We’ve all been there. Of, if you’re into chicks, you call it pussyblocked. Or is it a beaver dam? Your choice. I’m sure you know what I mean. 

It’s that moment when you’re steaming straight ahead to Funkytown and there’s a fatal error.

And you find yourself (insert appropriate genitals)-blocked.

Take for instance this moment in my life. I was out bar hopping with my favorite month-long fling from last year and we were having a grand time trading raunchy stories and sending inappropriate drunk texts to various friends (if you’re reading this and were a recipient, sorry/ not sorry/ you’re welcome). We started to end the night and found ourselves making out while leaning on my car wishing we had a more convenient hook-up location. He pulled back slightly and with a sly grin said that he worked around the corner and he has a dream of sex on the conference table.

I couldn’t say yes fast enough.

We hurried to his building, giggling like idiot teenagers the whole way. We stumbled up the dimly lit stairwell and into the open-space office design…only to find…his loser co-worker pulling an all-nighter.

Cockblock of all cockblocks.

With the open office design, there was nowhere to get any privacy, and the co-worker was looking pretty suspicious of my date’s fake rifling through papers and mumbling of “uh I forgot to grab…uh…something.”

We looked at each other and realized this would be the end of the evening.

On the way out, I heard my date mutter “well I’ve never liked that guy, so at least now I have an actual reason to hate that guy…so…bright side?”