Boston Boy and Sigma Epsilon Chi

I apologize, for I must deviate from the usual "Get drunk, see guy, have awkward hookup with guy" stories for tonight. Although, I can promise that this one is far more entertaining than anything posted.

The night did not start out on a positive note. After trying to round up friends to go to one of the various parties I had heard about, I had essentially given up. I was in my friend's dorm room watching The OC when I got a call from some girls who live on my hall. My favorite fraternity...we'll call it "Sigma Epsilon Chi"...was having an off campus party at an active's house. Before we go any further, I need to give those of you who don't have experience with college Greek Life the 411.

Active - a member of the fraternity who has already been initiated.

Pledge - a future member of the fraternity who has been selected to join but has not been "initiated" yet. Pledges go through a period of time, usually several months, before they can be initiated to become full members. A pledge may be dropped from the fraternity at any time before initiation as the actives see fit.

Initiation - a highly secretive ritual during which pledges become actives. The ritual itself changes from fraternity to fraternity. It can include anything from dangerous hazing, such as forcing the pledges to drink unsafe amounts of alcohol, to a simple recitation of the fraternity's code of conduct or another secret document.

Hell week - the week directly preceding initiation where most hazing goes on. Hell week is essentially a part of initiation. Pledges are usually initiated into the fraternity to become actives at the end of hell week.

Sig Ep Chi's hell week had just ended, and the brothers were ready to let loose. The party was rumored to be definitely worth the off-campus drive, and we were all beyond excited to have secured invitations.

We arrived at the active's house fairly late in the evening, around 1:30am. A decent amount of people were still there and, even though they had ran out of beverages, we decided to say, mostly because I wanted to spend time with the guy friend who had invited us.

Name: Boston Boy

Age: 18

History: We met through mutual friends at the beginning of the school year. We had attended a few parties together and talked as we saw each other around campus, but the friendship was not especially close. He's a very genuine guy - polite, cute, funny and a blast to hang out with. For those of you who dated the class clown in high school, Boston Boy's merits are undeniable.

The Catch: Boston Boy is famous for probably partying a little too hard. During the last Sig Ep Chi party I attended, for example, I witnessed him a) take a face plant on the cement outside of the fraternity house, get up and proceed to chug an entire mixed drink, b) pick up my friend, throw her over his shoulder and carry her back inside when she tried to leave, c) try several times to kiss me. He has a history of out of control behavior but, before that night, it had never been necessarily destructive. Just entertaining.

Soon after we arrived at the party, I began to search for Boston Boy to say hi. As I made my way into the kitchen and spotted him, it was obvious that he was in the middle of a heated situation.

The first thing I noticed was his level of intoxication - bloodshot and watery eyes, drool, a constant struggle to remain standing, and a bottle of whiskey attached to his hand. As Boston Boy leaned against the refrigerator, it was obvious that hell week had gotten the better of him.

Second, I noticed the crowd of boys surrounding him. None were as drunk as he was, and he seemed to be engaged in some sort of argument. I heard raised voices (his slurred almost incomprehensibly) and saw a threat of physical contact between the other boys and BB.

I attempted to make my way across the beer-soaked floor to talk to him when I noticed dried vomit surrounding BB. As I tried to near him, I was stopped by one of the fraternity members. As it turned out, BB had spent the evening taking one shot after another. One of the boys surrounding him had clocked him in the mouth, and he was bleeding. After the fight, BB broke a window in the active's house and proceeded to cover the kitchen floor in vomit.

Needless to say, it became increasingly apparent that it was high time for him to leave.

Once I noticed that the hubbub had subsided, I approached him. He seemed distressed but thankful to see a friendly face. As he began to explain the situation to me, I noticed that his foot was in a cast. Wonderful. He had been stumbling around the house in a drunken stupor when he was barely even able to balance himself in a sober state. Don't you just love college?

I tried several times to take him outside for some fresh air, but each time we began to head out the door something stood in our way, such as another fraternity member trying to engage in some sort of physical or verbal altercation. Once, someone tried to hand him a bottle of Crowne Royal. Needless to say, I had to make it clear to the offerer that now was not the time for him to further imbibe.

Finally, his friends approached me and told me that, if he wasn't taken from the neighborhood soon, he would undoubtedly be asked to leave in a less polite way. I was somehow able to convince him that it was time to go back to his dorm, rounded up my friends, and headed towards the car.

