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(04/21/11 10:47am)
Once upon a time, I was a freshman. I thought the memories would remain perfectly clear, waiting patiently these past four years for my eventual nostalgia and recollection. Instead, I struggle to bring such moments back into consciousness. Against a vague backdrop of Soulja Boy’s “Crank That” and the smell of the Wannamaker basement, specific details stay slightly out of focus and my ability to follow a linear timeframe deteriorates.
(04/07/11 9:00am)
“You think about sex like a man.” My male friend assures me that this is the reason for my column’s popularity, perhaps its very existence. By claiming that I have the ability to channel the male sexual psyche, I assume he meant that I could separate sex from the messy peculiarities of emotion, think objectively about the inherently subjective game of physical attraction and approach intimacy with a nonchalant facade. From his perspective, I never would have ventured into the arena of sexual journalism without a distinctly unfeminine viewpoint on the hook-up scene.
(03/24/11 9:00am)
I don’t understand people who don’t like giving oral sex. Perplexed, I label them under the same category as individuals who abhor melted cheese, Disney World or driving with the windows down. In a similar fashion, an aversion to head seems as illogical as hating all that is good and wonderful in the world. Go pout through Christmas and drown some puppies while you’re at it. As an aspiring therapist, I recognize that I should take an accepting approach to all manners of sexual expression and desire. But seriously, what the hell is wrong with you?
(03/03/11 11:30am)
To be perfectly honest, I’ve been procrastinating this column. Over the past few days, I’ve tried forcing myself to engage in a few minutes of earnest thinking about booty calls or Skype sex or pheromones or any other earnest topic of sexual interest. But the sunshine lures me to the WaDuke patio, while the depletion of my spring wardrobe spurs me to the mall. I crave SPF, open windows and the return of the Belmont pool. Thus, even in the face of my lingering senior-year responsibilities, I maintain a comfortable yet genuinely false sense of security. According to my internal rationale, if I drink a little too much on a Tuesday night, I may still manage to write a reasonably acceptable thesis. If I don’t have the drive to go the grocery store, I can probably just make up the ingredients in bechamel sauce or at least subsist for a week on pita chips. Truly, everything will turn out okay in the end. For now, I’m tired. Even tired of writing about sex. And with that realization, I recognize that it’s time for spring break.
(02/17/11 11:00am)
In kindergarten, I was a player. One man’s love simply could not satiate me. I collected boyfriends like commodities and ended up with more beaus than I had American Girl dolls. When one boy toy became distracted during recess and decided to join in an all-male kickball game, I simply meandered over to a more attentive significant other. To avoid acquiring a reputation for coquettishness, I worked hard to obscure the breadth of my affection. On one such occasion, a boyfriend presented me with a fake pearl bead during playtime. Upon receiving the gift, another boyfriend approached us. Fearful that the bead would elicit uncomfortable questions, I popped the present into my mouth as the only available hiding place, and preceded to choke on it. The kindergarten teacher saved me with the Heimlich maneuver and the experience was traumatic enough that I was allowed to go home for the rest of the day. Since then, I’ve been much more appreciative of monogamy.
(02/03/11 11:00am)
I frequently win “Never Have I Ever.” Or lose, depending on one’s interpretation of the game’s point. It’s never really been made clear to me whether the winner is the participant who puts down their fingers the quickest or has the most standing at the end, but maybe winning is subject to one’s personal views on morality. I feel the same way about drinking games that penalize the loser by making them consume additional alcoholic beverages. Isn’t everyone really a winner?
(01/20/11 11:00am)
Alivia’s and I have entered into a committed relationship.
(12/09/10 11:31am)
It’s happened again. There’s a low yet distinctive vibrating hum that greets you at the door. The retail staff welcomes you aggressively, offering more advice and assistance than would be standard at a high-end department store. Perfuming the air is a chemically created sweetness, appropriate among the aisles of synthetically made and colorfully adorned products. Pleather and silk and fishnet are the fabrics of choice. And then there are the shelves of pornography, row upon row of corny titles and illustrative displays of the human anatomy. Your fingers reach out to investigate an unfamiliar piece of merchandise, only to retract after realizing it’s an appendage. That’s when I finally have to wonder, “How did I end up at Maxxx again?”
