How to Have a One Night Stand: with Marky Mark and his Funky Bunch of Felons


[dropcap]I[/dropcap] was in a hot, sweaty and loud Irish bar in Allston, MA with some girlfriends. I was barely 21, still in college and had
a steady boyfriend who I was unattracted to and dying to escape. I was trying to escape my own life, really. I had only had sex with two guys so I decided that I was due for a one-night stand. From what I had gleaned from rom-coms and
Lifetime movies, they were supposed to be exciting, thrilling affairs that usually consummated in a marriage proposal or a restraining order.

So I was ready. Back to the sweaty, hot bar. I recall I was wearing some sort of despicable leotard/bodysuit that had snaps at the crotch. Snaps! So when you had to pee you had to forcibly pull down the crotch/metal buttons from your cervix, and then reattach when done to give yourself a severe wedgie.  Why in God’s name I wanted to look like a busty, camel-toed MaryLou Retton is beyond me. But there I was, ready for action, with some cotton/rayon fabric shoved up my twat.

Tommy was with his buddies, hanging out, being cool. He was a cute townie boy – a dose of Marky-Mark muscles in a tight shirt, gold jewelry, and gelled hair. He looked good, not like a fucking slob. I had my eye on him from the moment he walked in.
So what brought me and Tommy together? My usual move: dirty dancing. I managed to bump and grind my way over to Tommy’s section, rubbing my ass against his jean leg as he leaned against a post, smirking. His friends hooted and hollered. “Yo that bitch is all up in your grill! Her pussy’s calling your NAME yo!”
Tommy took my outstretched hands and did a gentle dance, smooth like quiet storm smoove, then grabbed my bucking, spastic hips and pulled me in for a close embrace. “What’s your name?” 


The conversation continued, shouting over the loud music – “You went to Dedham High? Did you know Melissa Donnatelli?” And so on. “My girlfriend’s from Dot…my boyfriend grew up in West Roxbury…”

“Wait, your boyfriend?”
He laughed. “I guess he has no idea where you’re at tonight, huh.”
I dismissed his mention with a shrug of my shoulders.
He gave me a smile, and a cool appraisal.
“So you a heartbreaker, huh.”
I shrugged again, secretly thrilled he would think that I actually had a cadre of guys who gave two shits.
His friends soon came over and interrupted. “We gotta do SHOTS! C’mon man, it’s your turn to buy!”
Tommy gave me a wave and walked off. I played it cool and went back to my friends, but kept one eye constantly on him for the remainder of the evening. I knew it would be just a matter of time.

“LAST CALL FOR ALCOHOL!” the bartender bellowed. There was Tommy, suddenly at my side. “Where you and your girls headed now?”
“Uh, I don’t know, I think they’re going home. But I’m still up for hanging out – what are you guys doing?”
I think we’re headed back to the hood, probably gonna chill and have some beers. Why don’t you snag a girlfriend and come over?”
I hurried back to my girlfriends, who were indeed practically passing out and trying to leave.
“Please please please please come with me! Tommy is so so fucking hot, I really want to go!”
My girlfriends were done and pleaded with me in return to just get his number and come HOME. But I was not to be swayed, a dangerous combination of buzz and horny desperation.

Against my friends remonstrations I left with Tommy and his buddies. Packed 6 deep in a Jeep Cherokee, we hurtled through empty streets away from the familiar and into townieville. I wondered briefly if I would be gang-raped, in a parking lot behind a store. But my drunk bravado and staggering naiveté assured me otherwise. “Nah, Tommy’s a good guy and he really likes me.” This was also reconfirmed as I was squished next to Tommy in the driver’s seat, him holding my hand and telling me how pretty and sexy I was as his friends shouted and punched each other like wild first-graders in the back of the bus.

We get to his place, and it’s decked out like the ultimate bachelor pad. The guys immediately jumped on the couch, turned on the TV and started playing video games. 

“Do you live here with all these guys?” I asked nervously.
“Nah, but you’d think they did since they’re over here ALL THE FUCKING TIME.” He yelled over to them. No response.
I was quickly beginning to sober up and wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into. “Um, where is…your bedroom?”
“Upstairs. But wait, first I wanna show you the game room.”
He smiled and held out his hand so I followed him downstairs. He turned off the overhead lights so the Miller Lite neon sign on the wall gave the room an icy blue and white glow. Not exactly mood lighting, but whatever.
Tommy grabbed me and kissed me hard. “Hey, sexy,” he whispered.
“Hey.” I whispered back, feeling more at ease. We started making out and then he nuzzled in my ear: “ever done it on a pool table?”
“Wanna try?”
“Uh, I guess…”

His fingers caressed my boobs, then tried to pull off my top. The resulting ultra-wedgie sent the bodysuit’s metal snaps into my appendix. I squealed like a ferret.
“What the—“ He stuck his hands down my pants, searching for the edge of the
fabric. “What have you got on, body armor?”
“It’s a bodysuit,” I answered miserably. “It has…snaps.”
“Snaps, huh?” He made a devilish grin. “Well, might as well cut to the chase.” He helped me out of my jeans, and I feverishly pulled down and unsnapped the crotch of this heinous piece of shit clothing invented by S & M enthusiasts, then ripped it off and threw it across the room. 

