There’s nothing cooler than being a frat boy.
Picture this. I’m sitting on the front porch of the frat house, one of my brothers on my lap and three more on his lap. I can barely breathe. I’m wearing a backwards hat hanging off another backwards hat, attached to a sweet “Ruth Bader Ginsberg” shirt all the brothers keep trying to borrow. Like Ruth, we epitomize a generation’s repressed sexual freedom, coming free.
A string of sorority girls approaches. They don’t look our way. Typical. But they’re not the only ones who can play hard to get. We close our eyes, ’cause if we can’t see them, then there’s no way they can see us. Getting girls is like a “game of chess,” a random expression I’ve heard for something that’s very dynamic, which is another word I don’t know.
As the girls grow nearer, our human tower starts to teeter. I shriek in fear because I’ve never talked to a girl who wasn’t a mirage of a young Ruth Bader Ginsburg before. “Hey,” she says. “Is there something, like, wrong with you?” She points at my now blue face. “Doors are closed, babes, maybe next time,” I groan back, instantly realizing that I’d somehow just said the perfect thing.
