My Freshman


I once heard that boys are like square numbers.  If they are under sixteen, I should always do them in my head.

But once they are over eighteen, things get a little foggy.

I’ve never been good at math.

When I was a senior in college I vowed to do two things and one of them was not a freshman in college.  Ideally, my two things were my McHotface partner in my Communications class and heat yoga.  Of course, my wishes were not granted as efficiently as they had been when I believed in the Tooth Fairy.  McHotface did not have Facebook, thus giving me minimal communication opportunities.  And when I tried my hand at heat yoga, it was like an episode right out of The Biggest Loser where Jillian Michaels is screaming at the top of her lungs at the fat ass on the treadmill to “PICK UP THOSE KNEES AND STOP CRYING.”

After being a make out bandit for a healthy nugget of my college years, it somehow occurred to me that I had safely steered clear from exchanging spit with any little freshman boys milling around campus.  I was rather proud of myself.  My make out number reaches astronomical numbers, enough that I don’t even care to share.  I’m serious; I spent my afternoon counting on Facebook weeks ago.  To have safely bypassed the younger generation born after Rugrats was invented was a feet I simply could not ignore.  In fact, while walking through campus I decided I wouldn’t even check out skinny little freshman ruler boys .  They looked like babies.  I was convinced they all had knobby knees, skinny shoulders and voices that were in the same octave as Michael Jackson during his Jackson Five days and before he was white.  Rest assured, I was not attracted to any froshies and I was not about to make a rookie mistake.  I was so happy I had not spotted a hot freshman.  Most importantly, I was so happy to feel reassured in my grown-up and sensible ways.

My theory about freshman is that all they do is eat Cool Ranch Doritos while they play Call of Duty Black Ops all day and make out with any insecure girl they can find all over the chip crumbs on their futon. I’ve endured a crumby make out session and it’s not pretty.  Don’t get me wrong, I have some serious misfortunes of my own.  I listen to Celine Dion on a regular basis and I put way too much energy in thinking I’m the best driver on the highway at all times. Misfortunes and glitches define people, so it is completely fine.  Freshmen are in the works of experiencing all life has to offer, including 24/7 Frito breath.  Enduring in these experiences was peachy when I was equally as naïve, insecure and eager to experience life in the fast lane.  Nowadays, I prefer to wake up in my own bed, cuddling with McHotface, and getting up to the sound of blue jays singing outside my window.  This would be like a scene straight out of Cinderella, sans the bitchy stepsisters and plus Saturday afternoon college football.

That is why I did not set out to find my freshman.  I was privileged enough to have one come my way.  My roommate Taryn and I were planning to spend one of our last weekend nights at a hockey party down the street from our apartment.  She was not as excited as I was at this point.  She was in a two-year-deep relationship and my longest recorded relationship had been the one with my spray butter addiction.  I had known Taryn for an obnoxiously long period of time.  We hit our prolonged five-year awkward stage together in high school, and ended up at the same college.  Taryn had the same personality as a toy dog.  She was enthralled with constant excitement, cute faces, and often peed in places she shouldn’t.  I associated myself with her because she made me laugh harder than You Tube falling videos and had a nice, supple and perfectly shaped ass.  This attribute, combined with my huge boobs and flat ass, made the perfect pair.  We were the two pieces of a puzzle piece that fit together flawlessly.

McHotFace was supposed to be at this party as well, since he was a hockey player himself.  I don’t know what it is about my hockey players but when there is a room full of them, I get so excited I almost break out in hives.  They are just so beautiful and so not at the same time.  They are burly, hot tempered and totally crude.  They are gross and hot.  They are grot.  And they are, for the most part, huge slightly sensitive assholes. They are more fun, tricky, and intense than putting together a Jenga puzzle.  Whenever I looked at any of them, the first two buttons of my top came undone, it’s weird but I sort of liked it.

For all the men out there who are dying to know why they (the nice guy) aren’t getting any; take this with a grain of salt and some tequila.  It is because the slutty girls are the insecure girls.  The insecure girls are going to pounce on the assholes because they fill a void the ‘nice guy’ couldn’t fill.  If any nice man wants a “nice girl” and a long-term relationship, stay a nice guy.  And wait until you’re spiking thirty-five to get your burnt out woman, finally ready to wipe her ass with the assholes and take home the good man.

Anyway, Taryn and I had been drinking Honey Weiss all evening, summer was in the air, and I was looking for my asshole.  On account of all the leg I was showing for the evening with my skirt, I had taken it upon myself to pull a Snookie and get a spray tan at the local Palm Beach.  I didn’t want to look like a pasty albino for the hockey players and if they didn’t appreciate it, I was going to bitch slap someone.  That spray tan was a serious business.  I was always secretly scared the machine was going to bust while my naked, vulnerable body basked inside of it and I would die an orange, toxic death.

“I smell like a cheese-it,” I complained, sniffing the air like a hound. It was making me hungry.

“You look like one too.”

We walked into the mysteriously lit house, and were welcomed by a complete shit show.  The amount of people, shoved like hammered sardines, were clearly a fire hazard and a wrench to our safety.  My mother would be severely disappointed I had risked my life twice  that day already; in a spray tan gas chamber and now a deeply lit crowded party. Taryn and I played the normal pause, scan, look down game, and pushed through the crowd.  We had single handedly mastered the house party.   We had been to so many, we knew which corners to hide in, the types of people there were, and how to glide effortlessly across the 1930’s wooden floors of every shitty household.

