One girl. One college. Three thousand guys. This blog is a blow-by-blow [yes, that was a dirty pun] account of the social (and usually sexual) misadventures of a commitment-phobic and ironically promiscuous virgin.

Monday, November 06, 2006

Everyone's doing it

The great thing about the internet is that anyone with access to a computer can use it to fuel their own ego. I am no exception. Who doesn't like to think that they are interesting and important enough to make other people take a few minutes out of their day to think about them? Maybe if I am interesting enough, you'll take a few minutes to bother reading about moi. Maybe you'll be back tomorrow for updates. Maybe you won't. Here I am, falling into the Gap, doing what everyone else is doing. I think I like it.

I'll give you a little background information on me. I go to an Ivy league School. I'm a virgin. I like to make out. And I have servere people ADD, particularly when it comes to potential suitors. It takes a lot to hold my attention, so the first thing that you'll probably notice. A lot of people will make an appearance and then never surface again. I am also a creep. Facebook stalking is second nature to me, and I am damn good at it. Give me a first name and school, and I'll fill in the rest. But we've all been there, so I guess that itself is not very impressive. I come off as promiscuous to a lot people, until they find out that I'm just a huge tease, who only "kinda" puts out. I like to spend my weekends with a constant rotation of people, and I always like going home with someone new.

Halloween weekend got my year started off, since it was the first weekend I really went out. For the weeks prior, I was busy doing too much and being miserable and unhappy about a lot of things. I decide to fuck all and make a night of it. Friday night started out a bit slow, just a house party that I didn't make it to until almost one in the morning. Sometimes pregaming takes a lot longer than we (we being my friends and myself, not the royal "we") intended it to and gets us a lot drunker than we plan. When we finally got to the party, I was a little disappointed with the selection of gentlemen. It's not that they were all terrible or unattractive, but most I know to have girlfriends. I actually got to have an intense conversation with the boy I want to make out with more than anyone else in the world, but he was stoned as hell and I was drunk as a skunk, so needless to say the conversation didn't go so well. It actually turned into a big argument, but that doesn't mean I wasn't turned on the entire time anyway.

I met a guy we'll call Charles or "Chuck" for short (see if you can figure out why when you're done reading this post), whom two of my friends talk about constantly. I had met him once before, but he was so fucked up on whatever substance, that I wouldn't say that we had ever met. Chuck had been hailed to me as a "poet," and the Bukowski of our generation. A big title for a guy to carry. Anyway, when I finally meet him, I'm dressed as a Go-Go dancer, he's not dressed as anything in particular (costumes were not required on this evening, which was still almost a week away from Halloween), and even though I looked like a hooker, he still thought I had enough intellect to be a deserving audience. We chatted and attempted to leave, but were stopped by my friend who happens to have a "thing" for him. A "thing" that becomes extremely intensified when she is drunk. Now I don't usually go around infringing on other girl's territory, but to be fair, I thought that they were only friends. This said friend happened to get really drunk and putting her to bed served as the perfect excuse to meet up and then take off together. I got in touch with him when she wouldn't go to bed without seeing him. He came over to my room, helped me to take her back to her own bed, and then we proceeded on our own adventure.

I had changed from my mini-dress and hooker heels into jeans and a tank top at this point, which was only appropriate for our night. We crawled through a basement of one of the upperclassmen dorms and found an unlocked room to listen to his poetry, which for some reason or other he happened to be carrying with him. Then we went back to my dorm and talked on one of the couches in the TV/loungey-type area. I thought that was going to be the end of the night until I walked him to the foyer that leads in and out of the courtyard of my dorm, when all of a sudden we were making out. Really, really, making out. The kind of making out that involves a lot of groping and not a lot of thinking. Not thinking is probably why we were making out in the most public place in the entire dorm. Granted, it was five or five-thirty in the morning, but that only means the security guard on duty didn't have anything to distract him from the obvious scene we were making in the main entryway.

The night security guard who used to dote on me and now gives me funny looks when I walk by, told us to break it up probably three times before he actually chased Chuck away. He literally chased him away, he ran - not walked or escourted - him out of the dorm. I thought this was funny, and it was, but it was also a little scarring. I can't look the security guard in the eye anymore now that he has seen a guy touching my breasts. It's a little embarrassing. Very embarrassing. But it was almost worth it to see him running after a guy at 5:30 in the morning for my sake. For the record, Chuck was an amazing kisser. I can only imagine everything else he'd be good at. From what I hear, he's one of the most sexual people on the planet, so if he hadn't just packed up to take a "voluntary medical leave of absence" I bet I would have been in for a great round two.

