[Author's Note: All names in the following post have been changed to protect the innocent.  Well, not all - I didn't change my name and some others.  So I guess most of the names have been changed.  But you know what I mean.]

October 2002 to October 2003 was arguably the greatest twelve months of my life, even if it did get off to a shaky start.

After returning from eleven soul-crushing, liver-pounding, gastrointestinal-inflaming days at Oktoberfest in Munich, I was promptly dumped by my long-term girlfriend – the day after I got home.  We dated long-distance for 2.5 years, but lasted six weeks in the same city.  Yikes.

At the time, the dumping was a great shock to me.  My understanding of love at that point in my life was naive and simplistic – you met someone in college (in our case, while studying abroad), dated for a while, graduated college, dated for a little while longer, got engaged, then got married.  Done and done.  I guess I never really thought much more about it than that, but apparently she did.  A lot.  In retrospect, in the weeks before the break-up, I should have seen the signs: how she cried to me three times a week about how she hated law school and NYC, how she constantly talked about her college friends and how much she missed them, how I’d ask "What’s going on?" and she’d say, "Stop smothering me!"  But, as my romantic history has proven, I am completely oblivious to such signs of impending doom.

[To wit, I once dated a girl for six months who never looked at me while we had sex.  Not once.  Now, I'm not saying I need some sort of hate-fuck death-stare action going on, but a little incidental or momentary eye contact would have been nice, rather than her looking at the walls, at the ceiling, out the window, at the cars passing by on the interstate, etc.  I swear that one time I could hear the words to "Raspberry Beret" playing in her head while we were doing it.  I told my buddies about this early on in our relationship and they thought it was quite a bad sign, but I ignored them.  Then, after our relationship ended, I learned that it was 98% likely that she was fucking her ex-boyfriend the whole time we were dating.  Whoops.  But deep down in my heart, I know that she liked me.  And by "liked me," I mean "liked me paying her cell phone bill" ("I'm a fool to do your dirty work - oh yeah").]       

But after my most unceremonious dumping, something strange happened: I released a maelstrom of lust upon the women of New York City the likes of which had been seen neither before nor since.  I did not change a single thing about my look (really, how can you improve on "chubby guy with beard?"), my wardrobe (best described as "What’s on sale at Banana Republic?"), or my approach to women (find the drunkest girl, stand near her, hope she settles), yet I was on fire.  Perhaps God was paying me back for the heartbreak, but I was unstoppable, and hooked up constantly.  I simply could not lose.  For a year, I knew what it felt like to be Antonio Banderas.  And, dear friends, it was awesome.

Facilitating my transformation into Sexual Deity was what I did for a living.  No, I did not work as an escort or exotic animal trainer, but rather as a legal assistant at the same large corporate law firm at which I currently work (though I left legal assisting over three years ago).  I realize that this job does not sound particularly sexy, but what it was was very social.  I worked with about 60 other people my age, all from similar education backgrounds, all with similar life goals, and, most encouragingly, all with similar boozing habits.

Our frequent happy hours led to an obscene amount of co-worker incest.  Everyone hooked up with everyone, seemingly regardless of whether they had a boy/girlfriend outside of the firm.  True, some legit romances were born during this time (I have a wedding in December that proves this), but for the most part it was good old-fashioned, fresh-outta-college, mostly-consequence-free hooking up. 

(God, I miss those days.)

Personally, I had a few affairs with co-workers during this time, but for our story, we will focus on one.  Emily and I were friends long before we started making out.  I don’t recall how we first got together, but I’m guessing it went something like this:

INT. – CROWDED BAR AFTER HAPPY HOUR – FRIDAY NIGHT, 11PM

Jason: [swaying] "So, um, do you want to go outside to make out or do you just want to do it here?"
Emily: [slowly opening eyes] "What?"

JASON and EMILY begin SUCKING FACE.

However, Emily and I needed to keep our affair secret, as she was dating an attorney who worked at the firm.  So a few select friends of ours knew about our romantic dalliance, but for the most part we kept things on the hush-hush.  This worked well for me, since I had romantic intentions with another girl that we worked with.  

Over time, because Emily was getting more serious with the attorney she was dating, and because I started hooking up with the other co-worker, it became imperative for Emily and I to be totally secret about our affair.  Though I was in full Antonio Banderas mode, if you know anything about Antonio Banderas, it’s that he hates drama.  And no, I have no idea what that means either.

So imagine my dismay then when, Ben, at the time a co-worker who later became my roommate and who knew of mine and Emily’s affair, pulled me aside one night (when we were not out with co-workers).

Ben: "Dude, I have some good news and some bad news about you and Emily. What do you want to hear first?"
Me: "Gimme the bad news."
Ben: "The bad news is that me, Sarah, Steve, Katie and Emily were all out getting margaritas last night and Emily was very drunk and told everyone about you guys."
Me: [panicking] "What?!?"  
Ben: [chuckling] "But there is good news."
Me: "What’s that?"
Ben: "Emily said that you were ‘hands down’ the best sex she’s ever had."

