As we enter a new year, Laura Reynolds looks at how the dating game differs from previous generations.
Laura Reynolds looks at the freedoms of festive singledom
Join Jason Rose for a peek behind today's door.
Lauren Tabbron writes about the difficulties of spending Christmas away from a loved one.
I’ll tell you what happened that night: Ziggys. Milk-maid’s outfit. Vodka. But let me tell you more about the morning after.
I woke up at 7am… to think that in the real world, outside of our safe little warren, most of the world were probably also waking up, putting on their suits and going to work, or making breakfast for their kids and then taking them to school… but here at 7am it felt like the middle of the night. I woke up to a silent quad and a hot, naked, sleeping body with a sweaty chest. I could have been his sweat, or it could have been mine. My skin had been pressed up against his, rubbing against him… who knew. I looked down at my own naked body and picked a little dark hair off my left breast… that was definitely not mine. The memory of the night before was enough… no need for any hairy little souvenirs.
I slinked out of bed – Tom was dead to the world, I could have slapped him in the face and he wouldn’t have noticed. Actually, some months later, I did slap him in the face. But that’s a different story, and for now he was just a one night stand. No reason for any bunny-boiling yet. So I slinked out of bed, I put on my pants – EEK! – How f-ugly they were! Note to self: Never wear ugly pants ever! You are too young for Bridget Jones pants, and you are too old for pink pants with a picture of Hello Kitty on such as these. Burn them. Hello Kitty is NOT a sex kitten.
We’d been on a farmer social… I’ve never been quite sure what “got milk?” is supposed to mean, but seven boys said that to me last night. Is it supposed to be sexy?
Inappropriate pants on, I then put on my milk-maid’s dress… it was so early that no one would see my walk of shame across the quad. Dress, pants, shoes, bag…bra?
No. No I could not find my bra. I won’t bore you with the details of the search, but fast forward to 11am, back in my block, I went into the kitchen and found my bra on the kitchen table. My flatmates mistook my look of confused horror to be one of disapproval…
“Disgusting, isn’t it? We found this on the doormat. SOMEONE has been having SEX in the porch!”
“Oh my gosh!”
“Yeah, I know. Disgusting. And we know who it was. Well, we know who the guy was.”
“Oh my gosh. Who?”
“Tom from the block on the left.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“We saw him leaving earlier this morning.”
“What! I don’t understand? I have to go and have a shower.”
What had just happened? So much was wrong about that story. I had left that Dirtbag at seven, and he has left here at ten. Had he found someone else to hook up with in those hours? F’ing outrageous. Why was he such a bastard? I was imagining slapping him already and tearing off his manhood mentally… But why was my bra in the porch? Maybe he just brought it over? Would anyone be so weird as to think that that was a good idea? Dropping a girl’s bra off in her porch? This seemed way to strange to be true, but it was so much better than the alternative that I badly wanted it to be true… Calm down…
My house mates assessed the block’s boobage, to see if they could figure out who the bra had belonged to. I didn’t admit to anything of course, so they hung the bra in the kitchen window, to shame the “not-so-buxom wench” it belonged to.
Teenage Dirtbag
So I’ve told you about Alex… my next door neighbour who I had some rampant-rumpy with on the first night on Freshers’ week. Well the drama didn’t end there.
I got a call from this bloke in A Block the following evening, after that ‘walk into town’, saying that he’d found her phone on the grass, and that he was calling me as she’d texted me recently or some rubbish, and could I contact her and tell her to come and collect it.
Long story short, Alex now has a reputation as a ho-bag quad-shagger, the mound of grass in the middle of the quad where the phone was found has become known as Mount-Alex… and all the blokes keep over-using pathetically obvious jokes like “I’d like to mount Alex”.
Worst part was that I had to face her… I actually had to go and knock on her door to tell her to collect the phone. Whenever I see her I obviously imagine her naked… but knocking on her door and seeing her in her unflattering leggings and massive jumper, and rabbit slippers… rough. And I then had to deal with her coming to my room, crying about the whole episode. She turned up with her phone in a plastic sandwich bag alongside an empty condom packet. Some sort of weird A Block joke.