Once we at the car, my friend told me that one of the actives also needed a ride home. We all squeezed in the car - BB on my lap in the backseat, my friend next to me on the active's lap, with three more people somehow squeezed in between the backseat, driver's seat, and passenger's seat of the small sportscar. Not a recommended way to travel, but sometimes you just have to make do.

As drunk college students always do, my friends made it clear that a McDonald's stop was crucial before we dropped BB off at his dorm. As we made our way to the fast food restaurant, BB was, as you might imagine, in a foul mood. "FUCK Sigma Epsilon Chi!" he yelled. "I don't need to pay for friends! I hate fraternities!" He made it quite clear that being initiated was not high on his list of priorities for the coming days, or at least in his inebriated mind.

By the time we pulled into the fifteen-car drive thru line at McDonald's, the active had heard enough. "Look man," he said. "If you're going to talk shit about Sig Ep Chi, then you're dropped. You can't trash an active's house like that, talk shit, and expect to be welcomed with open arms." BB pushed open the car door, fell out onto the asphalt, and hobbled away towards the grass. We figured that he just needed some fresh air, and possibly a consequence-free place to vomit, and thought nothing of it.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him make his way towards the street - the main road in my college town, leading out to a major highway. "Just let him go," my friends said. "Let him find his own way back to campus." However, I was the only member of our party who had known him before that evening, and I couldn't let him risk getting into that much trouble. I bolted out of the car and chased him across the road, through oncoming traffic. When I finally caught up with him, we were standing in the parking lot of a hotel.

"Just let me walk back to campus!" he yelled. "I've got nothing left to live for now! Fuck Sig Ep Chi! I don't pay for friends!"

I steadied him by firmly planting both of my hands on his shoulders. "I can't let you do that. Please just walk back with me to the car. Everyone wants to see you."

He wrapped me in a tight hug, lifting me off the ground. "Listen, listen. I know you're cute and all. And you're probably the best girl friend I've got here. When I need someone, you're there. Do you know that?" he slurred. "But just let me go. I don't want you out here right now. It's cold."

I looked the boy square in the eyes. "If you think I'm going to let you, with a broken leg and impaired judgment, try to find your way two miles back to campus, you've got a prayer."

He kissed me. "You're such an amazing friend." Then, I saw his eyes ignite in pure anger. "But, I can't believe I just wasted four months of my life on fucking Sigma Epsilon Chi! Fuck all of those homos! I'm dropping the fraternity!" he screamed.

At that point, I noticed that the woman who was working at the hotel's front desk had been standing just outside of the doorway leading into the hotel, watching the entire thing.

"R, do you need some help?" she asked. It seemed that she had learned all of the details of the situation from his rants and my pleas.

I shook my head. "I am so sorry, ma'm! I know he's disturbing you. My friends are stuck in the line at McDonald's. They're coming for us right after they get their food."

"BB," she said. "You need to let R here take you back to campus. I'm sorry about Sig Ep Chi, but you've got no reason to cause this much of a commotion over it. Public drunkenness is a crime, and I could call the police right now..."

BB immediately grew quiet. "No ma'm," he whispered, tears welling in his eyes. "Please don't call the police. I've already spent the night there once this year. Please, please."

She buried her head in her hands. "Okay, BB. I will make you a deal. Will you listen to me?"

He meekly nodded. "Yes, ma'm."

I was relieved. It seemed that this kind lady understood my situation and was willing to take pity on the two of us.

"If you sit here quietly on the curb with R until your friends come to get you..."

Suddenly, I heard a noise, almost like a faucet running.

Yes. BB had begun to urinate all over the parking lot.

I looked up at the lady in terror. "Ma'm, I am so sorry about my friend. I know that this is now indecent exposure. Just please...he's going home as soon as our friends are through the line. Please. I will control him."

She softly chuckled and nodded, casting her eyes down. "BB, listen to me. If you sit here quietly on the curb with R until your friends get here, I will not call the police. If you continue to stand here and make a commotion, I am going to have to. Okay?"

He was speechless, so I answered for him. "Ma'm, if you so much as hear any sound from your desk, please call the authorities. I will keep him quiet."

She turned to open the door to the hotel. She stopped just short of the entrance, and looked over her shoulder. "Oh, and BB? You have a lot left to live for." With that, she returned to the hotel's desk.

"Yeah," I said to no one in particular. "He really does."

I helped BB over to the curb to sit down. He leaned on my shoulder. "I really fucked up this time, huh?"

I noticed that his nose was running, so I offered up my sleeve. "No, BB. I'm glad to be here for you."

