My first semester as a freshman, I went to a small liberal-arts school in Memphis, Tennessee[1]. I was recruited and joined the football team I’d quit (along with the school itself) by the end of the semester. One Saturday night in early September, the team and I were celebrating our first victory of the season. After enduring two weeks of training camp and the hardest physical tests of my life, I was ready to let loose. I started my evening playing one-on-one beer pong with the hilarious Cajun tight end we called ‘Boatride.’ Deciding to skip dinner, Boatride and I managed to put away a case of Budweiser in less than two hours. After those twelve beers apiece, we made our way to party at one of the fraternity houses across campus, where, if memory serves, we played more beer pong. From there, Boatride and I boarded a Transit Authority bus shuttling students to and from a sorority party on Memphis’ famous Beale Street. What I remember of the party was great. I knew a bunch of people; there were lots of hot chicks and plenty of drinks.
Tiring of beer, I moved on to cocktails and shots. As if I hadn’t made enough mistakes so far, my alcohol selection was terrible. From gin & tonics to shots of tequila and rum & cokes to Jaeger Bombs, I was getting fucked up[2]. What I remember of the end of the night is pretty hazy, but my last certifiable memory is sitting on the curb, trying to remain upright while waiting for the bus.
The next morning, I woke up in my dorm room, in my own bed. I cleared the sleep from my eyes and I could barely stand the awful taste in my mouth. The flavors were the nasty remnants of booze, more than a few cigarettes and probably some vomit. As I got up to find my toothbrush, something didn’t feel right. I looked down to inspect the only clothing I was wearing to find that my boxers were on backward. As I was dealing with my wardrobe malfunction, I suddenly realized that these boxers were not the underwear that I was wearing the night before.
At this point, I had two options: 1. Ask no questions and carry on without knowledge of my debauchery. 2. Find out what the fuck I did last night.
For the purposes of this story, I guess I’m glad that I chose option two. What I found out, in principle, is that community bathrooms have more disadvantages than I had originally thought. So here goes, I did make it on that bus I was waiting for and with the help of friends, got to my dorm. From here on, I have some facts that I’ve coupled with my own inferences that paint a pretty clear picture of my actions. As the after party raged on back in my dorm, I made my way into one of the two bathrooms shared by the 30 or so guys on my floor. Just had to pee, but ended up puking in the urinal. Some of the vomit ended up on my clothes too. Unfortunately for me, my drunken logic kicked in and the shower seemed like a convenient way to clean up my mess. So, that’s what I did. I took a shower with all my clothes on. The puke was cleaned up. YAY!
I was very proud of myself, but was dissatisfied with my wet clothes and decided to strip down and leave them in bathroom for later retrieval. Now that I had disrobed, I was cold and wet and lacked the foresight to bring a towel due to the impromptu nature of this shower. Throwing caution to the wind, I staggered back to my room stark fucking naked. My door was unlocked, by some miracle. I found a towel (probably) and passed out (on my roommate’s bed).
I can barely stand to imagine the awkwardness of the sight he walked in on. As a fellow member of the football team, Mark was at the party on Beale Street too. In better form than I was, but definitely drunk himself. So, my polite, conservative, Southern roomie had to peel my naked, wet, drunk ass off his bed, dress me and tuck me in. Fuck.
Although this story is totally embarrassing, I’m weirdly proud of it. I don’t hide from it. I own it.
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