Pennetration, Edition 5: The Story Of Teeth Girl

Take a break from midterms and feast your eyes on this tale of booze, campus bars and would-be debauchery. And for all you complainers, this one's written by a dude. As always, your comments (nice or mean) are appreciated.

“I could totally drink you under the table.”

I waited for her to chuckle. Explain she was kidding. Say she was really drunk. Anything. Attractive girls do this all the time; they try to pique a guy’s interest by challenging him—usually in play wrestling, poker, drinking or some other activity at which males are clearly superior and know it. It is a frequent, albeit juvenile, flirtation ploy. But Teeth Girl stared me down in a way that meant business—no coy glances or coquettish smile, only a stern look that meant one thing: a serious challenge.

I was conflicted. It felt wrong on many levels. She was three weeks into college, too young and stupid to know better, and fairly drunk to boot. Ah, screw it, I finally decided—it’s just a fucking drinking contest, not Russian roulette. Nobody is going to die or get hurt.

Tomorrow, we agreed, we would start fresh in my room. She came over to my place around nine to commence the festivities. We did the first three rounds consecutively. She kicked back shots of Barcardi like a guy. She showed no sign of any strain—her face devoid of the sneer-shudder common after taking shots.

Six came and went. After nine or so the details became blurry, but I distinctly remember only thirty-five minutes had elapsed since her arrival—an impressive rate of consumption, even for me. That was when I started to get worried. Teeth Girl still looked pretty good and I was definitely feeling the alcohol coursing through my veins. I knew I was in no danger of vomiting or anything amateur like that, but I was struggling.

After thirteen or fourteen or twelve (who knows for sure), I was drunk. I knew this because I hadn’t explicitly felt like fucking Teeth Girl before, but now—as I looked at her sprawled out on my bed with that hot, flirty, under-the-influence grin on her face—sexual images (blurry ones) began to cloud, and then dominate, my thoughts. She was definitely pretty enough while sober, but she was looking exponentially better. We’ve all hit that level.

I took charge: “Let’s go to MarBar. We’ll drink more there.”

The hubris of many strong drinks must have gotten to me because I immediately ordered four vodka-cranberries upon our arrival. After several of these, I grew increasingly drunk and concerned. The next thing I remember, I was walking briskly towards the bathroom, busting down the door to the stall to unleash an epic vomit.

As the cranberry-red remnants poured from my mouth, one thought hit me like an anvil: does this mean she won?

“No, no fucking way, couldn’t be, not possible, nope,” I thought. I was incapable of accepting defeat. Not to a little girl. Not now, not ever. I can deny this, I decided. She may have won the battle, but I will win the war. I wiped my mouth and casually walked out of the bathroom and ordered another round of drinks at the bar.

TeethGirl walked up: “Did you just throw up?” Apparently she wasn’t dumb. This is what I get for turning down Penn State. “No, I was just peeing,” I lied.

She seemed to buy it. Tie game.

I don’t remember what line I used, or if I was even sober enough to spit any kind of actual game, but the next thing I knew Teeth Girl and I were making out in a big chair in the corner of the bar. It was getting much more physical—attracting curious passersby—when I suggested returning to my room. I’m not really into the voyeur thing I guess, even drunk. Or maybe I just thought my chances of some sloppy, drunken fucking would be improved in private.

TG: “You know that I’m not going to have sex with you, right?” Me: “Uh…What?” TG: “I’m not going to have sex with you.” Me: “Uh…okay…that’s cool.” [Actual thought: this is SO in the bag] TG: “I’ll give you head though…I’m reallllly good with my mouth.” Me: “Alright…I can get into that. Let’s go back to the Quad now.”

We were casually walking on the sidewalk outside Greek Lady when the unthinkable happened: Teeth Girl took a giant, slow-motion faceplant solidly into the cement. She was so drunk she didn’t even put her hands out in front of her for support. Instead of slowing her fall with her hands or arms or stomach or hips or knees or whatever—and using some shred of the human faculty of reflex—she lifted her chin slightly and smacked the pavement teeth first. It was like watching a giant Redwood tree axed to the pavement: slow and tragic and completely helpless—one of those things you wish you could have stopped ex post facto, but you were paralyzed in the clutch moments.

I lifted her slowly, assuming it would all be cool. I led her over to a chair to inspect the damage. It was then I noticed: her front teeth were blown to the hilt. Blood was pouring across her lips and face. So much for that blowjob.

She also managed to skin-up her knees and arms and face in some places. Then, luckily, a group of nice sober girls came by and insisted upon taking her to the hospital—without me, they said, was fine.

Teeth Girl was released from the hospital around eight the next morning when I received a call on my cell phone.

TG: “How’s did me fall?” [She sounded incoherent—obviously still drunk—a fact later confirmed by numerous witnesses that morning.] Me: “What do you mean how? You just fell on the concrete.” TG: “Fuck, you beats me in our contest. You really are the superior drinker.” Me: [Sheepishly] “Yeah, well…” TG: “I mean, I thought I had you. I don’t know what happened. I’ve had, like, way more to drink than that before. You are just, uh…I don’t know, better, I guess…I can’t believe I just fall like this.”

Me: “Whatever. At least it all turned out okay…”

While I felt a smug satisfaction in my victory, there was no urge to rub it in; I knew she would have plenty of time to feel the sting of defeat under the scalpel of her oral surgeon.

Later that afternoon, I was sitting in the Quad when I overheard two girls talking:

Girl 1: “You won’t believe what happened in my Spanish class today. This girl came in with, like, totally broken teeth.” Girl 2: “What?” Girl 1: “Yeah, they were like totally shattered up top. I wonder if someone like beat her up or something…..everyone was looking at her but not looking, you know?” Girl 2: “Oh my gosh…how embarrassing!” [I interrupt with a devious, semi-victorious smirk on my face] Me: “You mean Teeth Girl? I’ll tell you how it happened….”

Postscript

TeethGirl ended up being fine. The scabs healed and her dentist did a phenomenal job fixing her up. They did tell her a dual root-canal could be in the cards sometime in the near future though.

Nothing sexual ever happened with Teeth Girl. The whole “blood spewing from the gums” image kind of killed any magic between us. And I never asked whether or not her dental surgery has affected her self-touted mouth talents.