He buried his head in the crook of my neck, tears streaming down his face. "I've never had a friend like you." With that, he curled up in my lap and bawled like a lost child.

Between gulps and hysterical hiccups, still nestled in my lap, he slowly provided more pieces to his puzzle. He told me about his family, and how his parents didn't seem to really care for him. He told me that his dying grandmother seemed to be the only person in his life that he mattered to. He told me that the past few months of his life had been the most difficult of his life, and that he felt the onset of a fairly significant depression. He told me that, once he decided to pledge Sig Ep Chi, he lost most of his original friends. And now, that night, he had lost his new group of friends, too. I tried to sympathize with him, but I felt as though anything I might say would feel wrong.

He held me tight. "Please don't tell anyone," he whimpered. "No one else can know how weak I am right now."

I stroked his hair and softly rubbed his back. "I'm your friend, BB."

"I know you are, R. Do you know what a great person you are? Do you know who else would sit here in the cold with me crying like a little girl? No one. I love you."

I felt tears of my own welling. I know that it might have been the alcohol talking to me and not the real BB, but I had never meant this much to someone in my life, and my heart seemed as though it might burst with compassion at any moment.

(to be continued...)

I've Got Bros in Different Area Codes

Please excuse my lack of updates. I just returned to school from winter break and have been having quite the time getting my shit together. However, I have a few moments now, and I've decided to change things up a bit in this post.

A few months ago, I found a map where someone had plotted out all of the area codes that Ludacris claims to have "hos" in, according to his famous song "Area Codes".

Today I got to thinking...what would my "Bros in Different Area Codes" map look like?

Like this, apparently.
Note: After I made the map, I realized that I left out coastal Mississippi. Pretend it's shaded.


Let's analyze.

It's obvious that I favor the southeast, with a "bro" in every state of the confederacy minus South Carolina, Alabama, and Arkansas. I've covered Virginia, North Carolina, Kentucky, Tennessee, Mississippi, Georgia, Louisiana, Florida, and Texas if you count it. I suppose that the northeast is my second most populous region, but the southeast is quite predominant. Like Luda, I have a "bro belt" that is nearly synonymous with the Bible Belt.

Area code wise, I have more than half of Maryland and Virginia accounted for. I have all of Mississippi and Idaho, but the latter is kind of a cheat considering Idaho is such a lame state that it only has one area code. I'm pretty sure that Idaho has more potato farms than it does people. Just pointing it out.

My bros are split fairly evenly by the Mississippi River.

I could take a road trip from Virginia Beach to upstate New York and have a bro at every stop along the way, with a small dry spell in northeastern Pennsylvania stretching to southeastern New York. But seriously, Pennsylvania sucks, and most Pennsylvania bros probably aren't worth stopping for anyway. (I've spent a lot of time in Pennsylvania, so don't yell at me. It's just my second least favorite state in the country.)

I am partial to bros who live on the coast or otherwise near a major body of water, having six or more whose area codes encompass such locations.

I prefer bros who are a short drive away from civilization - the vast majority of the areas are home to major American cities like Dallas/Fort Worth, Charlotte, Atlanta, Virginia Beach/Hampton Roads, Washington DC, and Baltimore. Out of the 100 most populous American cities, the area codes on my map include approximately 20 percent of them.

My next order of business: sometimes you have to drop multiple c-notes to stay in the hip-hop game.

Always traveling,
R

First Mate and The Captain

After the Jew-Fro incident, I didn't think a more terrifying and laughable sexual experience could be had. But, as I've discovered the oh so hard way, the chance of an awkward sexual experience exponentially increases with each shot taken or beer chugged. My first Halloween as a college girl not only exemplifies this mathematical theory, but also made for one of my more entertaining stories to date.

Name: First Mate
Age: 18 or 19
History: You'll see.
The Catch: Again, this will soon become quite clear.

For Halloween, my best friend and I attended a party at a certain fraternity who occasionally throws exceptional events, but is fairly useless otherwise.

We were downstairs dancing on the bar when I was approached by First Mate, one of the brothers.

"Would you care to dance?" he asked me.

Before I continue, I'd like to preface the looming climax of this story by specifying my mental state: Jello shots. Jäger bombs. More shots. A trillion shotgunned beers. More jello shots. Extreme, extreme intoxication.

I had never seen First Mate before that evening, but from what I could tell in the dimly lit room, he was at least somewhat cute. And I was drunk. It was one of those nights.

