Sexual Dysfunction

This story if from Roxie, a 22-year-old grad student in Boston, as told to Raz:

I have a confession to make: I didn’t stop seeing Johnny after this happened.  Yeah, yeah, he was a player with really, really gross things under his bed, but I mentioned the really awesome sex right?

Anyway, a couple weeks later, he invited me to a party at his place. I brought a couple friends, and it was a good time. Plus, there was some kind of mysterious punch there that made it even crazier. By the end of the night, the basement had turned into a dance party, and Johnny and I found our way to each other. Things were going great, and Johnny asked if I wanted to sneak up to his room for a bit. Yes, please. We went upstairs and started making out. Things got, steamy, clothes came off, but Johnny was still… soft. Apparently the punch had gotten to him.

Clearly flustered, he said, “Wait here, I’ll be right back.” He threw his clothes on and left. Let’s just say that this had happened before in our relationship, and I figured he needed a minute to sober up. So I waited on his bed and flipped on the TV.

When it had been twenty minutes, I realized how ridiculous it was that I was sitting all alone while there was a party going on downstairs. I got dressed, and walked out of his room. As I started down the stairs, I saw Johnny—arms wrapped around a girl, coming right at me. I just stood there.

“Oh, hey, Roxie,” he slurred.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked.

“We’re just going to my room,” he said. The blonde girl laughed and stroked his arm.

“Your room where you just kept me waiting for half an hour?” I was pissed, but I was also very aware that I might break into tears at any moment.

A light bulb seemed to go on in Johnny’s head. He just stared at me. That’s when I noticed a group of Johnny’s friends hiding out around a corner, watching the whole thing. I stood my ground.

The other girl was getting annoyed. “We’re gonna go have sex now,” she said to me, pulling Johnny towards his door.

“Ha, good luck with that,” I called after them. “He can’t even get it up.” Johnny’s friends lost it.

Thank God I found some of my friends on the way out, and we spent some time screaming obscenities at Johnny’s window as we walked away. Then I started to cry. I was shocked at how stupid I’d been to fall for a guy like that.

The worst part was that Johnny had no recollection of what had happened, and kept reaching out—calling and texting over the next week, asking when we were going to get together.

When I finally answered and explained to him why I never wanted to see him again, he laughed it off as a funny drunken tale. That was the end of Johnny.

But I’m glad it happened; that experience weaned me off of men like Johnny for life. I’m above them. And though Johnny may have a lot of sex, I feel better knowing that he will likely never settle down, he will probably acquire many not-so-fun diseases, and, on top of all that, he’s got a very bad case of whiskey dick.