My recent lack of posts stems from the fact that I'm currently going through a vapid yet disruptive existential crisis. Less than a month shy of turning 20, I've found myself questioning my current lifestyle habits and wondering what effect my present behavior will have on my more-and-more-rapidly-encroaching post graduate life. I'll be the first to admit it: I go out too often and while I'm out I go too extreme. There's no denying it, and while my GPA is good, there's also no denying that it would be better if I acted more responsibly. At my large university, I've been able to make it feel much smaller by knowing a vast majority of the non-asian male population, due to them either being next on my Hit List or already on my I've-Hit-It List. I only go to the gym on days when I'm not hungover, which is approximately twice a week, and my diet consists of coffee with nonfat milk until 3 pm, and roughly one thousand calories worth of pizza after 3 am. While it looks like I've hired Lindsay Lohan's old life coach, the truth is I'm the happiest now that I've ever been in my entire life. The only thought causing me stress is that maybe it's time I should start thinking responsibly.
Every morning, I sit with my coffee and have a hungover meditation. I know I could fix all of these seemingly wrong things about my life easily, and I know exactly how I'd do it. Instead of starving myself all day so that I can fit into whichever piece of spandex nightwear I'm planning on wearing and then drunk munching on pizza before falling asleep with my shoes still on, I could eat dinner at a reasonable hour then retire to my room to stay on top of my homework before the weekend comes. Then, if I limited myself to only going out on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, and also enforced a rule where I went to the gym either the day I went out in order to tighten up for my going out-fit, and also on days after I've gone out in order to sweat out my hangover, I'd end up working out four days a week. Finally, instead of only answering texts from boys who only talk to me after 11 pm, I could take one of the nice boys I know up on their offer to hang out soberly. From there, we could enter a bond beyond the party scene, and both of us could just cut the whole hard-to-get bullshit and have a functional relationship that doesn't
involve playing mind games.
But if this is the kind of life that I'll be forced to live once I graduate, what's the sense in living it now? Missing class because of a hangover is more forgivable than missing work because of one. And getting your favorite pair of Hanky Panky's back from the frat boy who's best friend dates your Big is way easier than getting them back from some guy you met at a bar downtown. It's healthy for me to get these unhealthy habits out of my system now while they're still forgivable. My existential crisis of exiting my teenage years started with the realization that I should grow more responsible to secure my future, but that led me to the opposite realization that the responsible thing to do now is act irresponsibly before a multitude of adult responsibilities are thrust upon me. On the edge of twenty, I realized that I might just be at an age where I need to do things that are bad for me. I need to stay out past 3 am the night before I have a midterm. I need to enjoy what is rapidly becoming the not-so-occasional cigarette while I'm drunk. I need to fall asleep in my makeup and contacts because I've fallen asleep in a bed other than my own. And I need to fuel myself with coffee and diet coke in order to rapidly get homework done so that I still have time in the day to tan without sunscreen. At this point in my life, it seems that the most unhealthy lifestyle I could lead would be one full of organic foods, sleeping, and furthermore sleeping next to someone with whom I have a functional relationship.
Showing posts with label Frat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Frat. Show all posts
4.18.2012
3.13.2012
A Walk To Forget
Having a high tolerance for humiliation, I am generally unfazed by feelings of embarrassment during walks of shame. Some walkers prefer to take extreme backroads or even sprint their way home in fear of ridicule and judgement, but not me. Regardless of how scanty my dress may be, I take my sweet time slowly strolling up even the busiest of streets; frat row is essentially my runway.
But the other morning halfway through a walk back from my favorite fraternity, I had a weird encounter that was more bizarre than the drunken night before had been. I'd been set up for a date party at a frat where I was surprised I'd never met my date since, to put it lightly, I'd already "met" a lot of guys in that house. Since I didn't know my date prior, but I knew a lot of other girls' dates, I pulled out all the stops by wearing a dress that left very little to the imagination, and heels so chunky that I'd used them in lieu of a hammer to push thumbtacks into my wall on move-in day. My outfit worked like a charm, and my date and I really hit it off. In fact, the dress worked so well that I found myself walking home in it a mere 10 hours later, only this time the outfit wasn't exactly what I would've chosen for a "morning" look. But still, I walked proudly with my heels in hand during the arduous trek up fraternity row, past people I didn't know and people I did know but didn't care enough to stop and explain my indecency to. I was only a block away from my place when all of the sudden my concentrated strut was broken by someone calling to me.
"Hey, excuse me!" I looked up to see a young guy pulled into a driveway in front of me with his car window rolled down.
Ugh, great, I thought to myself, just what I need right now, someone heckling me.
But once he saw that he'd gotten my attention he continued, "Can you tell me where the music building is?" His heavily accented voice sounded panicked and desperate, so I shrugged my scantily clad shoulders and replied sure. I took a couple of barefoot steps over towards his car and began my explanation.
"The music building is right past the humanities quad, kind of near the astronomy building. Do you know where I'm talking about?"
He looked at me with wide, terrified eyes, "No, no, I do not know where that is, I am not from here," his accent sounded european, and though it didn't make him attractive he didn't look like he could've been more than two or three years older than me. "You see, I have to be at the music hall before 10 for a rehearsal. The concert is my own so it is very important that I be there on time!"
I looked at me phone, it was 9:50. This kid was fucked, and not in the good way.
"Okay, okay," now we were in a time crunch, and for some reason (perhaps the fact that I was still considerably drunk from the night before) I had adopted this foreigner's problem as my own. "So you're going to continue straight down this street and make a left at the next right. Then, you're going to go straight through the light after that, then turn left again at the next light into a roundabout. There, you'll see a bunch of buses and cars and whatnot, drive past those and go into the parking structure. Then once you get out of your car, you're going to walk up a hill past the student store straight up to the music hall. But be careful not to walk in the other direction out of the parking structure or else you'll end up in the dorms!"
"Oh, thank you, thank you!"I felt rewarded, like I'd just done a good deed to rid me of my morning shame. He instantly appeared more relieved, which became evident in his next statement. "So...." he continued much more calmly, "I am here for a couple of days, are there fun places to go at night?"
Still in tour-guide mode, I replied enthusiastically "Sure! There's a bar down this street we're on now that's a huge night spot for students. Especially on Wednesday, that's Pint Night!"
"Do you ever go there?" He asked.
"No, I'm not 21." Why was I still talking to this guy?
"Where do you go out to?" He inquired further.
I couldn't help but laugh and look down at my dress, "I normally just go to the frats."
"Oh, okay. Do you think I could have your phone number for during my stay here? Maybe you could escort me out some night?"
Just as I was drunkenly about to start rattling off my phone number, it struck me: Oh, my god, this guy thinks I'm a prostitute!
"Oh, I'm sorry,"I was jolted back to sobriety, "my phone is broken, bye!" I hurried away from his car before he'd have the chance to notice that my phone had been in my hand during our entire conversation.
I'd always thought of walks of shame as embarrassing only because your fellow students could see your obvious scarlet letter of sleeping in someone else's bed. But it never occurred to me until that eye opening morning that what college students know to be sleeping out, people outside of the Greek System perceive to be prostitution.
