You Had Me At Hola… and a Shot of Cheap Tequila.

I have an inexplicable love for frat boys. You’d think that after college, I’d have learned my lesson and vow to never again attempt dating one. But no. Ooooh no.
It was Cinco de Mayo, right after college graduation. Four margaritas and a free t-shirt later, I saw him, stumbling toward the bar in basketball shorts, a t-shirt, J. Crew flip flops, and—
Nice sombrero, hombre!
Yes. A sombrero. To those who aren’t familiar, the frat boy always comes with an accessory: obnoxious headgear or aviators. My friend, who was keeping pace with my drinking at about half my size, decided to toss a line to the slightly dirtball, overly confident drunk guy. He turned, grabbed a basket of tortilla chips from another table, and slid into our booth.
“How do you ladies feel about flipcup?”
Swoon!
Hombre, as he came to be known, was a Long Islander with a hah-rrible accent whose buddy was hosting a flipcup tournament. I left the bar after putting my number in his phone, expecting never to hear from him again. Turns out Hombre had an affinity for drunk text messaging at prime booty-call hour. Which is how we ended up on our first date three days later.
And how he ended up back at my apartment at 2:30 AM another couple days after that.
Hombre was like the guys from college. I knew what to expect. We both took it for what it was, and there was no real emotion involved. We were attracted to each other and really just felt a need for ass. No one got hurt, it was even enjoyable…
…until he tried to walk into my roommate’s room, thinking it was mine. I don’t mind attractive men sauntering through my apartment sans clothing, but I figured my roomie may not concur with my sentiment. After Hombre took a sharp turn back into my room, I realized he was wearing more than I thought.
WHAM.
He slid and bit it on my hardwood floor. And then suggested that it wasn’t funny or attractive.
Of course I couldn’t stop laughing, until I realized that the floor isn’t that slippery. Bare feet actually sort of use the floor for traction. Hombre’s feet weren’t bare. Hombre had been wearing socks the entire time we had been hooking up.
The ENTIRE TIME.
Socks. During the act. You have got to be effing kidding me. If you can’t be bothered to take off your socks, you’re either too antsy or too lazy… but mostly it just prompts me to ask, “Really?”
It just cheapened an already tacky experience even more! I can’t handle socks in bed, on my own feet or anyone else’s. The socks were more insulting than him texting “I’m bored let’s meet up.”
Look, we both knew it wasn’t going anywhere beyond the evening, but some standards you just can’t compromise.
I chalk it up to just another lesson learned the hard way: If you want to do post-collegiate dating, don’t go for the guys you did in college. You only screw yourself.

Super Sweet Super Bowl?  No Prob.
Super Sweet Super Bowl? No Prob.
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