I turned down his offer to dance because I could barely stand at that point and feared that any vigorous movement would cause me to blow chunks all over the floor...and I was not about to risk committing the most sinister of party fouls.

"Well, you want to sit down then?" he asked. I did. He motioned to a chair in the corner, clear across the room currently flooded with girls in corsets and animal ears, guys in scary masks, glow sticks, and trampled solo cups.

We made our way across the floor to the chair. He pulled me on to his lap.

"I like your costume," he mentioned, and proceeded to draw me in closer for a kiss.

I was drunk. He wasn't terrible looking. Why not? If only I had known the terrible turn of events that was to take place in the following minutes, I might have restrained myself.

As intoxication continued to set in, I grew dizzy. I told FM I needed some fresh air, so we stepped outside and sat in a secluded grassy knoll outside the frat house. We continued what had started inside when FM suddenly pulled away.

"There's someone I'd like you to meet," he informed me. He reached to unfasten his pants. "His name is The Captain, and he's been dying to meet you all night."

Yes. He was, in fact, referring to his penis.

"He just wants a kiss," he pouted. "Look, he's saluting you!" He undid his zipper.

Was this guy serious? Are there girls out there who are actually turned on by this shit?

To date, I consider this the most memorable pickup line I've encountered. No insight or wisdom with this one...just pure hilarity.

Hahahahahahahahaahahahah,
R

St. Louis Boy and Yankee Jew (Or, the First Weekend, Part Two)

(Continued from previous post.)

Standing outside of Jew-Fro's door, I decided to meet up with my friends who were still in St. Louis Boy's room (or so I assumed).

As it turned out, in the five or so minutes during which I was occupied with JF, everyone had left for the evening. I told SLB what had happened next door, and he for some reason found the situation absolutely hilarious.

After explaining to him that I had no idea how to get back to my dorm, especially in the dark, he asked if I wanted to stay in his room.

Name: St. Louis Boy
Age: 19
History: Met him the second day of school. Quickly became a close guy friend.
The Catch: St. Louis Boy appears innocent at first...almost like someone you think you can confide in...but the real SLB (SOB, perhaps?) is pure, backstabbing teenage girl. Can't keep a secret to save his life, and is a serial gossiper.

We watched television for a little bit until he informed me that he was growing weary. I was, too, and we decided to turn in for the night.

It was at that point that I realized SLB had no futon or couch in his room...not even an air mattress or a sleeping bag in sight. I looked around, wondering what the sleeping arrangements were to be like, when he answered my question for me.

"Here, I have an extra pillow. My bed should be big enough if you don't mind being a little close."

I was a little surprised, but not really fazed. SLB at that point was my best guy friend at school. Sharing a bed...albeit a single bed...wouldn't be that big of a deal, or so I thought.

As we settled ourselves beneath the covers, I could feel my body fading fast. I was almost in my REM cycle when I felt a warm hand on mine, although I was too sleepy to really pay it much notice. That is, until he kissed me.

What happened from that moment on is anyone's guess. While my body was technically conscious for most of the ordeal, my brain was largely asleep. It wasn't until I awoke early that morning to see him laying next to me that the event fully registered.

I opened my eyes to find SLB already awake, laying there, it seemed, waiting for me to wake up.

"Don't tell her about this, okay?" he mumbled.

The "her" SLB referred to was my best friend at the time...we'll call her Yankee Jew. (Note: I've got nothing against Judaism. It just seems that the shadiest characters in my life tend to be, well, Jewish.)

Name: Yankee Jew
Age: 18
History: Met at Freshman Orientation before school began. Decided to room together, until she flaked.
The Catch: If Yankee Jew and Regina George duked it out in a match after which the winner received the title of "Ultimate Life Ruiner" (not most popular, mind you), Regina would run away in tears before the second round. Yankee Jew spreads rumors like wildfire. YJ, believe it or not, was my very first frenemy. Ever.

In any case, I'd noticed a bit of chemistry between YJ and SLB. As expected, she asked me that evening what had transpired the previous one. The conversation went something like this:

YJ: So, what happened between you and SLB last night?
Me: Nothing at all. I needed a place to sleep, and we shared a bed. We're just friends.
YJ: That's not what he said.
Me: What?
YJ: SLB told me y'all hooked up.

At this point, I was utterly baffled. SLB had specifically told me NOT to mention our tryst to YJ, right? What gave?

But, now that she knew, there was little use in denying it. So I didn't bother to.