"Hey, excuse me!" I looked up to see a young guy pulled into a driveway in front of me with his car window rolled down.
Ugh, great, I thought to myself, just what I need right now, someone heckling me.
But once he saw that he'd gotten my attention he continued, "Can you tell me where the music building is?" His heavily accented voice sounded panicked and desperate, so I shrugged my scantily clad shoulders and replied sure. I took a couple of barefoot steps over towards his car and began my explanation.
"The music building is right past the humanities quad, kind of near the astronomy building. Do you know where I'm talking about?"
He looked at me with wide, terrified eyes, "No, no, I do not know where that is, I am not from here," his accent sounded european, and though it didn't make him attractive he didn't look like he could've been more than two or three years older than me. "You see, I have to be at the music hall before 10 for a rehearsal. The concert is my own so it is very important that I be there on time!"
I looked at me phone, it was 9:50. This kid was fucked, and not in the good way.
"Okay, okay," now we were in a time crunch, and for some reason (perhaps the fact that I was still considerably drunk from the night before) I had adopted this foreigner's problem as my own. "So you're going to continue straight down this street and make a left at the next right. Then, you're going to go straight through the light after that, then turn left again at the next light into a roundabout. There, you'll see a bunch of buses and cars and whatnot, drive past those and go into the parking structure. Then once you get out of your car, you're going to walk up a hill past the student store straight up to the music hall. But be careful not to walk in the other direction out of the parking structure or else you'll end up in the dorms!"
"Oh, thank you, thank you!"I felt rewarded, like I'd just done a good deed to rid me of my morning shame. He instantly appeared more relieved, which became evident in his next statement. "So...." he continued much more calmly, "I am here for a couple of days, are there fun places to go at night?"
Still in tour-guide mode, I replied enthusiastically "Sure! There's a bar down this street we're on now that's a huge night spot for students. Especially on Wednesday, that's Pint Night!"
"Do you ever go there?" He asked.
"No, I'm not 21." Why was I still talking to this guy?
"Where do you go out to?" He inquired further.
I couldn't help but laugh and look down at my dress, "I normally just go to the frats."
"Oh, okay. Do you think I could have your phone number for during my stay here? Maybe you could escort me out some night?"
Just as I was drunkenly about to start rattling off my phone number, it struck me: Oh, my god, this guy thinks I'm a prostitute!
"Oh, I'm sorry,"I was jolted back to sobriety, "my phone is broken, bye!" I hurried away from his car before he'd have the chance to notice that my phone had been in my hand during our entire conversation.
I'd always thought of walks of shame as embarrassing only because your fellow students could see your obvious scarlet letter of sleeping in someone else's bed. But it never occurred to me until that eye opening morning that what college students know to be sleeping out, people outside of the Greek System perceive to be prostitution.
2.20.2012
You Snooze, They Lose
Being perpetually single, it only make sense that I celebrate my Valentines Day by doing something quintessential of my love life: having a random hook-up. I went to a pseudo-classy party at one of my favorite frats, where the boys were wearing shirts with buttons and collars, there was no dubstep playing, and everyone in attendance was guzzling as much $5 wine as their plastic cups could hold. Because I wasn’t doing my normal routine of throwing back shots, I unknowingly drank myself into a wine-drunk. My body was buzzing, my cheeks were radiating more than my uncontrollable smile was, and my brain was scanning the room for the nearest face to make out with. That’s when I found the easiest and most accessible solution: the guy in that frat who tried to get me to give him a handjob during a busride to a football game this past fall. He was cute, but in the past I hadn’t been into him because of how available he’d made himself, which in that moment made him the ideal candidate.
I slurred out a little flirting, and after about a minute flat I had successfully scored myself a valentine. In the holiday spirit, we started celebrating our genuine love and adoration for one another by making out in a most reprehensible manner. In about another minute flat, we retreated to the “privacy” of the curtain enclosing the bottom bunk of his shared bedroom. Unable to withstand the raging emotions of our feelings for one another, and equally unable to cope with the hormones brought on from our binge drinking, he took off his button down and slacks, as well as my festive pink dress.
Even though I was in this boy’s bedroom, my true valentine that night was definitely wine. I was in love with the wine, and the sleepy adoration it had me feeling. I wasn’t energetic and ready to rage the way I was normally rendered from drinking hard alcohol, but instead I was very giggly and extremely tranquil. I was evidently feeling love drunk off the wine, or else I wouldn’t have ended up in this particular valentine’s bed when I had a midterm the next morning. But there was something about the magic of the wine that had me magnetically drawn to his bed.
Equally love drunk, my valentine was a more frisky type of playful. “Babe,” he said whilst kissing my neck, “I would love it if you’d go down on me.”
I playfully repeated what he said, like some kind of drunken parrot, “I’d love it if you went down on me!” I grinned a huge smile that was framed by my cabernet-stained lips.
He returned the playful banter, “I’ll go down on you if you go down on me?”
“Okay! You first!” I flipped over onto my back and let my valentine be magnetized downward the same way I’d been magnetically drawn into his bed. I didn’t care that I was single on this holiday; it was the happiest Valentine’s Day I could’ve wished for. The combination of what literally was going down mixed with the tranquility I’d achieved off several glasses of vino had landed me in hook-up heaven.
A little while later, my valentine came back up to my hemisphere of the bed, but I remained still in my state of bliss. Eager to get his half of the favor, he moved his body to the upmost part of his bed so that I could stay on my back while still holding up my end of the bargain.
I wasn’t trying to avoid my promise, I was just fighting a losing battle against the sleepy euphoria that was washing over me so heavily I was in danger of drowning. But as I began giving him his valentines gift, I continued sinking deeper and deeper into my slumberous abyss, until the next thing I knew my alarm was sounding for my morning midterm!
“Oh, shit!” I woke up in an adrenaline rush, desperate to make it back to my room despite my time crunch so that I wouldn’t have to take my midterm in my flagrant Valentines Day outfit.
“Huh? What’s the matter?” he groggily mumbled, being roused from his sleep.
“I have to go take a midterm!” I said as I pulled my clothes on, “Later!” I flashed him a smile and ran out of his room.
In contrast with all the good students strolling past me on their way to class, I sprinted to my room to change into a decent outfit, then made my way to class. As I hurried to class, I ran over the previous nights events in my head. It wasn’t a blackout, but it was certainly blurry. My mind was racing as fast as my body was; the closer I got to my lecture hall, the more of the night I remembered. I remember making out in the main room, then we went back to his room obviously, seeing as that’s where I woke up… Then as I arrived at the classroom door, it hit me. Oh my God! I fell asleep while I was giving him head! In total shock as well as astonishment, I opened the door just before my professor began handing out the exam. Well, I contemplated, at least I slept through giving him head, and not my morning midterm.
I slurred out a little flirting, and after about a minute flat I had successfully scored myself a valentine. In the holiday spirit, we started celebrating our genuine love and adoration for one another by making out in a most reprehensible manner. In about another minute flat, we retreated to the “privacy” of the curtain enclosing the bottom bunk of his shared bedroom. Unable to withstand the raging emotions of our feelings for one another, and equally unable to cope with the hormones brought on from our binge drinking, he took off his button down and slacks, as well as my festive pink dress.
