Why I Don't "Do" Drunk Girls... Nope, still not a Turn-On

When I was younger, I tried desperately to convince myself that "loaded" and "low IQ" was a turn-on. I tried really, really hard to believe that. Unfortunately, that effort always left me feeling as empty and meaningless as the women I was pining for or hooking up with at bars, concerts, and parties.

What's the point of going to bed with someone if you can't have a decent conversation in the morning? What's the point of wasting time and energy on someone you have nothing in common with? Cute only goes so far in life. And stupid people, well, are better off as someone else's baggage.

Everything, from the innocent dinner-and-a-movie to earth-shattering acts of hedonism, is made so much more enjoyable when one is able to to meet someone as an equal partner.

On my way home from the hitting the bars Friday night, I came across a girl sitting on a curb, having just finished throwing up next to my truck. The girl was well past any semblance of sobriety. She had a guy sitting next to her. He kept putting his arm around her, trying to cop a feel while telling her she'd be better off spending the night at his place, and trying to get her to have one more drink.

She obviously wasn't in much of a condition to make any sort of rational decision, but from the way she kept shoving the guy away, it was also obvious she had not interest in his advances, either. As I unlocked my door, I asked the girl if she was okay.

"This is none of your fucking business," the guy answered. His voice had a familiar tone to it - I've heard it way too many times. Its that creepy "she's almost drunk enough to let me fuck her" tone, the tone used by guys who are either too insecure about their manhood or too obsessed with getting laid.

I ignored the guy and asked again. The girl shook her head no and proceeded to projectile vomit again. I asked her if she needed help getting home. The guy stood up and promptly stormed off when she answered yes.

I helped the girl into the passenger seat, rolled down the window, gave her a plastic bag. When I started the truck, I asked her where she lived. She replied that she was from Cleveland (a six hour drive from Oxford.) It took about ten minutes of driving around to get her to remember where, exactly, she lived locally.

She threw up once again, managing to make it out the passenger window. She then curled up into a ball, head resting on my leg, staring up at me while I tried to shift gears through a tangle of arms and legs.

Then the drunken questions and commentary started:

"You've got pretty eyes...what year are you?"
"You are so sweet...sweet guys don't go to Miami...that guy was an asshole...ass-HOLE..."
"You're not really a librarian are you? Do you like read books all day? I like books."
"You have a girlfriend? You're not a serial killer or anything?"
"You smell really good...musky..."
"Did you hook up with a girl in Wells Hall last year?"
"You look like you'd be cool to hang out with...its so cool you're helping me...guys only do that in movies..."
"So you go to bars? Do you like drink and just hang out?"
"Can I change the radio? Do you have XM? This stuff's depressing..."

I didn't say a whole hell of a lot - I was too busy trying to locate this girl's house. The whole cab of my truck reeked of vodka.

When we finally located her house, I helped her out of the truck. She couldn't walk, so I carried her, unlocked the door, helped her up the stairs to her bedroom. One of her roommates looked out of her own bedroom, rolled her eyes, and slammed the door. I got the distinct feeling this girl I was helping out got into these kinds of situations often, and that the roomate was expecting me spend the night.

I laid the girl down on her bed and rummaged around in the dark for a lightswitch and a trashcan to put beside her bed. The girl was on her back, so I tried to roll her onto her stomach. When I did, she kissed my hand and tucked it into her chest.

I knew what she was expecting. I sat on the corner of her bed to try to gently remove my hand.

Big mistake. As soon as I sat down, this girl sat up, and pulled me down on the bed with her, and kissed me.

It was a worthless kiss, pointless and rather disgusting. I almost gagged. Everytime I tried to pull away, she just grabbed my head and pulled me in closer, kissing me harder, brutally, biting at my lip and trying to work loose my belt. I finally pushed myself free.

I couldn't even look at her. She started crying. Apparently, me helping her out was some kind of signal that I wanted to "do" her. She sobbed that she wasn't pretty enough, that she just wanted me to spend the night, that she wanted someone to just hold her, that she hated her life, and that she just wanted somebody decent to care for her.

I couldn't look her in the eye. I must've stood there for about ten minutes, staring at the floor and listening. I felt like maybe I shouldn't have offered any help at all - this girl obviously had a lot of problems beyond drinking herself into being an easy target for sexual predators. I felt like I was doing something wrong by not buying into her drunken stupor, by not being willing to just be there.

But, there are right ways to do things and wrong ways. I finally spoke up, telling her that I wouldn't be comfortable with spending the night and I'm not as good a guy as she thinks I am. I tried to explain that I just can't do that kind of thing anymore - it wouldn't feel right. I tried to give her a kiss on the cheek, hoping I could could kind of calm her down a bit, but she tried to pull me back down.

So I left. Two more of her roommates were downstairs in the living room, I could feel them staring me down as I left, their minds probably filled with assumptions.

By the time I'd gotten home and got the vomit cleaned off the side of my truck, my heart felt like it was going to explode. So I picked up my guitar and played until my fingers went numb.