First semester of my first year at college, I quickly solidified my persona as the asshole, player lesbian. I assumed this reputation would deter girls from succumbing to my charms, but strangely enough, it seemed to only help my "game." After five minutes of obnoxious flirtation, a girl would say something along the lines of, "Oh I've heard about you." I'd laugh and ask what they'd heard, even though I already knew the answer. She'd assume that because I owned up to the gossip about me, it couldn't possibly be as true, or maybe I was different with her. That's cute. Because I'm at a school most would put under the category of "Hippy School," most women lean towards the bisexual side of things. Although I personally believe every girl is negotiable, it makes things a whole lot easier when a girl responds to, "so, are you straight?" with "Um, it's Hampshire…is anyone really straight here?"

One particularly shit-faced evening, I was outside of a party talking with some friends, being my usual entertaining (Read: obnoxious) self. A cute girl I had seen around campus was standing near us, looking extremely upset. Normally I avoid situations where people express emotions, as I feel they are completely unnecessary and optional. However, I was at the point of inebriation where actually listening became imperative for a good end to the evening.

Me (nonchalantly) : "Hey…everything alright?"Girl (trying to contain her frustration): "Not really, my ex-girlfriend is being such a bitch. She's being really shitty."Me (as innocent as a school girl): "Oh..I'm so sorry, do you want to go somewhere and..talk..about it?" The little wheels in my mind picked up speed.Girl: "That'd be great, I just don't want to be here."

I tried to stumble as little as possible to maintain the appearances of a genuinely benevolent girl on the way back to the dorms, and thankfully ended up in her room with minimal crashing. We lied on the bed as she started opening up to me about the situation with her ex girlfriend. Atypical of how I go about pre-hook ups, I responded to her narrative with my own admissions of what was going on in my life. This probably should have been the first indication that I was a little too sauced to be in the right state of being for intimacy. I told her about my family situation, how I felt about being at school thus far, my worries and woes. I hate people who use sob stories/emotional appeals to seduce someone; it's cheap and leads only to pity sex. Sympathy is a dirty, easy aphrodisiac.

I was drunk enough to accept dirty and easy anythings at this point, so to quote the infinite wisdom of Clipse, "funny how a few words turn into sex." But as soon as the hooking up started, things really began to go downhill. After remembering that I'd forgotten to eat dinner, and had assumed the seven shots of vodka and three beers would make up for lost carbohydrates, my mind started allowing the alcohol to do its job. I allowed the compliment that I had thought she was cute when she was with my group that went to the U Mass drag ball to slur out. She smiled a little and said that she hadn't gone to the U Mass Drag Ball. I stuttered for a second, laughed a little at my classiness and just kissed her again.

At some point, she said my name. Ohhhh shit. What is this girl's name? I'm sure she told me, but what the hell is it? Cindy? Courtney? Fuck fuck fuck. Do I ask her how she spells it? If it's "Jane" or some other monosyllabic name I'm really screwed. I scanned the room quickly for any nameplates or hints towards a title, but to no avail.

"Umm I'm gonna get some water, be right back." Drunkenly leaping from the bed with the agility of a rhino, I went outside the room to look for someone on her hall to tell me her name. Everyone was either engaging in the same activity or blacked out, so I decided that I'd just give up and let this be an anonymous hook up. Just as I got back to her door, I saw that the name signs given to us on the first day were still up. Hers said Kristy-: Best Intern Ever! We don't have RA's, we have Interns. They wield power over the hall they occupy, and are generally not to be fucked with. I walked back into her room, nervously laughed a little, and eventually decided that playing an Intern would probably not be worth the inevitable shit storm.

I told her I had to go to church in the morning, and freely stumbled back over to my dorm to enjoy sweet, sweet drunk dreams. The next morning I woke up ass naked, hair akimbo, my favorite mug smashed on my floor and with a raging case of the hung-over spins. There was a voicemail from my best friend requesting that, next time, I wait until the morning after I'm a complete asshole to tell her about it, because between the "..and then the bitch.."'s and "Whatever, I'm Lilly Fucking Walleck"'s, she can never understand my drunk dials.

-Name changed, because even though we've become good friends since then and she knows I tell this story for entertainment, I'd don't want to be killed.