Even though I was in this boy’s bedroom, my true valentine that night was definitely wine. I was in love with the wine, and the sleepy adoration it had me feeling. I wasn’t energetic and ready to rage the way I was normally rendered from drinking hard alcohol, but instead I was very giggly and extremely tranquil. I was evidently feeling love drunk off the wine, or else I wouldn’t have ended up in this particular valentine’s bed when I had a midterm the next morning. But there was something about the magic of the wine that had me magnetically drawn to his bed.
Equally love drunk, my valentine was a more frisky type of playful. “Babe,” he said whilst kissing my neck, “I would love it if you’d go down on me.”
I playfully repeated what he said, like some kind of drunken parrot, “I’d love it if you went down on me!” I grinned a huge smile that was framed by my cabernet-stained lips.
He returned the playful banter, “I’ll go down on you if you go down on me?”
“Okay! You first!” I flipped over onto my back and let my valentine be magnetized downward the same way I’d been magnetically drawn into his bed. I didn’t care that I was single on this holiday; it was the happiest Valentine’s Day I could’ve wished for. The combination of what literally was going down mixed with the tranquility I’d achieved off several glasses of vino had landed me in hook-up heaven.
A little while later, my valentine came back up to my hemisphere of the bed, but I remained still in my state of bliss. Eager to get his half of the favor, he moved his body to the upmost part of his bed so that I could stay on my back while still holding up my end of the bargain.
I wasn’t trying to avoid my promise, I was just fighting a losing battle against the sleepy euphoria that was washing over me so heavily I was in danger of drowning. But as I began giving him his valentines gift, I continued sinking deeper and deeper into my slumberous abyss, until the next thing I knew my alarm was sounding for my morning midterm!
“Oh, shit!” I woke up in an adrenaline rush, desperate to make it back to my room despite my time crunch so that I wouldn’t have to take my midterm in my flagrant Valentines Day outfit.
“Huh? What’s the matter?” he groggily mumbled, being roused from his sleep.
“I have to go take a midterm!” I said as I pulled my clothes on, “Later!” I flashed him a smile and ran out of his room.
In contrast with all the good students strolling past me on their way to class, I sprinted to my room to change into a decent outfit, then made my way to class. As I hurried to class, I ran over the previous nights events in my head. It wasn’t a blackout, but it was certainly blurry. My mind was racing as fast as my body was; the closer I got to my lecture hall, the more of the night I remembered. I remember making out in the main room, then we went back to his room obviously, seeing as that’s where I woke up… Then as I arrived at the classroom door, it hit me. Oh my God! I fell asleep while I was giving him head! In total shock as well as astonishment, I opened the door just before my professor began handing out the exam. Well, I contemplated, at least I slept through giving him head, and not my morning midterm.
1.25.2012
What's My Age Again?
As a little girl, my pimp of a mother would arrange bath time playdates between me and almost every little boy on my block. Time that wasn't spent in the tub was still spent nakedly playing "doctor." In short, my naked history with boys goes far back. But some time between kindergarten and first grade, I ditched my pre-med life and stopped playing naked doctor with boys in exchange for injecting cootie-shots with my girl friends. It wasn't until years later upon reaching sexual maturity that my interest in the male anatomy resurfaced, and so the naked playdates recommenced.
Playtime in college is vastly more enjoyable than the playdates of our youth. We're mature young adults now, meaning we're of a, legal or not, drinking age, and the permissible age to sign an apartment lease independent from parental authority. Week in and week out, I find myself playing doctor with young men regardless of if they're on the road to medical school or not. These boys don't need to call their moms for permission to sleep over, and don't refer to their junk as "private parts" or "pee pees." In contrary, private parts have become exceedingly public. However, I should have expected that when things seem too good to be true, they probably are. This past Saturday night, or more accurately Sunday morning, served as a wake up call that I've been taking sexual maturity for granted. I now find myself wondering if we all innately reach sexual maturity through human biology, or if some of us forever remain kids at heart.
The night started out no different from the standard mature young adult night. My friends and I took advantage of the free-for-all-who-have-a-vagina alcohol at our favorite fraternity and danced the fine line between incoherent and fun. Somewhere amidst the dancing on couches and shotgun competitions, I ran into one of my casual guy friends. Let it be said that, in college, when I say "guy friend" I mean an attractive acquaintance with whom I maintain a friendly relationship for the provisional goal of eventually hooking up with them. This guy friend was no exception, so I was down to fool around.
Less than an hour later and without the permission of our parents, my guy friend and I decided to have a sleepover at his apartment which is exactly how I woke up that Sunday morning to his manly arms cuddling me. Sexual maturity rocks.
"Hey," he said in a sleepy voice, then laid an equally sleepy kiss on my lips.
"Mhmm, good morning," the fact that I didn't wake up spewing out a slur of groggy obscenities the way I typically do when being roused from my sleep is a miracle in itself.
"I had a lot of fun hanging out with you last night," he smiled with his cute smile.
"Yeah, I really did too," I couldn't help but smile back. But after a few seconds of us drowsily smiling at each other, I jolted into panic when I realized that my study group of nerds had inconsiderately decided that we meet on a Sunday morning. "Oh shit, what time is it? I have a study group at 9 and need to shower before."
He reached his sculpted, fratty bicep over and checked his phone.
"It's 8," he gave me yet another smile and pulled me on top of him, "still a little time to fool around."
Though I am absolutely not a morning person, and I had a truly exceptional hangover, I was totally into this. So despite my pounding head, I indulged in the sleepy bliss of kissing in the morning. But my bliss was short lived; after a couple of minutes, my guy friend was trying to push my pounding head down to give him head. He wanted to play doctor by giving me an injection in the mouth, and my hangover and I were not down to go down. I resisted his push, but then he started begging.
"Aww, please baby, please! Just go down!" His smile was cute, but not that cute.
"No, I don't want to right now," it was way too early for this shit.
"Please, Taylor!" His incessant begging was quickly getting on my nerves.
"No, stop it," how could I tell him that the only thing I wanted in my mouth was a hot cup of coffee?
"Ughhhh, come on Tay!" he pleaded as he kept pushing me downward. I'd reached my limit.
"Seriously, stop! You're really annoying me!" I felt silly scolding him, but it was necessary.
Just when I thought I'd put up with his worst, he rolled away from me onto his side of the bed and whined under his breath "Well, you're annoying me..."
My jaw dropped; If I hadn't been rendered speechless, I wouldn't have known whether to laugh or get angry at his childish display. One thing was certain, I'd been snapped out of our playtime. I realized I wasn't lying next to a sexy and mature young man, I was lying next to a big baby with a big dick.
I didn't have time to babysit, so I got out of bed and gathered my stuff, "Okay, see you later."
"Wait, stop,"he said as I moved towards the door, "at least let me walk you downstairs."
I wanted to make a snide remark about how his mother had taught him such good manners, but I didn't want to piss him off since I needed him to walk me downstairs and I also needed to borrow his shirt so I wouldn't have to commit the disgraceful crime of wearing sequins in the morning.
