Beer Bong Boy aka "Triple B"

A girl never forgets the best sex of her life to date, and mine is truly incontestable. Beer Bong Boy wins, hands down.

Name: Beer Bong Boy, or Triple B
Age: 19
History: Met at a party. Went home with him. Possibly the greatest night (and undoubtedly the greatest lay) of my life thus far.
The Catch: The boy's got more checked baggage than I did when I flew home for the holidays. And that's an accomplishment.

We met at a party circa October/November 2008, which is generally how people meet one another in college. He's best friends and roommates with my best friend's best friend (a closer connection than it sounds), and every time I had previously seen him, he held a ping-pong ball in his right hand and a pyramid of red solo cups lay on the table before him, waiting to be conquered. He was quite the athlete.

Although not particularly attractive in a superficial sense (but not a total waste of human genetics either), his swagger evoked all-too-familiar memories of Texas Boy, which should have been red flag number one. After seeing him around campus and the local party scene a few times, I was determined to get to know him.

We'll call him Beer Bong Boy, or Triple B - a tribute to how I first officially met him. As I stood with my black jeweled Betsey Johnson flats firmed planted on the tiled kitchen floor, with a Niagra Falls of Keystone Light funneling down my throat, he entered the room. Determined to keep my cool, I finished the beer bong like a lady (slash champion) and caught his gaze with mine.

"I could've bonged that beer in half the time," were his first words to me.

"Well, fuck you then," were my first words to him.

Romantic, right?

Triple B and I migrated outside to smoke cigarettes and bond over our hometowns which, as we quickly discovered, are in the same state. We connected. And, having a uterus, I immediately realized how convenient the logistics of this potential relationship were. There would be no missing him during the summer, because he would be an easy drive away.

Sigh. Perfect.

We held hands outside, and I told him I was cold, so he held me. (note to male readers: this is oldest trick in the female book. If a girl ever tells you she's "cold", 90% of the time this means she wants you to hold her.) We kissed and soon came to the mutual yet unspoken decision that we should go back to his place.

I'm not one to be explicit, so all I'll say is this: five hours. Plus another hour or two the next morning, before AND after he made me breakfast (yes, he made me breakfast). He let me sleep in. We sat outside, I on his lap, and smoked two cigarettes each.

After a few hours, his friends called and said they were coming over soon and, to my surprise, he didn't push me out the door. When they arrived to see us entwined on the couch, me in his boxers and t-shirt and last night's eye-makeup, he politely introduced me instead of making excuses as to why I was there.

And it wasn't awkward. At all. A true gentleman, he made it clear that this wouldn't be a one night stand. Aren't you jealous?

Don't be. There's always a catch, and Triple B was no exception.

He waited less than a day to drop the bombshell, which came in the form of a Corey and Topanga-esque relationship that he was "on a break from" at the time, but that, according to him, was a fire destined to be rekindled over Thanksgiving Break.

"You're a really amazing girl, but I'm in love with her." How many times have y'all heard that one before?

Coincidentally, he and his roommate just one week later somehow became mainstays in my social circle. Their house has become the designated "party house" to my friends and I, meaning that I now see Triple B several times per week (usually, again, with a ping-pong ball in his hand. It's funny how things seem to always come full-circle in the end). Things, still, are surprisingly not awkward. We never brought up the beer bong, or the five hours, or the morning spent on the couch, or the cigarettes ever again.

And I wish we would. Not that I feel awkward, but I do miss Triple B and everything attached to him...at least, in the bedroom. Although, now that we've spend time together platonicly, I've noticed that while he's a nice guy, he's also a bit boring. If we'd never had that one fantastic night together, I'm not sure he'd be on the radar.

Usually, it's men that put so much stock in the quality of the sex, not women. In fact, I think most women would label themselves as whores for unabashedly coming back to him for the lovin' alone (unless you're a Samantha instead of a Carrie). We always talk about how we want a "nice guy" who is a best friend first, boyfriend second. With men, it's the opposite to some degree (Air Force Boy once told me that he historically sleeps with a woman first and dates her second, with few exceptions).

But are women more like men than we think? Can a fantastic time between the sheets leave us lustful for an otherwise sub-par catch?

All I know is that his Topanga is a lucky, lucky girl.

Wistfully,
R

I want to know - what's the story behind your best ever? Comment.