Well.

If there is one thing that everyone knows about Ben, it’s that he’s total prankster/prick when it comes to women.  I could write a whole post listing the ways in which Ben has been a dick when it comes to this stuff (and I will someday), but suffice it to say that I did not believe him in the least.  Not only because it was Ben telling me this, but because it was simply impossible.  Every time Emily and I hooked up, we were bombed.  It was nothing short of a miracle that I was able to even get an erection during these love-making sessions, which I would only be reminded of the next day when I’d wake up (alone) with an earring sticking out of my face (also, a lack of pizza boxes was a giveaway, since the only way I’d go home without pizza was if I was surely going to do it).  Emily was also an experienced girl who went through a self-described "fun bisexual phase" in college, meaning I was probably in the bottom ninth of her list of best lovers (and I’m being generous).  There was not a doubt in my mind that Ben was lying, perhaps trying to soften the blow about mine and Emily’s love affair being exposed.  Or he was just being a dick.  Whichever.

Back at work, I did not speak to Emily all week, which was not usual.  That next Friday night, all of the co-workers were out celebrating a birthday.  Everyone – including Emily but excepting me – was bombed.  I didn’t feel the need to get (too) bombed that night because it became apparent that at some point in the course of the evening, Emily and I would need to have a semi-serious talk about the status of our "relationship."  If she was going around telling everyone about it, it was going to be a big problem for both of us.

I did not have to think long about how I would breach this topic with Emily, because she soon came up to me.

Emily: [very drunk] "Hi."
Me: "Hi."
Emily: "I have a secret."
Me: "What is it?"
Emily: "I told Ben and Sarah and some other people about us."
Me: "Yeah, I know. That’s almost the opposite of a secret, you know."
Emily: "I have another secret. I told them that you were the best sex I ever had."
Me: [stunned, confused, more than a little scared] "You did?"
Emily: "Yep. And you are. Hands down."

Well.

Emily then asked me to have sex with her in the woman’s bathroom of the bar, a request I respectfully declined.  I wasn’t so sure I could deal with having sex with one co-worker while another one peed.  To this day, turning down this request is the greatest regret of my life. 

(God, I really, really miss those days.)

But at this moment, HD was born.  I, of course, relayed this story to my friends, who started calling me "HD" for "Hands Down."  I was surprised my friends took to this, but truly, it was the feel-good story of the century: chubby guy, recently dumped, down on his luck with no real prospects in terms of love or career, but here he was – a stunning lover.  Of course, I didn’t believe this (and neither did my friends).  I am certain that Emily was either a) lying and fucking with me; b) building up my ego, which she could tell was/is fragile; or c) just really, really into bad sex.

All things considered, however, not a bad rumor to be spread about you.  You can be certain that over the next few days, I was strutting around like the cock of the walk as the story made its rounds among my friends.  I was a little hurt when I told my female friends this story and they would then burst into laughter – long, hearty, and thorough laughter – but I dealt with it.  I was fucking HD.

Over the years, my friends and I have gotten a lot of mileage out of the HD nickname/story.  Of course, no woman since has ever said anything close to me being "hands down" the best sex she’s ever had.  This is probably because 95% of my sexual encounters are the anatomical equivalent of stuffing a wet dish rag into a shot glass and my art of seduction goes: 1) start kissing; 2) count to 20; 3) stick it in.  But to this day, after hooking up with a girl and talking to my buddies about it, they still invariably ask if she got the "HD treatment," which, in addition to stellar love-making, involves a laser light show, a half-dozen black children skipping jump rope, several Dolly Parton tracks, and a cameo appearance by Mike from "American Movie".  Also, it comes with a slice of cantaloupe at the end. 

This is why, however ridiculous and entirely erroneous it may be, one of my nicknames among my friends is HD.

************

Fast forward to this past Saturday night. 

My buddy Jeremy and I were out and about in Alphabet City, which, even if it is turning into the Lower East Side circa 2004, is still a lovely place to be when the weather is nice.  He and I were having drinks at some random bar with friends celebrating a birthday party when one of those rare but awesome moments occurred: I was "recognized." 

I know that "The Loser’s Guide to Marginal ‘Fame’" says that one should play it down and act like it’s no big deal, but I can’t help it – when a random person comes up to me at a bar and says, "Are you Jason Mulgrew?" (usually followed by "Your blog sucks"), it totally rocks my balls off.  I’m not ashamed to admit this.  Usually when it happens, I try to play it cool, but I wind up becoming so embarrassed by the situation that I blush (stupid Irish complexion), mumble, and shuffle off.  But fortunately, I was drunk and in a good mood on Saturday, so any awkwardness was quickly minimized with another sip of beer.

The girls who read this site were named Lisa and Jenn, and they were visiting town from California.  Since it was a small bar and they were not entirely terrified of me, we hung out and enjoyed some drinks.  Before long, we were getting along like old friends, when Lisa said, "We know a secret about you."