Once I was freed from his apartment, I spent my walk home not sprinting in shame, but instead comprehending what had just gone down in result of not going down. I started to think that sexual maturity isn't something everyone arrives at after puberty, but rather something that a small minority arrives at from proper emotional development. Just because someone can get a boner, it doesn't necessarily mean they're qualified to use it. In the short walk from his apartment to my dorm room I'd once again lost all hope in men. I realized that the little boys I used to have bathtimes with had better manners than the college boy whose apartment I'd just slept over at.
Playtime in college is vastly more enjoyable than the playdates of our youth. We're mature young adults now, meaning we're of a, legal or not, drinking age, and the permissible age to sign an apartment lease independent from parental authority. Week in and week out, I find myself playing doctor with young men regardless of if they're on the road to medical school or not. These boys don't need to call their moms for permission to sleep over, and don't refer to their junk as "private parts" or "pee pees." In contrary, private parts have become exceedingly public. However, I should have expected that when things seem too good to be true, they probably are. This past Saturday night, or more accurately Sunday morning, served as a wake up call that I've been taking sexual maturity for granted. I now find myself wondering if we all innately reach sexual maturity through human biology, or if some of us forever remain kids at heart.
The night started out no different from the standard mature young adult night. My friends and I took advantage of the free-for-all-who-have-a-vagina alcohol at our favorite fraternity and danced the fine line between incoherent and fun. Somewhere amidst the dancing on couches and shotgun competitions, I ran into one of my casual guy friends. Let it be said that, in college, when I say "guy friend" I mean an attractive acquaintance with whom I maintain a friendly relationship for the provisional goal of eventually hooking up with them. This guy friend was no exception, so I was down to fool around.
Less than an hour later and without the permission of our parents, my guy friend and I decided to have a sleepover at his apartment which is exactly how I woke up that Sunday morning to his manly arms cuddling me. Sexual maturity rocks.
"Hey," he said in a sleepy voice, then laid an equally sleepy kiss on my lips.
"Mhmm, good morning," the fact that I didn't wake up spewing out a slur of groggy obscenities the way I typically do when being roused from my sleep is a miracle in itself.
"I had a lot of fun hanging out with you last night," he smiled with his cute smile.
"Yeah, I really did too," I couldn't help but smile back. But after a few seconds of us drowsily smiling at each other, I jolted into panic when I realized that my study group of nerds had inconsiderately decided that we meet on a Sunday morning. "Oh shit, what time is it? I have a study group at 9 and need to shower before."
He reached his sculpted, fratty bicep over and checked his phone.
"It's 8," he gave me yet another smile and pulled me on top of him, "still a little time to fool around."
Though I am absolutely not a morning person, and I had a truly exceptional hangover, I was totally into this. So despite my pounding head, I indulged in the sleepy bliss of kissing in the morning. But my bliss was short lived; after a couple of minutes, my guy friend was trying to push my pounding head down to give him head. He wanted to play doctor by giving me an injection in the mouth, and my hangover and I were not down to go down. I resisted his push, but then he started begging.
"Aww, please baby, please! Just go down!" His smile was cute, but not that cute.
"No, I don't want to right now," it was way too early for this shit.
"Please, Taylor!" His incessant begging was quickly getting on my nerves.
"No, stop it," how could I tell him that the only thing I wanted in my mouth was a hot cup of coffee?
"Ughhhh, come on Tay!" he pleaded as he kept pushing me downward. I'd reached my limit.
"Seriously, stop! You're really annoying me!" I felt silly scolding him, but it was necessary.
Just when I thought I'd put up with his worst, he rolled away from me onto his side of the bed and whined under his breath "Well, you're annoying me..."
My jaw dropped; If I hadn't been rendered speechless, I wouldn't have known whether to laugh or get angry at his childish display. One thing was certain, I'd been snapped out of our playtime. I realized I wasn't lying next to a sexy and mature young man, I was lying next to a big baby with a big dick.
I didn't have time to babysit, so I got out of bed and gathered my stuff, "Okay, see you later."
"Wait, stop,"he said as I moved towards the door, "at least let me walk you downstairs."
I wanted to make a snide remark about how his mother had taught him such good manners, but I didn't want to piss him off since I needed him to walk me downstairs and I also needed to borrow his shirt so I wouldn't have to commit the disgraceful crime of wearing sequins in the morning.
Once I was freed from his apartment, I spent my walk home not sprinting in shame, but instead comprehending what had just gone down in result of not going down. I started to think that sexual maturity isn't something everyone arrives at after puberty, but rather something that a small minority arrives at from proper emotional development. Just because someone can get a boner, it doesn't necessarily mean they're qualified to use it. In the short walk from his apartment to my dorm room I'd once again lost all hope in men. I realized that the little boys I used to have bathtimes with had better manners than the college boy whose apartment I'd just slept over at.
12.27.2011
The Wrestler
Hooking up is kind of like graphing logs. You plot the points of your intersecting bodily movements where the slope depends on how quickly things are escalating and the limit depends on what the mutual expectation for the night is. If you're both DTF, the limit does not exist. But, if you're intending to put a limit on what's going down (or should I say who's going down), then the math becomes tricky. Unlike mathematical equations, the two lines of this function to not always agree on the limit they're going to encroach. One member of the hook up almost always wants the other member's legs to split across the positive and negative side of the X-axis, and if that doesn't happen, they will at the very least want the other member to drop below their X-axis. This is often met by some hesitation from the other member of the hook up. This moment marks the most important point plotted on their sexual function; it's the moment when the hook up stops being mathematical and starts being physical. The numbers and logic disappear as the bed/couch/backseat turns into a wrestling ring. There is no more mathematics, no more words even, just a silent battle of strength and stubbornness. Just like in a wrestling match, everyone is wondering "who will go down first?"
The night starts out with the given exponents: girl, boy, alcohol, and apartment. Imagine you've been at a party when you start talking to an attractive guy. He's charming and funny to begin with, and the more you two drink, the more his attractive qualities exponentialize. You two are totally connecting, so as the party dies down you accept his offer to go back to his place and "hang out." And no, this isn't community college pre-algebra; you're not a fucking idiot so you know that by "hang out" he means "hook up." The next thing you know, you're back at his room on his top bunk and the majority of your clothing has been subtracted from the equation. The slope of your drunken function has been increasing rapidly, but you've mentally solved the equation by deciding that you're not down to fuck, but rather down to foreplay.
"Hold on, let me get a condom," it seems that he got a different answer.
"No, no, not tonight," you say. He's disappointed but accepts your answer, and so you two carry on the nakey-making-out.
You're drawing nearer and nearer to your limit, and are looking forward to the point at which you can blissfully pass the fuck out. He then makes the move from being on top to pulling you on top of him. Now that you're on top of him, he first puts his hands in your hair (aw) then moves his hands onto your shoulders, also known as his key leverage point (ugh). Now you're under pressure as he gently yet firmly pushes down on your shoulders. You've arrived at "The Limit." Numbers and slopes don't matter anymore, you're engaged purely in a test of physical strength and stamina as you resist the downward push from a pair of hands that you met all of three hours ago. Like any good athlete, motivational phrases run through your head to help you find the strength within to keep fighting. Does he even remember my name? Do I even remember his? Will he return the favor after, or just roll over and pass out? This room looks familiar- have I been in this same situation, only on his roommate's bottom bunk? Somehow, your thirty-minutes-on-the-elliptical-only-on-days-you're-hungover conditioned body is withstanding his fratty, swollen biceps. Neither of you have budged and both of your muscles are beginning to twitch. It's pretty awkward now.
