It’s 12:30 on a Friday night and your fraternity’s Risky Business party is in full swing. Dozens of sorority girls in spandex shorts and white button-down shirts have stuffed themselves into an unfinished basement of a party house that hasn’t been up to code since the Clinton administration.
As you head to the keg to top off your beer, you bump shoulders with a girl from your Econ class. She normally shows up to the 8:30 a.m. class in sweats and a sorority hoody, but tonight she’s let loose. What’s normally covered up by her letters has been let out to play, and her sneaky nice chest is peaking out over the top of a Ralph Lauren oxford that has become dangerously unbuttoned throughout the night. Her makeup has started to run and she smells like Natural Light, Marlboro Reds, and Victoria’s Secret perfume.
You manage to look her in the eyes long enough to introduce yourself, and after a few minutes of drunk flirting, you find yourself up against the wall with Econ girl attached to your mouth like a leech. She unbuttons your shirt and slowly starts running her fingernails down your chest. As you start to reach for her spandex shorts, reality hits you: You’re in a room with the lighting and safety equivalents of a Guantanamo Bay torture room with 40+ of this girl’s sorority sisters. There is a time and a place for what’s about to happen here, and this basement right now is neither of those things. You notice a handful of her pledge sisters giving you the stink eye as you lean into her and whisper.
“Should we get a ride out of here?”
Her hand reaches up and pushes your head to the side while her hot breath hits your ear. “I have a better idea.”
She grabs your hand and walks you up the stairs. From behind, you notice that her chest might not actually be her best quality, as each step she takes makes you regret the fact that you’re only wearing boxers. When you finally get upstairs, she opens a door and pulls you in. The room you’ve just entered looks like the “before” picture in a Scrubbing Bubbles commercial. The shower head has been fossilized in lime deposits, the sink is the color of old butter, and you can tell the toilet is used by people whose diets consist of bottom shelf liquor and late night Mexican food.
Instantly, your mind starts to race: Jesus, I could get hepatitis in this bathroom, and I haven’t even pulled my dick out yet. How is she even considering having sex in here right now? What if her sorority sisters come up here and find us going to town? There’s gotta be a better place to do this.
While you contemplate the war crime that is the party house bathroom, you feel a hand grab the front of your boxers. Somehow, you managed to momentarily forget about Econ girl. You look back at her as she unclips her bra, just in time to watch them bounce as they’re relieved from their nylon prison.
Fuck it, you think, I guess I’m fucking in the party house bathroom..
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