So You Want To Sleepover: The Panic Diaries – Guy Edition

February 1st 2013

Well. I’ve already told you what we think.  

About the sleepovers I mean. And I’m not talking gal pal- bros night sleepovers. I’m talking about the scandy ones with someone you wouldn’t mind doing questionable things to. But what about you? What in the hell is going through your mind: Before? During? After? The cuddle? The goddamn spooning? The next morning? All that obligatory shit. I sure as hell don’t know. So I did some research. And by research I mean I did a little collaboration. With my male friends…And by collaboration I mean I asked them. Perve. And now? Well. Now I can give the men reassurance that they’re not the only ones unhappy with a spoonful of hair. And I can give the girl’s validation that they’re not the only ones in panic city during these questionably romantic cuddle seshes.

Brandon, Kyle, and Olive present:

So You Want To Sleepover: The Panic Diaries – Guy Edition:

I need to get some.

And I need to get it now. I’m a guy, and it’s been too damn long.

Reach for the phone.

C-o-m-e  o-v-e- << nope.

L-e-t-s   g-e-t   i-t   o << Too aggressive.

Think casual.

“Hey. What are you up to tonight?” – 9: 50pm (nice)

“Not too much. Just hanging out with my friends, trying to figure out plans for tonight. You?” 10:01 pm. 

“Same here. Just got done working out.” 10:07 pm. 

She doesn’t care.

Cue in the double text

“So if  you don’t end up doing anything tonight, want to come over and hangout?” 10: 44 pm. 

No response.


Here’s what she’s thinking: Well let’s see, it’s currently 10:30 pm. And I’ve got no plans. I’m no fool. This is a booty call! Ass. (pun intended) Then again, before I type out a ‘Nice try I’m a classy lady’ I should ask myself these very important questions first:

1. On a scale of 1 – Taylor Swift – How needy am I?

2. On a scale of 1- Ruben Studdard – How little action am I getting these days?

3. On a Scale of 1 – Lindsay Lohan, how little fucks do I give?

If you’ve answered Taylor Swift, Ruben Studdard, or Lindsay Lohan to any or all of these questions. Put your party leggings on – you’re gettin some.

Back space. ‘Nice try I’m a classy <<<”

Re-type ” Yeah sure what time.” Send.



Back to the guy mind –

So I guess she’s sleeping over.

Well shit. I didn’t think she’d actually say yes. That text has a 1-28 success rate. Nice!

There’s a knock at the door.

Shit she’s already here?!


But first:

1. Chuck all the clothes in the hamper. (Will I pull through and actually wash them? Most likely – Not.)

2. Steal books from roommates and scatter on the nightstand. Must look intellectual and shit. Fuck did I just steal the Hobbit? Too late.

3. Dust off the photo of Grams and I. Must show evidence of a soul. Bitches love souls.

4. Sling an old bowl of mac and cheese to the nearest closet (know full well it’ there to stay)

5. Bust out the 3-year-old pull up bar (The infamous x-mas gift of 2006…fresh from the box). Throw that shit between the door way.


Wait…what is that smell? Whatever.

Answer the door.

Hey. Yeah what’s going on. Come on in. Oh sorry about that sticky shit on the floor it’s just…actually I’m not sure what that is…tour of the place? Sure. Conveniently end the tour in the bedroom? My signature move.

7 minutes later.

Andddd this is my room. Ha yeah that is my grams. Yeah she such a sweet old lady. Are we close? Definitely definitely. I just went grocery shopping with her last week. Poor thing couldn’t’ reach the Raisin Bran so I had to swoop her up and help her the best I could. I even poured her a bowl the next morning! Just wanted to do something nice. Oh. Yeah she does live in Denver. Nope I guess that wouldn’t have been last week…oh what’s that smell? It does kind of smell like old mac and cheese and gym clothes. (She’s a fucking bloodhound!) Idk. Must be something my roommate’s cooking. He’s not the cleanest guy.