This party in particular reminded me of ‘The Little Mermaid’ movie when Ariel was trying to swim through all the sea monsters on the way to see that obese octopus that looked like a magenta Kelly Osborne.   Except the sea monsters were drunken sweaty hockey players and I was on my way to find McHotface.  I win, you red headed slut.

“I think I’m pregnant with someone else’s child,” Taryn said as she ducked from a fist pump.  I was also convinced I was prego with a mystery child.  So many young men were thrusting their pelvis bones into my giggly ass to the sweet chords of Chris Brown, I was worried how I was going to pay the hospital bills.

I laughed as we sought refuge in a small air pocket at the end of the room.  We paused to view the task at hand.  Someone was sitting at a card table next to the stereo system and Taio Cruz was blaring from the speakers.  The dude was completely passed out; head face down in a puddle of beer with his hands dangling to the ground.  He looked like an abused, raging alcoholic RaggityAnne.

“Well it’s safe to say we can rule out him as your baby daddy.”

Taryn and I endured entitlement as college seniors.  House parties were no longer our scene, for we endured sophisticated nights in our local college dive bar, getting drunk off two for ones instead of Coors Lite keg beer.  Our noses were a little higher set in the air than the other girls at this party because most of the girls weren’t even old enough to watch PG-13 movies without getting someone, over eighteen, to sign a pass for them. I felt seasoned and matured.  In triumph, I slowly lifted up my sandal to view a wet bottom with utmost disgust.  I was standing in a puddle of either someone else’s urine, or beer.

“I think we need a drink,” Taryn said as a young girl who looked like she should be home watching Dora the Explorer ran across the wooden floor to the bathroom.  I shuddered. I was getting too old for this.

“Did someone say they needed a drink?” McHotFace slide into our vision like Ryan Seacrest on American Idol, because he popped out of nowhere.  I could not have been happier to see such a pretty face.  On cue, a soft light shown from above his blond hockey flow, Take My Breath Away from Top Gun started playing, and I saw four baby angels.  My blinking slowed by 50% and my brown tresses blew into the hot sticky air . . .fantasy aborted.  Was I standing in puke?

Taryn was totally eating it up.  Although she had a boyfriend, she couldn’t get past admitting that on the seventh day, God made McHotFace.  Lucky for me, since I was in a state of muteness, Taryn was the biggest flirt known to mankind, to the point where I almost became embarrassed for her.; either that, or jealous for her craft.  She pursed her lips and lifted her leg on the chair beside her.  She was wearing leather boots and jeans.  McHotFace nearly drooled as she seductively pulled a flask out from the inside of her boot.  My total boner for McHotFace went limp as I watched her put on a show.

“You’re such a good host, but I think we’re covered,” she locked eye contact with him and let her tongue touch her teeth.  If you could have seen my face, you would have thought I was having a staring contest with Tim Gunn and lost. McHotFace, on the other hand, looked like he had just McCreamedHimself.

“Ahhh. You’re a pistol Taryn, a real pistol.  You guys stay right here.”  He touched my shoulder, laughed nervously and turned to his friend for a chest lock.  My shoulder.  Student teachers touch my shoulder. Mentors touch me shoulder.  People bumping into me on the way to the milk aisle in Cub Foods touch my shoulder. Not McHotFace.  I rolled my eyes at his back.  I waited for him to make a beeline for the bathroom to clean up the mess his wee-wee had left in his pants after Taryn’s blue balls session.  Taryn had a boyfriend; she needed to stop making cute boys walk away with blue balls before I had the chance to bat an eyelash.

“You disgust me.” I told Taryn and pushed her flask back into her boot as if it was a body part.  “Now put that thing away and leave some sugar for the rest of us OK? This isn’t a Burlesque show.”

Fortunately, the sound of Justin Bieber’s ‘One Love’ rang through the air and saved the moment.  Collective girl cheers summated amongst the significantly younger looking crowd.  Including mine, of course.  Justin Bieber was the one thing I had in common with every little girl on the planet.  I was going to a Justin Beiber concert next month and my excuse was that I was taking my little sister.  It was totally plausible, but I really just wanted to see if his hair was real or if he could take flight like Peter Pan.  And a genuine appreciation for Justin Bieber was a lot like Alcholics Anonymous.  The first step was admitting it.

Then, something electrifying happened.  I spotted the man of my dreams completely cutting a rug across the room with his guy friend. He was about six-one with a perfectly sculpted body.  He had a soft, firm build and had a prominently structured baby face.  That should have been my first red flag, but I couldn’t shake the fact that he kind of looked like a puppy dog in a mini-calendar at Walgreens.  He looked like the perfect candidate for the heartthrob on The Real World that turns out to be gay but still gets all of the girls.

His dance moves were mediocre but seriously hilarious.  He fist pumped, he grocery shopped, he mowed the lawn – everything you could ask for in a real man-child.  Then he did something that caught me totally off guard; he pointed at me.  Like a Joey Fatone pointed at the camera during the ‘Bye Bye Bye’ video.  My boy band fantasies were hitting me like a monsoon, nearly knocking me over with freakish horomones.  I looked behind me to pretend I didn’t know immediately I was the one he wanted.  Taryn waved me towards him,

“Do it for J-Beebs,” she said.

I went towards him and he grabbed my hand,

“Tucker,” he said.

“Brittany.” He was so cute I received an unannounced urge to pinch him; first on the cheeks and then the buttocks.

Although we were introducing ourselves, he didn’t take that as a notion to stop dancing.  He kept holding my hand, wiggling his big hockey butt, and started singing the lyrics word for word. I have come to find out over the years that men have three guilty pleasures.  And they are most definitely: Taylor Swift, pedicures and Justin Bieber.

