After a two-year hiatus, we’re proud to re-present the seventh installment of Pennetration, UTB’s bedroom diary column, featuring sex, vice and everything nice on our Ivy League campus. Without further adieu, we present the adventures of one brave lady’s tale: Karma Is A Drunk Bitch.
Spring Fling is a time to try new things. Fling is also a time to shirk all responsibilities and, ipso facto, personal dignity. The following is what happens when you have none to begin with:
The Incident began one Saturday night when my best friend “Lucy” and I were walking home. Approaching our front door, I suddenly realized I would be ending the night alone– simply unacceptable. The solution seemed, at the time, obvious: I texted two guys, certain that the one to respond first would be most capable of keeping it up. One was the guy with whom I had ventured under the button the previous night (let’s call him Matt), and the other was a rando from West Point whom I had met and made out with in the span of the last two hours (we’ll call him West Point, because remembering names is for the frivolous).
West Point won the race to my house (must be that military education), arriving in a matter of minutes with his friend Timmy. I eagerly let him in. But before I could text Matt to tell him I didn’t, in fact, need to “hang out,” I heard another knocking at the door. Uh oh.
So there we were: Lucy, Timmy, West Point and I, standing awkwardly in my dimly lit living room. Our faces, illuminated by the light emanating from my buzzing phone, were frozen in something between abject horror and bafflement. It felt weirdly like some kind of twisted Scooby Doo mystery movie, except instead of a group of meddling kids, we were a group of confused, meddling horndogs. I impulsively decided to grab West Point’s hand and pull him upstairs, graciously leaving Lucy and Timmy behind to deal with the mess I’d made. I found out the next day that Timmy had gone outside, and Lucy had witnessed through our peephole the following conversation:
Timmy: “Hey, Matt. What are you doing here?”
Matt: “I’m here to visit someone.”
Timmy: “Oh… who?”
Matt: “Delilah.” (my pseudonym)
Timmy: “Oh, that’s funny, because I just dropped off my friend to bang her.”
They then proceeded to laugh and walk bromantically off into the moonlight [END SCENE].
While this was occurring downstairs, I was upstairs with West Point, making heady (pun intended) progress. We were mid-bone when things went awry (use your imagination) and I quickly fled to the bathroom. While there, I received a text from a past paramour of mine inviting me to his apartment for the same reason any person texts any other person of the opposite sex at 3 a.m. on a Saturday night. I did the only logical thing I could think of and ran down to Lucy’s room–completely naked–where the following conversation took place:
Me: “I need your clothes.”
Lucy: “Um, why, exactly?”
Me: “Because I’m going to get laid at [said paramour’s] house.”
Lucy: “Why can’t you wear your clothes?”
Me: “Because they’re in my room, and West Point is still there.”
Lucy: “You’re going to leave a random military man in your bed with no explanation?”
Despite my less than stellar tact, we finally came up with a plan: I would pretend to puke my guts up in a last-ditch effort to convince West Point I was too sick to finish him. Fortunately, the plan worked (I’d like to thank The Academy and my years of alcohol-induced practice). Approximately 30 seconds after West Point walked out the door, I followed suit, en route to booty call number three.
The first thing I saw upon arriving at aforementioned paramour’s apartment was another girl already sitting on the stoop. She turned her face toward mine, and, thanks to Facebook stalking and my photographic memory, I immediately recognized her as said paramour’s ex-girlfriend. Karma had wasted no time in avenging my foray into over-preparation by subjecting me to the other side of shameless, sexual desperation. After simultaneously booty-calling two prospects in one night, I was now one of two girls being simultaneously booty-called. Cute, Karma. Cute.
As luck would have it, the night ended with the three of us huddled beneath a blanket on my paramour’s roof. My years of drinking practice paid off when The Ex decided she was “too-ooo druuunk” and promptly left. You can infer what happens next. Though there were no Knights in Shining Armor or Princesses Being Carried off into the Sunset (unless you replace “carried” with “tossed” and “the sunset” with “a random man’s bed”) that evening, I woke up the next morning, lack of dignity intact. All in all, a successful night.