Another Gawker Story... So You Don't Have to Page Through All the Boring Ones Yourself

Picture it ... Valentine's Day 1991. I'm a sophomore in college and have been dating the hot guy who lives across the parking lot in my apartment complex - we'll call him G. We've been making out for a while and casually dating ... and then decide we'll move it into more serious territory, just in time for Valentine's Day.

He wakes up early to put a rose on my car before I have to leave for my first class. Awww. We have a makeout session at his place that afternoon, where we express our feelings and remark how special we are to each other. It's touching. I've only had one boyfriend for Valentine's Day before, and he turned out to be an abusive stalker. This is my first healthy relationship in almost two years, and I'm over the moon. I decide to cook him an awesome spaghetti dinner ... and then we'll finally consummate our relationship.

I decide to make the meatballs from the freezer that my roommate had purchased. I make a fantastic dinner for two, complete with candles and a nice peach sorbet for dessert. We head upstairs to begin our wonderful night together. I'm so nervous, because it's our first time together and I haven't been with anyone new in years.

After making out for a while, he excuses himself to use my bathroom which was attached to the bedroom. He proceeds to have what appears to be EXPLOSIVE diarrhea from what I can hear from my half-naked position on the bed near the bathroom door. There's grunting, swearing, panting, and soon cries to God are pouring out of him as freely as the dinner he's ingested less than an hour before. I'm not sure what to do ... do I call attention to his pain by asking him if he's OK, or just let him wait it out? He's got to be embarrassed, because I'm completely mortified.

After what seems to be an eternity (and was probably about 45 minutes), he emerges from the bathroom completely pale and very sweaty. He's a trouper, though. We proceed to have not-so-energetic sex and he hobbles across the parking lot back to his house. Within twenty minutes, I am the one in the bathroom, cursing my ancestors, the shower curtain, the sorbet, and bargaining quite ineffectively with God.

Two days later, my roommate returns home from her trip and I tell her about my disastrous evening. I tell her I've used her ground chuck to make the meatballs, and she exclaims, "OMG... I bought that when we moved in!"

Which was the previous June.

G and I continued to see each other, for some months afterward, but it didn't work out. I never cooked for him again. Luckily.