“Me, plus you,” Tucker shook my hands like the reins on a carriage. “Me, plus you,” he pointed at me.  Ok, I get it.  Now I understand what it’s like for all of those little girls watching Justin Bieber sing to them.  I was truly feeling one less lonely girl away from falling in love.  His face suddenly took shape of a garden.  His lips looked like rose petals and his eyes were the color of lush turf.  Tucker ensued, “When I met yah, my heart went knock, knock.  Now them buttahflies in my stomach won’t stop, stop…”

In moments, we were singing loudly together, “Imma tell ya one time!” We had prominent note changes and rifts, melody and harmony.  We were making beautiful music together and I can only imagine what Taryn was thinking – watching me do a mixture of the Macarena and the white girl dance to Justin Bieber with an almost stranger.

But I didn’t care.  I had found my soul mate.

Once the song ended, Tucker put his arm around me casually.  I grabbed his forearm for experimental reasons.  My hypothesis was dead on; his forearms were taught and soft.  I sighed.

“I’m going to see the J-Beebs in concert next month,” I said. My confession was one of those things where after the minute admitting it, I wanted to take it back into the deep dungeon of my thought process.  Admitting my flaw was like sleeping with my best friend.  I said it and suddenly I wanted to crawl in a deep, dark chasm and rot in it. In a place no one else can see ever again.  I was vulnerable. Vulnerability was what came of cute college boys belting out Bieber lyrics with me in dimly lit rooms.

Lucky for me, Tucker was as gay and free-spirited as I was. You would have thought I told him my goodies were made out of gumdrops and lollipops, the kid absolutely exploded with pure joy.

“You call him JBeebs too!?!? Oh my God and you’re going to one of his concerts next month?!? I absolutely love you.  I do, I love you.”

Instead of being crept out by his confessional love for a girl he’d known for the time span of a Justin Bieber song, Tucker’s passion for J-Beebs intrigued me to no end.  I couldn’t decide if it was totally gay or totally admirable.  The constant battle between these two things made me frazzled and excited.  I loved the fact Tucker wasn’t jealous Justin Bieber will never die alone.  I could respect a man that bypassed fame and young girls throwing themselves at him.  He wasn’t a jealous man.  I milked the cow’s utter until it was raw.

“You call him J-Beebs too! This is so fabulous; I thought I was the only one!”  I realized how childish we were acting, but I couldn’t pass up this opportunity.  I momentarily compared this interaction with the one Taryn had with McHotFace.  Aw, screw them.  This was an inner fantasy I didn’t even know I housed up there, in that creative right side brain.

Tucker was looking down at me with equal admiration.  I was looking into the caring and sensitive eyes of my future husband.

“Brittany…” he paused.  His sarcasm was so brilliantly blended in his sincerity. “Can we get married?”

I didn’t blink.  This was not how I imagined my first marriage.  I always dreamed of a man asking for my hand in marriage in an air balloon;  or while we cantered across the beach on horseback.  Tucker’s marriage proposal was not in any way romantic, but I was rolling in it like a black lab in horse shit.

“Yes!” I squealed.  “I do, I do!”

“Man, you’re great. I just, really like you.”  He looked at me so softly, an image of the Snuggles bear popped in my mind. “And I. . .really want to kiss you right now.”

My heart started racing so fast, I thought it was going to come out of my butt hole.  Now I understand why so many people were getting engaged on Facebook these days; one minute, you’re in it for random play and the next you’re freely throwing Piknik pictures up of your wedding, rushing to Crafts and Things for hooky wedding invitations, and throwing your besties in dresses the color of vomit and with unflattering thick straps.  Even though you once promised them all you would dress them beautifully, or let them coordinate their own dresses.  All because fairytale shit like Justin Bieber happens.  Weddings make people assholes.  I didn’t want mine to, but Tucker was making my head real with speedy wedding fantasies.

With that, Tucker planted a big wet one on my lips.  The fist pumps turned to slow motion, everything around us turned to colored applesauce . . . wait was that Barry White playing in the background?  I closed my eyes against his luscious sweet lips and dare I say it, saw a few stars and one of those fireworks that look like a weeping willow.  It was everlasting love.

In the middle of a college house party, there was one less lonely girl.

I started seriously considering the uproar that was going to be my relatives and close friends when they saw my relationship status tomorrow on Facebook.  They were going to be outraged they had to find out that way since I was going to go all social network marriage on their asses.  But, effective communication with the outside world no longer mattered.  The only thing that mattered now was Tucker.

For not being a big fan of PDA, it was my new favorite past time for the rest of the evening.  We looked like a new married couple that was severely lost on their way to Fiji for their honeymoon.  His lips were so bouncy and perfect I couldn’t stop finding them.  If for a moment we separated, he looked at me longingly and reached for my hand like Romeo,

“Hey wifey,” he sing-songed into my ear.  His whispers tickled my earlobe skin and I giggled in his breathy wake.

I was a little confused when rumors about cops coming to the party spread like wildfire and Tucker bee-lined it out the backdoor.  The fact I didn’t have his number or knew his last name made me undergo waves of panic and loss.  How was I supposed to make this official on Facebook?

