Guys, I like to hear a dirty story as much as anyone else. Maybe more than most. My favorite are the kinds where sex/love/romance become endearingly embarrassing (possibly because those are the stories that I tend to accumulate myself). One time, at a party, a girl told me that she had hooked up with a guy, realized she was too drunk not to pee in the bed, and slept in a trash bag. The next morning she woke up, realizing that she had indeed wet the bed, and she sack raced home to her own apartment. I demanded to be instant best friends with her.
Here’s what I don’t like: Sex stories where the storyteller is clearly the hero. It’s all fine and good to tell a story with a happy ending, but it’s no fun just hearing about how smooth someone is with ladies or gentlemen. There’s a reason why there’s not a reporter waiting outside your door for a postgame interview when you’re doing making out. No one wants to hear it.
I have a buddy who doesn’t get how storytelling works. For a story to have drama, the hero has to overcome some sort of adversity. Not this dude. It’s just a wire to wire brag fest. Here is an example of a story he might tell…
“So my buddy Dave wanted me to go out to this bar with him, but I’d just woken up from a nap because I’d been benching like three-fifty all morning. So I’m pretty wiped out, but I’m still huge, so no big deal. We go out to this place. There’s a long line and they’re pretty much only letting chicks in but we get in I think because I’m bigger than the bouncer or whatever.
Keep in mind, dude, I’m wearing like, sweatpants and a white t-shirt with a pizza stain on it. I’m not even talking or dancing. I’m just standing in the corner reading Camus’s The Stranger in French, because why the hell not, right? This girl comes up to me…doesn’t even say hello, just throws a tequila shot into my mouth and then sucks it out with her mouth. Which is crazy because all I’d had for dinner was an entire bulb of garlic since it helps with my family history of cholesterol.
We end up back at her place. It turns out her friends are all off-duty strippers [Which, writer’s note, I don’t think you’re an “off-duty stripper,” it’s not like a cop where you’re always kind of a cop. You’re either stripping or you’re not.] and they just start making out. So here’s the problem, dude. It’s like a shell game. They’re all making out, and I don’t know which girl is mine. So I just jump in and start making out too. It’s just like a sea of smoking hot chicks and me. And did I mention that I hadn’t showered in a week and was wearing Groucho Marx glasses?
Finally, the first girl brings me into her room. I take of my shirt and she literally passes out. Faints dead away. So I start doing chest compressions and mouth to mouth. She comes to. We’re making out again. She says something about never having seen so many abs on one man before. Whatever, I do crunches.
Now we’re on the bed, and we’re making out hardcore. Seriously, the friction between the mattress and the box spring actually ignites a fire that consumes the whole house. Fortunately, we’re going at it so hard that a glass of water falls off of her night stand onto this science project she’d been working on (she’s also a physicist, dog) and we go BACK IN TIME TO THE BAR WHERE WE MET! This time, when she comes over, I just tell her thanks but no thanks, and I buy a shot of Patrón for her whole party.”
It’s like, okay, dude, we get it. Girls like you.
But also, technically, since you went back in time to earlier in the night…it never happened. And then he’s like “You’re a nerd,” and I go home and eat a Friendly’s sundae cup.