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Cock-Blocked by Dad: A Date that will Live in Infamy

cock blockedCock-blocks. Show me a man who doesn’t cringe when he hears the word, I’ll show you a man who has never seen a naked woman. Every dude who has ever stepped foot on the battlefield known as courtship (or, to put it less euphemistically, “macking it”) has clashed with a battalion of cock-blocks in all shapes and sizes. Whether the act is intentional or unintentional, direct or indirect, friendly or foely, when you’re on the receiving end, it’s as if these soldiers of celibacy were born to accomplish no other purpose in life than to block your cock.

By the time we reach middle school, most men can easily identify these thwarters of fuckery. Any apt player knows the telltale signs of an impending cock-block: a massive and miserable girl friend, a desperate and disillusioned guy friend, etc. And every battle-hardened mack can tell you war stories about ninja cock-blocks that lurked in the shadows until the last conceivable moment before pouncing and blocking cocks tenaciously. In my own experiences, I have been cock-blocked by overzealous dogs, under-age statutes, and the forever-frustrating monthly no-no time. However, no cock-block story is more frustrating, formidable, and fucking funny than the time I got cock-blocked by my fat dad.

I invoke the muse of sexual frustration to tell this epic tale of not getting tail properly. I sing of boners and a man: his fate had made him fugitive; he journeyed to a college in a distant land seeking whimsical and inconsequential sexual relations with hot babes. Housed in a dorm, there was one babe who many men lusted after, but few ever approached: the smoking hot Resident Director.

Put less pretentiously, I had a serious boner to pick with my RD.

She was 25 at the time and cloistered like a nun. She’d spend her Saturday nights baking cookies for drunken dormers to devour after heroic nights of binge drinking and drug use of the recreational variety. While we blatantly drank in our rooms and flagrantly pulled our pants down in the hallways, she never wrote us up or gave us shit. Cool and a total cutie, I started paying her platonic visits even while sober.

Never did I consider these visits anything more than innocuous fraternization with authority until the summer after I graduated. My former-RD let me know (via AIM) that she was visiting near my hometown and wanted to catch up over a drink or ten. Oblivious to the subtext, I agreed and expected a night similar to the ones I enjoyed in her adult dorm room (sans home baked cookies).

However, one drink led to another, which inadvertently led one thing to another, and before I knew it, I was officially (and awesomely) hooking up with the hot RD. As the reality of this sunk in, another reality simultaneously hit me: where was I going to seal the deal? Here I was, a 22-year-old intern, sleeping in the same bed I’d slept in when I was 9 years old. Logistics looked dismal, but if college taught me anything, it taught me this: recklessness always wins (even when it loses).

So I suggested to RD we grab some 40’s (for my homies) and chug them in my parent’s basement. After a semester of living life far from the wild side, hot RD thought this was quiet the brilliant way to continue the night. With my girl under one arm, an O.E. 40 flailing in the other, RD and I busted into my house like a R. Kelly vid. However, I quickly quieted my whooping and hollering upon remembering my little brother’s bedtime is 8 o’clock.

We tip toed to the basement and commenced clothing removal. Somewhere mid-bra strap I heard an ominous creak from the floorboards upstairs. This was a creak unmistakably from the steps of a fat man – and there was only one fat man living in that house: my dad.

Let me pause for a moment to give you a visual of my double XL dad. Basically, my dad is the white version of Carl Winslow. He’s jovial, hot-tempered and, most importantly, large and in charge.

And that night my dad was really looking dapper: rocking a pair of tidy-whiteys with a V-neck undershirt (undershirt meticulously tucked into the tidy’s). You can imagine my chagrin as one moment I’m disrobing this collegiate sex fantasy, the next moment my dad is grabbing me, red-faced, dressed completely indecent and inappropriately, and screaming for us to “Keep our voices down, damn it! People are trying to sleep!”

I remember the next moments in slow motion. Hot RD made a grab for her blouse to cover up her half-exposed boobies. My dad pumped out his chest, showcasing his full-exposed man boobies. He pointed a lone index finger at both of us and added, “In case you forgot, this isn’t the frat house!” as if such an explanation was ever needed.

Needless to say, hot RD ran out of my basement, out of my house, and probably back to her cloistered adult dorm room. And, as for me, I got a set of blue balls and new definition of the word cock-block.

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About Rob J. Rob J. is a writer and dating instructor in New York City. Themes that resonate in both his teaching and writing are masculinity, genuineness, rational self-interest, and general awesomeness.

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