“Let’s go back to my room,” he said as he grabbed my hand and led me across the Keystone Light infused floor of his fraternity basement. We stumbled up the stairs, tripping over alternate steps in a synchronized routine that could have only looked like bad physical comedy, and we eventually found ourselves in a cinder-block, sparsely decorated room that could only be described as prison-meets-privileged-yet-angsty-teen-boy. We began the romantic courtship ritual of drunken 19-year-olds. There was not a moment to spare for conversation or niceties; rather it was time to get down to business (or for my more confused readers, do the dirty). Rolling into his bed clothes slowly piled up on his floor, I reached my hand downward, only to make physical contact with his completely flaccid penis, just small enough to take up the space of a third of my hand.