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Brandeis University's Community Newspaper — Waltham, Mass.

Sexiled: Head games

Published: September 5, 2008
Section: Opinions

When I started this article, the only thing I could think is that I now have an awkward hook-up story. But then I realized that all my hook-ups are actually very awkward.

Listen – I do not play games. In a game, there is a winner and a loser. It’s chance. Well, chances are, I always lose. So it doesn’t follow the rules of a game. Instead, I flirt shamelessly until they either openly reject me or lift the covers. In my head, I prefer the latter.

And in his head – I actually never know what’s going on in there. But I always manage to find out…

As it turns out, though, one head is better than two.

So, the flirting is more of a trial than a game. As in…do you want to try this?

The key to my success is simple: I talk about sex. I make references to it. I show up to their room at one a.m.

I realize, as I’m writing this, that I sound like a crazy stalker addicted to sex. Be that as it may, I’ll just gloss over it for now and allow the therapist I’m sure to acquire to deal with it later.

Most importantly, though, is the door to my failure. It opened with my success key.

I walk into a bedroom, let’s say, all prepared. I know what’s going to happen and he’s soon going to know the same.

Unless he’s last night’s conquest, in which case he misreads the very clear signals I send.

Now, for a story of awkwardness and failure:

The evening began dark and probably around eight. My evening with him began florescent and probably around 11:45.

I showed up, unexpectedly. He let me in and humored me until he wasn’t funny anymore.

Contrary to the other guys, this one was actually considerate and entertaining. So it stands to reason that I nicknamed him “Asshole.”

Now it’s time to move onward, but mostly upward.

He and I were lying on his bed. I initiated, as any classy woman would do. After much wrestling in which I attempted to get away by moaning in pleasure – I mean frustration – he had me pinned on top of him. You would think I could’ve gotten away, and you’d be right. But he doesn’t know that because I “struggled” (very convincingly, I might add), while letting him mark his territory.

Thankfully, unlike men I have not yet had the pleasure to wrestle, he marked his territory with his mouth, not his…

Well, imagination may take you anywhere you’d like. Be considerate of your neighbors, though.

And no, despite what you’re thinking right now, the territory being marked was my neck, not my…

Anyway, he did not realize that the edge of my comfort zone meets the neckline of my shirt when I actually like someone.

So when he bit his way over that line like he was teething, I may or may not have freaked out like someone who has just gotten out of a mental hospital. But I may not have, keep that in mind.

Except that I did.

And I ran out of his room. And he didn’t follow. Shocking, I know. I figured he would because I had set up unmistakable guidelines, such as:

I showed up at his room in a tank top at close to midnight.

Laid down on his bed.

Let him put his arm around me. Put my arm around him.

Tickled and tackled him. I even moaned. Remember – in frustration, I swear! Then, as soon as he took the hints, I stormed out. See? Asshole!

Looking back, it’s very possible that I sent mixed signals. But I’m still pretty sure I didn’t.

Because if I had, I wouldn’t have pretended to knee him in the crotch, I would have grabbed it instead. And I would have taken off my shirt.

Yet, I think I’ve learned my lesson. Be less desperate? That’s ridiculous! Let him come to me? Well, I always encourage him to come…to me. But, really, the biggest part of the lesson is that I am actually the awkward one. I’m Brandeis awkward.

I’m officially Brawkward.

And I am willing to embrace it. With the knowledge that it may be the last thing I embrace. For a while, at least.