Why Chris' Balls Hurt

Meg and I had initially discussed having the launch contest for the store be “Worst Date,” but then someone decided it had been a year since she’d told the fish tranquilizer allergic reaction story and made an Executive Decision to ask our readers about their worst sexual encounters instead. I’d already typed up my Worst Date Ever story, though, so out it comes from the vault. I make absolutely no defense of my actions; I was dumb to go through with this date.

The hardest part of telling this story is admitting this happened on an internet date. Everyone goes on them now and it’s apparently not shameful anymore, but I still feel like I should pretend to have met this guy at a party, as if that were somehow more legit. So, I met this guy at a party at my friend Web’s house. We call it the Web site. We were occasionally chatting, as you do, and then one day I had an absolute pigshit of a day and he invited me over.

This kid lived about an hour’s drive away. Ordinarily I’d consider this too much trouble, but at the time I lived in a town called Liberty Hill, home of three liquor stores, “Star Burger,” and a cowboy church called “Cowboy Church” that advertised on a billboard by the main intersection. So I was used to having to drive if I wanted to be anything other than drunk or Saved (although what else could you ever want?)

I drive down and get lost in this kid’s neighborhood. Strike one. I get to his house and he’s playing some elaborate Pokemon video game. Strike two. Electric gummy bears might do it for some guys, but not me. (Not on a first date, at least.) One of his friends was there, strike three, and the friend was a Large Effeminate Gay with “Attitude” (snaps) strike four. Large Effeminate Gays with “Attitude” (snaps) are my Kryptonite. We have completely different understandings of what gay is and it just turns into a big cultural misunderstanding. They’re in it for the drama. I’m in it for the boys. Also, they have a tendency to call me “girl,” which I hate.

So, we’re at strike four and I’m still in the entryway. Two things kept me from saying, “sorry, wrong number” and escaping into the night: there was a bottle of whiskey on the table and a Boston Terrier puppy on the sofa. Let me tell you about when I’m famous: that’s what I’ma tell Oprah’s people I want in my dressing room. A bottle of whiskey and a puppy.

So, in the interest of being a good sport and maybe getting some tail from the guy I thought I was on a date with, I stayed. And drank. So, another friend shows up, who was so, so white trash I got a prison tattoo just from looking at him. He proceeds to go upstairs, try to get laid on craigslist, jack off in Date Kid’s bedroom (How do I know? He told me), and come down and announce that we’re all going to come with him to get a tattoo. It is midnight on a Wednesday in San Marcos, Texas. I think this is the worst idea I’ve heard since earlier that evening when I was invited over, but Date Kid and Large Effeminate Gay with “Attitude” (snaps) just pick up the puppy and the whiskey like this happens all the time and go out to the car. I am too drunk to drive away, but sober enough to be aware of my surroundings. Remember those news stories about people who wake up during surgery? Yo.

So we drive alllllllll around San Marcos and – what a surprise – there’s not an open tattoo parlor in town. I was afraid we were going to drive out into the sticks to find a guy named “Pooter” who would tattoo you for beer, but instead we drove way out in the sticks to go tip over a port-a-potty. Some people get flowers, some people get champagne; I get taken to the edge of a construction site to vandalize a modernized outhouse. Dignity is for chumps.

I used up all my luck not having feces splash on me from the falling port-a-potty, because we then went deeper into the sticks to White Trash Kid’s dwelling. I say “dwelling” because for the life of me I don’t know what this place is. It’s sort of a triangular, two-story… thing. He lives in the top corner. We go in, and the main decorations are two flags: South Korean and Confederate. The Confederate flag had an ad for something on it (I really want to say liquor but I’m not sure) right at the nexus of the bars, in place of the central star.

So they put on a DVD of Entourage, which is literally my least favorite television show. I don’t want to argue about this; I am merely stating the fact that I, Tulane Chris, hate Entourage so hard it makes my balls hurt. I would rather watch a whole day of Dukes of Hazzard badly dubbed into Chinese and write a report on it than watch five minutes of Entourage. Hands down. They watched five episodes of it – roughly four hours – while I slumped in an armchair trying to stay awake because I was afraid that if I passed out, as I so desperately wanted to do, they would leave me out there in the woods, and I’d be forced to choose between honorable suicide, starving to death, or the white trash kid’s hospitality. (And if you have ANY doubt that I would have made a noose out of the Stars and Bars and taken my chance in the next world, we need to talk more.)

The sun went dark, the moon turned to blood, the judgment trumpet sounded and the dead rose from their graves, and we finally went back to Date Kid’s house, where he made a point of not wanting to sleep with me. This pissed me off for two reasons: after that hellish night, I damn well deserved to get some, but I wasn’t interested in him anymore. So he was inconsiderate and presumptuous, and it’s hard to “reject someone back” and sound credible. I crashed on the couch until I was sober enough to drive, and then went to brunch, shuddering and murmuring “Never again…” over and over until the shakes went away enough for me to get some eggs down.

This is why I started bringing a gun on dates. Your date might not give you an excuse to shoot him, but you can always hold up a gas station if things go south.