome:


Steph doesn’t see me dancing. I fail with Cruella. I have sex with Steph.


Possible outcome:


Steph sees. She doesn’t care. She takes 17 pictures. She laughs. We have sex.


Darkhorse Candidate:


Steph sees. She doesn’t care. Steph approaches us on the dance floor. Cruella finds her attractive. They make out. We have a wild threesome.


Any one of these outcomes would have been suitable. But none of them happened. Steph popped out of nowhere. When she saw me dancing with Cruella, her mouth went agape, and she put her hands out as if to say, “What the fuck?” I separated myself from Cruella mid-dance and walked up to Steph as if nothing was wrong. “Where’d you go?” I asked.


“We’re going home,” Steph said. Then she kissed me on the lips, grabbed Lemon Crotch’s arm, and bolted for the exit.


My options: Chase after Steph; or return to Cruella. It was a coin flip. There was a 50% chance of hooking up with Cruella, and a 50% chance of Steph forgiving me. Either way, the decision had to be made. Now.



I went with Cruella. But when I returned to the dance floor, she was dancing with another dude. Patience was not an option. I grabbed her hand. She whirled around, saw me, then turned back around and said over her shoulder, “Why don’t you go dance with the blondie.” She didn’t turn around again. Fuck! I ran back outside to see if I could find Steph. I found Dane and Wong waiting.


“Dude, where did the girls go?” I asked Dane.

“I don’t know. I’m trying to find them too,” he said.



Dane and I stood by the entrance like two goons showing up to a Laker game after it was over. We moped our way back to the car and drove to a 24-hour taco joint down the road. In a desperation attempt, I texted Steph: “Where you at?” Then I put my phone back in my pocket and sat in the back seat alone, angry at my decisions. The Hobbits were right: Man is greedy.


Just as we pulled into the taco joint parking lot–




It was Steph: “We’re still in the parking lot.”


I called her and told her to come meet us. “My buddy lives like right down the street. Come drink with us,” I told her.

“Hmmm. Can I call you back in like five seconds?” she asked.


“Ok. Bye.”



Fifteen seconds later, she called back.


“Ok, where are you guys?” she asked.

“We’re near the 7-11 on the corner of Katella,” I said. Dane was watching me eagerly.

“Ok. So we’re going back to your place?”

“Yeah, we have booze there.”

“Ok. Is there a place for me to park so I won’t get towed in the morning?”

“Yeah, of course.”


And just like that, Steph was back. And she was spending the night. And so was Lemon Crotch. And they were both down to fuck. And Dane was happy. And I was happy. And life is good.


Steph and Lemon Crotch had gone out that night, cameras ready, and the who-gets-to-fuck-them sweepstakes began the moment they arrived at the bar. Dane and I had won the sweepstakes. And for a moment, I actually thought we would cash in. For a moment, I actually thought one of the good outcomes would ensue. For a moment, I thought I had saved the day.


Fifteen minutes passed. We had already finished our food. I texted her. No reply. I called her. No answer. Then, finally, this text:


“We’re just gonna go home…my friend’s drunk…sooo im sorry…I hope u have a good night!”


Desperation set in. I called her. There were guys’ voices in the background. 


Her: Hey.

Me: Where are you?

Her: We’re still in the parking lot.

Me: Still? Who are those guys?

Her: Some guys that followed us.

Me: Why don’t you guys come over. We have an extra bed for Lemon Crotch if she needs to crash.

Her: No no. She needs to go home. She is beyond drunk.

Me: Alright well—

(The line cut out)


It was over.


To make matters worse, I was too drunk to drive, so I had to crash at Dane’s, meaning I wouldn’t be able to jerk off. I went to bed on the same couch that I was supposed to be boning Steph on. I tossed and turned for what seemed like hours, finally passing out like an organic mass of shit.


Now I sit alone in my room. And the only thing I have to show for last night is a dead-end ten-digit phone number left to rot away inside my phone, lost in the cosmos, forever.   

Varuno Consulting