For the next week or so, I moped around the quad to class like my puppy had just died.  But I was hopeful.  I had a strong sense of positive karma I was going to see my freshman looking for me too.  I cursed the spring air that I hadn’t told him I preferred dark chocolate over milk chocolate when he finally decided to make a trip to Snyder’s and buy me a pack of Mounds Bars.  Not that I needed to worry, he did not come find me, holding a rose in his mouth at my apartment door.  I abused my Justin Bieber playlist labeled, “Bite-Sized Nugget” on my itunes.  I listened to ‘One Time’ ten times a day, replaying the evening in my mind.   I was pretty pathetic that first week.  I bought my own bag of Dove Dark.

Two weeks later, the sun rose and it was Thirsty Thursday.  I felt potential in the air, and noted it was going to be a good day for Brittany.  I painted my nails a ‘let-your-freak-fly’ pink and made extra an effort to shave my ankles in the shower, a place I often miss, and waxed my upper lip.  Once seven rolled around, I was so primped and preened you would have thought I had spent the entire day in Ryan Seacrest’s dressing room.  I poured myself a glass of two buck chuck and kicked back to watch an episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

“Have you done anything all day besides pluck hairs from your ass?” Taryn asked me when she got home from class.

“As a matter of fact I have.”

“Yeah?  And what was that?”

“I accidentally donated a dollar to the starving children in Africa at Barnes & Noble.”

“The next Angelina Jolie, ladies and gentleman.”

The next two hours were spent turning on my ‘BISH RAP MIX’ via itunes and layering on my whore face with Taryn for a night out at the local college bar.  This was often one of my favorite past times in college.  The anticipation to go out combined with techno music and really cheap wine could not be topped.  Well, besides by an open bar at a wedding but let’s not get technical.

After putting enough eyeliner on to out-slut Taylor Momsen or a raccoon, I looked at Taryn through the mirror,

“I have this inner fear that when I walk to South Campus with my iPod, I breath too loudly and I can’t hear my creepy antics over Ke$ha.”

“You creep me out sometimes when you’re not even trying.”

“See!  Do I look like a whore?” I started laughing into my wine glass. She ignored my question.

“Hey, whatever happened to your husband?”  Taryn asked while she shoved a sock down her bra to get a glimpse of the good life.

“Tucker? Nothing. I haven’t seen him for two weeks.”

“I knew pre-mature marriages never work out.  Sorry, dude.  Did you creep him over Facebook?” Taryn asked this question as if she had asked me if I had a tampon.

I looked at her deviously.

“I know that look. What’s his favorite movie? Does he have any siblings? Wh-“

“Stop, you creepo!”  I sighed. “It was all blocked. I couldn’t see anything besides the school he goes to and his birthday.”

“Andddd, how old is he? You never found this out. . .did you?”  Taryn looked at me as if she knew something I was going to regret later.  Curiosity grasped the best of me.  In moments, I had his profile pulled up on Facebook.  Taryn was huddled over me, breathing hot air down my neck.

Birth date: August 14. . . .1990.

Let’s just talk about the things that were happening when he was born, shall we?  First off, Rugrats was premiering for the first time ever on Nickelodeon.  I had already been watching that quality shit for five years.  My little ginger, Chucky, was my idol.  Tucker didn’t even get a chance to live in a world untouched by computers.  Windows 3.0 came out in 1990.  When Home Alone came out, Tucker couldn’t remember the movie after he watched it for at least five more years.  Because he was still pissing his pants. And finally, his birth date meant he was a freshman in college.  Don’t give me the, “well when you’re seventy, he will be sixty-six” bit, either.  First of all, I’m almost twenty-three and it’s not going to make me feel better that he will still be in his sixties when I’m punchin’ out seventy.

All of my dreams about marrying the love of my life fell into shambles.  I had already book marked a page of fugly bridesmaid dresses. The only thing we had to relate to was Justin Bieber and I just can’t maintain a relationship with a man unable to withhold a stable conversation with me about what a bitch Angelica was to Chucky during Rugrats.  Tucker was a freshman.  My freshman.  But that didn’t make things right.

I slowly looked at Taryn as if I’d just seen a ghost and not the friendly one, either.

“Good God, I am a cradle robber.”

“He probably reads at a sophomore level, right?” Taryn patted my back with fierce intensity.

“That’s just the thing!  I’m going to be the one reading him bedtime stories!”

Once it came time to leave for the bar, I had come up with my own resolution.  Since it was one of my last weekends in college, I was going to be blissfully ignorant to the fact Tucker had never been witness of the eighties.   I was going to live it up, freshman or no freshman.  I had already crossed the line of dipping into that crop of young men and who knows anyway, maybe Tucker had Rugrats on DVD?

I did not tell Taryn about my decision to find my freshman and tell him everything was going to be OK, our budding relationship was going to work out the way God and Justin Bieber wanted it to.  I only told her we could no longer become man and wife because I didn’t want her to wrongly judge me.  I figured the bar was dark enough for mysteriously sneaking around anyway.  I was feeling pretty rebellious about the plan and I liked the fire in my veins.  I promised myself finding my freshman was the perfect opportunity to really graduate college with a bang.  Besides, Tucker was just too valuable of a man-child to pass up.  He clearly had great taste in music and really soft hands.  Hmmm, I can only imagine what life is like for all those cougars out there . . .

Once we arrived at the bar, I already had to pee like Zenyatta on a slab of rock.  Two-buck-chuck should have a warning label on their bottle for that kind of stuff.  The bar was packed.  It was like a never-ending game of Red Rover, a game I’ve always hated, along with musical chairs.  And a hot game of Red Rover at that; it had to be peaking one hundred degrees in there.  My leather jacket was chaffing against my armpits and I suddenly felt extremely bad for what Ruben Studard(?) goes through on a daily basis.  And of course, like a bad dream, a long line twisted around the back bar for the bathroom.  I stood on my tiptoes and danced on the balls of my feet.