Depending on how big of an asshole your opponent is, once he realizes he's not getting head he might pull a line like "Hey, listen, I gotta wake up really early to start tailgating tomorrow, so I'll see you later," or he might roll over without saying a word and pass out with you just lying there. Chances are he won't be happy that you won the wrestling match, which is why it's always best to leave and not sleep over if he doesn't kick you out anyway. Celebrate your victory on the shameful 4 am walk back to your room. The important thing is to not fall asleep at your opponent's place after winning the wrestling match. No one likes a sore loser, especially when they're cranky in the morning and don't even remember your name.
The night starts out with the given exponents: girl, boy, alcohol, and apartment. Imagine you've been at a party when you start talking to an attractive guy. He's charming and funny to begin with, and the more you two drink, the more his attractive qualities exponentialize. You two are totally connecting, so as the party dies down you accept his offer to go back to his place and "hang out." And no, this isn't community college pre-algebra; you're not a fucking idiot so you know that by "hang out" he means "hook up." The next thing you know, you're back at his room on his top bunk and the majority of your clothing has been subtracted from the equation. The slope of your drunken function has been increasing rapidly, but you've mentally solved the equation by deciding that you're not down to fuck, but rather down to foreplay.
"Hold on, let me get a condom," it seems that he got a different answer.
"No, no, not tonight," you say. He's disappointed but accepts your answer, and so you two carry on the nakey-making-out.
You're drawing nearer and nearer to your limit, and are looking forward to the point at which you can blissfully pass the fuck out. He then makes the move from being on top to pulling you on top of him. Now that you're on top of him, he first puts his hands in your hair (aw) then moves his hands onto your shoulders, also known as his key leverage point (ugh). Now you're under pressure as he gently yet firmly pushes down on your shoulders. You've arrived at "The Limit." Numbers and slopes don't matter anymore, you're engaged purely in a test of physical strength and stamina as you resist the downward push from a pair of hands that you met all of three hours ago. Like any good athlete, motivational phrases run through your head to help you find the strength within to keep fighting. Does he even remember my name? Do I even remember his? Will he return the favor after, or just roll over and pass out? This room looks familiar- have I been in this same situation, only on his roommate's bottom bunk? Somehow, your thirty-minutes-on-the-elliptical-only-on-days-you're-hungover conditioned body is withstanding his fratty, swollen biceps. Neither of you have budged and both of your muscles are beginning to twitch. It's pretty awkward now.
Depending on how big of an asshole your opponent is, once he realizes he's not getting head he might pull a line like "Hey, listen, I gotta wake up really early to start tailgating tomorrow, so I'll see you later," or he might roll over without saying a word and pass out with you just lying there. Chances are he won't be happy that you won the wrestling match, which is why it's always best to leave and not sleep over if he doesn't kick you out anyway. Celebrate your victory on the shameful 4 am walk back to your room. The important thing is to not fall asleep at your opponent's place after winning the wrestling match. No one likes a sore loser, especially when they're cranky in the morning and don't even remember your name.
10.11.2011
Going Out With A Bang
Anybody who leaves their dorm room on the weekends (and by weekend I mean starting Thursday) knows what I'm talking about when I say there are two types of nights: good nights and bad nights. A bad night normally consists of either vomit, getting in trouble with Campus PD, seeing the person you like make out with someone else, or all of the above. A good night, however, is much more simple. To have a good night, something happens along the lines of: finally hooking up with the guy you've been texting for a while, making out with a good looking stranger, hooking up with anyone in front of someone you used to hook up with, or getting head without having to give head. When you wake up and your dehydrated brain remembers that one of these things happened, it sends a signal to your kidneys that their slow self-destruction was worth it. But as is illustrated by the examples above, hooking up with someone almost always guarantees a good night. Which arrives at my point: if you don't hook up with anyone, is it a bad night?
I'm going to take a stand and say that the reason we go out is to get some. If we wanted to spend time with our friends we'd be in our yoga pants and glasses watching Sex and the City, not in our platforms and high waisted skirts getting wasted. When we go out at night, we literally go out in hopes of a bang, which is why we feel dissatisfied when we don't end our night with a new tale to tell. Even when the hook up isn't good, the night is still successful when you have an interesting story to tell your friends over brunch the next morning. Even though we can't always remember who we talked to at whatever party we were at, we can always remember who we were making out with when we had to pretend to go "find our friend" so we could escape to the bathroom to vomit in the urinal rather than in their mouth. It is that type of battle story that defines our weekend, not the platonic chat with frat boy Bob about how our cousins went to the same boarding school in New Hampshire. No one wants to hear that shit over brunch, and friendly talking is no reason for enduring a hangover.
9.14.2011
Writer's Cockblock
I have recently experienced what I can honestly declare to be the worst writer's block known to my existence. For the past month and a half I've been rendered speechless, even compositionally handicapped, as I haven't been able to form so much as a string of sentences describing the current events of my personal life. This experience that I've taken to calling my 'writer's cockblock' stems from the fact that I haven't been cockblocked at all. In fact, I've recently been getting action on a more regular and functional basis than ever before in my nineteen years of living, and I think the functionality of it all is what's causing my writer's cockblock. I feared I'd lost my voice, my sense of who I am, when morning after morning I'd wake up fresh from a hookup the night before only to find I couldn't write anything about it.
Ever since I was a junior in high school, the entire base of my writing has been kiss-and-tell-all essay after kiss-and-tell-all essay about every single guy I hooked up with, what it was like, and my vividly uncensored thoughts of how I felt about them. But that habit came to an abrupt halt when I started hooking up with one of my guy friends this summer. We hooked up more regularly than I had with the guys I went to college with, so therefore I had more experiences to write upon, but for some reason I couldn't do it! Before I knew it, a month had passed without my writing a single fucking thing! Unable to write new material, I could only read through my archives of old essays from every drunken weekend of the past 3 years.
"You haven't updated your blog recently," my friend noted one day while we were watching TV.
"Yeah, I know, its just weird writing about what's been going on recently. For some reason I have like, nothing to say. Well, not like I have nothing to say, I just can't seem to say anything."
"Huh, why do you think that is?" She muted the Laguna Beach rerun.
"Ugh, I don't know! Like, remember the other night when all us girls were hanging out and you asked me how things had been going with him and I couldn't really give an answer and got weirdly quiet? That's like, bizarre of me, I normally word vomit my guy stories."
"Yeah, I mean, you do normally love talking about that kind of stuff, but maybe you feel weird now because you actually like this guy."