Damn. I hate how emo some girls get about the tiniest things… not that mine is tiny (8 inches is anyone asks)… some girls can’t handle it. But whatever. She’s achieved in one night the reputation I had to work on all year, and all she does is complain about it.
I’ve let it be known that it was me who shared that passionate al-fresco sexy-time with her, but frankly she’s stealing the lime light. All the lads are talking about “climbing Mount Alex”, etc etc etc, and I get nothing.
But whatever. I’m over it. Last night I had one of the dirtiest nights of my life. Bonfire night was last week, but that was nothing compared to the explosions coming from my rocket last night… if you know what I’m saying…
And it was that girl from the Fresher’s week walk! She was looking pretty easy last night in Ziggys, dressed as a milk-maid… I went up to her and said “got milk?” (Classic. Genius.) and she just went weak at the knees. Got her back home and she milked me like I’ve never been milked before… if you know what I mean…
And when I woke up she was gone! I don’t often say this, but in that sense, she’s the perfect woman. Left her bra here though. Didn’t want any more awkward situations with people leaving stuff in the wrong places, so I thought I’d get it back to her ASAP and went and posted it through her letter box… as in her actual letter box… the one on her front door.
Yawn. Does anyone really care about these sordid and contrived tales? They're not even well written.
Nope! I'm pretty fed up of articles that are essentially an excuse for people to boast about how drunk/laid they got last night. No one cares and frankly, this kind of immature, Carrie-Bradshaw wanna-be crap lowers the standards for The Yorker.
But let me guess before some other idiot says it - "If you don't like it then don't read it!"
Argghh not another one! Articles like this have their place, but there is such a thing as overkill. I'm aware The Yorker has other sections etc. but they're really doing this sex column thing to death. Give it a rest for a bit, please.
Feel free to proof read your articles so that we do not have to despair over your mistakes and the quality of writing.
This is literally the worst thing I've ever read. How was this published? If The Yorker has any sense, Frisky Fresher and Teenage Dirtbag won't be allowed to write again. Awful, awful writing.
Oh relax everybody, it's only a bit of fun.
"Got her back home and she milked me like I’ve never been milked before… if you know what I mean…"
pahaaa. You know somehow I don't think this is supposed to be Dostoevsky. Just take it as it is, an easy novel read. And good fun really.
#2...
"essentially an excuse for people to boast about how drunk/laid they got last night"
Did it occur to you that perhaps this article is a joke, a parody, a spoof, or - if you don’t find it worthy of any of these categories - just falsehood? Perhaps the author(s) might not be the drunkards written about in the articles?
I find it odd that you construe this embarrassing story, that is unlikely to be true ‘boastful’.
#1: “Yawn. Does anyone really care”?
#3: “Argghh not another one!”
#5: “This is literally the worst thing I've ever read.”
My sentiments exactly re these REPATIVE BLOODY COMMENTS!
Are you all aware that this is not compulsory reading for your degrees?
Go jump in the lake.
And congratulations to #8 - you win the prize of standard "If you don't like it don't read it!" comment.
Perhaps if the frisky fresher and teenage dirtbag jumped in the lake they'd have sex in the filthy water. Then at least they'd have something slightly interesting to talk about.
Hi #9, #8 here.
Thanks awfully for your congratulatory words.
Was your comment supposed to be a witty rebuttal?
If you don’t like it, don’t read it. It makes perfect sense.
Look, it's all very easy to say 'if you don't like it, don't read it', but on the other hand if The Yorker is so determined to win media awards this year, it should really think about vetting some of this trashy poorly written content - because it's certainly not going to win it any awards, regardless of whether it's real or a spoof.
Generally you have to READ something to decide if you don't like it...
Small pedantic note there.
My main complaint is that it's boring. Not in small doses, perhaps, but a constant stream of predictable sex columns is just tedious. If it's factual gossip, I don't really care. If it's satire then, to be painfully honest, it's not very good. And with it being media awards season, there should be some kind of quality control if The Yorker wants to be taken seriously.
Massively agree with number 13. If you wish to pretend to write as two different people you may wish to vary the style. Particularly if the only distinguishing features are ellipses that thankfully come often enough to allow the reader to get away from this article and never come back. Poor.
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