It was the question heard around Cajé on an unsuspecting Sunday afternoon. In an effort to lock in, I had my laptop open only to the New York Times Connections and my wedding Pinterest board. Deep in my work, I was unfortunately interrupted by the lecture happening at the table behind me.

“So, we went to his room and we started hooking up when he went soft FOUR times!” second-year economics major and super sorority sister Emma Park said. “His dick was only like 4 inches hard though, so is there really a difference?”

Disturbed by the copious unsolicited details, I instead focused my attention on eavesdropping on the table in front of me.

“We were fucking like normal, and then guess what he said,” first-year communication major Julie Boucher said. “He looks me dead in the eyes and goes, ‘speak French to me.’ Like, hello? Isn’t that cultural appropriation or something?”

Again, perturbed, I turned up the music in my headphones and looked at the Connections words before me. “Sexy,” “Gorgeous,” “Hilarious,” “Schizophrenic”…things that I am? Unable to concentrate, I looked up to the menu to examine the potential of buying another drink.

I was alarmed, in the moment between looking at my laptop and glancing at the menu, to make eye contact with a woman as she yelled to her audience, “He really loves when I suck on his balls. Like, does that even feel good? Or is it just a power thing?”

It was my final straw. I could no longer handle the cacophony that was the Sunday Cajé sorority sexual debrief. As I packed up my things, I took off my headphones. Then, the voices really got me.

“And before I knew it, he was sucking on my toes!”

I tripped over my table leaping up so fast. I knew that I had to escape.

“I told him I was on my period and he didn’t care.”

“His cum tasted like his mango FLUM. Ew!”

As I saw the beacon of light that was the exit, I ran the gauntlet of women that have been victims of porn-addicted frat guys.

“Then he told me to call him daddy.”

“He asked to stick it in my ass!”

My backpack ajar and my soul traumatized, I stepped into the Embarcadero del Norte daylight. I organized myself and began my journey home. Maybe the communal Cajé debrief was an expression of collective trauma. Maybe it was a safe space for those with nowhere else to go. Or, maybe, it’s just time to speak quieter in public.

And just like that, Joseph R. Biden was celibate.