Once upon a time, I was a freshman. I thought the memories would remain perfectly clear, waiting patiently these past four years for my eventual nostalgia and recollection.
“You think about sex like a man.” My male friend assures me that this is the reason for my column’s popularity, perhaps its very existence.
I don’t understand people who don’t like giving oral sex.
To be perfectly honest, I’ve been procrastinating this column. Over the past few days, I’ve tried forcing myself to engage in a few minutes of earnest thinking about booty calls or Skype sex or...
In kindergarten, I was a player. One man’s love simply could not satiate me.
I frequently win “Never Have I Ever.” Or lose, depending on one’s interpretation of the game’s point.
Alivia’s and I have entered into a committed relationship.
Given my place of residence along LaSalle, Maxxx (personally pronounced Max-X-X-X) may be considered just my friendly neighborhood adult emporium, like the Cheers or Central Perk of novelty sex shops.
Someday, a few generations from now, long after I’m gone, my great-grandchildren will unearth the albums of Tailgate photos I’ve left behind.
I rarely write like an advice columnist, but I hope I bring more people under the banner of normalcy and acceptability, if only by parading the endless list of my and my friends’ abnormalities.
