Our readers share their debaucherous adventures.
This edition of Hooksexup's "Five Stories" is in collaboration with Vol. 1 Brooklyn. For more sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll stories, check out Vol. 1's three-minute reading series, this Thursday, August 18. For more information, click here.
Dorian Gray
One night at a party, as I smoked a cigarette through a porcelain holder, I asked a girl I’d never met, “Would you mind holding this for a second?” I was also wearing a tuxedo jacket with tails. She said sure.
I put my top hat in her hands, removed a rolled-up twenty from my back pocket, leaned towards the girl, and snorted a line of cocaine from the hat’s crown. I checked the brim for crumbs and thanked her for her help.
That night was the last time I ever got to use my signature move. Even though I managed to sleep with the girl, my top-hat routine came to an end, unfortunately, because of something that had, over the past few years, become even more of a routine.
Recently, my trysts had been ruined by a bodily fluid that’s not ordinarily part of sex. Puddles of it had ruined my couch. Streaks of it had stained my wall. In the years leading up to that night, I’d had at least five sexual experiences during which, at some point, the girl I was sleeping with vomited.
What I liked best about the girl who’d held my top hat was that she didn’t seem the type to lose a meal. Between our third and fourth round of shots, she asked me why I was dressed like Slash from Guns ‘n’ Roses, and between our fifth and sixth round of shots, I told her I was dressed like Jeeves from Wodehouse. Not once did she grimace at the burn from the booze.
Back then I really did consider myself a sort of novelistic rock star, someone who was smarter, better-looking, and wittier than myself, if only to relieve the anguish of my own mediocrity. Often I asked myself one question. What would Dorian Gray do? He would seduce a woman while wearing a tuxedo jacket with tails. He would blow a line of cocaine off the surface of a top hat. The part I got wrong was that someone like Dorian Gray would have noticed, while having sex with a girl on the sofa in his living room, the volume of her stomach growls.
Suddenly she sat upright. “I shouldn’t have,” the girl mumbled against her palm, “eaten those shrooms.” Only one logical receptacle lay within reach. I grabbed it just in time.
After that night, I’ll never have to speculate what a quart of partially-digested, hallucinogenic fungi sound like splashing into a top hat bought for $44.99, plus shipping and handling, on eBay.
There in the living room, naked and splattered with bits of throw-up, I wondered what Dorian Gray would do. Then I just decided to get her a drink of water and a towel. — Snowden Wright
Submit to our next round-up: memorable one-night stands. We want the good, the bad, and the (coyote) ugly. Tell us all the hilarious specifics in 75-100 words. Send to [email protected].
My Only Fan
Ah, 1994. What a memorable year: Tonya Harding, an IRA cessation, Kurt Cobain, and OJ — not to mention The Lion King.
Well Hakuna Matata, bitches, because you most definitely missed out on the greatest single event to happen that year — the first and only concert performance of RM49 GREEDO.
I’ve played in tons of shitty bands at shitty venues, and even garnered some very minor rockstar-type reception for a minute in a stoner-rock band. But no accolades or applause could ever top my final experience as a frontman.
RM49 GREEDO. We were a band that attacked various genres by liberally splicing them with death metal and the most vile, biting lyrics you could imagine. It came about as a result of growing up in an ignorant, dull, and white environment in suburban Pennsylvania, a place where most folks' idea of fun was line-dancing.
In the band, I was “Jojoba,” and I played all the music. My friend-in-arms called himself “Troll.” He wrote and growled all the lyrics.
We found the perfect storm of opportunity for our debut: a farmer’s market holding a battle of the bands. The man holding it was desperate enough that he didn’t even ask for demos; he trusted us on our word.
Our stage outfits were perfect. Troll turned up in a troll mask and a muumuu. I went with a Whoopie Goldberg mask I’d found and an outfit consisting of a velour shirt and trousers. The crowd was sprinkled liberally with Nascar shirts, Zubaz, and a lovely crop of mullets. We’d enlisted our friend Hot-Rod to work the drum machine. He's a scrappy kid, blessed with the greatest white Afro anyone has ever seen.
We took the stage. For a moment, as the crowd stood rapt, I felt like a rock-star. We opened up with a fairly straightforward death-metal song. Death-metal was familiar enough in the area that they gave us a chance, despite their obvious hatred for everything we represented.
