I’m sure there’s something worse in the world than whiskey dick, but I haven’t found it, and I’ve been to a Taylor Swift concert. Whether you call it “pushing rope” or the old “marshmallow in a coin slot,” there’s something especially awful about the chemical impotence that follows three-too-many manhattans on a Friday night.
Now naturally, sometimes you just want a guy’s night out – this is stupid. Guy rule number 2, right after “bros before hoes,” is “remember that there are probably hoes where I am going with my bros.” Getting caught with a wobbly willy is an inexcusable man-foul, and believe me, I’ve been there.
Mary O’Malley (not her real name, duh) was a wet dream in a plaid Catholic school skirt at sixteen, and at 23 she was 5 feet, 8 inches of .45 caliber blonde knockdown power. We were both out of college, both starting our careers, and both very, very, very drunk. One thing led to another and we found ourselves back at my place – a run-down third-story walk up with exposed brick on the walls and homeless people exposing themselves in the stairwell. We were tumbling around on the futon in between glasses of Gallo when she started to undress – slowly at first, and then all at once in a rush of torn stockings, upset mason jars, and spilled red wine.
Then it was my turn. I’d drunk so much that I was panting open-mouthed for air, trying to keep the room from spinning. My shirt came off easy enough, but you never saw a smarter zipper than the one that outwitted me that night. Eventually I got my pants down off one leg and around the other ankle, half-ripped / half removed my boxers, flopped back down on top of Mary O’Malley, and heard the most shameful two words in the English language:
No amount of coaxing, cajoling, fondling, kissing, or smacking angrily was going to get the little lad to rise, and don’t think I didn’t try. Well, I tried for about ten minutes, anyway – then I passed out. When I woke up the next morning, I was thrilled to see that I had miraculously not defecated in my bed, but not so happy to see that Mary had slipped out the door forever.
For a long time, I kept my head down and stayed out of clubs, bars, and public lest news of my performance (or lack thereof) make me the laughing stock of the city. Lucky for me, Mary was a teacher, and not long after our encounter she was arrested for sleeping with a 15 year old student. Still, the consequences could have been much more severe. For me, the important person.
Getting drunk is fine, but getting sloppy is inexcusable. Boys: balance the booze out with the occasional glass of water, take a cab, and always remember that every night out is a chance to get laid – make sure you’re “up” for the challenge.