My time at UMass was a long and frustrating period. Not having sex for a year is trying for a man. Not having sex for a year while I was in college, older than everyone around me, more experienced, and incredibly horny is the best circumstantial evidence I have for the existence of an angry god.
My particular dorm setup had its disadvantages. My roommate was probably the least appealing person I’ve ever met. After three months, I hated his laugh, and that marks the absolute end of any chance for a reasonable relationship. He watched TV for twelve hour stretches, switching channels about once every two to five seconds, pausing for whole minutes if he chanced on an explosion or a bikini. He would occasionally pass out during these marathons and drool over the edge of the bed, when he wasn’t snoring in four-part harmony.
At first I felt sorry for him, but sympathy waned as the endless stream of “fags are weird”, “I don’t trust black people”, and “Jews will screw you” poured out of his idiot maw. Occasionally I would force him to watch a whole show, and every time a girl was nice to someone, he would say, “girls aren’t really like that, though. Girls are just mean.”
So bringing girls home wasn’t an option, since he only got out of bed to go to class, or to see his brother, who would come back with him and proceed to call him a “fat, ugly fuck” for three hours. On reflection, I do feel bad for him, but at the time he was just one of the factors between me and a badly needed conjugal visit.
I don’t know remember what all the other factors were, but I was doing so well picking up girls around town, and going on so many dates, I knew it couldn’t just be me. On the other hand, by month eight, it really had to be me, because not one of my many dates deemed me sex worthy. If you can’t get laid as a twenty-one year-old at U fucking Mass, neighbor to two all girls schools, you might as well give up. There was probably a class on the taxonomy of sluts from Smith College, and I was somehow unable to bed a project partner who all but offered me a blow job.
I was not going to give up. This is how I ended up dating the only republican at Hampshire college.
Hampshire college allowed a student to graduate whose thesis was hats made out of roadkill. There was more pot there than I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot of pot. It was easier to get a joint than it was to get a cigarette, since well, you know, cigarettes are, like, bad for you, man. I don’t know how this girl passed the entrance interview, or why she tried in the first place. But there she was, in the lobby for the building where I had my once a week film class, and she seemed to think I was cute. She also couldn’t work a computer to save her life, and though this was long before I knew anything about computers, my ability to read the directions in her homework got my foot in the door.
I think she must have been as hard up as I was, since my mating dance had at that point devolved into a near comedy routine. That thing about women wanting a guy with a sense of humor is absolute bullshit; women like their friends’ boyfriends to have a sense of humor. What women like is a guy who has a pair, and mine had all but deflated in the preceding months.
I don’t just call her mouse girl because I can’t remember her name. She was short, with curly hair and ears that stuck out a little bit, but I’ve seen physically mousier girls.1 She was also high strung yet quiet, with lots of quick little movements, and kept her hands close to her chest a lot.2
So I began courting mouse girl and things were going well. She actually put up with my roommate. As long as we kept off politics, it was fine, and she didn’t actually talk that much, so we’d just go get drunk and make out. She was considerably shyer in bed than I would have liked, so it was slow going, but I was making progress.
Then, near the end of the school year, she asked me if I would keep taking classes at Hampshire in the next school year. This is one of the few moments in my life where I wish I had lied. To be clear, it’s one of the few because in other moments I either lied and wished I hadn’t, or lied and gotten away with it. What I should have said was “yes.” What I said was “I’m on exchange from UMO. I’ll be back in Maine next year.” What she said was “oh.”
She stopped taking my calls for the next three weeks, and then I went back to Maine, chaste and ashamed.
Why do I wished I had lied and broken this poor mouse girl’s heart? Because I was a twenty-one year-old at U fucking Mass for a year and I hadn’t had sex once. So I was faced with living with this fact or having sex. ONCE. With a republican! I mean, who really gives a fuck about a republican? But no. I told the truth, and despite knowing I was a godless heathen who would have voted for Clinton had I had the chance, she wanted something more from me than a two month relationship, and because of that, I have to spend the rest of my life knowing that I couldn’t get laid at UMass. I am the anti-Tucker Max. And if I’ve spent a fair amount of life lying for the sake of other people’s self-esteem, I think I should get a few freebies for the sake of my own.
Lesson: Your moral high ground is slipping away anyway, so sacrifice it wisely.