The second song was called “Boogie Woogie Woogie ‘Till I Kill You Dead.” The audience started to get tense; it seemed they could interpret enough of the lyrics to feel ill at ease. But when Hot-Rod ran up front to start making out with Troll, all hell broke loose. We had just become the Iron Sheik at a WWF match.
It was beautiful; we were pissing off everyone we hated, and they were so angry and confused that they wanted to kick our asses. The organizer cut the power on us. We trashed the entire stage and then ran out of there with our lives.
About a month later, some friends dragged me along to a punk show in Philly. A teenaged boy approached me nervously at the bar and asked if I was in RM49 GREEDO. I nodded. He started to ramble on, saying we were inspirations, and that our show was one of the greatest things he’s ever witnessed. It’s the only compliment from a fan I still remember. — John Meadows
Submit to our next round-up: memorable one-night stands. We want the good, the bad, and the (coyote) ugly. Tell us all the hilarious specifics in 75-100 words. Send to [email protected].
The Professor
The professor sat with his long legs crossed, reading Kant in vintage glasses. He sipped iced espresso drinks at the local intellectual café, a spot that came complete with black-haired baristas, flora-shaped milk foam on the tops of lattes, and NPR as white noise. The professor and I knew each other; we occasionally talked about books over a cigarette. I imagined him bending me over while reading a book on Russian politics or Greek philosophy. I wanted him to whisper in French as we fucked. I wanted to be a cliché.
The professor hit on me only hours after I decided cocaine would be a permanent staple in my summer vacation from college. In the fall and spring semesters, I was a perfectly caricatured academic. When school ended in May, I decided to become a stripper. I spent the summer maintaining an impressively high blood-alcohol level, and danced my way into a hundred-dollar-a-day coke habit that left me chemically lustful, not to mention broke.
When the professor spotted me feverishly writing and smoking outside the café, he touched my shoulder and assured me that drug use was healthy for any inquisitive youngster. High as a kite, I proceeded to explain my life in exaggerated detail, starting with my birth. He suggested I continue my rant with him over pickled eggs, more lines, and beer. We migrated to a pub and then on to his makeshift living space — a warehouse brimming with antiques and mid-century furniture.
When our stash turned to dust at the bottom of the plastic baggie, we turned it inside-out and gummed the rest. “Je veux faire des galipettes avec toi,” he whispered as he pushed me to the floor and started pulling off my clothes. (Literal translation: “I want to make of the cavorting with thee.”)
As an aside, sex on coke is overrated. We humped erratically for a while. Then, exhausted and unable to get off, the professor excused himself to the toilet where he mistakenly opened the door to the warehouse basement. He toppled down the narrow staircase, breaking his toe in the process. It wasn't the finale I'd hoped for.
Every so often when I’m in town I come across my beloved professor holding a teacup of espresso. With first edition Sartre and Nietzsche tossed about on bookshelves, he still bends me over and whispers, “Je t’aime,” before we, uh, cavort. — Jenny Heineman
Submit to our next round-up: memorable one-night stands. We want the good, the bad, and the (coyote) ugly. Tell us all the hilarious specifics in 75-100 words. Send to [email protected].
My First Orgy
Orgies are like orgasms — if you think you might have had one, you probably didn't. That said, I'm not sure if I've ever been in an orgy.
The first time I came close, I was sharing a hotel room with some friends, and we had spent a night out drinking and dancing together. The group including a woman I was completely in love with and her girlfriend. I stumbled back to the hotel late, with the two girls plus another girl I’d met on the dance floor. We flopped into our respective beds, my hopeless love started kissing her girlfriend while my friend started giving me a blowjob.
I looked from her to the other bed. I wanted desperately to join the serpentine knot of ecstasy that was in the process of winding itself up. If I tried, there was a sporting chance of rejection and, possibly, being thrown out of the room. I’ve found that, contrary to the what you might intuit from porn, two women having sex generally look unkindly on interruptions from horny, moon-eyed men.
But then suddenly my beloved sprang up, now beautifully pale and completely naked in the dim hotel light. I thought my moment had come, that she had sensed my psychic yearning. Instead of sweeping me into her needful arms she ran out the door and reappeared a minute later with one of our drinking buddies from down the hall, his muscular, slightly flabby frame offset by floppy dreadlocks.