Someone suddenly grabbed my arm and before I could see the culprit, I whipped my arm away.  A gentleman sitting at the table next to me was looking up at me from his perch.  He was one of those people who gave me the same vibes I’d imagine having upon meeting Ted Bundy.  These identical vibes hit my soul like a lightning bolt.  I starred at him as if he had tried to shove the chair up my butt instead of grab my arm.

“Wow, do you have a motorcycle to go with that leather jacket?” He asked.  Which I immediately dubbed to be one of the creepiest things I’d ever heard.  What gave him the audacity to ask me something like this?

“Yea, I have one parked in the back.”  And what gave me the audacity to answer the question like that?

“Oh my God, that is so hot.”

I smiled politely at him, “Buh-bye now,” and I made a beeline for the john.

“Wait.” He grabbed my hand again and I found this completely repulsing.  Had he looked in the mirror lately?  He looked like something right out of Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and had the creepy manuscript to go with it.  “What’s wrong? Stay here. Are you shy? I want to take a ride on your motorcycle.”

This sentence disgusted me for two reasons.  One, I hated when men said stupid bullshit to cover up their own issues.  Stop trying to use my “shyness” as an excuse as to how you never exchange more than five words with a female a night, OK?  And two, NO, you cannot take a ride on my imaginary motorcycle.  What if I had said I had come buzzing in here on Chuy from Chelsea Lately?  Would you want a piece of that too?

“Sorry, no,” was the only response I found in my heart to share.  I ran off.  I no longer had to pee.

In my escape, I violently dusted off the part of my leather jacket he touched for bed bugs and ran violently into a solid object; I believed to be a young man.

“Hey!” I screamed objectively at him, “Watch it!”

And then he turned around.   There he was; my freshman.

I didn’t breath for a few nano seconds, long enough to properly gage the situation at hand.  There he was, my freshman – right in front of my face, staring at me with a more confused look than my own.  But it was OK, because he was with me now and everything was going to be all peaches and cream, just like 112 promised.  His face was more flushed than I remembered; his angelic features supple and flawless.  Beads of sweat dripped from his damp blond hair.  We were quite literally, in the heat of the moment.

I squealed like a school child,

“J-Beeeeeebs!  It’s you!!!” I said and dramatically threw my leather-clad arms around his damp neck.

He embraced me nervously because; he didn’t say anything prior to the embrace. I pulled back and looked at him, deeply concerned by his unusual meekness.  We locked eyes again and I got lost in them.  I let it ride out.  Let him see you, Britt – and then he will know again.

Sure enough, he put two and two together and it was me, plus you all over again.

“Do you remember me?” I whimpered.

“Are you kidding? Are you coming to our house later?” He hugged me back.  To this day, I have no idea if he really remembered me that night, or if he figured J-Beebs was God and he periodically gifted him with drunken college girls dressed in leather.

“Ummm…” I wanted to so badly, I felt a chill rush up my spin.  But then I remembered Cosmo always told me to be more mysterious and vague.

“Do you have my number?” He asked.  This was great! Cosmo was so right!

I shoved my phone in his face and let him type his number down with his cute, slightly pinkish hands.


Going into my senior year of college I promised myself one thing: that I would get all of my “college kinks” out of my system.  And by “college kinks” I meant never saying “no” to a night out on the town, doing a pedal pub and mixing hot apple cider and Goldschlager for at least one football game.  I have priorities and clearly the utmost class. One thing I did not include on this Senior Bucket List, however, was making out with a freshman.  I thought I was better than that. I would not sink that low, and if I did I most definitely would not enjoy it.  But I was wrong.  So, so shamelessly wrong.


“Would you like something to drink?” My freshman asked as I gazed up at him like a psycho.

“Sure,” I shrugged effortlessly, like my shoulders were weightless.

I floated over to the bar with him, dodging people as they tipped rail drinks onto our clothes in passing.  The place was a complete mess and I secretly hoped CreepyMotorcycleMolester had left the building.  If he came up to me at any moment of the night and asked me if I could show him the gears on my ride, I was going to shit a brick.  Luckily, for my freshman and I, CreepyMotorcycleMolester did not come find us.  Instead, my freshman and I expertly took Scooby-snack shots at the bar, laughed at each other, and talked about the one thing we knew best: Bieber Fever.

“Did you watch the Rugrats when you were little, freshman?” I asked him.

Regardless of the class hit I had dropped on his own identity, he answered with ease.

“I did. Angelica was such a bitch, wasn’t she?”

     Fantastic.  I needed to find Taryn to tell her the wedding was back on.  Then, I looked into the Red Sea of people infesting the bar.  For a moment, I wished I were Moses and I could separate the drunkies like the Red Sea and find my friend.

No need, for Taryn came storming out of the red sea like a fish out of water, wearing a short black dress and a frustrated look on her face, “Holy shit!” she screamed. “It is brutal out there! How did you already get a drink?” she thrust her pointer finger at my plastic cup.  I smiled wickedly and threw my thumb over my shoulder to indicate my sugar daddy was right behind me. I was so happy my freshman was there, Taryn was sure to spot the pure glee on my glowing face.

“Hey champ?” Taryn raised her eyebrows in the direction of Tucker and pushed herself at into a spot at the bar.