Saturday night was the more Halloween oriented night and I broke out my costume, Minnie Mouse, which came out exactly the way I had planed, except for the gloves, which I drunkenly forgot to put on before leaving. I looked great and not even that slutty, and I knew I had pretty goods odds on taking someone home when I arrived at the gentlemen's club. Earlier I had been talking to a friend about a guy that I was particularly intrigued by, and lo and behold, he was there (okay, so I knew he would be since he's a member of the club, whom we'll call Curly, but let's pretend I was surprised, alright?). Curly was being molested by a chick with a great rack for awhile, but in between her grabbing his balls and stroking his chest, he managed to find some time to say hello. It was established pretty much right away that we would be leaving together, the only problem was getting rid of the clinger. If I ever appear as desperate as this girl, I really hope someone puts me out of my misery. Anyway, the same friend who was drunk from the night before provided the perfect excuse, yet again, to leave. And my dorm basement provided the perfect place to hook up, yet again. I have a roommate in a walk-through double (you have to walk through her room to get to the bathroom and through my room to get to the door). So we just hooked up in the basement. On the couches and in random corners. I don't think I've ever had such a pleasant hook up, despite the fact that a lot of it took place on granite stairwells and a cold cement basement floor - I actually fell asleep on top of him for awhile. Curly was hilarious, we were both dressed up like idiots (okay, we both had awesome costumes that we were totally proud of), and we talked in between rounds, and I didn't wind up getting back to my room until 9 or 10 in the morning (I couldn't figure out what time it was because of the time change). It was a good night to say the least.

This past weekend was probably better than Halloween weekend. Friday night was not the most exciting night I've had, I met some people including a very cute young man, who was dressed for church in a room full of "Indie" kids. God, I hate the term "Indie." That will be a later post. Nothing happened, and I didn't particularly want anything to happen given my options that night, but I still had a fantastic time. I danced around with this girl who was absolutely awesome. She was one of those hot girls who can dance around even if other people aren't, because she knows she looks cute as hell anyway. Even though it was kind of dead when we came in, other people started dancing around. The music wasn't as impressive as you would think at a radio station party, but watching a preppy white boy go all out to R. Kelly's "Ignition" remix made up for the played out, un-ironic top 40 selection. On the way home Eric and I got into a heated argument about sex, and I had to defend my position as a virgin. I think I won, but maybe not. Courtney was kind of siding with Eric in her drunken state and I asked her how many orgasms she had during sex compared to how many during oral sex. Oral was the big winner, but Eric countered with the "not all girls like it." I think those girls are few and far between. A lot are insecure about it and others just think it's dirty. I think it's fun.

Saturday night was great, only because I thought it would suck. Then I met a guy we'll call "Mad." Mad is exactly that. Mad. He's crazy in the way that you only wish you could be. Indulgence seems to be his forte, and he embraces all things ephermal and shallow. He's like the devil that sits on your left shoulder and tells you it is okay to laugh at the fat chick dancing. I realized that he was awesome when some chick came up to him and started flirting like hell with him. She was calling him "observant" and kept on talking about how smart he was in class. In the Ivy league stroking someone's intellectual ego is roughly the equivalent to telling someone you'd love to blow them. It's a pretty outright form of attracting attention and letting someone know that you're "interested." Now most guys would have been flattered, and kept their mouth shut about any shortcommings of the girl, and most girls probably wouldn't have muttered something rude - but accurate - about a girl that they don't know to a guy that they don't know. Unfortunately, Mad isn't most guys, and I have social terets. "Does she hate herself, or does she just want me to judge her?" I muttered in reference to her God-awful belly shirt, fat rolls, and belly ring. Why would anyone do that to themselves? It was an honest question and could have provoked a pretty bad response. Instead he laughed and said, you are so right. I was so right, but I was also so rude and probably deserved a slap more than a laugh. Oh well. If you're going to think it, you might as well say it.

After that our night-long journey began. We left one club for another, he blew some valium, I drank more, then he drank more, we danced, then drank more, then went back to his room, smoked some drugs and hooked up. I don't think I've ever wanted to fuck someone more. And I don't mean "make love to" or "have sex with," I mean fuck in the most primal and dirty sense of the word. Goddamn virginity. Usually it's me telling the guy to stop. This time I had to tell myself. I mean Jesus. Thinking about it pretty much makes me want to sleep with him regardless of any moral standing I might have.

It was a good night. Until I woke up realizing that I really did lose my bag at the first gentlemen's club where I had met Mad. Somehow, leaving without my bag seemed like a good idea at the time. The next day when I was short a Coach clutch, my ID, my keys, and a new eyeliner, it seemed like a horrible idea. Whatever. I still haven't found it. The point is not having a card or keys made the walk back to my room even more shameful. Having to tell a resident tutor that I was locked out while clearly still wearing the clothes from the night before is never fun. At least it made for a good story.

This was a pretty long winded post and I doubt any others will be this long. I am bored more often than not and doing things that I'm not supposed to be doing, so maybe I'll be a frequent poster. Maybe not. I don't make promises I can't keep.


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