By now, many freshmen have moved on from their old Ashford Street frolicking ways and have graduated to going to parties where they actually know the host. And if they plan to survive the next three years with at least some dignity in tact, they are being a little bit more discerning about whose throat they decide to stick their tongue down on a Friday night.
But beware, freshmen. You have planted mines for yourself already. Remember the dude you made out with one indistinguishable night in the basement of some indistinguishable fraternity house? In about three and a half years, he will be waiting for you, most likely at White Horse. That’s right. You were memorable.
This is the story of a guy that we’ll call Dan. Dan and I made out one night where I most likely made the poor life choice to drink not one, but four cups of jungle juice after pregaming with my friends somewhere in West Campus. I don’t remember the details of the night, but if I was working my game like I do now, I probably bumped into Dan and then said something sloppy along the lines of “Hey, you should really watch your steppppllll.” Then I flashed a creepy held-for-too-long smile. After a few minutes of chit-chat during which I most likely forgot what I was majoring in, he laughed at my attempts at jokes we started to play tonsil hockey. Why? Because that is what you do when you are young and newly freed from curfews and social norms.
We walked home holding hands. Or holding each other up from slipping on the pavement and becoming concussed. I would have invited him up to Sleeper 13, but sleepovers were not allowed in the Sleeper of my day. The next day, I thought I saw him in the dining hall by the pizza and quickly decided I would rather eat healthily than make eye contact.
Other than that, my biggest scare came this year in the library. We locked eyes, and for the first time in the past few years, I knew it was him. And then came a Facebook friend request. This guy knew who I was and, worse, knew that I was avoiding him. And all this after I thought that my mature senior bar crawling guarded me against the consequences of my weekend sluttery. I was of a more refined breed than the Commonwealth Avenue freshmen wearing dark sunglasses and staring at the ground like it held the secret to life. My Friday night pursuits started at the bar and my past misgivings were now seniors who surely didn’t want anything to do with me. My strategy had advanced from merely trying to make sure my temporary lovers did not live in West Campus to making sure they were already graduated and preferably just visiting old friends.
But then one night at White Horse, I walked into the hell trap and my strategy fell apart. I bumped into a group of mostly acquaintances and started making the polite introductions, shaking hands, smiling and trying to cover up the fact that I was already on my seventh round. Then there was Dan in my circle.
Now, I’ve seen guys I’ve hooked up with before in crowded bars. Not that big a deal. Order another round and make sure that he understands without having to talk to you that you are always as drunk as you were the initial time you met. If you are lucky and sloppy enough, he will stay away. But Dan was in the circle and openly skipping him could not be blamed on drunkenness. So I decided to do what every good drunken slut would do. I put out my hand and introduced myself like I had never seen him in my life and had surely never dry-humped him.
“We’ve met before,” Dan said.
I had been caught. My parents always said the best thing to do when you get caught is to just confess everything.
“Yes, we have,” I said, “It was freshman year, right?” I tried to raise my eyebrows and give an arm nudge. He would either think I was funny or just really creepy and drunk and I would be free to walk off and get another beer. He smiled and I walked to the bar. But then he was there and had bought my beer.
“Damn. I would have picked a better beer if I had known he was buying,” I thought. And as much as I dreaded running into anyone I’d drunkenly hooked up with, at least he bought me a beer. So I decided to play nice and talk for a bit. And then make out for a bit. And then a little more the next weekend at my new adult apartment.
Recently, my parents asked me if I had learned anything over the past few years. My mind went blank. Well, with the exception of how to do a 17-second keg stand, or what the cheapest beer is in Blanchard’s or any of the three bars I live within walking distance of, or how to tell when your best friends are definitely going to puke in the next hour, surely I learned something outside of class. Or some overarching life lesson.
Nope. I’m still the same 18-year-old roaming down Ashford Street in a shameless, drunken haze. And I like it that way.
Camille Roane is a senior in the College of Communication and a former staff writer for The Daily Free Press.
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