"No, no, that can't be it, I've liked guys before that I've written abo-" She had a point. In that moment I realized that I had never actually liked any of the guys I'd written about. Sure, I'd had crushes on them and had been obsessed with a couple, but that was just because they had the whole 'attractive asshole' thing going for them. Looking through my archives, I'd realized that on some level I'd hated every guy I'd hooked up with in college. It became apparent in retrospect that I'd kept them around because I'd enjoyed hooking up with them on a shallow level, but on a human and even friend level I couldn't fucking stand them. And that was the complete opposite of what had happened with my guy friend. I had absolutely no ill feelings towards him and liked him as a person, so therefore I had nothing mean to say. And so goes the saying, "if you have nothing mean to say, don't say anything at all."
Ever since I was a junior in high school, the entire base of my writing has been kiss-and-tell-all essay after kiss-and-tell-all essay about every single guy I hooked up with, what it was like, and my vividly uncensored thoughts of how I felt about them. But that habit came to an abrupt halt when I started hooking up with one of my guy friends this summer. We hooked up more regularly than I had with the guys I went to college with, so therefore I had more experiences to write upon, but for some reason I couldn't do it! Before I knew it, a month had passed without my writing a single fucking thing! Unable to write new material, I could only read through my archives of old essays from every drunken weekend of the past 3 years.
"You haven't updated your blog recently," my friend noted one day while we were watching TV.
"Yeah, I know, its just weird writing about what's been going on recently. For some reason I have like, nothing to say. Well, not like I have nothing to say, I just can't seem to say anything."
"Huh, why do you think that is?" She muted the Laguna Beach rerun.
"Ugh, I don't know! Like, remember the other night when all us girls were hanging out and you asked me how things had been going with him and I couldn't really give an answer and got weirdly quiet? That's like, bizarre of me, I normally word vomit my guy stories."
"Yeah, I mean, you do normally love talking about that kind of stuff, but maybe you feel weird now because you actually like this guy."
"No, no, that can't be it, I've liked guys before that I've written abo-" She had a point. In that moment I realized that I had never actually liked any of the guys I'd written about. Sure, I'd had crushes on them and had been obsessed with a couple, but that was just because they had the whole 'attractive asshole' thing going for them. Looking through my archives, I'd realized that on some level I'd hated every guy I'd hooked up with in college. It became apparent in retrospect that I'd kept them around because I'd enjoyed hooking up with them on a shallow level, but on a human and even friend level I couldn't fucking stand them. And that was the complete opposite of what had happened with my guy friend. I had absolutely no ill feelings towards him and liked him as a person, so therefore I had nothing mean to say. And so goes the saying, "if you have nothing mean to say, don't say anything at all."
7.21.2011
Jabba The Slut
Recent events have caused me to believe that my life constitutes as both a comedy and a tragedy. It's a comedy for those watching the tragic events that happen to me on a daily basis. Most often, the tragic events are things like the time I was about to hook up with this guy I really liked but then he started throwing up, or the time I was getting my eyebrows waxed and the old asian woman accidentally groped me, or when I brought that guy back to my dorm and he kept trying to finger my butthole (see: "Butthole Intruder"). I've grown accustomed to tragic events happening to me, but never did I think about the ways I make my own life tragic. Some people are born tragic, others have tragedy thrust upon them, but today's tragic event was completely my doing.
I doing my typical "I have nothing to wear" routine this morning while I was trying to get dressed. Dissatisfied with every piece of clothing that I own, I trekked across the hall into my sisters room and sought refuge in her closet.
"Oh my god, yes! I forgot she had this!" I pulled out a classic American Apparel spandex dress that I used to steal from my sister all the time in high school. It had been my go-to dress for countless parties; this dress and I had so many fond memories together that I decided to bring it out of retirement for the day. The dress and I retreated back to my room and with exhilaration I compressed my body into its spandex binding. But my exhilaration turned into desperation the second I saw my reflection in the mirror. The dress looked very different on my current self than it did on my high school self to say the least. Whereas last year the dress used to silhouette my figure in a sexy way, the spandex was grasping my body creating rolls I didn't even know I had. My body was packed into the dress dying to bust out, like a sausage, or those health class bananas that are too big for their condoms. The dress no longer consisted of enough fabric for my apparently obese body, making me look like both a whore and glutton. I was Jabba The Slut.
"How did this happen to me?" I asked my reflection. Up until then I hadn't thought my body had changed in college, but once I began thinking about how my lifestyle had changed it made more and more sense. My diet of drinking three nights a weekend had definitely contributed, and in addition my drunken nights had almost always ended in me knocking on my neighbor's doors asking to borrow a dollar for the vending machine. Who knew fratting was so fattening? Even worse than my deplorably gluttonous diet was the fact that my going-outfits had only gotten smaller and tighter throughout the semester to the extent that I really should have charged whichever frat boy was walking up the stairs behind me. My college lifestyle had gotten the best of me and I'd turned into Jabba The Slut completely unknowingly. I changed my body out of the spandex dress, tied up my running shoes, and hoped the force would be with me during my three miler.
I doing my typical "I have nothing to wear" routine this morning while I was trying to get dressed. Dissatisfied with every piece of clothing that I own, I trekked across the hall into my sisters room and sought refuge in her closet.
"Oh my god, yes! I forgot she had this!" I pulled out a classic American Apparel spandex dress that I used to steal from my sister all the time in high school. It had been my go-to dress for countless parties; this dress and I had so many fond memories together that I decided to bring it out of retirement for the day. The dress and I retreated back to my room and with exhilaration I compressed my body into its spandex binding. But my exhilaration turned into desperation the second I saw my reflection in the mirror. The dress looked very different on my current self than it did on my high school self to say the least. Whereas last year the dress used to silhouette my figure in a sexy way, the spandex was grasping my body creating rolls I didn't even know I had. My body was packed into the dress dying to bust out, like a sausage, or those health class bananas that are too big for their condoms. The dress no longer consisted of enough fabric for my apparently obese body, making me look like both a whore and glutton. I was Jabba The Slut.
"How did this happen to me?" I asked my reflection. Up until then I hadn't thought my body had changed in college, but once I began thinking about how my lifestyle had changed it made more and more sense. My diet of drinking three nights a weekend had definitely contributed, and in addition my drunken nights had almost always ended in me knocking on my neighbor's doors asking to borrow a dollar for the vending machine. Who knew fratting was so fattening? Even worse than my deplorably gluttonous diet was the fact that my going-outfits had only gotten smaller and tighter throughout the semester to the extent that I really should have charged whichever frat boy was walking up the stairs behind me. My college lifestyle had gotten the best of me and I'd turned into Jabba The Slut completely unknowingly. I changed my body out of the spandex dress, tied up my running shoes, and hoped the force would be with me during my three miler.
5.06.2011
I'm A Man About It
I am by no means a feminist, but at the same time there are few things that frustrate me more than gender inequality. On the first day of my Intro to Women's Studies class (shut up, its a GPA booster) the professor had us take an anonymous poll about what we felt was the biggest social issue facing women today to which I passionately answered "the unequal ratio of giving head to receiving head." For every conversation I've had with a friend that runs along the lines of "I can't believe he just played me out like that. This whole time he's been telling me that he wants to date me and shit like that, and now I find out he's been hooking up with not just a girl in Theta, but a Kappa sister too!" is normally preceded by a conversation a few weeks earlier that goes like this "We haven't had sex yet, but I've given him head like a million times. He hasn't gone down on me though, I don't know, I don't really want to ask him for it though." And come to think of it, I've never even heard of a case where a woman has pushed on a man's head and shoulders until he's gone down. Too many Sunday morning brunches have included "Yeah, I gave him head last night. It's not that he made me, he was just really insistent. Not like he returned the favor, though" while not nearly enough have had the situation go the other way around.
