At the onset of her fourth year in college, Eve has learned quite a few things about sex. Eve, The Hatchet’s anonymous sex columnist, will share her observations and (sometimes dirty) thoughts about sex at GW with the population that fuels her fire.
My name is Eve. I have blonde hair, green eyes and a red-hot libido. I also have dreams of becoming a novelist, unpaid credit card bills and a deep desire to somehow save the world through sex. Nice to meet you.
If you’re reading this, we certainly have at least one thing in common: sex intrigues us. We think about sex a fair amount and we want to know more. The truth is, sex doesn’t just intrigue me. I am addicted to thinking about sex – I’m a fantasy-aholic.
Every man I meet, I consider what it would be like to sleep with him. And college, with all its hormone-heavy hotties, is not good for my addiction. From that buff baseball player in my poli-sci discussion to Old Man Schenley, I cannot keep myself from picturing what it would be like to see his face contort with pleasure.
Certainly, some make me shudder from disgust rather than shiver in pleasure, but I still imagine sex with every male I encounter. It’s become almost like second nature to me. For example, say I walk in to the first day of Chemistry lab and my instructor explains cell-bonding to me. This makes me wonder if he likes to wear his lab coat with nothing on underneath it and have me whisper balanced chemical equations in his ear. Or I go to my Victorian literature class and the professor begins lecturing on Dickens. You can only imagine what runs through my mind.
Initially, I was appalled at my own imagination. My habit is especially bad, because right now I’m dating a nice GW boy who has yet to even scratch the surface of my sexual appetite. What kind of girl imagines doing it standing up with the waiter at Bertucci’s while her boyfriend is paying the check?
But then I realized that I was simply allowing my brain to do as it should – to blatantly and openly seek out pleasure, and ultimately, a perfect mate. Sexual intimacy is the highest and strangest form of physical closeness, and my lover and I will be engaged in that awkward dance of love and lust for (hopefully) the rest of our lives. So really, I’m just being thorough. And where better to seek out this perfect mate than in the young and educated meat … I mean, mate … market that is college?
And I’ve noticed something astonishing. The more I think about sex, the more I get hit on. In all seriousness, even if I am behaving in the exact same way, or wearing the same outfit, I get approached more and more when I am imagining sexual acts with strangers (or close friends, or the cashier at Jamba Juice, or really whomever) than any other time. I feel that I’m giving off some sort of pheromone-laden vibe that men just sense. Even my most beautiful and sexy friends always ask me, “Eve, how do you do it?” I like to call it the Eve-mission, or Eau de Eve. If you imagine it, they will cum.
And while I have not actually slept with that many people – my number will be disclosed in later columns, but suffice to say it is still in the single digits – my sensuality and confidence have sky-rocketed. Here, in a place where you can’t bend over without bumping into a hot young human, I feed my addiction to fantasy.
Certainly, some fantasies are more probable than others. But I don’t just want sex. I want good, honest, fearless sex. I want a man to show me what he wants without worrying I’ll be taken aback.
So, students, staff and faculty of the George Washington University, I give you a mission: start thinking sexier. Instead of wondering whether or not you want a BLT on white for lunch, try picturing getting a BJ from that cute blonde standing behind you in line. Or imagine the barista at Starbucks licking your triple-shot mocha latte off your naked torso. Trust me, everyone will wonder what you’re thinking…