Fall Of The Destroyer

Genghis Khan was a destroyer—feared and revered for his brutal military tactics—who brought many people to their knees in worship. It also makes for a glorious pet dick name. Pet dick names are great, until your wife finds out about the pet dick name you got in college, while you happened to be dating her...sorta.

It all started in the bustling city of Logan, Utah, as a sophomore at Utah State University—the second-largest manufacturer of Mormons in Utah. It’s also one of the best places to date a virgin, if you’re into that sort of thing.

So, like any other young athlete in Utah, I was forced between two paths. The first would be to go on my mission to become a devout Mormon, get married and have 17 kids in the next six months. Or, option two, which is becoming an alcoholic and drinking until I forgot why I came to Utah in the first place. Since I’m writing for Exotic, I’m sure you all figured out that I chose option number one, before quickly realizing that I’m more of a second path, Plan B kind of guy (if the whole going-to-school-in-Utah-instead-of-a-major-University thing didn’t give it away).

If you are still with your high school sweetheart and nobody cheated or went on a break, it means that you and your spouse owe it to each other to try one of these options and, if you’re really cool, maybe try both (I’m free after 6pm weekdays and am usually sitting in the back of DOA in Tacoma, sipping a bourbon on the rocks).

I remember as a young kid, I got all the way to the second-to-last level on Final Fantasy 7, but I just couldn’t beat it. I spent hours trying to level up my guys, buy all the potions and all that, but still nothing...it got so bad, that it was affecting other facets of my life. Eventually, my mom made me take a break from the game and took it from me. Fast forward to 2010, when I’m packing stuff to move to Utah for my sophomore year of college, I find the game, plug in my old PlayStation and load up that level; I get to the last bit of the boss stage and I still die. Over ten years of waiting and I still can’t beat the damn boss. So, I break the game in half and act as if I never saw it. Sometimes a break isn’t even the answer—maybe my mom was wrong. But, she could have been right—you should try that break.

So, I’m out with my friends and drinks are flying, literally—Mike was an angry drunk and he usually got us kicked out of every party we went to. Now, here we are, drunk and outside in the middle of November, in the coldest part of the city, between Frosty The Snowman’s villa and Elsa’s castle, with no party to go to. A couple of my friends hit me up, asking if we want to come over to the after-party at their house. Being the gent that I am, I oblige. We show up and this is no after-party I’ve ever been to—this was a freaky-deaky, get-down shindig. One couple goes off to a room, then another couple goes off to a room and I’m just left there...looking dazed and confused. This girl drunkenly stumbles over to me, grabs my hand and crashes into her room. She unzips my pants, pulls down my boxers and stares like one of those pedestrians in the movie Godzilla, screams and then passes out.

So, now, I’m terrified—a little white Mormon girl died, I’m the last one she is seen with and there are witnesses. I did what any drunk college kid would do: I poured water on her face to make sure she wasn’t dead and, when she woke up, I ran 1.37 miles in the snow to my dorm room and swore to never drink again.

The next weekend, as I’m drinking with my friends, a few of them let us know that they made shirts with nicknames on them, then they handed them out to the rest of us. "The Golden Child," "Party Whore," "Let’s Compare" and "The Destroyer," all special to each person for various reasons. At this point, I have no idea why my shirt says "The Destroyer." Only I should remember that night...could the word have gotten out? By this point, my then-girlfriend and I are back together, and the night is going well. The group is partying hard and having fun. We start playing "Never Have I Ever," people start talking about funny sexual experiences and, then, let’s call her Whitney (cause her name is Whitney), starts to tell a story that sounds vaguely familiar. Suddenly, everyone suddenly starts laughing and then, they start chanting "destroyer, Destroyer, DESTROYER!!!" I look dumb as hell with my then-girlfriend staring at me, while I wear the shirt with "The Destroyer" printed on the back. So, I do what any self-respecting man would do—I start chanting as hard as I could, "DESTROYER, DESTROYER!"

Needless to say, I no longer have that shirt at home in my trophy case.