After spending several days flipping through flashcards, quizzing myself on feminist authors and famous literary works, I took my Womens Studies midterm on thursday and after completion was ready to blow off some steam. What I wanted was for the first time in 78 hours to not think about gender equality, but as it turns out the material didn't stray as far from my conscious as I intended it to. Everything was seemingly normal as I dressed (tight, short skirt, face full of makeup, pain-inducing shoes, everything Audre Lorde stands against), but when I left my room making my way into the night, I had a fresh purpose. A dominant purpose. With a goal known only to my subconscious, I pregamed with an agenda; an agenda that became very clear once the guy I'd been talking to for a few weeks now texted me to meet up. With my agenda realized, my friends and I went off to the party that texting boy was at, where I stayed for all of ten minutes before we were making out in a manner that if I'd seen other people doing it I'd describe as disgustingly public and execrable but since it was me I'll describe as passionate and totally hot. A decent amount of kissing and teasing later, and we were fleeing the public eye to the privacy of his place down the street. And by his place, I mean his room in his frat house. I wandered into his trap unknowing, it wasn't until I was in his bedroom looking at the vintage Playboy covers that hung in frames along the walls that I realized I was on my way to being objectified. I stood in the center of the room with equal distance between his bed and the door, and as he came up behind me and started kissing my neck I realized I had a decision to make. Well, if you leave now he's gonna think that he intimidated you, and therefore you backing down is you losing. But, if you stay then you run the risk of being used which really isn't much better. Honestly, what you have to do is just stick it out and be a man about it.
"So," he said in between pecks leading from my jawbone down to my shoulders and collarbone, "should we move to the bed?" My eyes were locked on the bed, then after a few seconds I turned around to kiss him hard on the mouth. As he sunk into the kiss, my eyes were now glancing over his shoulder onto the door. Time to choose. Are you gonna man up or back down? I pulled away, now my eyes were staring directly into his. I gave him a challenging look and answered "Sure." I knew exactly how I was going to play this. We laid on his bed. In almost no time and with almost no help from me, he was now fully naked. Things began to escalate in the usual fashion, until some decisive moves were being made. I could tell he wanted to fuck, but lying in the bed of his frat house there wasn't anything I wanted to do less. "No," I said softly in his ear. "No?" he looked at me with hopeful eyes, but unswayed I simply shook my head. Crestfallen yet respectful, we carried on. I could feel him fidgeting, he was like water being heated, I just had to wait until he started boiling. "Even if I have a condom?" Though I admired his efforts, the answer was still no. "Well, can I go down on you?" Now he was at a boil. I gave him a shy yet challenging grin, giving him the greenlight. And just like that, I became the man-in-charge. I had him exactly where I wanted him without having to do anything that I didn't want to do. It felt so good on so many different levels. Once I had gotten what I wanted and his head was up once again next to mine on the pillow, he then just looked into my eyes. He didn't mean to look vulnerable, but given the current state of what had just went down and what was not going down in the immediate future, he looked extremely vulnerable. He looked into my eyes and I looked over his shoulder at the door. The harder he stared at me, the more longingly I looked at the door. He put his arm around me, pulling me closer into his body, which caused me to finally boil.
"Actually, I think I'm just gonna go back to my room now."
"You sure? Because you can totally sleep here," he offered graciously. What a gentleman.
"No, no, it's fine, I have a lot of stuff I need to do tomorrow, I should sleep in my own room." I sat up and briskly put my clothes on. After making sure my purse had the essentials in it (phone, room key, gum), I stood up from the bed. I opened the door then quickly pivoted around, "Thanks, though" and just like that I was out.
I walked down frat row with a skip in my step, but a lag in my heart. My brain was telling me that I'd made one small step for women and one giant leap for womankind; I knew I should feel good about what I'd just done. And in my mind I knew I could dedicate my actions to all my girlfriends who'd given unrequited oral and felt used after. But it turns out I didn't feel as empowered as I thought I would have. I actually felt kind of empty. It turns out I didn't get the kind of pleasure from being a man that I thought I would. I guess I just don't have the balls it requires to play someone out.
After spending several days flipping through flashcards, quizzing myself on feminist authors and famous literary works, I took my Womens Studies midterm on thursday and after completion was ready to blow off some steam. What I wanted was for the first time in 78 hours to not think about gender equality, but as it turns out the material didn't stray as far from my conscious as I intended it to. Everything was seemingly normal as I dressed (tight, short skirt, face full of makeup, pain-inducing shoes, everything Audre Lorde stands against), but when I left my room making my way into the night, I had a fresh purpose. A dominant purpose. With a goal known only to my subconscious, I pregamed with an agenda; an agenda that became very clear once the guy I'd been talking to for a few weeks now texted me to meet up. With my agenda realized, my friends and I went off to the party that texting boy was at, where I stayed for all of ten minutes before we were making out in a manner that if I'd seen other people doing it I'd describe as disgustingly public and execrable but since it was me I'll describe as passionate and totally hot. A decent amount of kissing and teasing later, and we were fleeing the public eye to the privacy of his place down the street. And by his place, I mean his room in his frat house. I wandered into his trap unknowing, it wasn't until I was in his bedroom looking at the vintage Playboy covers that hung in frames along the walls that I realized I was on my way to being objectified. I stood in the center of the room with equal distance between his bed and the door, and as he came up behind me and started kissing my neck I realized I had a decision to make. Well, if you leave now he's gonna think that he intimidated you, and therefore you backing down is you losing. But, if you stay then you run the risk of being used which really isn't much better. Honestly, what you have to do is just stick it out and be a man about it.
"So," he said in between pecks leading from my jawbone down to my shoulders and collarbone, "should we move to the bed?" My eyes were locked on the bed, then after a few seconds I turned around to kiss him hard on the mouth. As he sunk into the kiss, my eyes were now glancing over his shoulder onto the door. Time to choose. Are you gonna man up or back down? I pulled away, now my eyes were staring directly into his. I gave him a challenging look and answered "Sure." I knew exactly how I was going to play this. We laid on his bed. In almost no time and with almost no help from me, he was now fully naked. Things began to escalate in the usual fashion, until some decisive moves were being made. I could tell he wanted to fuck, but lying in the bed of his frat house there wasn't anything I wanted to do less. "No," I said softly in his ear. "No?" he looked at me with hopeful eyes, but unswayed I simply shook my head. Crestfallen yet respectful, we carried on. I could feel him fidgeting, he was like water being heated, I just had to wait until he started boiling. "Even if I have a condom?" Though I admired his efforts, the answer was still no. "Well, can I go down on you?" Now he was at a boil. I gave him a shy yet challenging grin, giving him the greenlight. And just like that, I became the man-in-charge. I had him exactly where I wanted him without having to do anything that I didn't want to do. It felt so good on so many different levels. Once I had gotten what I wanted and his head was up once again next to mine on the pillow, he then just looked into my eyes. He didn't mean to look vulnerable, but given the current state of what had just went down and what was not going down in the immediate future, he looked extremely vulnerable. He looked into my eyes and I looked over his shoulder at the door. The harder he stared at me, the more longingly I looked at the door. He put his arm around me, pulling me closer into his body, which caused me to finally boil.