(11/18/10 11:00am)
Someday, a few generations from now, long after I’m gone, my great-grandchildren will unearth the albums of Tailgate photos I’ve left behind. At this point, football will probably be played with lightsabers, beer will taste like cotton candy and pictures will talk and move and have scratch-and-sniff technology. Still, these future offspring will get the general gist of the Duke millennial Tailgate experience as they pour over the highlight reel of the glory days of their dearly departed Granny.
(11/04/10 9:00am)
It’s time to grow up.
(10/21/10 9:00am)
Inevitably, people always wonder what my parents think of “Duke, Horizontal.” In light of the salacious and very public nature of this biweekly column, this inquiry is probably reasonable. When it comes to sex and parental authority, most of us try to minimize the amount of details and maximize the level of denial. Some time during childhood, we linked the lyrics of rap songs with the miracle of procreation and realized that our very existence depended on Mom and Dad’s active sex life. After this scarring conclusion, we attempted to eradicate this reality from our mind and assumed our parents had retreated to a life of celibacy and 9:00 pm bedtimes upon the birth of their youngest child.
(10/07/10 8:55am)
The librarians in the Rare Book Room are beginning to think I have a problem. There was probably sufficient reason for alarm after I spent enough time in the room to snag the title of Foursquare Mayor. In researching a history thesis on the nature of female sexuality in the 1950’s, however, my book requests are what truly raise eyebrows. Day in and day out, I’m camped out amongst the industrial furniture and fluorescent lighting, pouring through the pages of half-century-old sex manuals and marriage self-help guides. I’m sure the staff is beginning to wonder why I am so desperate for outdated advice as I hand them another request slip for a 1956 pamphlet on the benefits of oral sex in marriage. Yep, this is my life.
(09/23/10 9:00am)
Within my vast inventory of socially awkward behaviors and habits, I have a tendency to accidentally “out” virgins. In a pattern that has become all too frequent, I am subconsciously compelled to sexually interrogate only those who have no sexual experience to share. If you were hoping to harbor the secret of your virginal status until after graduation, I would advise you to stay clear of me and my inappropriate icebreakers. For those of you who have already suffered from my foot-in-mouth curiosity, I apologize for accidentally walking in on you with no one in your bed. I’m inclined to believe that secret virgins have some sort of force field around them that ignites my sudden need to talk about sex. In contrast, when amongst my sexually experienced friends, I’m really just interested in talking about food.
(09/09/10 8:20am)
All freshmen make regrettable sexual errors. At a rate far higher than their upperclassmen counterparts, freshmen have sex in East Campus common rooms, wake up too many mornings in section and bribe their RAs with sexual favors. Then, with the same suddenness and severity as the transition between Aristocrat shots number three and four, things change. Although maturity and age don’t always provide immunity from poor decision-making, our sex lives evolve dramatically from freshman to sophomore year, frequently resulting in an epidemic of commitment.
(06/30/10 2:48am)
Duke students manage the chaos in their lives by making lists. As Type A perfectionists hopped up on diet Red Bull and bin candy, survival depends on organizational compartmentalization and the ability to derive feelings of success from accomplishing menial tasks. Case in point: Upon arrival at Duke, incoming freshmen are informed that the essence of their collegiate career can be broken down into four prerequisites: driving the East Campus circle in the wrong direction, climbing Baldwin Auditorium, boning in the library stacks and sexual relations in the Duke Gardens.
(04/08/10 8:00am)
At just over 21 years old, I am wise. I have grown. I know things. Events have happened to me.
(03/25/10 8:00am)
All is fair in love and war until you’re lip-locked with two foreign strangers on a Mexican public bus. This realization was never more apparent then when my dear friend Lizzie convinced two Austrian men to make out with her in rapid succession on an infamous spring break trip.
(03/04/10 10:00am)
If anything miraculous ever happened to me, it happened to my breasts—their saga worthy of their own Lifetime movie classic.
(02/18/10 10:00am)
Although all of us may believe we’re pursuing particular members of the opposite sex during our weekend exploits, the reality is we’re merely chasing orgasms.
(02/04/10 10:00am)
In the heat of the moment, my boyfriend won’t let me anywhere near his earlobe. His reflex is so strong, even a sneak attack will send his head veering towards safer territory. I have created a Pavlovian response to a harmless nibble.