(Change the subject. CHANGE THE SUBJECT.)

“You need clothes to sleep in?”



Open the drawer. There it is. 1 singular oversized – stain free tee. Well done sir, well fucking done.

Well wait. What the fuck do I wear? Can’t exactly set the mood with these 8-year-old jeans and ketchup stained volunteer shirt. Also, don’t want to strip the fuck down…well I do. But not yet. Full body Parka? Sweats and shirt? Forget the shirt? Boxers only? Boxers and shorts? Eh, two layers between me and glory? Fuck that noise. What about the straight up birthday suit?…Wait how did I get from parka to birthday suit?…Where am I?

She asks if somethings wrong. That I’ve been standing silently in front of my dresser for 4 straight minutes and that I looked distressed and confused. Accurate.

She’s standing in the middle of the room

Clutching my last piece of clean apparel. What do I do. Do I watch? Do I leave? Think of an excuse to leave the room. THINK ABOUT IT NOW.

“Do you want something to eat? Drink? Alright cool brb.” Scamper to the fridge (praying she doesn’t find that old bowl of mac n cheese and gossip magazine in the closet) Open the fridge and look for a delicious treat for the lady. Alright, what do I have to work with:

Option 1: Siracha (shits good on everything) < might be a little aggressive for a bed time snack though – could bring the pre make out to an interesting level NO think of something else. If you walk back into the room with a bottle of sriacha you will look like a fool!…But an ethnic fool at that.

Option 2: Bag of frozen corn (half the price of the can, I’m no sucker. Gotta get he good deals when they come!) < On second thought, I guess I could think of more sexy snacks than a bag of frozen corn. Keep searching.

Option 3:  Slim jims (Wait why the fuck are these in the fridge? Idk but I’m eating one now) < Not sharing that shit.

Option 4: Mexican food from yesterdays lunch (why do I always save the chips, they are soft as shit) < Mexican:…Kind of a double edged sword. Shouldn’t eat it pre hook up. And shouldn’t feed it to her pre-hook up. Close call.

Self thought: How am I alive eating like this? Damnit, you’re better than this! Alright, half-opened bottle of wine with the two plastic cups I managed to wash specifically for this occasion.  And that’s it.


“Heyy I’m back. Wanna watch a movie?”


“What do you want to watch?”

“Ohhh, I don’t care. I’m not picky.”

THAT’ IS BULLSHIT. THIS IS A TRAP. If you didn’t care I would watch Inception, try to understand it for the 5th time, get lost in limbo and forget you were even next to me. Followed by all the new Batman movies. Now what bullshit can I find she would like? Erin Brockovich, You Got Mail, Twister, Sleepless in Seattle, Die Hard. OH SHIT. I forgot I had Die Hard. Oh for sure popping this in. Wait  ABORT ABORT. Can’t get it up after watching Bruce Willis. Think happy medium. Twister? That seems like a pretty asexual choice. Nothing to get the party started like an airborne cow.

“Hmm…How about Twister?


“Erin Brockovich.”


Alright how to set this up. I’m sitting up and she’s going for the awkward side lean. Like half against my shoulder. Like alright bitch you’ve already trapped one of my arms. Do you want me to cuddle the shit out of you or not.  RELEASE ME.

 8 minutes later

She pretends to readjust. She totally gets it. Or she is totally just readjusting. Is this a goddamn sign or is she readjusting? Okay now she’s creviced herself in my armpit. Questioning how little deodorant I put on today. I can feel her sinking in s l o w l y….. s l o w l y. This swiftly went from a classic cuddle – to me feeling like I’m cradling fucking baby voldemort via pit. I am not turned on by this at all. GET UP HERE.

21 minutes later

She begins having a coughing fit. Can’t tell if she’s doing this for attention or if she’s really dying. Am I supposed to rock her world? Or give her the Heimlich? Why are those my only 2 choices? Baby voldemort’s about 8 feet deep into my armpit and can’t hear any of my voiced concerns. This is going well.

