When my friend, X, went to Boston, she was expecting a bold, run-around weekend with an old friend, wherin they would put on some mascara, drink a lot, and see all the sights. What X found, however, was that her sharp friend had gone all pink around the edges-- sorority pink. X's friend lived in a sorority suite in her college dorm. The walls were plastered with snapshots of hungry co-eds posing in diners where Harvard MBA men (their future husbands) are known to hang out
After being loaned an expired ID from a sorority alumna, X allowed herself to be squeezed into something sequined and taken out to wait in the rain for an hour outside a"really fantastic club". This club turned out to be a glorified sports bar where Boston's lesser college girls go to make themselves available to disinterested baseball fanatics. X's friend was set on picking up a guy to show X just exactly how smooth and confident she had become since beginning her BA. She made a big show for her sisters about what a slut she was (even though X knew very well that she was a virgin with huge self-confidence issues), then started to sucker men into buying her shots of raspberry vodka. X, tired of her (soon to be ex-) friend's sad show-boating, decided the best thing would be to never have to return to the Greek girls' rookery again.
X adjusted her size 12 jeans and set across the bar to make time with a reasonably cute Red Sox fan. He was wearing a baseball cap, nursing a beer, and trying to avoid the ladies in Juicy Couture. X introduced herself, paid for her own beer, and made a joke about her tattoo (a camel on her toe... Get it?). After listening to the guy talk about baseball for at least fifteen minutes, X made her move. She said, "You're hat is really sexy" (or something to that effect), and the guy went all squiggly around the edges. X had politely seduced the man into getting her the hell out of dodge.
Back at his place, things moved along nicely. While riding him reverse cowgirl, however, X realized that she wasn't going to have an orgasm. "Fuck this," she thought, and dismounted without warning. Before the confused Bostonian could react, X had gathered her clothes, snagged his Red Sox hat from its proud peg on the wall, and aborted Mission Avoid Sorority Life.
She wore that ball cap all the way home. It almost made up for the fact that she'd lost her cellphone at the guy's apartment. A good rule of thumb from my good friend, X, "If I'm not going to have an orgasm, why should he? Especially if I don't even know his last name."
After being loaned an expired ID from a sorority alumna, X allowed herself to be squeezed into something sequined and taken out to wait in the rain for an hour outside a"really fantastic club". This club turned out to be a glorified sports bar where Boston's lesser college girls go to make themselves available to disinterested baseball fanatics. X's friend was set on picking up a guy to show X just exactly how smooth and confident she had become since beginning her BA. She made a big show for her sisters about what a slut she was (even though X knew very well that she was a virgin with huge self-confidence issues), then started to sucker men into buying her shots of raspberry vodka. X, tired of her (soon to be ex-) friend's sad show-boating, decided the best thing would be to never have to return to the Greek girls' rookery again.
X adjusted her size 12 jeans and set across the bar to make time with a reasonably cute Red Sox fan. He was wearing a baseball cap, nursing a beer, and trying to avoid the ladies in Juicy Couture. X introduced herself, paid for her own beer, and made a joke about her tattoo (a camel on her toe... Get it?). After listening to the guy talk about baseball for at least fifteen minutes, X made her move. She said, "You're hat is really sexy" (or something to that effect), and the guy went all squiggly around the edges. X had politely seduced the man into getting her the hell out of dodge.
Back at his place, things moved along nicely. While riding him reverse cowgirl, however, X realized that she wasn't going to have an orgasm. "Fuck this," she thought, and dismounted without warning. Before the confused Bostonian could react, X had gathered her clothes, snagged his Red Sox hat from its proud peg on the wall, and aborted Mission Avoid Sorority Life.
She wore that ball cap all the way home. It almost made up for the fact that she'd lost her cellphone at the guy's apartment. A good rule of thumb from my good friend, X, "If I'm not going to have an orgasm, why should he? Especially if I don't even know his last name."
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