I didn't hear from SLB for days after my conversation with YJ. Finally, I took the bait and called him:

Me: So, I thought you didn't want YJ to know about what happened.
SLB: Yeah, I didn't. Thanks for that.
Me: What? You were the one that told her.
SLB: ...Why would I tell her something that we agreed to keep quiet?

In a state of complete confusion, I called Yankee Jew, who oh so casually admitted that she had, in fact, told me that SLB admitted to it all when, in fact, he'd told her exactly what I had. You know, not a big deal at all.

In case you haven't caught on yet, YJ essentially fabricated SLB's confession to coax one out of me.

Sneaky. Underhanded. And slightly brilliant. A true mean girl.

We forever hear these tales of the cold-hearted backstabbing that girls are subjected to, beginning usually around puberty and lasting until...well...forever. Why do girls play these games? How much satisfaction is there in seeing a frenemy squirm?

Whatever the case, from that incident until we stopped talking for good, I divulged few personal details to YJ. Anything that could possibly be manipulated and fed to the rumor mill was kept to myself. You might think that the kindest, most open people are the ones with the least worries, but after I made a personal promise to block YJ's information highway, things in my life became less complicated...at least, for awhile. I do believe that this is a life lesson of sorts.

Like an antelope in a sea of lionesses,
R

Have you ever had a frenemy? Who was your first? Whisper it to me in a comment.

Jew-Fro (Or, the First Weekend, Part One)

We all have sexual skeletons in our closets - that one partner at whose memory we cringe. We tried to hide the truth from even our nearest and dearest pals, not only because we'd rather save ourselves from supreme embarrassment, but because we'd rather not be reminded that it ever happened.

Name: Jew-Fro
Age: 19
History: Started talking on Facebook the summer before college.
The Catch: Short. Slightly pudgy. Half-black AND Jewish...not a great genetic combination. Socially awkward. Spoiled rich kid. Still hung up on his Shrek-esque ex-girlfriend from home. Full-on metal mouth...with a condescending attitude to boot. Is that enough of a "catch" for y'all?

It was the first weekend of school. Jew-Fro and I had hung out a few times that week, and while he seemed to be attracted to me, the feeling, I decided, was so not mutual.

My friends and I had spent the evening out on the town with Jew-Fro's dorm neighbor (who we will call St. Louis Boy and will be an integral part of "the First Weekend, Part Two"). As the night wound down, he invited us to his room, and we accepted.

I hadn't been in St. Louis Boy's room for too long before my BlackBerry beeped with a text from Jew-Fro.

"Wherer are yoiuut?" (Obviously drunk.)

"Actually, I'm next door to you. Come say hi," I replied.

Jew-Fro informed me that he was on his way back from a party. Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on St. Louis Boy's door. 'Twas Jew-Fro, of course, drunker than David Hasselhoff when he ate that hamburger.

He lingered in SLB's room for a few minutes, until I received another text. It was from JF.

"Letse make babires."

I looked up at him, trying not to laugh.

"We're going to hang out in my room next door," he told SLB and our other friends, gesturing to me. "Come on."

Once in his room, JF leaned in to kiss me. I pulled back.

"Are you kidding me? Please, let's get it on. You look amazing tonight. I want you so bad..."

Before I could say anything, JF threw me down on the bed, ripped my underwear off (I was wearing a dress), and got down to business.

I'm won't beat around the bush here...his audacity kind of turned me on for a millisecond, which is probably why I let it happen. Ew. Pretend I never said that, okay?

As quickly as it started, it was over. (And I mean quickly. Think under a minute...poor guy.) He rolled over and grew quiet.

I awkwardly sat on his single bed, wondering what to do next. If I returned to SLB's room, I knew I would surely be greeted with jeers from my friends for even going with JF in the first place and, it being the first weekend of school, I had no idea how to get to my dorm, so although a quick escape was preferred, it was out of the question.

"Is something wrong?" I asked him.

"I can't believe I just did that," he slurred, sprawled across his bed like a dead fish on the wet sand.

"Why? What's wrong?"

I, like most women, have always complained about guys who are too unemotional afterwards. Don't you hate it when they just roll over and go to sleep, barely pausing for a quick peck on the forehand? But, in the moments that followed, I almost wished that Jew-Fro was one of those men I had previously complained about.

For the next twenty minutes, I heard all about Shrek and how she'd broken his heart the previous week. It looked like I'd gotten my wish - a guy had gotten emotional afterwards, but, unfortunately, not in the way that I'd hoped.

Just as I sensed that our raft was nearing potential waterfalls, I decided that it was time to politely kick myself out.

