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I like to consider myself a good person. I volunteer with relative frequency. I’m a loyal friend. Hell, I even fuck the occasional fat chick. I guess you could say I’ve got plenty of good karma on my side. However, there are times when temptation gets the best of us. In this story, I am not a good person. In fact, I’m the opposite, and shamed the name of good people forever (not that there is anything really wrong with that).
During my pledging semester freshman year, I was hooking up regularly with a pretty cute girl that was from a middle-tier sorority. At first, things were going great. She was funny, cute, and the right amount of kinky to where you feel adventurous but don’t end up as the cover photo of the GroupMe page with a ball gag in your mouth (that’s a different story for a different day). I was under the sheer notion that this was a casual thing. Nothing more than a little sex here and there, no need for dates. Unfortunately, she thought things were going well too, and began to treat our encounters as more than that. Once the unannounced visits switched from blow jobs and some accidental ass play to tears and snuggling, I knew something had to change. I can only be tied down for so long.
The day after our Mountain Weekend, I sat down with Emma and made it clear that I wasn’t interested in being in a relationship with her. I gave her all the lies, too. How I would be doing a half-assed job as a boyfriend that would only lead to her resenting me, we both cheat on each other, and then the inevitable breakup nobody wants. I was eloquent, sensitive, and succinct. But that’s not what she heard. What she heard was, “I think that I’m a little scared to take things to the next level even though I really want to.”
She began to construct her argument telling me that we can take things slow and that the rest will come in time. It was a complete mindfuck. She almost had me trapped into her siren-esque logic, until a notification buzzed on my phone. I looked down to see who was ringing and saw “One new message from Coach Eric.” Coach Eric was code for the Chi Omega named Erica who I had been plowing on the side. That message gave me a revelation, and, seeing as I have no filter, I blurted out, “I just wanna fuck other chicks.” While 100% accurate, my lack of putting that nicely completely backfired, resulting in several scorned looks from her sisters and a surprisingly aggressive run-in with her suitemate in the quad.
Initially, the hushed whispers and occasional awkward encounters were an amusing distraction at the most, and I even enjoyed the passive aggressive comments launched at me when I sat in the dining hall two tables over from Emma with a pronounced hickey on my neck. That amusement turned to annoyance, however, when a girl in Emma’s sorority invited me to a date party. Not only was the invite blocked by Emma, but the next day, my new friend texted me surprisingly detailed instructions on how to take my head and shove it up my ass.
Emma still looks at me with thinly-veiled hatred, but her sorority got over it, and I got a good story to file in the “women are crazy” memory bank. I’m not sure if there’s a moral to this story, but I can tell you that next time I’ll just send a text..