I really only wanted to sit on Dave’s couch and kiss. This wasn’t a big night, I already knew, as Johnny Six was already two-beer-queer drunk swinging his Polaroid camera, members of my awkward high school graduating class were pooling around the beer pong table and I was standing there bored, chatting with an old newspaper co-editor, staring half-interestedly at his unshaven six o’clock shadow, contemplating some benign kisses on the couch.

He was talking about the frat he had joined, their antics playing hard liquor drinking games, probably scrubbing toilet bowls with tooth brushes or whatever else frat boys do to gain lukewarm bro-fest solidarity, and I figured: Why the hell not?

Some tongue-wrangling on the cushions wouldn’t half hurt, it might even help me practice for bigger endeavors, and would at least keep my thoughts off the unphotogenic evidence Johnny was quickly, sloppily, compiling from the party crowd’s outskirts. It was either that or foosball. I took my pick.

Stopping for a minute to recognize my eyes were slightly glazed, and taking cue from my inquisitive nature, Trevor curiously asked me, ‘So what is it you do at school?”
Thinking I’d go straight for the good stuff and nip the toothbrush-and-beer bullshit in the bud, I, of course, responded, that I write for the campus sex column. Immediately his eyebrow perked and began a slew of questions. What do you write about? How do you write about it? What about masturbation?!

Laughing at his endearing enthusiasm, I wasn’t particularly surprised when, after a few interview-esque queries, he seductively asked, ‘So… would you like to go upstairs and get some new material for your column?” I eagerly accepted and followed him, hands-held, up Dave’s steps, and was congratulating myself, pleased with my conversation rewards…until I realized we were headed for Dave’s bathroom.

Not his aptly-titled loveseat, not even his linen closet, which might imply a different kind of lustful romp-between-the-sheets, but his bathroom, where visitors get undressed with the intention of self-cleansing or self-relieving.

Not that I’ve never locked lips in an illicit bathroom before, but his obvious insistence on closed-door privacy worried me, as it may be implied he thought he’d get more than just a mouthful.

As soon as the door clicked, he hoisted me onto the bathroom sink, movie-scene style, and used those well-lubricated lips to… surprisingly unentertain me. Now, I’m not a thousand percent picky, as I’ve kissed my share of frat boys, artsy beatniks, wannabe CEOs and ‘normal” guys alike, preferring none particularly over the others, but less-than-mediocre kissing will plummet you from ‘once upon a time” fantasies to ‘the end” clinchers faster than any fairytale read, and I’m a discerning lady. Needless to say, I quickly halted the action just in time to hear the usually-tantalizing sound of a sliding zipper and to feel something hard, hot and hella-horny press itself against my leg. My first thoughts most closely resembled: Are you kidding?

Caught off guard, I pulled away to find Trevor’s fully erect dick bouncing in its eagerness, and I, quite the wordsmith, was left speechless. I fumbled a few disenchanting lines like ‘It’s not that I don’t find you attractive…” or ‘As appetizing as this appears…” as I patted his disappointed dick in consolation, assuring him that it was not, of course, his lackluster liplocking or bizarre ball-bearing which forced me to say no, no no. He frowned and self-reflectingly stared down at his crotch, clearly not believing my reasoning, and oh so journalistically inquired, ‘But I thought you’re the sex columnist…?”

Ah, dear readers. At the end of every column, I try to include a half-assed moral message for all you wondering, so that it seems at least my sinfully scintillating or sexually souring escapades end with some metaphorical (or literal!) bang.

Though it certainly is too clich to say, ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover,” we’ll carefully rephrase this moral into: Don’t judge a columnist by her column. It ain’t easy workin’ the wordplay when overeager frat boys clearly misread your availability.

And Trevor, if you’re reading this column now, let’s just start simple with a lesson on foreplay: When in doubt, don’t whip it out.

Titus is a member of the class of 2011.

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