Throughout college, I (allegedly) had a serious boyfriend at home, but he fucked around on me like eight days prior to leaving for school, and so it was never really in cement. (I mean, he did move down to be with me at one point, but like, that was more of a psychotic rampage induced by some of the stuff I’m about to disclose than it was actual romance.) At any rate, while I was actually at school, I did whatever the fuck I wanted – including beginning and maintaining casual relationships throughout the entirety of undergrad with two guys who, to this day, remain two of my favorite people. (I know a four year casual hookup sounds trite, but they are both Jewish, and I’m très shiksa chic – but it’s a look; not a lifestyle for me. Unfortunately, I wasn’t chosen and I prefer to avoid the judgemental glares of Mrs. Mazel as I scarf manishewitz. She’s right – I’m not good enough for her baby boy.) I digress however; this is the tale of how Regular, my favorite, rescued me à la Shrek et Fiona.


It was sometime mid football season – a typical Saturday. The game was at four, so naturally, we got to the tailgate around noon. I went with Hurricane, Fabulous and two of their temporary male counterparts du jour. Since I’m a control freak, Fabuous drives a Mercedes fucking coupe, and Hurricane wanted to take the fucking BUS in lieu of driving, I drove. (2003 Honda Accord – full nav and sun roof. Don’t fucking worry about it  - #uppermiddleclassproblems.) The stadium was about forty-five minutes away, so obviously, the five of us killed a liter of vodka en route.

We arrived at the stadium a little late, so we got sent to an outer parking lot – which wasn’t a big deal, it just meant we parked and walked over to the lot in front of the stadium where all of the tailgates were happening. We proceeded to tailgate the fuck out of life until it was time to go into the game.

Now, at each and every single football game I’ve been to: security at the very least, feels your purse, if not looks through it. If you’re trying to sneak alcohol in, you have to put it on your body. (If you have big enough tits, this works well between your bra – I’ve been successful on every attempt. I also have huge tits.) Apparently, Hurricane had forgotten this little factoid. I’m fairly certain it was senior year, so we had been to at least a dozen games by this point, yet somehow, she fucking forgot that they confiscate your alcohol if they find it when you walk in.

So obviously, she tried to sneak shit in her open purse, and got caught. Now, security is pretty fucking cool. They just take it and let you go in without a word. For some reason, Hurricane found this unacceptable and demanded her empty plastic bottle back. A scene ensued. She did not get her bottle back.

At this point, it was still five of us: Hurricane, Fabulous, their two losers and myself : the ultimate fifth wheel. We headed up to the student section, prepared to stop for beverages on the way up. At some point, Fabulous and whoever she was with disappeared en route; never to be heard from until the next day.

Hurricane, whoever, and I eventually made it to our seats, each with two beers in hand plus the flask I had snuck in and the joint Hurricane had snuck in. Hurricane proceeded to spark the joint before kickoff and we promptly got our first eviction warning within seven minutes of sitting down. Luckily, we managed to get high before security issued our warning.

Throughout the game, Hurricane and the guy she was with kept bickering. It was really fucking annoying – especially since I wasn’t with anyone else, just the two bickersons. I was driving, so I had to curb my drinking – and I totally planned on stopping at half time, but they just kept fucking arguing. So I just kept drinking.

Around the beginning of the fourth quarter, Hurricane and her dick of the day went to the bathroom. It wasn’t a big deal because by that point a group of friends had migrated to the section we were in and I could keep myself entertained.

Their absence became noticeable around the eight minute mark, which is when I texted Hurricane:

“Where are you”

No answer. The five minute mark comes around:

“Where the fuck are you”

Still no answer. The three minute mark come around, and we’re losing by like, twenty.

“Meet me at the entrance to the stadium.”

“K.” she replied.


Thirty minutes goes by, and I have called Hurricane approximately thirty times and consumed about four more beers and the rest of the flask while I waited. I am now drunk enough to dial. So, obviously, I text Regular:


“What’s up”

“I can’t find Hurricane, she left me all alone.”

Literally, Regular’s face appeared within forty-five seconds of placing the text.

“Did you find her? He asked.

“Obviously fucking not, I’m standing here alone.” I retorted.

“Alright, well lets just go back to the tailgate and wait for them.” He said, sounding sober.

I thought this sounded like an excellent idea, especially since I had no intention of driving at the moment anyways. We went back and hung around for about an hour, until people began dissipating.

“So what’s the deal – are we hanging out or what?” this was Regular’s way of asking if I wanted to hook up.

“Let me call Hurricane and figure out where the fuck she is – I’m supposed to take them home.”

I called. I texted. From my phone and from Regular’s. No fucking response.

“Come on, just come back to my place – I’ll drive your car.” He whined, knowing Hurricane was lost to the night.

