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.

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.

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.