80's Aerobics Party

In the interest of chronicling more than just the on-field exploits of a college athlete, I figured I ought to tell a few stories about the party we had the other night. There was a "mixer" between the baseball team and a certain sorority, whose greek letters are meaningless because they're all the same anyways. We'll call them Eta Omicron Sigma... or HOS. Because good lord, these girls were slut-tastic.

First of all, it's worth noting that these kinds of parties, apparently, are very difficult to get into and are highly sought after. Earlier toward the start of school, I was over at "the baseball house" for a gathering. When I arrived, two of the larger members of the team were at the door of the house...as bouncers! And they were turning people away! I got in simply because of my current membership as part of the team, but I hung around to watch what happened. A large group of girls came to the door, and the "bouncers" filtered through the group and admitted the hotter half of the girls, but not the uglier half. There was a brief moment of awkwardness, and then an unspoken exchange between the girls: "Sorry, but I want to hook up with a baseball boy more than I want to be your friend. Catch you later." And then the ugly girls went home. Absolutely astounding, and very sad for me to watch.

On to the party:

-- The Theme. 80's Aerobics. Gentlemen (HAHAHAHAHAHAAHAyeah right) were attired mostly in short shorts, tights, crop tops, sleeveless shirts, headbands, wristbands, all in miserably clashing neon colors. Ladies (HAHAHAHAHAAAAAAeven less likely) were attired in jumpsuits, tights, side ponytails, far too much makeup, and anything that would reveal their boobs and/or butts. This was not an occasion for modesty.

-- The Girls. Never have I encountered a group of individuals with lower self-esteem. Since I am, for the most part, three or four years older than most of these young ladies, they're not exactly my type. I'm not your typical creepy old guy predator (actually, I'm more attracted to the older, more mature type...but that's neither here nor there), so I politely told the drunken jailbait flashing their breasts at me that I wasn't interested in nailing someone I could have babysat at one point. I heard one girl, after getting rejected for the third time in about 15 minutes, annouce to nobody in particular, "c'mon....*stamps foot*...I have to fuck SOMEbody..." Ladies and gentlemen, the future of America!

-- The Guys. I could not believe how unsure of themselves some of these guys are. Not that I wasn't when I was that age...I probably would have been the MOST awkward of all of them. But I thought this would be different-- these kids have been very successful in baseball, and with success comes a lot of attention. Attention from girls, attention from coaches, papers, etc., so most of these kids have been exposed to social situations that other college freshmen haven't. Regardless, an 18-year-old boy remains an 18-year-old boy. Girls were THROWING themselves at these guys, doing everything short of dragging them back to their rooms, and the guys were still wondering if they had a shot with the girls. Unbelievable.

-- The Drunkenness. While the others got absolutely shit-hammered, I nursed two beers over the 5 hours I was there. When I got in my car to drive home, a bunch of guys tried to stop me; they had seen me chatting with people, having a good time, laughing, and so naturally assumed I was hammered. I hope they learn that you can have fun without alcohol, too. Although I think it's only the wonders of beer that lead to our second baseman furiously rounding the bases with a freshman HOS member IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CROWDED BASEMENT WITH PEOPLE SURROUNDING THEM. I honestly think they thought they were alone. Which leads us to...

-- The Story That Makes Me Worried For The Future Of Mankind. DISCLAIMER: This story is unthinkably graphic. We're talking quadruple-X, send the kids to bed, my-parents-won't-believe-this-happened graphic. So if you understandably would rather not know, skip to the Safe Zone.

***BEGIN UNTHINKABLY GRAPHIC SECTION. YOU ARE NOW LEAVING THE SAFE ZONE.***

You sick fuck. Of course you want to know what happened.

Our saga begins with a freshman catcher. Because of his racial background, we'll refer to him as Chief Joseph, or CJ for short. On this night, CJ was, in every sense of the word, blackout drunk. He had little comprehension of what was going on in the surrounding world. That does not in any way excuse him for his actions.

Let's rewind to practice that day. One of the players who lives in the house, an upperclassman pitcher, Southpaw, was not pleased about having the party at his house. He informed everyone that under NO CIRCUMSTANCES was ANYONE to even TOUCH THE DOORKNOB to his room. It was off limits to the Pope. It was on lockdown. I don't think he had anything he was hiding, he just wanted to protect his things from unpredictable drunken actions. (File this under obvious foreshadowing.)

That night, things were going rather well for CJ and a young lady, identity (thankfully) unknown. By "going well" I mean that they were both so drunk that their minds had regressed to unconsciously controlling basic life functions: eat, sleep, produce offspring. It was only 11:00, and they were quite full of beer, so that left only one other task. CJ took his lady friend by the hand and gracefully led her up the stairs to find some privacy (or maybe he carried her; it was unclear if she could walk at this point). Obviously, they found Southpaw's room unoccupied, and they quickly climbed into bed.

The young lady of questionable morals, unfortunately, was undergoing a medical process we like to call "bleeding out of her genitals." Sorry, I meant "menstruation." And she had neglected to tell CJ about the onset of her condition before inviting him to jackhammer her with impunity. And he didn't notice. So after they had sex, they turned on the lights to the sight of a deep red Jackson Pollock painting ALL OVER SOUTHPAW'S WHITE SHEETS. There was so much blood, in fact, that it soaked through the sheets to his mattress pad.

To Southpaw's credit, he was displeased, but realized the humor in the situation and stopped short of eviscerating CJ (which is what I would have done). All CJ has to do is take the girl's spandex shorts, which she was wearing at the party, and wear them to lifting on Monday. And, basically, be Southpaw's bitch for the forseeable future.

Unbelievable.

***YOU ARE NOW RETURNING TO THE SAFE ZONE.***

Parties like this are pretty standard fare for nights before off days, the next of which we have this Wednesday. I shudder to think what will end up topping this.