Frisky Fresher

You meet guys in the most obvious of places...

It was my second day at uni. We’d had the Freshers’ ball the night before, and I was much in need of a hang-over cure.

A walk! Fresh air always does the trick. And as luck would have it, my college had arranged a walk into town at 2pm. As a party-hard girl of 18, I’d only woken up at 1, so this was perfect.

We met outside the JCR (doesn’t every college event meet outside their JCR in Freshers’ week?) in a small group. Clearly some people sleep even longer than I do.

Aside from myself, there were five others. A girl was there who I recognized from the Provost’s induction talk the day before, which had been a total snore (the talk, not the girl). I’m proud of my college and all that, but I spent the whole thing eyeing up the crowd for Mr Right… well, Mr Right-for-a-night at any rate. Don’t want to get tied down too soon.

Standing next to her was a tall, blonde, very attractive guy. Vaguely Scandinavian looking I thought to myself… He was wearing a Ralph Lauren jumper, with nothing underneath. It was just warm enough for so few layers at the beginning of October. Just warm enough, but also, just cold enough for his rock-hard nipples to be clearly visible through the designer cashmere-cotton blend. He caught me staring, and I pretended I’d been looking at the little Polo player, “… Nice jumper.”

Ok. Awkward. Maybe he’s not the one for me. Judging by the dirty look Provost-talk girl just shot me, and by the heart-all-a-flutter expression that swept over her when she caught a glimpse of his two little chest erections, she’s not letting him out of her sight anyway.

Then there were a pair of girls. One of them was from Japan I soon learnt, although she’d been living in Australia for the past 7 years. More accustomed to the sunny climes of Bondi Beach no doubt, she was loudly complaining about how cold it was, and unlike Mr Polo, was wearing a padded jacket. I admired her Chloe Paddington bag, and she told me it was a knock-off from Thailand. She’d been there on holiday this summer with her family.

The other girl was from Hartlepool, and was living in the block next to mine. We bonded over the fact that both of us had witnessed the same debauchedly nefarious scene from our kitchen windows at 3am the night before: a couple going at it on the grass in the quad… literally right in the middle of the quad. The only thing hiding them was the darkness of the night-time, but with the security lighting and clear-skied star-light, they weren’t hidden from anyone’s view. Even if they’d been doing it in the privacy of their own rooms, no amount of insulation, double glazing, or gags could have drowned out the noise they’d been making.

She told me that a guy she was living with had found a condom at the scene of the crime that morning. He’s also found a mobile phone belonging to one of the randy pair and was currently deciding what to do with it: to shame, or not to shame?

The final person was Tom. Tom the absolute Dirtbag… So many stories to tell you about Tom from over the course of this year… At this stage of course, we were strangers. But I’ll call him Dirtbag anyway… you’ll find out why soon enough.

Dirtbag was wearing an Adidas zip-up top, Havaianas, and standard boy jeans. You know the sort, faded blue demin (but he probably bought them pre-faded from Topman), low cut around the hips, showing a bit of boxer (Tartan! Ha!).

Dirtbag was standing alone, and was sending a text, so I didn’t go and introduce myself. But as soon as the second year who was walking us into town showed up, I found myself walking on the side of our little group of three girls, walking next to him…

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