I didn’t go to dinner at my girlfriend’s house just to fuck her mom, but I certainly didn’t go to watch football.

Let’s back up. I met my girlfriend Katy at a potluck. Neither of us can cook (I knew this about myself and discovered this — painfully — about Katy) so both of us brought cases of really expensive beer. It was one of those situations where nobody fucking cared except the host, who wordlessly took our 48 bottles and bade us “grab a plate and sample everyone else’s hard work.” Asshole.

Anyway, she and I landed on a couch together, like the losers we were, and soon we were engaged in that very special kind of drunken flirting where your hand casually brushes this body part or that one and then just stays there. I had my hand up her dress as the... Read More