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Saturday, May 25, 2024
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The night I don’t remember with the drug dealer I wish I could forget

A recollection of the night I had blackout sex


*The Spectrum is bringing back its sex column. It’ll come out twice a month. Our new sex columnist, Charlotte Valentine, will discuss topics, such as sex on drugs, Tinder experiences, how to handle leaked nudes and more. They will give advice on how to embrace sexuality and radiate confidence in and out of sexual relationships. 

Disclaimer: The author’s name has been changed to protect their anonymity.

Let me tell you a story about the night I blacked out. 

The story actually begins the morning after.

I woke up in my dorm room in only a bra. My phone, keys, the rest of my clothes and my dignity were nowhere to be found.

The problem, besides those, was I knew I didn’t fall asleep in my bed the night before and I had a bad feeling about where my belongings were — Drug Dealer Dan’s room.

Drug Dealer Dan was a boy I met on Tinder — the holy land of big mistakes — who happened to live just down the hall from me. I went over to his room one night, did my first dab and watched Jerry Springer. This became our regular routine.

But one night, I broke our familiar cycle to go out with my friends. We danced, we drank, the cops came and we went home. 

After everyone was tucked in their beds, I decided to meet Drug Dealer Dan at my favorite place to go on campus when I was drunk. Then, my friend Bionca — because of course this story includes a drug dealer and a girl named Bionca — invited us to come over to her dorm.

We played ride the bus, a drinking game I don’t remember much of. I lost ride the bus, which involved finishing an entire large bottle of strawberry lemonade Svedka. And Drug Dealer Dan and I left.

The next thing I remember is waking up the next morning.

I went out to my car to see if I left my keys inside before we got in the cab the night before. All I found were locked doors and a used condom in my back seat.

I tried to rationalize this — that couldn’t have been from me, I don’t even use condoms. Maybe I let someone else use my car to kanoodle with whoever they brought home from the party.

I sent my roommate to DDD’s room to retrieve my things while I tried to piece the night together. I remembered Bionca and I vaguely remembered watching DDD take a dab before I fell asleep. But there were at least eight hours of the night unaccounted for, so I decided I needed to hear his side of the story. 

He came to my room and sat in the dumpy desk chair universities provide and looked at me as if he was waiting to hear my thoughts on the night before.

“Wait, you don’t remember anything?” he said.

I had really picked a winner this time.

He said I was walking on my own and wasn’t slurring my speech at all. In other words, I seemed like a normally drunk person, not a blackout drunk person.

He also said we started having sex in his room shortly after we got back from Bionca’s, but Alaska — his roommate — was there, so we left. 

Bad news for me: I briefly had sex in a room with another person. Worse news for me: the night didn’t end there.

From the room, the next best place for college dorm sex seemed, at the time, to be the bathroom. So DDD put on his Gucci slides and we took it to the showers.

Bad news for me: I briefly had sex in a public bathroom. Worse news for me: the night didn’t end there.

We then went out to my car — which explained my previously mentioned findings — before deciding the night was no longer young and it was time for bed.

Bad news for me: DDD left a used condom in my back seat. Worse news for me: the consequences of the night would soon come back to bite me in my recently-laid ass. 

DDD went on to explain that, although we fell asleep together, he woke up alone — I must have snuck out in the middle of the night, running away from the events I would soon come to regret. 

Wearing what, we’ll never know.

I tried to shake off the events of the night with a Plan B run with my roommate. We stopped at McDonald’s for breakfast, my least favorite chain restaurant. I ate a hamburger with ketchup and onions — my least favorite foods — and realized I had truly hit rock bottom.

After my breakfast of champions, and I had ample time for the shame to set in, I had to go to work. This meant facing my car and the lack of memories in it. 

But my car didn’t start. Because, DDD explained, I requested he turn the car on during our escapades because I was cold. 

Unlike the rest of the events of the evening, this sounded like something I would do. 

He insisted he turned the car off before we went inside, which I sincerely doubted, seeing as he couldn’t even manage to put his condom in the garbage. Not to mention the fact that my car was dead and required roadside assistance.

I only wished they had roadside assistance for humans, as I was feeling quite dead inside as well.

So take it from me ladies: white boys who sell cocaine will leave you with nothing but regret, and definitely without an orgasm.

You can reach the opinion desk at

Stay tuned for another sex column by Charlotte Valentine on Feb. 25.



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