The Best Night Of My Life Lasted 48 Hours

There are moments in a man's life when he becomes convinced the universe has finally decided to apologize to him.

For me, it happened at a party in Los Angeles.

The place was packed. Music loud enough that everyone was leaning into each other's ears, drinks everywhere, people laughing, girls dancing, and absolutely nobody making responsible decisions.

I was having a great night when I started talking to this girl. She was beautiful, funny, flirtatious, and—most importantly—flirting right back.

You know that moment when you're talking to someone and realize, "Oh, I'm definitely not imagining this?"

We had reached that moment.

A few hours and several drinks later, we'd already made out, and the conversation had gone from normal party bullshit to sex.

Somehow threesomes came up.

I told her I liked them.

“So do I.”

Interesting.

I immediately clarified one very important detail.

“I'm talking two women and me. I'm not doing anything with another dude.”

She laughed.

“Same. Two girls and a guy.”

At that moment, I stopped hearing the music.

I think a beam of light came through the ceiling.

I may have heard angels.

Then I jokingly asked the question every idiot hopes will receive the answer I got.

“So… you have a friend?”

Without hesitation, she said, “My closest friend. We've talked about it before. She'd be into it.”

I swear to God, my boner hit the underside of the table.

I remember thinking, "This is it. I've peaked."

I should've bought a lottery ticket on the way home. Clearly the universe was handing out miracles and somehow my number had been called.

We agreed we'd all meet for dinner first. Nothing guaranteed. Have some drinks, meet her friend, see if everybody was attracted to everybody else.

A few days later, there I was at dinner with both of them.

And her friend was gorgeous.

Now I'm sitting across from two beautiful women who already know why we're all having dinner together, trying desperately to behave like a sophisticated adult.

“How's your pasta?”

Meanwhile, inside my head:

"DON'T FUCK THIS UP."

Dinner went perfectly. We laughed. We drank. Nobody felt awkward. Every hour that passed made it increasingly obvious where the night was headed.

Eventually we went back to my place.

They wanted another drink.

Absolutely.

You want a beer? Wine? Tequila? Chocolate milk? I'll open a vineyard if that's what keeps this evening moving.

We each had another beer, and before long I was experiencing what, at the time, I considered one of the greatest evenings of my adult life.

I was also usually very careful. Protection wasn't negotiable for me. I had just met one of these women at a party in L.A. I didn't know her history, she didn't know mine, and everybody involved was an adult.

Everything was going beautifully.

Except I couldn't finish.

I tried.

Nothing.

And that's when alcohol, horniness and terrible judgment held an emergency board meeting inside my brain.

Unfortunately, common sense was not invited.

I finally announced, “I CAN'T ORGASM. I NEED TO FUCK ONE OF YOU WITHOUT A CONDOM.”

There was maybe half a second of silence.

Then her friend raised her hand.

Not metaphorically.

She actually raised her fucking hand like the teacher had just asked who knew the answer to question seven.

“ME! ME!”

This should have been the moment I reconsidered my life.

Instead I said:

“LET'S DO THIS.”

And that was that.

Later, I was lying in bed with one woman on my left, one on my right, both kissing me, and I remember staring at the ceiling thinking:

"You magnificent bastard. You've done it."

If life had ended that night, my final review would've been five stars.

For the next two days, I walked around with the confidence of a man who believed the universe personally liked him.

Then, on the third morning, I woke up and went to pee.

And the universe collected its debt.

The second I started urinating, my eyes practically came out of my head.

"WHAT. THE. FUCK."

It burned.

Not “maybe I need to drink more water” burned.

It felt like my penis had been connected to a car battery.

I looked down.

Even my urine looked strange.

I stood there holding the evidence, suddenly remembering one very specific moment from three nights earlier.

The raised hand.

“ME! ME!”

Oh, fuck.

I tried convincing myself it was nothing. Maybe dehydration. Maybe too much alcohol. Maybe my penis was just tired.

A few hours later, I peed again.

Fire.

By that afternoon, the two women kissing me in bed no longer felt like a fantasy.

They felt like suspects.

Fortunately, I had a haircut appointment with a barber I'd been going to for years. The moment I sat down, she looked at me.

“What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“You look weird.”

And because apparently I had lost all sense of privacy, I told my barber everything.

The party.

The girl.

The friend.

The threesome.

The condom.

The missing condom.

The burning penis.

She stopped cutting my hair.

“YOU FUCKING IDIOT. GO TO THE ER.”

That sentence changed everything.

Until then, I was worried.

Now I was terminally ill.

I hadn't even made it to my car before my brain had diagnosed me with every sexually transmitted disease discovered since the beginning of civilization.

By the time I reached the hospital, I had somehow gone directly to AIDS.

That's it.

I'm finished.

This is how my story ends.

Not climbing Everest.

Not rescuing children from a burning building.

A fucking threesome in Los Angeles.

At the ER, this tiny Asian doctor walked into the room, looked at me and said:

“Take your pants off.”

I stared at her.

She stared back.

“Stop acting shy. You're not the first, and you won't be the last.”

Fair enough.

So there I was, pants down, while this woman half my size examined my penis and felt my balls as I stared at the ceiling wondering how I'd gone from Hugh Hefner to a medical emergency in 72 hours.

She told me my urine looked clear. They'd send urine and blood to the lab, but she gave me medication to take while we waited.

Then she gave me one strangely specific warning.

“Don't wear white underwear.”

Excuse me?

She said the medication would change the color of my urine.

She wasn't kidding.

After those pills, my pee looked like someone had melted a yellow highlighter directly into the toilet.

Then began the longest three days of my life.

Every time my phone rang, my stomach dropped.

Finally, the ER called.

A nurse started reading my results.

“We tested you for syphilis, chlamydia, gonorrhea, herpes, hepatitis B, HPV…”

With every disease she named, I died a little more.

"Syphilis."

Jesus Christ.

"Chlamydia."

Fuck.

"Gonorrhea."

I'm never having sex again.

"Herpes."

I wonder if monasteries are still accepting applications.

Then she paused.

“Well, you have none of those. Everything came back fine.”

I sat straight up.

“MA'AM. WHY THE FUCK WOULDN'T YOU START WITH THAT?”

Silence.

“Well… you're good.”

“THEN WHAT THE HELL WAS IT?”

She said the doctor would call me and explain.

That was over four years ago.

I'm still waiting.

To this day, I have no idea what happened. Maybe irritation. Maybe some minor infection. Maybe God himself reached down and slapped me on the penis because apparently subtle warnings weren't working.

Whatever it was, the lesson worked.

I went from believing I'd experienced the greatest night of my life to mentally writing my will in less than 72 hours.

And from that day forward, I made damn sure to wrap my willy before I ever got silly.

For a while I was so traumatized I wanted to wear two condoms.

Then I found out that's also a bad idea.

Apparently my penis survived the threesome.

My decision-making took a little longer to recover.