As you may have gathered from my previous writing, largely because I said it almost word for word and am now trying to hastily summarize to tie this back to it, sex wasn’t hard to come by at my college.
Was everyone having it? No. And they weren’t for the reason most people weren’t eating at Arby’s. They didn’t want to be.
Your personal college environment may have varied, though I at least know from secondhand experience that even (or especially) some of the most religious schools were basically poorly-organized orgies that sometimes broke out into learning. I can’t speak to your personal experiences. But at my school, I remind you that I once knew of someone who bungled buying frozen pizza and it somehow resulted in intercourse.
I absolutely don’t say this to insult those who have never had sex. There is nothing inherently better or worse about you as a person when it comes to having or not having sex. The point I’m trying to make is that if people are dedicating their entire lives to it, you’d at least think they’d be good at it.
As an example, consider this second scenario from my second weekend at college.
I was doing some writing on my then-still-functioning computer, likely trying to decide whether or not repeatedly hyphenated compound words were proper grammar. Whatever the case, I was startled when something hit the screen of my window and fell out of sight before I got a good look at it. I gazed out into the night, deciding that at that hour it must’ve been a bat.
“Are you a hot girl?” a voice called from below.
For a moment I wondered if maybe Dracula’s charm had been heavily overrated in the movies. But I looked down to see a group of three boys retrieving a tennis ball. “No!” I called back down.
“No to being hot? Or…no to being a girl?”
I’d never been asked for demographic information through a window before, but I assumed honesty was the best policy – at least insofar as it ended the conversation as quickly as possible. “No to being a girl,” I answered, contemplating how many girls spoke in a low, pleasant baritone like mine. After waiting a beat, I noted, “I’m about a six, hotness-wise. Seven if it’s dark.”
As it was dark at the time, it seemed like an important distinction.
One of them loudly cursed me out for some reason. It likely had to do with some breach of etiquette in responding to being hit on through a window. In my defense, it wasn’t a situation that had come up before. Or, luckily, since.
But the tennis ball continued to bounce off the wall and random windows over the course of the next few hours. (I would later learn they’d been doing this the past week, obviously finding neither success nor a hot girl, apparently.) I paid attention with half an ear while various conversations played out almost exactly as expected. Shockingly, no one wanted to meet their future husband by having a tennis ball thrown at them.
Least of all when they couldn’t seem to grasp that we alternated genders by floor, and had probably spoken to more guys than girls by that point.
“Hey! Are you a hot girl?” the chorus sang again.
“Okay,” a stern voice called from at least two floors above me. “Guys, I know you’re just having fun and all. And I know this seems like a really great idea in your head, but this isn’t going to get you anywhere with girls or anyone else. So knock it off. People are trying to work and you’re being pests.”
“What are you? The lawn RA?” one of the boys outside asked. He and his cohorts slapped hearty high fives.
“Seriously, dude?” the voice called back, not nearly as amused. “I’m your RA. We talked right before you went outside to play your little tennis ball asshole games.” He noted that the conversation had specifically advised not doing so.
Some giggling below suggested the RA’s warning was being taken about as seriously as RAs usually are.
“Yeah, yeah. Ha ha,” the RA grumbled. “I actually have a lot of paperwork to do up here, so I don’t really have time for this. So knock it off. Find some other way to meet hot girls and then scare them off.” He suggested turning around and looking in literally any random direction until they found one outside.
Naturally, the three boys realized the error of their ways and considered the feelings of others. And while I didn’t see it personally, I have it on good authority that they went on a walk that night that ended with all three meeting the women they would eventually marry some years later. As endings to stories go, it’s probably one of the happier ones from my college days.
It’s also a total lie.
No. As pretty much anyone could have predicted, they continued tossing the tennis ball at random windows. I’m not sure if they even wanted to find girls by that point. More likely, they’d given up and were just being pricks. And in that RA’s defense, he actually gave them another ten minutes to get bored and find something else to do before he completely snapped.
At least until they hit his window again, this time hard enough to actually knock his screen out.
I’m sometimes sad that I’m not always privy to the fates of the side characters in my stories once they leave my field of view. It’s a failing inherent to any first-person storytelling and one, I assure you, that often leaves me just as curious as the people reading it. Suffice to say, though, those three were taken into police custody. Whether or not they got their act together later, I can’t say. But I can say with some certainty that none of them found the hot girl they were looking for that night.
Or, if I’m being realistic, any other night either.
That’s sort of the point I’m making here. One of the things that amused me to the very end of my college days was how dead set some students seemed to be on frightening away any sort of sexual intimacy they happened to come across. And that they were, almost without exception, the ones so transfixed on getting laid that they abandoned almost everything else to go looking for it.
I’m not sure there’s a moral to this story. In fact, I would generally view any story about trying to hook up with random girls via tennis ball as not necessarily worthy of a deeper lesson.
Though, if I had to tack one on so this could be published as a children’s book down the road, it would probably be that if you’re trying to find love with tennis balls, try to at least develop a basic understanding of floor plans.