All my hope had slipped away. I was marooned on my bed. My companion had now pushed me onto my back and was bouncing up and down on top of me. As she bounced we gradually slid down the edge of the bed like a typewriter head reaching the end of the line. Every few minutes we'd have to stop and re-center ourselves, before beginning to bounce back to the edge.
I took comfort in hearing my beloved girlfriend cry, "No! You're not putting it in!" to her new companion. If I didn't get to be with them, at least the guy with them was only going to be a prop with chest hair.
We stopped when it was getting light. I got up, naked and irritated. I wanted to make some kind of a show of dissatisfaction so I opened the hotel room window and peed down onto a pile of dumpsters in a back alley.
Over breakfast the next morning, my head reeling from booze and my fingers still shaking, I told my friend I was sorry I was such a lousy lay for her. She said she was sorry, too. — Michael Thomsen
Submit to our next round-up: memorable one-night stands. We want the good, the bad, and the (coyote) ugly. Tell us all the hilarious specifics in 75-100 words. Send to [email protected].
Party Like Rock Stars
That night, Tom invited me downtown to meet up with some friends of his. We’d been dating for only a few weeks, but I was falling for him so intensely it made me nervous. He was older than me and seemed more self-assured, and he ran with a svelte and polished group of well to-do party boys. It seemed dangerous to like him as much as I did, given our differences.
When I arrived, two problems arose immediately. First off, everyone was much too drunk for eleven p.m. on a Tuesday. Second, I’m competitive by nature, so I had no choice but to try and catch up. This created a positive-feedback loop of sorts — my rapid drinking accelerated the group, which in turn, accelerated mine. Less scientifically, the drunk was leading the drunk.
By the time we staggered out of the first bar, I’d learned this much: Tom was old friends with Stephen, a beautiful kid who was surprisingly nice. It seemed like he and and Tom might have dated at a point, but I wasn't sure. Now Stephen was dating Nick, a well-intentioned wreck with no job, a substance abuse problem, and an enormous trust fund.
He suggested we go to a second bar, and ordered a bottle of tequila “for the table." Bottle service. I felt like a farmhand on his first airplane ride. Everyone — barring Nick — had to work the next day. Halfway through the bottle, Nick leaned to the group and stage whispered, “So, is everyone set to have a really wretched, disgusting night? Wretched like fucking rock-stars?” He said the words with relish. I paused, unsure if “wretched” was supposed to sound promising. But when I looked over, Tom and Stephen were nodding vigorously.
This is what he meant: take three quick shots a piece to finish the bottle, slap hands with the ski-capped white guy standing outside to get an 8-ball, and then stagger back to his unbelievably lavish apartment to do lines off the glass-coffee table while the stereo pounds. Neighbors, like alarm clocks, aren’t for rock-stars.
Nick lounged on the floor, deep in his long-haired white carpet, which, in my stupor, I kept accidentally calling “that polar bear.” Stephen came out of the bathroom, dropped down to lie on Nick’s thigh, and said, “Hey, would you guys fuck for us?”
It was new territory for us — at least as a couple, but we found ourselves nodding. Like a rock star. It wasn't a night for over-thinking. Tom rolled onto the couch, I climbed on top of him, and we progressed as usual. I couldn’t say which was stranger, the two smiling barons, watching us from the nearby pelt, or the beautiful view from the giant windows. Clothes came off. Nick slid up, still fully dressed, and handed me a small glass bottle. “Here, use this.”
Then, I committed something of a party foul. Assuming it was lube, I poured out the contents liberally. If I only I got down like it was 1984 more often, spent more time doing cocaine in discotheques, I would have recognized it for what it actually was, amyl nitrate. Known as poppers, it’s inhaled before sex for it’s brief, heady and relaxing high.
When someone pours it on your dick, it also burns like hell.
Tom leaped up to run to the bathroom. As he did, he knocked me off, into the coffee table, which I knocked onto the rug. Stephen was hit by a barrage of coffee-table books and cocaine dust.
When Tom came out of the bathroom, we gathered our clothes in silence. As we slipped out to hobble off home, Nick was standing in his rumpled party clothes, looking at the wreckage of his living room. “Absolutely wretched,” he muttered. — Kyle Rich
Submit to our next round-up: memorable one-night stands. We want the good, the bad, and the (coyote) ugly. Tell us all the hilarious specifics in 75-100 words. Send to [email protected].
