May 14, 2008
I’m Sure Going to Miss Those Sluts Dyking-Out in My Bathrooms
A Codependent Collegian Guest Editorial
By a Frat House
Can’t Get Enough of Girls Gone Wild…Literally
The past nine months have been glorious. Sure, I’ve witnessed all manner of sexual debauchery unfold on beds, the back lawn, and even under the foosball table, but my greatest joy remains watching vulnerable, drunken sluts dyke-out in my two rancid, pube-littered bathrooms.
But now that the academic year has ended, I must woefully endure three months of tame, predictable partying without the potential for a single lesbo encounter.
Don’t get me wrong: I’ll most certainly observe some hook-ups. Matt Foley—he’s the junior who lives in the loft—is dating Stacey Collins, so there’ll be a handjob by Tuesday if she’s the same Stacey Collins I saw lick grape jelly off Ian Keller’s balls during Greek Week. And Trevor McDonald might be a walk-on wide receiver in the fall, so that’ll drop a few panties between now and August as long as he doesn’t get another beer gut.
But the nights of stinking-drunk dyke-outs at 2 a.m., while one chick boldly slides her hands down the front of the other girl’s jeans even while some stranger’s Miller-puke still floats in the toilet is a scene that only lingers as a memory in these creaking eaves. Bravely I must endure the sweltering summer nights, where yes, there might be a few six-packs and some boob-grabbing on the couch, but the possibility of clit-on-clit action in the tub will remain an anxious hope for the fall semester.
Jesus Christ, it can’t come soon enough.
By a Frat House
Can’t Get Enough of Girls Gone Wild…Literally
The past nine months have been glorious. Sure, I’ve witnessed all manner of sexual debauchery unfold on beds, the back lawn, and even under the foosball table, but my greatest joy remains watching vulnerable, drunken sluts dyke-out in my two rancid, pube-littered bathrooms.
But now that the academic year has ended, I must woefully endure three months of tame, predictable partying without the potential for a single lesbo encounter.
Don’t get me wrong: I’ll most certainly observe some hook-ups. Matt Foley—he’s the junior who lives in the loft—is dating Stacey Collins, so there’ll be a handjob by Tuesday if she’s the same Stacey Collins I saw lick grape jelly off Ian Keller’s balls during Greek Week. And Trevor McDonald might be a walk-on wide receiver in the fall, so that’ll drop a few panties between now and August as long as he doesn’t get another beer gut.
But the nights of stinking-drunk dyke-outs at 2 a.m., while one chick boldly slides her hands down the front of the other girl’s jeans even while some stranger’s Miller-puke still floats in the toilet is a scene that only lingers as a memory in these creaking eaves. Bravely I must endure the sweltering summer nights, where yes, there might be a few six-packs and some boob-grabbing on the couch, but the possibility of clit-on-clit action in the tub will remain an anxious hope for the fall semester.
Jesus Christ, it can’t come soon enough.
Labels: frat houses