"Actually, I think I'm just gonna go back to my room now."
"You sure? Because you can totally sleep here," he offered graciously. What a gentleman.
"No, no, it's fine, I have a lot of stuff I need to do tomorrow, I should sleep in my own room." I sat up and briskly put my clothes on. After making sure my purse had the essentials in it (phone, room key, gum), I stood up from the bed. I opened the door then quickly pivoted around, "Thanks, though" and just like that I was out.
I walked down frat row with a skip in my step, but a lag in my heart. My brain was telling me that I'd made one small step for women and one giant leap for womankind; I knew I should feel good about what I'd just done. And in my mind I knew I could dedicate my actions to all my girlfriends who'd given unrequited oral and felt used after. But it turns out I didn't feel as empowered as I thought I would have. I actually felt kind of empty. It turns out I didn't get the kind of pleasure from being a man that I thought I would. I guess I just don't have the balls it requires to play someone out.
4.17.2011
Daylight
It was one of those nights when from the moment I started getting ready I knew my goal for the next 5 hours wasn’t to have fun with my friends, or meet new people, or even to drink and let loose, but to get some. This desire, no, not desire, this need to get with a fresh face was exhibited perfectly in my outfit choice. I knew that with the combination of alcohol intake and the inevitable masses of sorority girls in different variations of the same LBD, my white minidress would stand out like a caucasian boy in Harlem, only I’d be getting hit on, not shot down. I put on my outfit, did my hair and makeup, and knew that as soon as I stepped out of my dorm room I was stepping into a mission.
The story starts out the same as most: my friends and I ventured off to a frat where we drank and mingled with the brothers. But per usual, our disadvantage came when the flocks of blonde haired sisters came in who, unlike my friends and I who were meeting the guys, already knew them. Eager to fulfill my purpose for the night, I found a group of guys that weren’t occupied by sorority girls. I introduced myself and they introduced a handle into the conversation so my new friends and I took some shots. The more I drank, the more aware I became of how familiar one of the brothers looked. Who the fuck does he look like, I racked my brain, trying to match his face to another from my memory. After minutes of what in retrospect I realize was me staring into space with my mouth agape, I exclaimed “Ben Affleck!”
What was more interesting than my unprompted, tourettes-like exclamation of the Good Will Hunting actor’s name was how unfazed the brother was by this.
“Hah, yeah, I get that all the time.” His cheeks reddened a little, looking almost embarrassed.
“Well, at least he's attractive and it's not like you look like John C. Reilly or someone ugly,” as soon as I made this bizarro-flirty statement I knew I’d found my purpose for the night. The more I drank, the more he looked like Ben Affleck. And so it goes that after a little more talking we were kissing on the roof until I started getting the spins from having my eyes closed and had to fabricate a Friday-8 am-class lie in fear that if I didn’t go back to my room and kept kissing him that I’d throw up in his mouth.
Given my hangover, the next morning I woke up surprisingly upbeat. I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my class-free Friday: I wanted to get coffee with my friend, dish about last night, and then go back to my room to nap and watch Pearl Harbor. I phoned my neighbor and together we walked from our dorm across campus to the coffee place.
“I wish I could show you a picture of him, he was so cute! Like, I’m not exaggerating when I say he looks exactly like Ben Affleck. I think it’s the eyes. They have the exact same shape eyes. And coloring. Like seriously, he was so cute.”
We walked along and talked, consumed in our own world until a passerby disrupted our bliss.
“Oh hey, Taylor!”
I jerked my head out of the conversation to see ‘Ben Affleck,’ which immediately rendered me shocked. It wasn’t that he looked nothing like Ben Affleck, he looked like Ben Affleck in one of those unfortunate pictures that super trashy tabloids use to accompany captions like “BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE AT HOSPITAL AFTER METH OVERDOSE,” or “THE UNBELIEVABLE TRUTH BEHIND HIS PARTY NIGHTS WITH SHEMALES.”
“Oh, uh, hey!” I was too stunned to stop my legs from walking, so I gave him a smile and carried on with my friend.
After that I didn’t want breakfast anymore. And I certainly didn’t want to watch Pearl Harbor. I just wanted to go back to sleep.
The story starts out the same as most: my friends and I ventured off to a frat where we drank and mingled with the brothers. But per usual, our disadvantage came when the flocks of blonde haired sisters came in who, unlike my friends and I who were meeting the guys, already knew them. Eager to fulfill my purpose for the night, I found a group of guys that weren’t occupied by sorority girls. I introduced myself and they introduced a handle into the conversation so my new friends and I took some shots. The more I drank, the more aware I became of how familiar one of the brothers looked. Who the fuck does he look like, I racked my brain, trying to match his face to another from my memory. After minutes of what in retrospect I realize was me staring into space with my mouth agape, I exclaimed “Ben Affleck!”
What was more interesting than my unprompted, tourettes-like exclamation of the Good Will Hunting actor’s name was how unfazed the brother was by this.
“Hah, yeah, I get that all the time.” His cheeks reddened a little, looking almost embarrassed.
“Well, at least he's attractive and it's not like you look like John C. Reilly or someone ugly,” as soon as I made this bizarro-flirty statement I knew I’d found my purpose for the night. The more I drank, the more he looked like Ben Affleck. And so it goes that after a little more talking we were kissing on the roof until I started getting the spins from having my eyes closed and had to fabricate a Friday-8 am-class lie in fear that if I didn’t go back to my room and kept kissing him that I’d throw up in his mouth.
Given my hangover, the next morning I woke up surprisingly upbeat. I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my class-free Friday: I wanted to get coffee with my friend, dish about last night, and then go back to my room to nap and watch Pearl Harbor. I phoned my neighbor and together we walked from our dorm across campus to the coffee place.
“I wish I could show you a picture of him, he was so cute! Like, I’m not exaggerating when I say he looks exactly like Ben Affleck. I think it’s the eyes. They have the exact same shape eyes. And coloring. Like seriously, he was so cute.”
We walked along and talked, consumed in our own world until a passerby disrupted our bliss.
“Oh hey, Taylor!”
I jerked my head out of the conversation to see ‘Ben Affleck,’ which immediately rendered me shocked. It wasn’t that he looked nothing like Ben Affleck, he looked like Ben Affleck in one of those unfortunate pictures that super trashy tabloids use to accompany captions like “BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE AT HOSPITAL AFTER METH OVERDOSE,” or “THE UNBELIEVABLE TRUTH BEHIND HIS PARTY NIGHTS WITH SHEMALES.”
“Oh, uh, hey!” I was too stunned to stop my legs from walking, so I gave him a smile and carried on with my friend.
After that I didn’t want breakfast anymore. And I certainly didn’t want to watch Pearl Harbor. I just wanted to go back to sleep.
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