Editor’s note: The Hatchet’s “In the Buff” sex column is written under a pseudonym. Send questions or comments to [email protected]
Some girls dream of the magical day when they will lose their virginity to the love of their life. To say that my first experience with sex – in none other than GW’s finest, South Hall – was a magical experience would be a bit of a stretch.
But am I torn up about it? Did I sit around wallowing over my less-than-perfect moment when I finally got to be intimate? Not for a second.
I didn’t have a serious relationship in high school, and by the time I went to college, I remained a virgin. But that was OK to me. I never thought that having sex for the first time had to be an important loss of my innocence.
Some time midway through my freshman year — after countless “never have I ever” games played during wine nights with the girls — I began to feel a bit boring. I thought if everyone else was getting some, why couldn’t I? I realized that being in a relationship freshman year wasn’t something I particularly wanted, but I wasn’t going to let that slow me down. I decided to do it. If the opportunity presented itself, I would simply get it in and over with.
The night began like many other college freshman nights. I was in Thurston drinking Burnettes and chasing with Natty Light. My club sports team decided to have a “GDub takes the club” night instead of our typical choice of a house party. And, oh, did I take the club.
I arrived at the lovely Eden sufficiently intoxicated at about 11 p.m. I had forgotten that when real people go out, they bring purses, and I had nowhere to put my phone, wallet, keys or GWorld. Naturally, I turned to my guy friend and stuffed my valuables into his large pockets.
The club couldn’t have had more than 50 people in it. I knew maybe 30, so the odds were stacked against me. But it was just 10 minutes into the evening, and drunk Casey was already killing it on the dance floor, jamming to a remix of 2012 hit songs.
Ten minutes later, I was making out with a random dude who I believed was named Shake, but later I was told his name was Shive. His name is still a point of contention within my friend group. He was a tall, scrawny Indian guy with dark hair and a sad attempt at a scruffy beard. He wasn’t really my type, but he was nice and funny, and I was drunk. Nothing was a deal breaker.
Clearly, my dance moves were impressive: What’s-his-name and I made a swift and sneaky exit before the clock struck midnight.
To my friends, my departure wasn’t as sly as it was worrisome: I had disappeared and I was without any lifelines. (Go big or go home, right?) They never fail to remind me of their fretting about my whereabouts.
Like any smart, cheap GW students, we took a 4-RIDE (the sexiest mode of transportation) from the club to the residence hall. I’m still unsure of how I convinced the guy checking IDs at the desk to let me into South with no GWorld or driver’s license, but somehow I made it to his room. I remember thinking how nice South was compared to my rough Thurston quad.
We didn’t waste much time. He quickly showed me to his room and locked the door behind him. My freshman innocence and lack of experience didn’t seem to concern him much. (Yes, I told him, or slurred to him, that I still had my v-card.)
Amid the drunk haze, I vividly remember him frantically searching for a condom, and he even left the room to continue his search and came back empty handed. Since I am no fool and wanted no part in dealing with this random guy’s potential STIs, I insisted he continue his search. After at least five long minutes passed, he finally found one.
It was painful and uncomfortable at first. I don’t remember it lasting very long. After it was over, he left the room to allow me to get dressed, which was gentlemanly, I suppose? I’m not sure what I expected when I left his bedroom, but it surely wasn’t what happened.
I came out with matted hair and he was sitting shirtless on a chair, watching as his three roommates — who I could have sworn were not there earlier — played video games on the couch. I half-waved before sprinting out of the room, heels in hand.
Thank God we both lived on F Street.
I pulled myself together and casually strolled up to Thurston. To this day, I can’t enter South without chuckling and feeling like I should pat myself on the back. My friends were first relieved to see me alive, then were pissed that I had disappeared, and then laughed at me for the events that had ensued.
They blasted the stale-but-always-appropriate “I Just Had Sex” over our crappy computer speakers. Did I have enough dignity left intact to feel embarrassed? Nope.
But that one night freshman year didn’t leave me a broken woman. I’ve had many fulfilling sexual encounters since — with both men and women. To quote my love mentor T. Swizzle, “The haters gonna hate, hate, hate. Baby, I’m just gonna shake, shake, shake.” (No pun intended.)
I will always barely remember Shake or Shive or whatever his name was.