In slow motion, I turned to witness my freshman leaning intimately into a mystery blonde’s face, sweet- talking to her.  And right next to me! Oh, the nerve!  In a frozen stance, I took a moment to calm myself down.  Remember, he was only a freshman.  He cannot and will not hurt you.  He knows nothing.  He is young and stupid.  And surefire as a pistol, I was over it in seconds. And you know what else??? Boys date blondes and men date brunettes. Boom, roasted.  Taryn pulled up with her drinks,

“Aren’t you pissed?” she asked, “He has a five star on her ass.”

I looked at Tucker’s large hand, plastered expertly against the blonde’s buttocks.  I took a deep breath and swallowed too much air.  I hoped they weren’t bonding over Justin Bieber, that I would not be able to handle. I wanted to dramatically cover my face with my outer palm and turn to look away.  I tried not to morph into a my crazy Desperate Housewife personality.

“It’s fine. He can do whatever he wants. This is my last weekend of college, so I will not let something like this bring me down.” I wandered off into the darkness of the dance floor, leaving Tucker and his slut-bag behind, with nothing but the electric slide and lots of fist pumping ahead.

A lot can happen in an hour at a college bar.  After nearly propelling myself into the air by fist pumping for twenty minutes, Taryn and I finished our drinks and went off to beat the beat with a group of our girlfriends.  Following this, we stood in line for what felt like an ice age and went three to a bathroom stall with a random stranger,

“I love you girls!” RandomOutsider yelled at us as she whipped her pants down to pee all over the toilet seat. “Are you like, sisters or something??”

I had no idea where she came up with that idea.  Taryn was platinum blonde with a ten-year-old boy’s chest and I had dark hair and boobs the size of Spencer Pratt’s ego.

“Nope, just soul mates!” I yelled over the music outside.

“Oh my GOD, you guys are lesbians!? That’s sooooo cute girls! Beaver fever!”

Woah, hold on there, sister. Beaver fever? Don’t bring J-Beebs into this.

Moments later, Taryn and I left RandomOutsider to smoke a cigarette by herself on the patio as she complained about the eco-system. We sought the back bar for reinforcement.

“I think everyone knows you drive a Honda CRV.” I told Taryn as we ordered another vodka-with-something-else-in-it.  People were real assholes, they immediately assumed Taryn and I were either lesbians, or biological twins even though we looked nothing alike.  We couldn’t even watch David Beckham commercials together in fear our dirty thoughts would voice themselves in our sudden movements and uncomfortable closeness.

Suddenly, the stars aligned and my momentarily forgotten freshman pulled me away from the bar.

“Oh, you’re still here?” I said, trying to pretend I didn’t care as I looked past his shoulder like Stevie Wonder.

He didn’t say anything and pressed his lips against mine.  I was willing to understand he was drunk, so I let this pass and kissed him back.  Hard.  I even cupped his chin in my hands, which was far too passionate for a gesture exchange at a bar.  A carelessness about PDA always caused me to shy away from the event of it.  I hated letting any onlooker in on my play, kind of like I hated letting other students correct my Calculus test in high school. But from that moment on, we couldn’t disconnect lips.  We were like Siamese twins, and I decided it wouldn’t be so bad if I were a Siamese twin with Tucker.

Once we finally came up for air, Taryn rushed to my side.  Tucker staggered away.

“Brittany! What are you doing??” she looked like she wanted to bite my face off. “He’s WITH other girls.  And he’s making out with them. You can do so much better than this!”  She was buzzed, so I passed her concern on her physically retarded state.

And great, this wasn’t helping the fact that RandomOutsider was probably watching and still thought we were lesbians.  And, who was she anyway?  Dr. Phil’s love child?  I couldn’t believe Taryn was acting like a true friend. How dare she be so ridiculous? Tucker and ‘the other woman’ had to be at least an hour ago.  In this bar, that counts for a decade. Besides, what happened to that part about me wanting to have fun?

“Excuse me. It’s FINE. He’s my freshman, and I can do what I want.” I was speaking nonsense and tried to flee the situation.  I spotted Tucker talking to the blond again, touching her waist. I just pretended I couldn’t see that.  The qualities I obtained from Stevie Wonder this night, blow me out of the water.

Taryn grabbed my arm before I could go make a fool out of myself.

“You can do better,” she kept saying, but I didn’t get it.  My freshman was SO much better than me going back to the apartment and making an entire batch of pancakes for myself.

“Taryn.” I paused and looked at her for dramatic and intimidating effect. “GO AWAY.”

I was being a bitch but the girl just would not let her guard down and let me run off into the 3 A.M. sunset with my freshman.  She wasn’t quite getting the fact that I didn’t care.  And hadn’t cuddled since February.

I saw tears well up in Taryn’s eyes and she screamed “FINE” right in my face and stormed off.  I regretted yelling at her for a nano-second and stormed towards my freshman.  Halfway there, which was about two feet away from cock blocking him, I realized my demise. Ready to embarrass myself, I busted right into the conversation him and the blond were having.  And as if she wasn’t even there, I held his hand and looked up at him.  I wanted so badly to take him home and cuddle…my emotions were so disgruntled by my recent tiff with Taryn, I just wanted someone to hold me.  It was pure innocence. And I was so tired…I was so tired…and said,

“I want to sleep with you.”


The girl next to him snorted and walked away.

“Come home with me,” he said back.


I blinked a few times, trying to figure out what had just happened and realized the context of our conversation.  I tried to back track how we’d gotten to the point of me trying to convince the man to “sleep with me” when I really just wanted someone to love me.   I couldn’t fix it by telling him I wanted to spoon although ever single girl deserves and enjoys spooning.  And so does every straight man, so long they are not little spoon.  Instead, I told him to stay there as I went to the bathroom to regain my thoughts.  But when I came back, he was gone.

