In a few weeks, one in four of y’all will be face to face with our worst nightmare: graduation. We’re dreading the big day for various reasons – some of us have no idea how to entertain our extended families for the entire weekend, and some of us have no idea what to do with our post-collegiate lives. But whatever your particular reason for feeling miserable as graduation approaches, I think we can all agree that one part of life is going to decline – if not in quality, then at least in quantity – once we walk across that stage and into real life. Our sex lives will never be the same. And on a personal note, I won’t get to write about them anymore.
Four years ago, I was sitting in a football stadium, clad in cap and gown, trying to pass the miserable five-hour-long ceremony by passing notes with a good guy friend. We were reflecting on how unsatisfying and awkward sex had been for us thus far, and expressing hopes that the next chapter in our lives would prove far more orgasmic. My friend told me that the rare times he had been laid, it had been amateur and self-conscious. But he wasn’t discouraged, because he knew that college – rumored to be filled with brains and beauty – would be a far superior playground for his penis. I’ll never forget the hopeful phrase he used to describe college: a sexual utopia.
He was right. High-school sex was too short, real-life sex will be too serious, but college sex is just right, and I’ve been lucky enough to write about my exploits. Where else will you be applauded for doin’ it at a research institution? Your friends think you’re a god if you have sex in Davidson, but try boning down in your hometown library ten years from now and you’ll be arrested for indecent exposure. When you’re in college, having sex with two different people in a 24-hour period is grounds for praise, but in the real world, it’s called adultery. And a blowjob on the beach is just another Tuesday night if you live in Isla Vista, but when else will you live on a beach that’s home to more action than a brothel?
Point being, we need to cram it in – literally – as often as possible during our last weeks here in Santa Barbara. Finals don’t count when you’re a senior… right? If you’re not graduating, take my advice and don’t wait until crunch time to take advantage of your sexy time. The years ahead of you are destined to be filled with one-night stands, sex on the DP park bench, and maybe even a fling with your favorite teaching assistant. Do it for me, because I’m going to miss writing about this stuff almost as much as my fellow graduates are going to miss giving me ideas.
My columns haven’t always been perfect, and I’d like to use this last column to repent. I’ve recently been informed that ballcuzzis aren’t necessarily meant to turn men on, as I wrote in one column, but are also used as a cleaning mechanism after sex. And it turns out some guys actually do enjoy hand jobs. Who knew? I’ve also been told that some of my topics and choice of vocabulary aren’t exactly feminist. A quick note to next year’s columnist: Apparently man-bashing is not the same thing as feminism.
On the other hand, I’d like to give a big thank you to everyone who provided me with what I like to call “famous moments.” There’s nothing better than being complimented by strangers in bars or on campus.
Writing this column is a group effort. Thank you to the Trigo girls for having so much sex, the Box for coming up with half my ideas and telling me when my own sucked, MR for comic relief, the rugby team for laughing at my boyfriend whenever I mention his cock, and the Nexus for never emailing “Wednesday Hump” links to my dad.
But I’d especially like to thank Mr. Lavender and Mr. Lavender II, who have been there for me through years of sexual ruts and frustration… maybe you can hide under my gown at graduation.