"You seem tired; I should go."

"Fine," he sniffled like a three year old deprived of dessert. "I just want to be alone now."

"Okay, okay, I'm leaving. Where did you put my underwear?"

He lay limp on the mattress. "I'm so depressed..."

"...Any idea where it could be? That was one of my nicer pairs..."

"...I just want her back. How can I make her love me again?"

"Did you throw it somewhere?" I shrunk to my knees to search beneath his bed.

"I'm love her so much; she's my boo-bear."

Understandably, I'd had more than enough. "If you find my underwear, call me. It's black silk, although I don't think that there are that many other pairs of womens' underwear laying around your room." He looked up at me incredulously, his eyes glazed with drunkenness. "Oh, and I hope you feel better." With my foot, I pushed his trashcan so it stood beside his bed in case of...emergencies.

The moment I pushed the door shut, I thought I heard muffled sobbing, but I'll never know for sure.

It seemed as though the tables had turned. Was this what guys feel like when women want pillow talk? Should we, as the fairer sex, show more understanding when men aren't feeling particular chatty during the aftermath? From that night on, I began to approach "the aftermath" in a new way.

I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit,
R

(To be continued...)

By the way, I'm interested in hearing all about your sexual skeletons and how they compare to Jew-Fro. Leave me comments.

Beer Bong Boy aka "Triple B"

A girl never forgets the best sex of her life to date, and mine is truly incontestable. Beer Bong Boy wins, hands down.

Name: Beer Bong Boy, or Triple B
Age: 19
History: Met at a party. Went home with him. Possibly the greatest night (and undoubtedly the greatest lay) of my life thus far.
The Catch: The boy's got more checked baggage than I did when I flew home for the holidays. And that's an accomplishment.

We met at a party circa October/November 2008, which is generally how people meet one another in college. He's best friends and roommates with my best friend's best friend (a closer connection than it sounds), and every time I had previously seen him, he held a ping-pong ball in his right hand and a pyramid of red solo cups lay on the table before him, waiting to be conquered. He was quite the athlete.

Although not particularly attractive in a superficial sense (but not a total waste of human genetics either), his swagger evoked all-too-familiar memories of Texas Boy, which should have been red flag number one. After seeing him around campus and the local party scene a few times, I was determined to get to know him.

We'll call him Beer Bong Boy, or Triple B - a tribute to how I first officially met him. As I stood with my black jeweled Betsey Johnson flats firmed planted on the tiled kitchen floor, with a Niagra Falls of Keystone Light funneling down my throat, he entered the room. Determined to keep my cool, I finished the beer bong like a lady (slash champion) and caught his gaze with mine.

"I could've bonged that beer in half the time," were his first words to me.

"Well, fuck you then," were my first words to him.

Romantic, right?

Triple B and I migrated outside to smoke cigarettes and bond over our hometowns which, as we quickly discovered, are in the same state. We connected. And, having a uterus, I immediately realized how convenient the logistics of this potential relationship were. There would be no missing him during the summer, because he would be an easy drive away.

Sigh. Perfect.

We held hands outside, and I told him I was cold, so he held me. (note to male readers: this is oldest trick in the female book. If a girl ever tells you she's "cold", 90% of the time this means she wants you to hold her.) We kissed and soon came to the mutual yet unspoken decision that we should go back to his place.

I'm not one to be explicit, so all I'll say is this: five hours. Plus another hour or two the next morning, before AND after he made me breakfast (yes, he made me breakfast). He let me sleep in. We sat outside, I on his lap, and smoked two cigarettes each.

After a few hours, his friends called and said they were coming over soon and, to my surprise, he didn't push me out the door. When they arrived to see us entwined on the couch, me in his boxers and t-shirt and last night's eye-makeup, he politely introduced me instead of making excuses as to why I was there.

And it wasn't awkward. At all. A true gentleman, he made it clear that this wouldn't be a one night stand. Aren't you jealous?

Don't be. There's always a catch, and Triple B was no exception.

He waited less than a day to drop the bombshell, which came in the form of a Corey and Topanga-esque relationship that he was "on a break from" at the time, but that, according to him, was a fire destined to be rekindled over Thanksgiving Break.

"You're a really amazing girl, but I'm in love with her." How many times have y'all heard that one before?

