being a groupie requires Lara Croft-like skills

I was out for a friends birthday one Saturday night, at some random bar in the city. A few drinks at a bar to celebrate, and then I met up with some of my guy friends at swankier club. I hadn't eaten dinner, and we started early, so I was pretty drunk. Story of my life.

My friends and I are hanging out by the bar, and out of the corner of my eye I see a prominent NHL player partying in the VIP. I have recently started getting into the sport -- these guys skate around trying beat the crap out of each other for 2 hours, and you get to drink beer and eat all the hot dogs you want without being judged. Seriously, throw in a couple pieces of bacon, and cute guys sitting next to me buying my drinks, and it's like my dream world.

I sneak off from my friends and push my way past the guy guarding the VIP, who lets me in, no problem. I walk up to Mr. NHL and declare my undying love for him, how I think he's the most amazing hockey player I have ever seen (mind you, hes the only hocker play I know), and would he mind if I ran my hands through his faux-hawk? He tells me some garbage of how much he loves his fans, appreciates being bombarded, and then we proceed to make out at his table like our plane was going down.

My friends decide to leave me there -- ladies, never go out with just boys, they will leave your ass stranded in a heartbeat, if I had been with any of my girlfriends, this would have turned out totally different.

So we get into Mr. NHL's giant SUV, with a couple of other players from the team and a couple of girls, who I think I can safely assume were on the same mission I was on. We go back to his beautiful loft outside the city...I wasn't really paying attention to where we were going, for all I know we left the freakin' state.

You can't be an athlete without the cliched hot tub, and there it was. All the other girls strip down and jump in, but I hesitated. I couldn't for the life of me remember what kind of panties I had on, and when I took a peek, my worst nightmare came true. Granny panties.

I avoided the hot tub, and thus killed all chances of becoming Mr. NHL's one true love. I ended up passing out on the couch, and waking up at 5am still drunk. I couldn't recall where I was, or what in the name of God I was doing there.

I grabbed my things and ran out of the apartment, and couldn't figure out for the life of me how to get out. I swear, there was no goddamn entrance to that place. I was the rat in the maze that couldn't find the cheese at the end. I finally see daylight coming out of a door, and run through it.

It was the courtyard. The courtyard had no exit. I couldn't get in or out.

I proceed to climb a wrought-iron fence in my stilettos, rip my jeans, and fall in a mound of mulch on the other side. Walk to what looks like a highway, and stop a taxi, hooker-style. I didn't even dust myself off, the cab driver gave me the skankiest look I've ever gotten, and asked for the money up front.


The WORST walk of shame ever in the history of life. And I still have no clue where Mr. NHL's loft is.