I took a regretful lonely taxi ride back to my apartment and text my freshman. He was in my phone as ‘wifey.’


I gave my phone the stank eye until he replied with an address.

I recited the address to my taxi driver and was dropped off conveniently right in front of freshman’s house fifteen minutes later. This was one of those circumstances where I really had no idea what I was doing.  I thought I was going to spoon with my freshman, but his thoughts were weaving themselves into my brain cells.  I want to sleep with you?  Common, girl.  It’s raining men, but that didn’t mean I needed to be the gutter.

Physically I understood I was walking up the porch steps of a house likely full of freshman boys.  The porch steps were rickety, and the yard untouched.  It looked like the house right out of ‘It’s A Wonderful Life.’   But mentally, I was unaware of the following events.  Would I read him Goodnight Moon to fall asleep? Would I have to burp him after he ate his Jimmy Johns?

The lengths a girl will go to cuddle.

But the house I was standing in front of looked completely deserted. In fact, I could hear my cells dividing.  I called him. Nothing but a ‘I like Big Butts’ ring back tone.

Then, it hit me.

I had been stood up by a freshman. My freshman.

Men are like the feline species.  They want what they can’t have, and would lick their own hoohah if they could reach or remove a few ribs like Marilyn Manson.  And when they do get what they can have, they walk away from it in smugness. They rub their little horny asses up against some other chick that is going to give them a fresh batch of katnip. So, you could only imagine Tucker probably wanted nothing to do with me after I stalked his life and showed up at his doorstep at 3 A.M.

Without katnip.

In the darkness of the spring evening; I was rejected by a guy born in the 90’s.  I stood up so quickly; I almost hit my head on a hanging plant.  Do young men even have hanging plants? Was this even his house??  This was absolute ludicrous!

It was one thing that I had kissed a freshman.  It was another that I had liked it. But it was a whole other ball game when one stands me up.  The worst part of the whole thing was; when I looked at his name on the hockey roster a month later, he was still an undeclared major.  Great, he was immature and indecisive.

An entire season later, when I was officially one month fresh from graduation and Tucker was about to take the ultimate dive into his sophomore year of college, I saw him again at a bar.  The funny bone in my chest fluttered and I wanted to run my fingers through his hair all over again.  I self scolded myself by refusing to buy myself another drink, in case I would become too loose and approach him.

I was at the bar in five seconds, ordering a Greyhound to surpass the pain my heart was causing in my chest.  I had my heart set on thinking my freshman and I were a one time thing; kind of like drinking a Venti was during rush hour, shamelessly Googling pictures of Zac Efron, or quoting Britney Spears songs in normal daily conversation.

Yep.  Oops, I did it again, folks.

I couldn’t believe I didn’t learn my lesson after being stood up by him months earlier next to a cluster of fern bushes in his front yard at three in the morning.  But, I was too ignorant and insecure.  I wanted someone else to show me they loved my body, my new highlights, and my adolescent love for Justin Bieber.   I approached him, and we started dancing together just like old times.  He was the same boy, with longer hair and that much closer to declaring his major and receiving his diploma.   Then he disposed something that almost blew me to the back bar like a loaded gun,

“I don’t like Justin Bieber anymore,” he told me this as if he thought I was going to pull my pants down right on the dance floor and let him study my goodies like a chapter in his Spanish book after he’d said it.  Instead, I looked at him as if he’d just sneezed in my face and his own snot was running down my chin.  I couldn’t believe a man so passionate about the pop star was so passive on him now.  I passed his flaw on a sign he was growing up, and let him follow me around the bar for the rest of the night.

Somehow, I lost him after bar close.  This of course, was terrible.  We had been coddling each other all night and I wanted someone to hold me after I heard he ‘didn’t like Justin Bieber anymore.’ I was still vaguely heartbroken. Since I’m a crafty individual, I got in the cab with my friend Jessica and two other hockey boys.  They were friends with Tucker and I hoped they were going to bring me to him.  They were so young, it looked like they were going to eat Gerber Applesauce when they got back home and shit their pants.  I was embarrassed for myself.

I shamelessly text my freshman when we arrived at ABC Daycare with his friends.  I needed to know where he was before these kids’ mothers sent me to jail for being a pedophile.  I didn’t care if they were the same age as Tucker; they looked like they needed someone to sign for them at the movie theater when they went to see Saw 80.  My phone vibrated victoriously.  It was Tucker sending me his address.  I was sitting on the couch with Gerber Baby #1 and I called the taxi company immediately.  My friend Katie was busy making out with Gerber Baby #2 and walked up the stairs with him.  A door slammed.  Did I just hear a rattle?

Before the taxi came, Gerber Baby #1 tried to make out with me while Katie went to play on Gerber Baby #2’s letter mat upstairs.  I tried to push him away but he was a forceful, strong baby for his age.  I squirmed off of him and let out a limp, ‘bye’ and ran out the front door.   Who was the baby now?

I wiped off my lips, climbed into the cab, and couldn’t be happier as my little loyal cabbie drove me to my freshman.  When I arrived to my destination, I called Tucker right away.  He didn’t answer.  I cursed in the cool night air, straightened my pleather short skirt and decided I needed to urinate.  I located a small bush on the side of his house, waddled over, and relieved myself.  Completely unaware the neighbor’s windows serve a different purpose than closed doors, I stood up and walked back to Tucker’s front doorstep and called him again.