Coincidentally, he and his roommate just one week later somehow became mainstays in my social circle. Their house has become the designated "party house" to my friends and I, meaning that I now see Triple B several times per week (usually, again, with a ping-pong ball in his hand. It's funny how things seem to always come full-circle in the end). Things, still, are surprisingly not awkward. We never brought up the beer bong, or the five hours, or the morning spent on the couch, or the cigarettes ever again.

And I wish we would. Not that I feel awkward, but I do miss Triple B and everything attached to him...at least, in the bedroom. Although, now that we've spend time together platonicly, I've noticed that while he's a nice guy, he's also a bit boring. If we'd never had that one fantastic night together, I'm not sure he'd be on the radar.

Usually, it's men that put so much stock in the quality of the sex, not women. In fact, I think most women would label themselves as whores for unabashedly coming back to him for the lovin' alone (unless you're a Samantha instead of a Carrie). We always talk about how we want a "nice guy" who is a best friend first, boyfriend second. With men, it's the opposite to some degree (Air Force Boy once told me that he historically sleeps with a woman first and dates her second, with few exceptions).

But are women more like men than we think? Can a fantastic time between the sheets leave us lustful for an otherwise sub-par catch?

All I know is that his Topanga is a lucky, lucky girl.

Wistfully,
R

I want to know - what's the story behind your best ever? Comment.

Texas Boy

Once in awhile, a man comes along who seems almost too good to be true. "Is he really interested in little ol' me?" you wonder, in disbelief. "Better snap this one up quickly before he comes to his senses and dates a Hilton. Or an Olsen. Or a size zero."

Texas Boy may be one of the more interesting write-ups in my ex files. Trust fund baby and heir to his oil tycoon grandfather's corporation, Texas Boy quite literally does not have to work a day in his life if he chooses.

Name: Texas Boy
Age: 23
History: Met August 2007. Charmed my Sevens off with his superior intellect (he went to UCLA and NYU), flawless taste in music (Bright Eyes, Cursive, Stars...), dashing good looks, and eight-figure (at least) bank account.
The Catch: His father was murdered when Texas Boy was in grade school. Since then, Texas Boy has mostly written emotions off as signs of weakness. He deems them mostly unnecessary and is just looking for someone who will give him babies in order to please his grandfather. He's very particular, and one wrong word could cause the dreaded hang-up. Ask him about his father more than once, and you're sleeping with one eye open. Texas Boy is looking for sex, not love. Yours truly wants both.

But, who knows how many women have been in those Marc Jacobs slacks? This, girls, is what we call a womanizer womanizer womanizer, baby. Except, at first, I didn't know just who he was.

Due to his "perfect catch" status, I tried to turn a blind eye to his emotional issues. I mean, wouldn't you? At first, it seemed too good to be true. Texas Boy called not only every night, but sent cute emails and texts throughout the day. I do believe we were an item, and I was smitten. I imagined the lavish wedding we were to have (sorry, Air Force Boy, Texas Boy kicks your ass here), the baby couture I would clothe our children in, the grown-up couture I would clothe myself in...the best kinds of "what ifs".

To him, I was "darling"...except, not the "darling" your grandmother uses. No. "Dahhh-ling." He's one of those men who is great at starting relationships (but not so great at continuing them) - he once told me that the best piece of advice his late father gave him was to remind a woman how special she is every day, be it with flowers, phone calls, letters, or simple words. I was as corny as Kansas in August, high as a flag on the fourth July...I was in love with a wonderful guy.

Then, he dug into his "ex-files" and turned it all around.

We'll call her Mentally Unstable Ex. What Texas Boy EVER saw in this loony, I will never know.

And by "mentally unstable", I don't mean the kind of ex that inundated him with phone calls begging him to take her back, or anything like that. This cocaine addicted bitch chased him around his kitchen with a knife...and let's just say he went to the hospital that evening.

I heard horror story after horror story about Medusa, yet when he didn't call me for a week, I wasn't as surprised as I thought I would have been to find out about his week-long tryst with her. As we've learned from Air Force Boy, when any kind of emotional issue is at play, men think it's best to ignore it. And you.

But that wasn't all. No no no. As he nonchalantly informed me, it looked like Cruella's children would be wearing Juicy Couture onesies, and not mine.

That's right. The Wicked Witch of the Southwest was pregnant with little trust fund babies.

After that, it was strictly sexy business between TB (I don't think this abbreviation is pure coincidence...he's like a disease) and I. He refused to discuss the situation with me, although it became quite apparent that things were to change. I had been lucky enough to get a little emotion from him before...he even had gone so far as to drop the L-Bomb. Bold move, TB, bold move.