Secrets, of course, are generally a bad thing, especially if secrets are known by people you don’t know and who don’t know you.

(Or something.)

I asked what this secret was, and Jenn chimed in and said, "We’ll give you a hint – it comes from your friend Jessica."

Ah, Jessica.  Jessica is indeed my friend.  In addition to being my friend, she and I have done it.  That is, we have had sex.  Twice.  The good news is that it didn’t affect our friendship very much (at all, really) and it was sort of a one-time (or rather, two-time) thing.  We still see each other every once in a while, the last time being a few weeks ago when I randomly ran into her at a bar. 

[Author's Note: I realize that I sound like a whore in this post, but bear in mind that I do not use "hooking up" and "having sex" interchangeably and I've only admitted to sleeping with three girls in this post, one of whom didn't even look at me, so that shouldn't even count.  Also, as of three weeks ago, I have no STD's.  Just pointing that out in case my future wife is reading this post.  Thank you for listening.]

Jessica, however, does not know many secrets about me, or rather none that aren’t known to at least 150,000 of you.  Therefore, I really didn’t know what this secret could be (blame my lack of ratiocination on the booze) and asked Lisa and Jenn how they knew Jessica.  They didn’t, they said.

Now I was getting very intrigued, and maybe a little concerned.  Sensing this, Jenn began to explain.

Jenn and Lisa have a friend who lives in New York named Phil.  A few weeks ago, Phil was at a bar.  I was at this same bar.  So was Jessica.  This is, in fact, the bar at which and the night in which I randomly saw Jessica a few weeks ago.  All three of us, randomly, at this bar.

Apparently, this is what happened.

After Jessica and I spoke at this bar, she walked back over to her circle friends, who stood right next to Phil’s.  She then said to them, "Over there is Jason Mulgrew."  When her friends looked over at me, Jessica then added, "Yeah, he is a terrible, terrible lay."

Ouch.

I nearly choked at this point in the story, as my friend Jeremy burst out laughing.  Lisa then added, "Actually, Phil said she used the phrase ‘worst sex of her life.’" 

Again, ouch.

Jeremy nearly fell on the floor.  My mouth fell open.  Jenn said, "So, um, yeah – sorry about that."  Jeremy then did actually fall on the floor. 

(Seriously, ouch.)

Look, I know I’m a terrible lay.  I’ve always known I’m a terrible lay.  Hell, I tell you guys once a week that I’m a terrible lay.  But…it’s cute when I say it.  It’s kinda like black people and the n-word – only they can use it, and it’s downright adorable when they do so.  But to hear that a girl that I hooked up with is regaling a bar full of her friends and a group of strangers with tales of my inability to properly work a woman’s sexy regions, well, not so cute/adorable/awesome.

I immediately fired off a text message to Jessica, asking her why she was slandering my good name in public.  I thought back to the times that Jessica and I did it, and, while they were not spectacular (I invite you to drink sixteen beers and take a Vicodin and see how well you perform – and I’m talking about her), I would not use the phrase "worst sex of my life."  I considered for a moment that she might have been a virgin, or had only otherwise slept with Charlie Sheen, but realized neither of these were very likely.

Jessica, bless her heart, responded incoherently (it was almost 3:30am at this point), but the gist of her response was that she didn’t remember saying that, that she thinks that someone actually said that to her (???), and that she wasn’t that great either.  

Anyway you look at it, the damage was done.  There I sat, sitting in a bar in Alphabet City at almost 4 in the morning, listening to two strangers from California tell me they heard I was a terrible lay.  WTF, my friends.  WTF, indeed.

So to pre-empt this in the future, to prevent any readers of this site coming up to me in bars telling me they heard I’m a bad lover, I would like to go on record right now and say the following:

I, Jason Mulgrew, am a terrible lover.  I have no idea how to please a woman sexually (or emotionally, psychologically, or mentally, for that matter).  If you go to bed with me, it will be an unpleasant experience that will feature 40-80 seconds of rocking motion, then a noise that sounds like a grizzly bear falling down a flight of stairs, then a request for a high five.  This is all I can give you, aside for upwards of $90 for your troubles.  In my bedroom, you are more likely to find a Sasquatch eating a sandwich while Santa Claus masturbates than you are to have an orgasm.

As for HD, if he ever existed in the first place and was more than a fluke, I think it is safe to say that his time has passed.  There is nothing to be ashamed of, and he had a great run – much greater than any of us expected – but it is now officially over.  HD has gone the way of the dinosaur, the dodo bird, and Rasputin; he has been poisoned by women whose only intention was to build him up so that they could knock him down. 

Farewell, HD.  You were a magnificent son of a bitch and you will be missed.

(Meanwhile, what do you guys think is better: A Practical Guide To Lovemaking Secrets Of The East And West or An Intimate Guide to Soulful Sex?  I’m thinking both, just to be safe.)