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Michael Ahn | The Phoenix

BY AMBER ROSE

In print | Published September 17, 2009 — Updated December 19, 2011 12:59

Sometimes we all need a little self-esteem boost. Even the sexiest of the sexy (some of us sexier than others) suffer dry spells. And so what does a desperate post-pubescent person do when feeling lonely, perhaps lusty and a little down on him or herself? Find someone to love (IN THIS CLUB). Am I by chance suggesting that there exist some people so pathetic as to actually generate their self-worth from the accumulation of sexual conquests? Yes. Am I insinuating such a disgusting pattern of maladaptive coping behaviors applies to me? Plausible, but no.

Late autumn, 2009. The night was dark and stormy. Well, not quite. The tumult was mostly mental in nature. The source of this tumult, you ask? The constant, nagging need to be loved, revered and touched all over – in a respectful, non-creepy sort of way.

Giving into temptation, I did what any single Swarthmore student with a campus map and a raging libido would do: I went to DU. As I was joining in with my peers in the tribal ritual that only in hindsight can I call my mating dance, joy returned. Dancing amidst the rosy fog of booze, my troubles melted away like lemon drops, forming yet another layer of adhesive atop the beer-battered tiles. As I chummed around with a friend with whom I had once had a brief romantic stint, I thought to myself, “I have finally avoided the awkward one night curse that has plagued my years at Swarthmore!” Unfortunately, he eerily seemed to become uncomfortable dancing with me after I became conscious of said thought.

As the night droned on, I did what most people end up doing (most people being the people that are too drunk/horny to admit defeat and slink back to their dorms alone). I settled for the next best thing: not Mr. Right, but Mr. Kinda-Cute-And-Kinda-Right-In-Front-Of-Me-So-I-Guess-Maybe-I’ll-See-Where-This-Is-Going-If-He-Twists-My-Arm. Some people also refer to this sort of Mister as Mr. Right-Now. Mr. Right-Now was simultaneously the most tactless and the most charmingly convincing guy I’ve encountered in my time at Swarthmore. True to character, he saved the night when my crush didn’t want to dance with me anymore. Then he told me I was a bad dancer. After a while, Mr. Right-Now became very persuasive, but just around the time I was becoming into him, he was becoming almost annoyingly into me; I mean laying it on thick. I don’t know if he was just drunk, or just really wanted to get into my pantalones, but Right-Now was Right-Up-In-Mah-Grille. I would go to the bathroom, and the boy would be waiting for me outside of the bathroom. I would get a drink of water, and he would hang out on the wall, and start dancing up in my zone as soon as I was done. Some people just don’t get the hint!

So after this series of unfortunate events, the party dwindled to an end, and it was time for the awkward after-party tug-of-war. “Come back with me,” Right-Now said.

“I don’t know.” I shook my head, smiling like I do in uncomfortable situations. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” I explained to him how I thought I was afflicted with a one-night-stand curse and was sick of meaningless hook-ups.

“What’s the big deal?” he asked, perplexed and somewhat frustrated, all the while leading me up the stairs toward an exit.

“I dunno,” I said. “I think I‘m gonna go back to my dorm.”

“Okay…” he conceded. “Come back with me and we’ll just cuddle … and talk maybe.”

“Alright,” I agreed. “But only to talk. No funny business.”

Upon arriving at Mr. Right-Now’s dorm, I took a quick pee. Little did I know that my weak bladder had betrayed me. Peeing proved to be the biggest mistake of the season, for when I returned, Mr. Right-Now was Sprawled-Right-Out-In-Front-Of-Me, half-naked. I looked down at him in shock, half wanting to laugh, half wanting to punch him. “I thought we were just going to talk.”

“Get in!” he said invitingly, lifting up the down comforter and patting the space he had cleared for me. His beckon was so simple and sweet, yet so infuriating all at once. I stood in the doorway for a second, pondering the situation. I knew that getting into bed would compromise my position to the nth power. On the other hand, it was a really long way back to Hallowell. And so I gave in, telling myself that Men are from Mars, and there’s no sense in being xenophobic. If only I had another second to mull it over, I would have realized that being from Mars does not justify someone being completely sleazy.

The night, as one might predict, went downhill from there. Mr. Right-Now waited all of two seconds before trying to hook-up with me. Any attempt to slow things down was futile. Talking was not on the agenda. The paradox of the situation was that I half-wanted to hook up with him, and I half-wanted to be nowhere near him because I knew I would regret it. My indecision was trumped by the absence of condoms in his room, which put a decisive STOP to the evening’s festivities. “You‘re welcome to go to Worth,” I kidded. “You go to Worth,” he said.

I rolled over and did my best to fend off any future attempts to “talk” or “cuddle.” The next morning I slinked out and made the trek across campus while rehashing my idiocy. Let’s hope that the hatchlings of this academic community ne’er make the same moronic mistake as I. Take heed: do not be lured in by the shallow mention of a heart-to-heart or a “snuggle sesh.” Unless this person is someone you can trust, the only talking you’ll end up doing will be purely anatomical.

Amber is a senior. Suggestions for topics to cover, questions, comments and anecdotes can be sent to email address removed at the request of the author.

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