But now, unless I was calling to tell him what I was(n't) wearing, he would promptly press "end call". Just like that, we were done, except for the (amazing) physicalness of it all. Oh yes, he definitely still wanted that.

I didn't find out until months later that TB would in fact not be father to a little spawn of Satan, which left me wondering how much of his story was true to begin with. Did he fabricate Mentally Unstable Ex's return as an excuse to distance himself from me before he got too close? Or did he simply neglect to tell me about the abortion because he liked things the way they were - purely physical? Either way, I concluded that TB is what we in the profession like to call a "serial dater."

I still talk to TB on a semi-regular basis (once every week or two, sometimes more often), and I'm still hoping for the designer children's wear. However, he remains one of the most aloof assholes I've ever met, which leaves me wondering - although a kiss on the hand is quite continental (and free), are diamonds a girl's best friend? How much are women willing to sacrifice for the promise of a lifetime of financial security, and a courtship peppered with rare and expensive gifts?

My thoughts? Supermodels date Donald Trump for a reason. What do you think?

With dollar signs in my eyes,
R

(Scroll down to the poll at the very bottom of the page to voice your opinion on Texas Boy!)

Air Force Boy

I was never one of those little girls who sat around and planned her wedding, though I certainly did not lack imagination. I, as a child, was that scene from the Virgin Suicides where the boys find Cecilia's diary, and suddenly understand why girls' minds are so "active and dreamy". Instead of writing fairytale endings for myself, I'd imagine things that might happen...tomorrow. The next day. Two weekends from now, at my friend's coed birthday party. I wanted my future right then, and I truly believed that dwelling upon it would somehow send my wishes shooting towards the cosmos, leaving them to bide their time among the stars, waiting to materialize at the perfect second, when the lighting was just right.

As I mature, however, those cosmic wishes have turned from the immediate and transient to the even more immediate and lasting. That's why, when I met Air Force Boy almost a year ago, I was intrigued and subsequently fell...in lust.

Name: Air Force Boy
Age: 24
History: Met Spring 2007. Was allured by what an "older man" could offer.
The Catch: Air Force Boy will be the first to tell you that he's emotionally fucked. Two bad breakups + low self esteem = the dreaded yet typical male trust issues.

We're historically hot and cold, Air Force Boy and I. But lately, we've been on fire. And by lately, I mean before he unexpectedly and silently terminated all communication (yes, even my lowly instant messages were left ignored). But even before those shenanigans, AFB and I were just friends...

...Friends with possibilities.

Recently, he went from barely ever calling to calling nightly. Although we were officially "nothing", he presented all sorts of hypothetical situations to me during his nightly calls:

"What if" we were a couple and he was stationed overseas? Would I move for him? Would I be okay with not having a lavish wedding if his funds did not permit? (Answer: not even.) Although I'm a vegetarian, would I be willing to raise our children as (shudder) carnivores?

It seemed like it was all happening...24-year-old Air Force Boy liking with 19-year-old civilian girl. And, typical female behavior, I ate up his "what ifs" like a Whitman's sampler on your period. The idea of creating my very own fairy tale as soon as possible blinded me, and, there I was, orbiting the sun with my childhood wishes and dreams, allowing the deliciousness of it all to overcome me until I became...

...Oh so hopelessly optimistic.

The ignoring began on Wednesday, out of the blue. Or was it Tuesday? I can't say for sure. But, each call went unanswered. Voice messages, listened to I'm sure, but unacknowledged. Text messages, unreturned. Instant messages, all for naught. I even tried Facebook. And Facebook is NEVER supposed to let a girl down.

At one point, I even checked the obituaries of his hometown paper. No, I'm not joking. Call me psycho, but, at that point, I would have welcomed any explanation for his behavior.

Tonight, he drunkenly answered. He slurred a few lines about "not being able to commit to anything" and how I'm obviously "too good for him". I soberly cried out of pure frustration and disappointment. And, long story short, AFB may be able to commit himself to the United States' Government, but to a girl? Not in this deployment, sweetheart.

I've come to this realization: sometimes, we go to such great lengths, and for what? That frequent yet always brief glimmer of hope that we might have the chance to maybe find "that person"? That we, the desperate and forever lonely, could be the one tenth of one percent whose love lives effortlessly fall into place...dream house, dream career, perfect children, perfect spouse, enviable existence?

I suppose our minds are too "active and dreamy" to keep our feet so firmly planted, but must these inherent flaws be at the expense of our sanity?

Back at square one again,
R