Regular lived about fifteen minutes from the stadium versus the forty-five minutes to my apartment; plus, I was faced with driving alone. This sounded like an excellent idea and so I agreed.

“Okay, but I’m parked pretty far – we have to walk.”
“Fine by me” he said as he sparked a joint.

Somehow, we had wound up on the opposite side of the stadium from where I had come from. It was a long fucking walk, through about fourteen sections of parking lots, various groups of friends, and various lines for the port-a-potties; and back through more sections of parking lots, friends, and portable toilets. And so on and so forth. We walked for a long time.

The car was nowhere to be found.

Naturally, I panicked immediately: someone had stolen my car. This was an emergency. Regular did not share the same opinion.

“Hurricane took it and drove home – are you sure you guys didn’t argue?” he asked.

“Yesi’mfuckingsureshefuckingditchedmeifuckinghateher” I sputtered.

“Well, it’s fine, let’s just get a ride to my place and we’ll figure out the car in the morning.” He said reasonably.

So we went back to his place and did what consenting adults do.


The next morning, we both had places to be, so Regular offered to drive me back to the stadium. At this point, my phone was dead (this was before all the sane people had iPhones, so everyone had different chargers) so I couldn’t even attempt to continue to call Hurricane, and even so, she wasn’t picking up. I tried from Regular’s phone to no avail. Circumstances being what they were, Regular just drove me back to the stadium.

Our school played at a professional stadium, so if you’ve ever been to a football game, you can imagine the size of the situation we were dealing with. As we pulled off the exit into the stadium, Regular glanced at me.

“Alright kiddo, you’re up.”

He expected me to give him fucking directions.

“Reg, I have no fucking idea where I was parked – are you joking?”

“Um .. NO. I’m not fucking joking. How could you not know where you parked?”

“Well first of all, I was semi-buzzed, I was dealing with Fabulous, Hurricane and two random guys, and the iPod connector was fucking sucking. How am I supposed to know where I parked.” (This was back when the “best” iPod connectors were those ones that tuned to an AM/FM frequency, yet never fucking worked.) 

Like the gentleman he is, Regular drove around the entire stadium and the outlying parking lots searching for my car. After about fifteen minutes, we had nearly resigned to the fact that it had been towed/stolen and were about to give up – when we saw it! A lonely Accord amongst an empty stadium.

Literally: picture the aerial view of a packed football stadium, sans the “packed” – just my one car amongst hundreds of fucking ACRES of land. So embarrassing.

Grateful that this ordeal was all over, I quickly said bye (blow job) and hopped out of his car to get into mine.

As I reached into my purse, I couldn’t find the keys.

I panicked invisibly: they had to be in there.

They weren’t.

I glanced at Regular, who seemed to have realized the situation before I did.

“You’re a fucking mess, kid.” He said, pretending to be amused; actually irritated.

Obviously, I did what any girl would do and burst into fucking tears and called my Daddy. He didn’t pick up.

“Calm down, girl.” Regular said. “Maybe you locked them in the car.”

After about three minutes of hyperventilation, I realized that maybe I DID lock them in the car. I mean, where the fuck else would they be? (Just kidding: I would never have done that. But it was a hypothetical possibility.)

They definitely weren’t in my car. They weren’t on my tire. They weren’t anywhere. I knew they were lost forever, but I didn’t have the heart to tell Regular.

“They have to be in there - call AAA and have them on the way.”  He said optimistically as we continued to search around and peer into the car.

I called AAA. They were an hour away.

“What if they aren’t even in the car? Like what the fuck will I do then? My spare key is 1500 miles away.” I tried to sound composed. After all, Regular wasn’t my boyfriend, he didn’t need to stay with me. Plus, I had pulled the ultimate dumb blonde.

“Kiddo. Why the FUCK are they 1500 miles away? That wasn’t a smart plan.”


“They’re definitely in there somewhere – where else would they be.” He could be so naïve. “But maybe in the meantime we should go check the lost and found.”

A little background on Regular: he is very much involved with sports, and at this point in time worked with one of the professional teams, so he had special access into the stadium during non game times. Literally, we drove right up to the inner parking lot, which has a security checkpoint, he showed a pass, and then we pulled right up to the curb.

“Stay here. If anyone tells you to move the car, just pull it into a spot.” He had never sounded so Christian Grey – and this was pre 50 Shades. It was sexy.

Seconds turned into minutes. Minutes turned into multiple minutes. I fumbled with the radio station freaking the fuck out. Either I had locked my keys in the car, which was fucking embarrassing, or I had lost my keys altogether which was a fucking disaster.

Just as I began to black out with panic, Regular emerged from the stadium entrance with the greatest shit-eating grin I’ve ever witnessed in my life.

He was waving my keys over his head triumphantly, like he had just discovered fucking North America.

To this day, it was the only emotional orgasm I’ve experienced.

Occurred: sometime between 2007-2011.

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