How To Guarantee You’ll Get Laid, Part Three: Make A Pact

How To Guarantee You'll Get Laid, Part Three: Make A Pact

Every promise made is a promise broken when it comes to matters of the poontang.


On any given night, when you’re full-on glam, maybe down five pounds, and looking absolutely flawless, boys will not give you a second glance. It’s the laws of nature. Only on the nights when you are least expecting to have a hookup will you end up safely nestled in the bed of a suitor where you’ll be penetrated seven ways ‘til Sunday. This marks part three of a seven-part series, where I’ll prove to you just that. To read last week’s installment, click here.

Part Three: Make A Pact

As a college girl, you want your friends to be the “right” amount of slutty. I’ve always found this to mean “as slutty as possible,” because you can close your legs once you’re married. Alas, as the proud owner of a vagina, you’ve probably realized that at some point or another, girls get all sentimental about having been “soooo baaaad” lately and resolve to make some type of over-the-top declaration that they won’t go home with anyone. The only problem is that everyone secretly still wants to go home with somebody, because they like sex, and they like attention, and because they only really give a fuck because someone else told them to.

Enter: the pact. A superfluous agreement between four-seven girls promising that “no matter what, we’re going home together tonight.” I have some strong feelings on making pacts. First, is that I think they’re stupid. I have never in my life not wanted to hook up with someone. There have been plenty of times (as you’re learning) that I haven’t properly planned for a hookup, but never have I ever been like “Orgasms? Ewwy!” If I wanted to spend my night with a bunch of girls, you can guarantee, I’m not going to waste the hours beforehand on things like staring at my body in a fit of self-loathing while I look for an outfit, or doing my makeup, or showering.

Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, temporary abstinence pacts are almost always suggested and enforced by the person least likely to be getting laid that night, as was the case in the pact I was most recently forced to be a part of.

My roommates and I were laying around Saturday early evening, many of us still wearing the dresses and shame from the night before, when the faux bitching began.

“I fucking hate Josh. Like I hate him with every fiber of my being, besides my vagina and my heart and my brain.”

“What happened?”

“It’s like, 5:07, and he hasn’t texted me about plans for tonight yet. And honestly, he’s fucking insane if he thinks he can send me a 1:00am ‘wyd’ text and get me to come over.”

“I hate that! Just text me at a decent hour so we can pretend I respect myself. We both know I’m not going to make you actually hang out with me. I’d just like to see a little feigned effort before we have intercourse.”

“You guys…Is our view on sex maybe, like, really fucked up?”

No. It’s not. We’re in college. We will never be this young or hot again. And if anyone cares what we do with our vaginas, well, we can always just lie to them.

Enter Becky. Becky is the mom, of our group — a role that is completely unnecessary, but every group has one, and like always, she had some insight on how we should all “change our lives” for the night.

“That’s it. We need to take charge, and have a dude-free weekend. Let’s make a pact.” I could feel my vagina tense up in rage as the words crossed her lips. “We’re all coming home together tonight, no matter what.”

My friends all excitedly agreed to these ridiculous terms, as I took a swig from my Crystal Light and vodka and wondered why I’d surrounded myself with such madonnas.

The night wore on, as all nights do, when I got a text from my big saying I needed to get the fuck to a party across campus with our favorite fraternity. Convincing my friends, who’d just recently “found” their virginity to trek across campus for a dick appointment was no easy task, but I was up to it nonetheless.

“There are no hot guys here. Let’s go to Kappa Sig.”

“That’s the point! We don’t need guys!”

Shut the fuck up, Becky. We also didn’t need to eat three slices of pizza last night, but that didn’t stop us. I am seven shots of tequila deep, and I haven’t had my insides rearranged in like a month. If I wanted to go home with you, I would have just stayed home with you. And frankly, you don’t need to make a one-night-of-abstinence pact if nobody wants to fuck you.

“I know, but my big’s there and she can’t find her friends. Please?”


At the Kappa Sig house, I danced with my friends for exactly three minutes before abandoning them to have a cigarette with a guy who’d caught my eye. Of course, I don’t smoke, so I was immediately humiliated upon taking a drag of his cancer stick, but I needed an excuse to get him alone. I could feel the girls glaring at me through the walls.

I didn’t care.

I was focused on the love of my life, standing before me. His major was business or engineering something, and I always to end up with a businessman or engineer or someone. I was pulling out all my best moves. I touched his arm amply, and held it there for an extra second as if to say “I notice your muscles.” I smiled seductively and looked up at him every time I took a sip through my straw, as if to mentally communicate “this is what I look like when I give dome.” I made suggestive comments like “I bet you do,” which always sounds sexy, even if it makes absolutely no sense in the situation. I had it in the bag. Until…

“Hold on, I have to go to the bathroom.”

The international translation of this? “I don’t actually want to go home with you tonight.” No matter how insistent a person is on their intent to come back for you, they never do — and regardless, I was not about to be the girl who stood on a patio waiting for some dude I’d just met to take a leak. I may not have morals, but I have standards.

I went back inside to look for my horde of wooing gal pals, who’d likely be taking Jell-O shots and demanding the DJ play more Taylor Swift, but what, instead did I find?

Like a pack of wolves in heat, every single one of them was tongue deep in a guy I’d never seen before. Even fucking Becky. I saw ass cheeks peeking out from the bottoms of dresses, I saw my friends grinding up on men as if they were stripper poles, and I saw my best friend in the world dancing with a guy with no feet on the floor. He just held her in the air, virtually fucking her through their clothing.

I immediately felt the sense of fear that can only come from being alone at a party for more that 45 seconds. My friends were all busy modeling for the Kama Sutra, and there was no chance I was going to interrupt. I had to get out of there.

I bolted out the door, found a Domino’s delivery car, and offered to show the driver my tits in exchange for a ride home, which I later realized is probably a sex offense, considering most of those drivers are in high school. Upon arriving home, I took it upon myself to eat Becky’s leftover chicken parm — a cardinal sin against roommates, but one she fucking deserved for deserting me — then passed out.

One by one, my roommates strolled in the next morning, and every single one of them had gotten laid. Not me, though. And why? Because I didn’t make a fucking pact.

Read other installments in this series by clicking the links below.

Part One: Wear Spanx
Part Two: Don’t Shave

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