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

A Drunk Dial

There was a nine-person line at the Circle K on the corner of Balboa Boulevard and Pacific Coast Highway. It was a little past noon, and I was two hours late for the biggest day-party of the year: 4th of July, Newport Beach. All I wanted was a 40 of Mickey’s. After ten impatient minutes, I was on my way. My existence in that moment from bottom to top: 



-Black DVS shoes

-Black socks

-Plastic bag with a 40

-Blue board shorts

-$45 inside a bulging Velcro pocket

-Car keys to a Tacoma parked five miles away

-Two sticks of Spearmint gum

-Cell phone

-No condom

-White wife-beater

-Cherry lollipop

-Black Arnette shades

I am not a douchebag, I promise.

I was on 50th street, eighteen blocks from my destination: a house party on 32nd street. Underneath clear blue skies, I skated down the middle of the barricaded streets passing walkers, scooters, skaters, roller-skaters, and bikers. The streets weren’t as crowded as the year prior, but the house parties and the noise was the same. The girls wore skimpy red, white, and blue bikinis. Guys went shirtless with board shorts and flip-flops.

I rarely wear flip-flops. When I was nine, my flip-flops caught on a stair step, and I went tumbling down a flight of stairs. I miraculously didn’t break any bones, but everyone saw. I cried loudly. If it hadn’t been for my cousin grabbing my arm and leading me to mommy, I probably would have cried forever. Also, the thing between my toes irritates me the same way iPod earpieces irritate my ears. I prefer foot security and comfort. I prefer shoes.

The party was just like every other party that day. On the patio were thirty to forty people—half of which I knew—a fridge full of beer, and a consistent three-person line to the bathroom. Over the next five hours I circulated in and out of the house, making the occasional round down the boardwalk with Punchline and E.J. to explore other parties.

With a good two hours to go before sunset, I entered drunk-dial world. Even though it seems fun at the time, I hate this place. Firstly, I always feel like crap the next day even if I do connect on one. Secondly, the girls I tend to drunk-dial are shitbags that don’t deserve a dial from anyone, let alone a guy trying to fuck them. Me calling them only contributes to their over-inflated ego, making things harder on any future guy that tries to date or fuck them. Over the years I have deleted many girls from my phone for the simple fact that they didn’t deserve a call during drunk-dial time. That, and a part of me knew that they wouldn’t hook up with me anyway. The only girls I actually keep in my phone are friends, sure-thing drunk-dials, or recent bar chicks.

I met Beth at a bar a week prior, her phone number still freshly unused. Since Beth’s name was early in the alphabet, she received the first phone call. She picked up on the second tone.

Her: Hello?

Me: Beth.

Her: Yeah. Who is this? 

Me: Aw that’s messed up. You can’t tell?

Her: [laughs] No. Who is this?

Me: This is Dave. We met last week. Don’t you remember?

Her: Oh ok. What’s up?

Me: Where are you?

Her: I’m at a barbecue. Where are you?

Me: I’m in Newport. I was hoping to party with you. Where’s the barbecue?

Her: Corona Del Mar.

Me: Ugh, that’s far. Whose barbecue is it?

Her: My neighbors’. Far? It’s like right down the street. Take a cab and come party with us.

Me: Ok, but you better have beer there. What’s the address?

I took down the address in my mental notes, repeated it ten times so I wouldn’t forget. Then I skated back to 50th street, stole a cab in the Circle K parking lot from two spacey high school girls, and made my way eight miles south down the PCH to her two-bedroom house. I had the cab drop me off two blocks away from her house because it would have looked slimy to roll up in a cab alone. The cab-ride came out to $25 with tip.

The barbecue consisted of three burgers, a bag of chips, three dudes, and two chicks. Two of the guys looked like they were nineteen; the other guy looked forty; the chicks both looked nineteen. I felt like I was at a fucked up parent-teacher conference. The forty-year-old offered me a burger, but his hands looked like they hadn’t been washed since Saturday (it was Tuesday). I respectfully declined and chewed gum instead. I focused my attention on Beth.

Beth stood out like a butterfly among gnats. Her perfect tan, long black hair, and tight twenty-four-year-old body were much hotter than when I met her. And she wasn’t wearing underwear; I could tell. She was drunk, but she was a fun drunk: smiling, laughing, and saying yes to everything. Her beauty actually made me nervous for a few minutes, but I fought it, staying poised and acting sober. I smiled, kept my words un-slurred, and was cordial to the forty-year-old father and his four probable offspring. 

Then the flirting began. “Is this your party spot?” I asked.

            “No, they’re just my neighbors,” she said, one arm crossed against her stomach, the other holding her beer. “I went to Newport the last two years. I’m kind of over it. I just wanted to stay local.”

            I realized none of the other five took much notice of my intentions or relation to Beth. They continued to cook and make fun of each other. Motioning with a quick bob of my head, I asked, “Are any of these guys your roommates?”

            “No, my roommates aren’t home,” she said, no hesitation.

