I’ve always been of the mindset that anyone with whom you want to shoot your shot in college is fair game. It doesn’t matter if they’re taken, your boy has smashed, your ex is friends with them, or whatever the situation may be; to me, if another consenting adult is game to get busy, then who am I to turn them down? Never have I ever come up with a legitimate enough reason to pass on sex. Or at least, that used to be my thinking. I now realize how naive I was to take that position, because I slept with my ex’s best friend, and wow, was it a shitshow.
Did I say best friend? What I meant to say was best friend AND roommate. That little caveat may be an important piece of information. Sleeping with an ex’s friend? Tough. Shagging her best friend? Even tougher. But getting down with her closest confidant under the same roof? That’s a goddamn suicide mission.
Of course I knew this information going in, but I still proceeded anyway. Why? Why in the hell would I take that risk? Maybe I didn’t think we would ever get caught. Maybe I thought conducting my business on the low low was a feasible long-term plan. Did I mention this was long-term? Six month bang sesh, to be exact. Was that important, too?
Anyways, I guess the real reason I went through with it was my feeble comprehension of the ramifications that would follow. Because as it turns out, the breaking of girl code isn’t the fault of the girl at all, but rather 100% the doing of the male counterpart.
Maybe it depends on the school, but at mine cliques run tight and word moves fast. What I didn’t realize at the time was that under laws that I do not understand, I wasn’t just hooking up with that one girl. In the female universe, I was actually sleeping with all of my ex’s friends and all of their friends by extension. I, and I alone, maliciously tore apart a meaningful relationship for my own selfish gain. Or at least that is the narrative that follows me around campus.
Sure, I’m willing to admit the role I played in the whole ordeal, but don’t try to plant the whole thing on me. As the old saying goes, “It takes two to have double top-secret super sneaky backstabbing sex.” But I’m the only one left taking the fall? Doesn’t seem fair.
This shit happened a full year ago and still — to this day — every bar I walk into, I get these glares like there’s a sign that reads “DOUCHE” stabled to my chest with blood pouring out all over it. Like I personally fucked over each of these ladies. Of course the casual hookup has become infinitely more difficult as a result of these circumstances. A girl isn’t just going to hop into bed with that kind of baggage looming over me.
Don’t feel bad for me, though; I still made out fine. In a weird way, this situation may have helped me, because if I discover I can win the favor of just one woman who despises my very existence, then I can woo anyone. Confidence will be at an all-time high.
So the next time you get a little too lonely and start sending eggplant emojis to one of your ex’s girls, just remember — the consequences are real..
