When I was a freshman, a rather queer event took place.
My best friend, Harlequin, had gone home for the weekend, so I spent Friday night with my roommate. We decided to go to a dance on-campus, pre-gaming beforehand for liquid courage. I had never heard of pre-gaming before I entered college, but it quickly became routine. Bolstered by several shots of cheap vodka, my roommate and I headed out.
At the dance, two upperclassmen approached us and we started dancing together. I had never seen them around campus before, but could tell that they were older from the way they carried themselves. They were sloppy drunk. My partner’s breath smelled like vomit – only later did I realize it was just stale beer.
I was too shy to look up at him while his crotch was grinding suggestively into my hip bone. At some point, my roommate disappeared with her dance partner. So when my partner asked me to go to his place, I shrugged and followed him to his car. When we got to his place on campus, I finally got a good look at him. In the glare of the overhead fluorescent lighting, his white teeth leered at me, reminiscent of Alice’s Cheshire Cat. Whether it was the alcohol or the time of night, he looked menacing and I was grateful when he turned off the lights.

I’m not sure why girls like me get into situations like this. I was drunk, but I didn’t feel threatened or pressured. In a way, I felt defeated. I had come to college thinking I would be surrounded by intelligent, sophisticated men who would take me out to nice restaurants and write me poetry in iambic pentameter. Instead, I quickly found out that (most) college boys would rather guzzle watered-down beer from red plastic cups and play beer pong than go out on a Saturday night date.
At college, it’s sex or nothing. Sure, there are those few couples that are attached at the hip, playing house in their dorm rooms, but for the most part it’s go home with a guy from a party or go home alone. That night I didn’t want to go home alone.
So I found myself in a stranger’s bedroom, practically empty save a Corona poster and some sports equipment. I knew his first name and that he was a baseball player. I didn’t know much else, and I didn’t really want to. We made out for a while and then we tried to have sex. We were, however, cock-blocked by his whiskey dick. Looking back on it, I’m relieved. At the time, we were both disappointed. I eventually walked back to my dorm room in the rain. My roommate was in bed with her dance partner, so I changed in the closet.
The Jock and I played a half-hearted game of phone tag for a few weeks. Then, the inevitable I’m-Going-to-Pretend-Like-I-Never-Met-You phase began. Unfortunately, I saw this guy in dining hall every day. Even worse, he sat with a bunch of his baseball teammates and I started to notice that whenever I would walk by their table, his teammates would nudge him and start laughing or whispering. I thought I was just being paranoid at first, but day in and day out I began to realize I wasn’t making it up. It was particularly uncomfortable for me, considering I rarely date jocks and I’m not exactly the preppiest girl in the world (I’m prone to stalking around in Doc Martens and a scowl on my face). Not only did I feel like they were dissecting my body and my clothing, but I felt like I was a huge, fat slut in their eyes.
This continued all year, much to my dismay. It all came to a head one day in May, one of the first sunny days that spring. The entire student body was out on the green, wearing skimpy clothing and slathering on sun-tan lotion. I was wearing a bright blue sun-dress that I had just purchased and had already gotten several compliments on. Feeling completely relaxed and content, I walked into the student center with two of my girl-friends. In the middle of the crowded café area, we ran into the Jock and some of his buddies. They all gave me lecherous once-overs and as I passed by them, one of the guys yelled out loudly, “My friend hooked up with that girl in the blue dress!” and the other guys broke out into cat-calls while the Jock just looked at me. I felt so ashamed and shocked. Harlequin shouted at their retreating backs, “Yeah, well he had WHISKEY DICK!” but I’m not sure if they heard. I ran out of there as fast as I could, aware that everyone’s eyes were on me. I was shaking.
To this day I don’t understand why that happened. I’ve had plenty of one night stands, casual flings, and serious boyfriends and none of those relationships resulted in the extreme slut shaming I felt from this guy and his friends. Maybe it was the fact that they were all on the same team and it lent to a misogynistic atmosphere. All I know is, three years later I can still vividly recall that day every time I wear that blue sun-dress. When I slip the dress on over my body and zip up the side, I hear the echoes of those catcalls.
The last time I saw the Jock before he graduated, I was walking past him in dining hall. He was alone and I gave him my coldest glare. I’d like to think he felt ashamed.
- Dollface
End of the Week Links — 6/15/09
15 06 2009It’s been a while since I did a blog links round-up! Here are the latest interesting articles I’ve stumbled across…
(c) Dina Goldstein, Part IV of Fallen Princess Series
–> This has to be the most awesome-badass-edgy-fucking-rad series of photographs I’ve come across in a long time. The photographer, Dina Goldstein, depicts the Disney Princesses in their potential “modern” situations — Snow White is taking care of multiple children with a dead-beat Prince Charming sleeping on the couch…Jasmine is fighting in a war (against the U.S. perhaps?), and so on. Check it out here! Social commentary + Pretty Pictures = Badass.
–> Political activist for the GOP in South Carolina, Rusty DePass, says the gorilla is Michelle Obama’s ancestor. What a racist asshat.
–> Riot Grrrl is making a comeback! Read Greta’s article & check out her site.
–> There might be a new sexual orientation…and it involves the Eiffel Tower…
Objectum Sexuals are women (and a few men) who fall in love with inanimate objects. Like buildings. To quote one woman, “While other teenagers were dating each other, I was dating a bridge.” This is full of awesome, in my opinion. Are these women insane or do they genuinely love these objects? Read more here, here and here, and check out this clip. It’s hilarious.
A special thanks to the Evil Slut Clique for filling me in on the details of Objectum Sexuals. Don’t worry, they aren’t in love with the Washington Monument or anything…I’m pretty sure they are still slutty penis-loving “good time girls.” (Joke!)
Hope you all had a fabulous weekend!
Cheers,
Dollface
Thanks to Heartless Doll for some of these links!
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Tags: Dating inanimate objects, Dina Goldstein, Disney Princesses, Evil Slut Clique, Fallen Princess, Objectum Sexual, Objectum Sexuality, Photography, Riot Grrl, Riot Grrrl, Social commentary, Women who love buildings
Categories : Links