Tis the season to be a whore

I don’t really partake in hookups. As a sophomore, I know most of the kids I see out regularly, and I am not trying to make out with “that creepy guy from stats” or “the boy who has a cat fetish” (freshmen, this WILL happen to you). Additionally, I’m taken. See, my preschool boyfriend Michael and I never technically broke up, and so I obviously remain faithful. In 1996, we went as Aladdin and Jasmine for Halloween. It was special.

I recently, however, had a rude awakening. After an AMAZING game against UNC, I was in the swarm of people greeting the basketball players’ bus. It was in this mob that something terrifying happened: Someone sat on my head. I mean that in the least sexual way possible. They were on someone’s shoulders and seemed to think that my head was a great intermediate for their butt to use to adjust to standing position. I realized that the only thing keeping me alive was me, and I fought my way out from under the ensuing death-by-butt and into the open air.

Breathing in the sweet smell of stale beer and wet boy, it hit me. First, I am a survivor on par with Destiny’s Child and Gloria Gaynor. Second, during my brush with death, when it flashed before my eyes, my life was pretty underwhelming. Other than when Barack Obama laughed at me (true story) and when I was voted biggest nerd in high school (Who has two thumbs and did Science Olympiad? THIS GUY), I was kinda lame. So I decided I would take a page out of ’90s British pop’s book and Spice Up My Life. And I would start with Valentine’s Day.

Why Valentine’s? Because, prepare for a shocker: I’ve never had a Valentine. On Valentine’s Days past, I have either been vehemently against celebrating the holiday because I am ridiculously uncomfortable with romance, or single. I technically had a Valentine once—it was sixth grade, and I bought him a waterproof deck of cards. On Feb. 15, he told me he liked one of my friends. I didn’t get it. I mean, what wasn’t to like? My hair was almost past my chin from fourth grade’s bowl cut, and I wore a different shade of neon eye shadow every day of the week. Plus, I had one of those scrunchy shirts that condensed to Barbie-size when it wasn’t on my body. I was a straight CATCH.

So I started to look for my first real valentine. But, surprisingly, I wasn’t the only one fresh on the market. Around Valentine’s Day, it was as if every hastily-formed couple at Duke said “You know what, maybe this relationship isn’t for me. I’ve got a lot going on with pledging/schoolwork/my fantasy league, and I think I just want to do me for a while.” Duke was flooded with newly-single people, all on the prowl. I’m fairly certain that mid-February starts some kind of Christmas season of whoredom. Stocking stuffer: chlamydia.

It was going to be tough, so I started fast. I sent “check yes/no” notes in class. I nonchalantly put my arm behind boys at parties. I invited guys to my room to see my pet snake (His name is Steven the Destroyer. He’s HUGE! It’s because of all the mice I feed him). I even went to Shootskies and danced up behind a guy. He jumped away and said I was crazy. I’m expecting a call any day now.

The competition was stiff, so I employed a new method: hard-to-get. I sauntered into society with disdain. I blatantly friendzoned, kept my pinky out and only walked on my tiptoes because it looks daintier. All this to send a single message: win me over, boys.

This plan backfired. I had finally snagged a suitor. He was tall, sweaty and barely had vodka breath. We went to a club, and I could tell from his pelvic thrusts that we might have something special. But possibly from loss of muscle mass because of tiptoeing so much, I was thrown onto the ground by the momentum. I stood up, brushed myself off and only cried for half of the cab ride home.