While my anonymity is paramount to my continued career and the prevention of my eventual suicide, I guess in discussing ski weekend I officially confirm my “Yankee” status. But for those of us who live in a state with actual seasons, when the sky expels its fluffy white diarrhea, there is no better total frat adventure than the snow-covered depravity that is ski weekend.
Now, conventional wisdom would suggest frigid temperatures and the threat of frostbitten nips would have women wrapping themselves in swaddling clothes like the Baby Jesus, concealing the undeniably fun parts of their anatomy beneath layers of Canada Goose feathers with snow pants acting as a de facto chastity belt.
This, in reality, could not be further from the truth. What you first need to realize, which I never did until I was trembling nervous on my way to a chalet thinking my total lack of winter sports ability would render me pussy-less for the weekend, is hardly anybody is actually on ski weekend for the slopes. Well, at least the ones covered in frozen water.
Instead, you’ve got a co-ed mixture of some of the most sex-obsessed and substance-consuming lunatics on the planet with absolutely zero supervision or understanding of future consequences. We’re drinking, snorting, and smoking like the apocalypse is on the horizon, and there’s something about cold air plus a hot tub that has women flashing their tits like they’re the hottest ticket in town.
People are openly performing sex acts that are illegal in some states, with your odds of a quality-ratio threesome (two girls, you degenerates) rising faster than your BAC. Like fucking ‘Nam, there are no rules here, Smokey.
Ski weekend sophomore year, I got my first double blow job. I finished faster than the 0-60 of my car (which I’ll leave open to interpretation). I went home with my first burning-during-urination experience, the beginning of my annual pilgrimage to the student health center — a minor inconvenience for the lifetime of spank bank materials. Ski weekend was the realization that I had made it in Greek life. I had a home in this giant university in which I previously knew nobody, and had no real place to go. Through sordid sexual tales, pretend skiing prowess, and plenty of time spent on another type of slopes, I found a place where I belonged.
Which is why, when your social chair asks what the fuck you guys should do this winter, you say ski trip. Make sure to bring girls; a bunch of dudes on a mountain sounds like a recipe for disaster akin to The Revenant.
Choose a place that affords you free-standing cabins, which eliminate hotel staff supervision and the possibility of noise complaints from far more mature neighbors. Bring more alcohol and your preferred choice of party favor than the biggest tailgate you’ve ever had, and prepare yourselves for an immense post-stay damages bill from the establishment and a probable issue with nationals.
But if you’ve taken anything from this at all, it’s that, if given the opportunity, like Samuel L. Jackson to a role, just say yes.
And PLEASE make sure there’s a hot tub. Trust me..