I have an inexplicable love for frat boys. You’d think that after college, I’d have learned my lesson and vow to never again attempt dating one. But no. Ooooh no.
It was Cinco de Mayo, right after college graduation. Four margaritas and a free t-shirt later, I saw him, stumbling toward the bar in basketball shorts, a t-shirt, J. Crew flip flops, and—

“Nice sombrero, hombre!”

Yes. A sombrero. To those who aren’t familiar, the frat boy always comes with an accessory: obnoxious headgear or aviators. My friend, who was keeping pace with my drinking at about half my size, decided to toss a line to the slightly dirtball, overly confident drunk guy. He turned, grabbed a basket of tortilla chips from another table, and slid into our booth.

“How do you ladies feel about flipcup?”

Swoon!

Hombre, as he came to be known, was a Long Islander with a hah-rrible accent whose buddy was hosting a flipcup tournament. I left the bar after putting my number in his phone, expecting never to hear from him again. Turns out Hombre had an affinity for drunk text messaging at prime booty-call hour. Which is how we ended up on our first date three days later. Read More »