You know that sweaty, hormonally-driven, widely-talked-about dance known as SexPowerGod? Well, it was this past weekend and Luna here was lucky enough to score a golden ticket after camping out for four hours. After spending all day creating the perfectly sexy outfit, I was ready for this highly-anticipated night of drunken debauchery. My friends and I headed over to Andrews slightly nervous but totally excited. At an event where anything goes, I had cast any and all expectations aside. I was prepared to fully embrace all the ideals that SexPowerGod represents.
Once we arrived, we were greeted by a mob of half-naked men and women dancing around without a care in the world. Some were shirtless, others pantless but everyone there possessed a bodily confidence that I envied. I’m normally a pretty reserved person but I was eager to lose my inhibitions. So, I grabbed my friends’ hand and dove head-first into the crowd, swaying rhythmically (or maybe clumsily) to the music.
Well, readers, you all should know (unless you live under a rock) that Halloweek has commenced! Now, since Halloween is my second favorite holiday of the year, I always make it a point to take my costumes seriously. Last week, I discovered that there would be a Harry Potter-themed party hosted by those god-like crew men. It was going to be four floors of Hogwarts heaven: sexy Slytherins, ravenous Ravenclaws, and maybe even a hunky Hufflepuff. And I was going to be there. I was not waiting in line.
Now, I wanted to be something creative. I was not going to attend this fabulous soiree as Hermione. I decided I would go as the one, and only, Moaning Myrtle. She was a desperate flirt with a penchant for bitching. Basically, she’s a dead version of me. I had the character and now all I needed was the costume.
As a girl who considers herself to be close with her family, I was actually very excited for this past weekend. I had cleaned my room, looked up some good restaurants, and even called my parents to tell them how excited I was for their impending arrival. I was probably over-prepared for Family Weekend, but I soon realized I was extremely underprepared for my actual family.
The weekend started off well enough and was marked by an exchange of hugs, questions, and a plethora of winter clothes. Then, to my surprise, my mother revealed the Saturday she had planned: a trip to Newport that included a historic tour and play. The a capella concert I thought we could see was going to have to wait. My family piled into our Honda and soon began the journey to Newport. I knew the weekend was heading in a bad direction when my brother began to lecture us on the benefits of wrestling and my dad lost three parking spots to the more aggressive Rhode Island drivers. Tensions were running high and my mom’s overzealous attempts at keeping us all on schedule weren’t helping.
Last weekend, as I was perusing Facebook, I came across an invitation for yet another Brown party. To my delight, this party featured three of my favorite things: Tom Cruise, costumes, and boys dressing up, in costume, like Tom Cruise. Sign me up, I thought, and I quickly pressed “Join Event.”
Over the course of the week, my friend and I constructed the perfect outfits for this party. We became regulars at the Army/Navy Store, and I spent $60 in Urban Outfitters on a pair of new jeans. Ridiculous? Definitely. But you didn’t see my butt: By the time Saturday night had arrived, we had created the ultimate Top Gun personas. We had straightened our hair, applied our makeup, and perfectly placed our new aviators atop our heads. She was Maverick and I was Goose, and we were ready to take flight into “the target-rich” environment of memorable frat parties, our dog-tag necklaces hanging loosely around our necks. Our mission was to look like sex; mission was accomplished.
We finally made our way to Wriston and, much to our chagrin, there was a small—but still large enough to be frustrating—crowd standing outside of the frat. I was close enough to see the frat bros standing nonchalantly on their porch, decked out in pilot jumpsuits, hair gelled to perfection. My one friend took to using her body in an attempt to get in, but her boobs did nothing to entrance the stoic pilot at the door. Even my tried-and-true “shy and approachable” glance wasn’t working. So, my friends and I were left to wait outside amongst a sea of leather jackets, tipsiness slowly turning into sobriety.
As of last weekend, my track record with the boys here at Brown was not too impressive. It actually really only consisted of the Walk of Shame and one phantom-like boy whom I saw from afar at the Ratty. He graciously gave me a polite half-wave. I figured that this scenario would be college: random hook-ups, lots of parties, and never breakfast. My friends from high school would often talk about the college dating scene and how it was withering, smothered to death by the giant presence of booty calls and DFMOs. I always thought they were being slightly dramatic but after my fiasco the first weekend I wasn’t so sure.
Hello Brunonians! I’m Luna Lovebad and I’m here to impart wisdom on how not to be a freshman. Every week, I’ll be sharing some of my experiences with you: some posts will be painfully embarrassing, others heartfelt and sincere—but they’re all for your enjoyment. Each week, read along as I describe my bewilderment, happiness, and awe during my tumultuous and hopefully memorable first year at Brown.
It’s 10:30 on a Sunday morning and I’m walking along Thayer in the same clothes I wore last night. Most people would describe this simple meandering as the Walk of Shame. I was privileged to experience this event, considered a rite of passage in most colleges, my first weekend at Brown. The late morning air was chilly on my shoulders (I rejected my suitor’s oh so gallant offer to wear his sweatshirt) and I had to walk home with a map pulled up on my iPhone. With each step I took, I fell deeper into my thoughts. How did I get here? What am I doing?
My night started 12 hours earlier on the porch of my dorm’s favorite frat. I saw—let’s call him “the Elusive Jew”—from across the sticky, beer-spattered lawn. I broke out the “I’m shy and approachable” glance and, soon enough, I was partaking in a casual, albeit slightly boring conversation about random things I didn’t really care about. Usually a reserved girl, I was not planning to embark on such a scandalous sexcapade, but I soon realized he was reserving a place in his single room for me. I figured “YOLO” and I knew he was thinking “L’Chaim.”