I offer her water. She sits up. No longer cradling. A necessary step. She takes a sip. Offers me some. I know where that cup came from. I say no thanks. She lays back down. Head on the shoulder. Much more practical. Now the main characters are going at it like crazy. THIS IS AWESOME.

Going in for the casual boob graze. No reaction. Good times.

Rolling credits. She’s not moving. Is she asleep? Is she alive? Jesus is she breathing?  How long are we supposed to lay here and act like we care who Waitress in diner in scene 4 is? She breathes. Okay get off me. Gotta turn this shit off. I see a discreet leg swipe out of the left corner of my eye. Setting the mood or petting the leggings? WTF DOES THAT MEAN.

The commute back from the DVD player is a crucial one.  Let’s think about this. If I make the move, she might think I only invited her for sex, but if I don’t, she thinks I’m a bitch. Fuck it. I’m going for it. Remember what you’ve practiced with the single hand bra clasp release. Ready, Set, Bring it on.

I swing my arm around and go straight hand to boob contact. Second times the charm. But wtf is this? A sports bra? That’s like the chastity belt of the boobs! Whatever, challenge accepted.

36 seconds later

Fuck it it’s like Fort Knox! Wait…I’ve got some scissors in my nightstand. Hmm…then again can’t see me grabbing for a weapon mid hook up would go over so well. I have to back out. I HAVE TO BACK OUT NOW. Until we meet again, sports bra.

Forget the bra. Depants her with respect. Or no respect at all. Whichever. Let’s keep this party going. This is good. This is really good.

It’s happening

It’s happening

“Hey we should probably get a condom”


“Yeah definitely. Hold on.”

I reach over her into my night stand.They gotta be here somewhere. I haven’t used them in months. I just have to get through this shit on top…still sifting…must be on the bottom. Push off the lighter…got it! Nope that’s a paperclip (can never have too many paperclips – except now.), lift up the high school yearbook (I wish that book would just die), push over an extra pair of shoe laces (you never know). Behind the unopened bottle of fish oil? (All about those Omega – 3’s). There they are! Fucking finally!

Now back to what I was about to do:

Its happening

Its happening…



Note to self: Exaggerate this to friends tomorrow.

Alright. I’ve done this routine before. Fall asleep immediately so she doesn’t react.  I bet it’s time for the cuddle now. (My nemesis.) This happens every time. They get surrounded by a blanket of warmth and start to fall right to fucking sleep. For me? Different story. Yup. It’s happening. My arm is falling asleep. Yeah. Completely numb. I can’t breathe. Hair is fucking everywhere. Now my head is tilting up over her head as im trying to control my breathing and I look like I’m posing for the most awkward senior head shot photo of all time. This is fucking miserable. I really just feel like –

It’s instantly morning: Guy sleeps like log. 

Whyyyyy am I up right now? Oh yeah, FUCK YOU morning wood, LET ME SLEEP IN ONCE! Maybe she wants it again. Wait no…remember last night… okay maybe not. Don’t need evidence of that twice. Do I tuck? Does she like it? Do I put the boxers back on to provide a cloth barrier between me and her butt? Ah shit, that picture of me and grams on my nightstand. LOOK AWAY GRAMS.

Somehow I have the only pillow and blankets…she definitely has more clothes on than I remember. More importantly, I have to pee. But my arm is trapped in a cage of girl hair. (This must be the same feeling James Franco had in 128 hours). When she wakes up is she going to want to do the morning cuddle? No absolutely not. I want a slim jim.

4 minutes later.

“Good morning”

“Yeah yeah good morning.”



“So last night was fun.”

“Definitely. We should do it again sometime.”

“For sure for sure…I have to go”

“Yeah, I mean, do what you gotta do”

Obligatory hug and escort to the door.

Shes gone.

Heads to kitchen. Eats another slim jim. Goes back to bed to finish the party solo.