Everyone was taking the online BDSM test in high school. Hushed voices rang through the halls, “What results did you get?” We held up our friends with the kinkiest results like a new man at his Bar Mitzvah, cheering and throwing him above the crowd. Someone at every lunch table and in every clique bragged about being 98 percent rope bunny, 54 percent masochist, and 24 percent pet. Most of us didn’t even know what that meant, but it had to be edgy and therefore cool.
Then there was Brian. He displayed his glowing phone screen to the cafeteria, reporting that he was in fact 100 percent vanilla.
The manic pixie dream girl is my greatest foe. I jest, but she’s higher on the list than I like to admit. I detest her daring attitude: motivated not by a sad girl’s hopeless disregard for bodily safety but by some romantic notion of heroism ingrained in her stupid, little head. I despise her allegedly adorable inability to produce an unhappy thought, or to truly think at all. And I loathe her supposedly sexy stint as no more than a quarter of a whole person whose relevance fails to extend beyond the bounds of some guy’s own experience.
He chuckled at his phone with the sort of strained enthusiasm meant to spur a person’s curiosity. Curiosity spurred, I crawled to the foot of the bed and peered over his broad, tattooed shoulder. I wasn’t exactly eager to stow aside my feminist propensity of ignoring men when they, in typical fashion, summon attention to themselves whilst performing some act wholly unworthy of the attention they summon. But his shoulders were broad, and tattooed. And we had just had some cool sex, so all in all I was feeling benevolent.
They have always tormented me on the margins of my screen: these flashing banners with the promise of voluptuous, bouncing anime titties. I have restrained myself from clicking on them, knowing full well the forbidden games might strike my laptop with an assortment of viruses and pop-ups. It’s not like I needed a flash game to fulfill my needs when the usual gang bang sufficed. I curbed my curiosity for long enough. The orgasming animations beckoned to me, not out of lust, but out of spite.
The date itself was great. As recent Ivy grads living in New York do, we met on Hinge, the millennial’s go-to catalog of both eligible and ineligible singles. The digital prelude consisted of playful digs atCornell and Columbia’s sports programs, obligatory “Fuck Trump” talk and our shared affection for the filmography of Marty Scorcese. After a few days of feigned interest in her gap year in Italy (“ugh im soo jealous – ive always heard naples is beautiful”) and mutual social media vetting, we agreed to meet at a ramen joint in the East Village.
She happened to live a few blocks away (what a convenient coincidence), so we went back to her place to smoke some medicinal reefer. And after a joint and nine minutes of Scorcese’s criminally underappreciated 2011 masterpiece Hugo, we found our way to her bedroom where, without too much detail (basically – me on top, her on top, me on top, sideways, me from the back, concluding with an unironic congratulatory high-five) and with the clarity of hindsight, I can confidently say we enjoyed one of the three greatest sexual experiences of my life.
Sweaty and spread-eagled on her bed, we passed each other a Menthol Juul, listening to Daniel Caesar’s romantic banalities humming in the background.
Content Warning: This article contains a discussion of rape culture and sexual assault.
At Cornell, I feel like there is a sense of entitlement and superiority among guys in frats which creates a predatory environment. What’s the deal with that?
Hi Frat Freaked,
Thanks for your question. While I am no expert, I do have a few theories. The essence of your question is rape culture in fraternities. And yes, it is prevalent here at Cornell. Anecdotally, ask anyone that’s ever been to a frat party or a date night and they will describe the uneven male to female ratios, the creepy grabbiness of men on dance floors, the pressure to hook-up with dates or the drinking that blurs lines of consent.
In a few days, you will be laying on your back, fascinated by a crack in the ceiling, wondering why you need to do this. You are exasperated by the very nature of sex, a nature that doesn’t allow us to fully live inside each other.