He mistook my rage for passion and hurriedly took off his jeans and t-shirt. Then we just stood there, looking at each other – me with my unkempt punani and gray-white 3-year old bra, him in duck boxers and socks. 

He looked a lot scrawnier with his clothes off. He moved to kiss me. 

We fucked on the pool table. “You’re leaving your socks on?” I said at one point, as it was that exciting and passionate and I was getting rug burn, I mean felt burn, on my ass. “Yeah,” he replied defensively. “My feet get cold.”
I could barely feel his penis inside me, but he thrusted and groaned as if it were a huge weight he had to maneuver with his hips. After my elbow kept falling one too many times in the left corner pocket I’d had enough. “I’m really tired,” I said.
He stopped. I felt about as sexy/sexual as a three-day old fruitcake. We got dressed and made our way upstairs.
His buddies had now either passed out in various chairs or couch cushions, while two were intently watching “A Current Affair.” Neither of them turned around as we went up to bed.

I crawled into the strange bed with the cold sheets and pillows and too-puffy comforter and lay there, feeling numb. When Tommy came out of the bathroom I pretended to be asleep. Soon I was.

The next morning the guys woke us up by banging on the door, then piling into the room. I pulled the covers up to my neck as they practically jumped on the bed and leered and hollered.
“Yo dude we’re fuckin STARVIN man. We didn’t even go to IHOP last night! We gotta get some grub!”
Tommy laughed, got out of bed and went to piss, leaving the bathroom door open.
“Uh, Tommy? Can you drop me off somewhere?”
Tommy poked his head out of the bathroom. “Sure hon. Where do you live?”
“NEEDHAM?!?” One of the guys yelped. “You live waaaay the fuck out there?”
“It’s off Route 9,” I snapped defensively.
“It’s fine,” Tommy called out. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll take her home then go to breakfast.”
I felt stupid and embarrassed, and just wished I could take a bus; a five-hour trip on public transportation would have been fine compared to this hell ride. But Tommy insisted.

“So,” he said with a smile as he got in the car. “How do we get to
your house from here?”
“Uh…I have no idea.” I had no idea where we were. We could have been in New Hampshire for all I knew.
“We’re in Roslindale.”
Roslindale. Fuck. I’d heard of it, but I had no idea where it was.

“Are you…near the Pike?”
“No we’re not near the Pike!” One of the dudes yelled from the back seat. “We got no highway around here, just the hood – Roxbury, Mattapan…”

Tommy told him to shut up. “We’ll figure it out.”
He did – managed to get us to Route 9. But I still had no idea where we were, and the lack of sleep and creeping hangover did little to fire the sleepy synapses. “Um, take it…east?”
We got completely lost. What should have been a 40 minute ride turned into a hellish hour and twenty minutes, the guys in the back freaking out and cursing like a fucking prison riot was about to break out. I was practically sweating with anxiety. Tommy kept his cool, just smiled and kept saying, “We’ll figure it out.”
I was almost ready to have him stop the car and just let me out on the side of the road when I saw a familiar sign – “Needham Heights 3 mi.” thank God.
I had Tommy drop me off a few blocks away – no need for my parents to see the clown car, nor did these felons need to know where I lived. I didn’t even bother giving Tommy my number, nor did he ask. I just wanted this nightmare to be over.

As I walked away, I heard one of the guys scream out that I was a fucking stupid bitch or something to that effect, and then the jeep peeled off. A suitable ending to a worst night ever. That was the last time I ever wore a bodysuit, or ever went home with a guy. OK, scratch that last part…

[Editor’s Note:  Aside from the obvious love of this story and Ariel for sharing it…I do think we’ve stumbled across a teachable moment and I would be remiss if I didn’t point it out.  So I think we all see the actual sex was a bust, the whole night really, but what is Tommy’s shining moment???  How he handled the next morning.  He didn’t give her bus fare and drop her off in the middle of nowhere.  He didn’t get all pouty and huffy about having to drive her home.  He even did his best to keep the cretins that were his friends at bay.  And that, my friends, is a gentleman.  And it needs to be acknowledged, and others need to take note.  So take note, boys.  A little bit of courtesy goes a long way in the eyes of the ladies.  Just Sayin’]

Ariel is one half of the amazing duo over at, who spend their days making me love them more and more (sharing their dating stories, offering up wisdomous advice, and in general just being awesome).  When I’m not obsessed with reading the blog (where I’ve learned that Ariel and I differ GREATLY on one very important issue…morning sex), I’m avidly following her on Twitter because let’s face it…she’s pretty fucking awesome.

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Victoria Young

Writer. Dater. Masturbator. Stop ruining my jokes by believing the self-deprecation. I am far greater than your boner will ever know.