We talked in that driveway area for another thirty minutes until Beth had had enough. “OK everyone, I’m going to go make out with this boy,” she announced half to me and half to the forty-year-old who was in close proximity.

He laughed and said, “OK, you two. Have fun.”

Beth led me by the hand through an alley and into the back door of her house. The house was dark and smelled of incense. She went to the bathroom and told me to wait in her room. I waited for five minutes. My mind drifted:

I hope she’s not taking a shit.

-I hope she’s not douching her vagina. Well, actually…

-Should I take off my shirt now or wait?

-What about my shoes?

-What is the function of that aquarium? It’s empty.

-I wonder if my asshole is rimjob ready.

-Should I tuck in my boner or flaunt a pop tent?

-Fuck! I don’t have any—

She walked in wearing only her bra and panties. Her skin tone and stomach were amazing. I pulled her in and kissed her stomach, then laid her on her back. Activities ensued.

When the activities finished, she asked the anticipated question. “Do you have a condom?”

            I shook my head.

            “There’s a liquor store down the street. Go get some,” she said, putting her clothes back on.

            “Where are you going?”

            I couldn’t take my eyes off of her body. “I’ll be at the barbecue. Find me there.”


Not having a condom had cost me sex twice before. This could not be happening again. In my anxiety to get to Newport early that morning, I had forgotten to bring the most important part of the “Big 4”: ID, Money, Gum, Condom. I grabbed my skateboard and feverishly skated to the liquor store. I bought the banana flavored ribbed ones and skated back. The only thing different about the scene at the barbecue was the lighting outside. Everything else was the same. The forty-year-old and his offspring were still telling unfunny jokes, and Beth was still enjoying their company.

I had a hard time trying to hide my horniness. Though Beth was in the middle of laughing with her neighbors, I became selfish. I wanted sex. Now. I wanted to avenge my carelessness, and only Beth could help me do this. It took everything in me to stay composed and remain patient. Finally, after five more minutes of chilling at the dull barbecue, we headed back to her bedroom.

We began almost immediately. Missionary at first, then doggie. When she got on top, I started laughing in a quick, two-second burst, all breath, and no vocals. Although I have a good understanding of myself, I still don’t know why I laughed. I wondered what a psychologist would make of it. Screwing wasn’t new to me, so what caused this brief outburst? Was I nervous? Was she making a face? I know I wasn’t thinking about a joke from earlier that day. I’d remember that. Was I feeling “surreal”? What the fuck? Sometimes I think there is an evil ghost hovering around me at all times, hopping inside my body here and there, making sure I somehow blow it. It is a prime candidate at explaining all of my blown threesomes. It wasn’t me who laughed. It was something else. I swear.

Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. I blew it. Beth hopped off me and screamed, “What the fuck is so funny?”

            “Uh. Nothing. I don’t know. Sorry.” I tried my best to act like I had done nothing wrong.

            She stared at me with disdain. “I’m having sex with you here, and you’re fucking laughing.”

            “I know. It was nothing. I was just thinking about something from earlier.” The moment I said it, I knew it was a mistake.

            She slowly got off the bed, opened the door, and without looking back said, “Get the fuck out.”

I lay on the bed, stunned. Had that really happened? Did two seconds of an unknown amusement lead to my demise? I stayed on the bed, giving it a 10% chance we could finish up our session. Five minutes later, she walked back through the door wearing blue pajamas, saw me, and then walked back out. She yelled from the hallway, “I’m serious. Get the fuck out. You better not be there when I get back.” I took it as a threat, so I got dressed and left.

I didn’t know where to go. After the bottle of Mickey’s, the cab ride, and the condoms, I only had $15 left in my pocket. I didn’t bring my ATM card because I’m not that smart. I skated back to the liquor store and considered my options. Calling someone for a ride was out of the question; everyone was hammered, and the beach traffic was horrendous. So I skated down PCH. My car was thirteen miles away. 

After twenty minutes of skating, I had gone maybe two miles. My body was dehydrated, and my legs were beginning to cramp. I had to at least use the last of my $15. I caught a cab two blocks down the road and told him to take me as far as he could. Since he was going back in my direction anyway, my $15 got me all the way back to the Circle K. Back to where I began.

The last five miles home weren’t as dreadful as they seemed. As I skated up hills, through neighborhoods, I passed families, teenagers, and children. My senses soaked up the remaining sounds and smells of Independence Day—barbecues, fireworks, smoke, crackling.





I didn’t learn my lesson. I later dated a girl for a couple weeks, and one time during a make-out session at her house, I laughed at a Family Guy joke from the television—it was the one when Peter imagines himself as the long tetris piece, and at the last second he goes one unit left, missing the gaping hole, costing the rest of the angry pieces a “tetris.” She pulled away, got mad, and threw me out. She ended things a couple days later. Laughing is no joke.



One Response to “A Drunk Dial”

  1. AK says:

    Maybe it was your nervousness at banging an actual hottie vs an old tennis shoe.

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