“Hello?”  Said a muffled voice on the other line.

“Hi! Um, it’s me, I’m here.”

“Oh…really?  Um, I’m at another girls house. We are going to be here for another hour…”

What? With the wrath I felt at that very moment, I could have shifted Mount Everest with my eyes.  Who did this guy think he was? A legal adult?  He hadn’t even declared his major!  How long did he expect me to sit and wait for his sorry underaged ass?  I kicked the concrete and spun around when a heard the door of his house squeak open, “Just kidding!”  Tucker yelled from the entrance.  Oh my god! He was so cute and playful!

When I was inside, I met his black lab.

“You know just how to make a girls heart melt,” I told him, patting the dog on the head, which was now burying it’s snout in my vagina.

“Wanna see my bed?”  Tucker asked after we chatted about dog breeds and I became distracted by trying to keep his dog’s nostrils away from where my thighs touched.

“Um, ok?” I felt a little scandalous, and nervously sighed.  I debated telling him to major in Business, because he was getting right to it.

“It’s right here sweetheart,” he pointed to a futon that looked like it had been inhabited by the Incredible Hulk for a Weeds marathon.  The middle sank in dramatically and we rolled around and made out in that divot for so long, I thought I was going to walk out of his duplex forty and divorced.  We finally fell asleep around 6:30 A.M.

I woke up to a complete Ikea designer nightmare.  A beer pong table was sitting triumphantly five feet away from me, with a Busch Light can pyramid leaning against it.  I counted four naked girl posters, three pairs of other girl’s underwear, two laptops, and three empty Smirnoff bottles.  Somewhere in my Mission Freshman journey, I had forgotten I needed to be more of a grown up. A small ray of sunlight was beaming on my phone, which had fifteen missed calls from Jess, who had gotten locked in Gerber Baby #2’s room, missed work, lost her keys, was locked out of her house, and had slipped on a condom before she left the ABC Daycare.  I immediately felt better about my morning.  That is, until my freshman woke himself up after he flatulated on my thigh.

I squeezed my eyes shut.  For some reason, I pretended I was sleeping so my freshman wouldn’t be embarrassed he had just broken wind on my skin.  How I pitied him more than myself at that point, I do not and will never know.  The man had farted on my leg.  Good God, I desperately needed to find a hobby. I needed to bail before I had something else running down my leg.  I got up and ran out of the house so fast; I forgot my pumps in his entryway.

The days following, I was so sore from sleeping on the futon and rolling around until 6 AM, I had to re-apply Icy Hot all over my hips, thighs and shoulders so I wouldn’t crumble into little pieces of defeat whenever I moved.  I felt like I had run a marathon barefoot across the desert and then jumped out of a plane and landed on my back.  I couldn’t sit on the toilet or walk up the stairs without gripping the wall and hobbling sideways.  I had bruises in mysterious places and scrapes on my hands and ass cheeks for taking my midnight pee in his rose garden.  And to top it off, I had two huge hickeys on my neck, big enough to swallow me whole every day afterward that I had to cover it up with my Bare Essentials bronzer.  It was ridiculous.  I never knew dry humping could be so lethal.  I was too old for that shit; especially the threatening sounds of Tucker’s, running down my leg in my sleep.

I complained to my little sister the entire following week prior.  My sister is everyone opposite of me; physically and mentally.  The girl is blunt and honest.  She’s sensitive and realistic.  Madi organizes her room by conducting countdowns on her whiteboard, always keeping up to date with toiletry needs, crossing out items on her planner, and never leaving an opportunity to remind me of my previous opinion.  Since she was everything opposite of me, she often pointed out obvious notations I failed to recognize.

When we were in the car driving to the cities for her modeling gig, I voiced my deepest concern, “I just don’t know what to do, Madi.  I want my shoes back!”  I yelled, wincing when I leaned forward in angst and strained my sore collarbone.  I couldn’t believe my freshman had put me in such a state of painful harmony with most senior citizens, and I really missed my black, universal pumps.

“Brittany.  He’s a sophomore.”  She courted.

And she was right.  For a moment, I stood in his shoes and imagined how he must feel.  I was a senior.  I was very matured and seasoned with wisdom. I was like a vintage Louis Vuitton.  I may be old, but my leather was soft and my interior full of Cartier jewels, Dior mascara, and the occasional tampon.  How much bragging rights did that offer?  I was happy to be the messenger to such a sought after bragging right; an awkward, thumpy freshman – his first month on the job – with a senior.

I hated that my fifteen-year-old sister’s words were smarter and simpler than my own and that I hadn’t figured this out sooner.  I recited those three words in my head over and over whenever I came into terms with my dating life, and considered including a freshman in it.  He needed to declare his major, and quickly, before I made the same mistake again.  I did however, long for one thing within my sister’s fancy free attitude.  She didn’t have any regrets.  With her attitude, her hair could catch on fire in public and she wouldn’t find embarrassment in it.  Her heart was full of satisfaction, defiance, happiness.  I looked at her almond eyes, broom-tipped eyelashes, full cheeks, and sizzled in her cast iron skillet of carefree seasoning.  My inner freshman ignited.

I never saw Tucker again.  But that didn’t mean I never saw my freshman.

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University of Saint Thomas graduate. Minnesota-bred and happy to talk about the weather any time you’d like! Strongly believes any situation can be bettered by a slice of generously buttered toast or Phil Dunphy. Would get arrested to touch Justin Timberlake’s face. Always trying to be a better person by not wishing horrible karma on people driving slow in the fast lane. Hear more: @twitter @instagram


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