We've got a secret surprise hiding under our covers this year. The Hatchet will bring you two anonymous columnists - a guy and a girl - to report on sex at GW. This week Delilah's on top. Next week Samson gets his turn.
Editor's note: Names have been changed to protect the naughty.
I hate tattoos. Don't have any, don't want any and waking up next to a back full of them was not what I had planned on. No, I did not visit my local tat parlor on mind-altering drugs, I just woke up next to a guy who very well might have. Between the roaring lion, hot pink stars and lopsided shamrock that were staring me straight in the face I wanted to be run over rather than topless and hungover.
I'll call this tattoo-covered fella "Tricks." I picked up Tricks one Wednesday at the gym while I was up to my usual business, riding the treadmill and scoping out which guy I might want to ride next. Tricks was working the weights and between his biceps, thick rimmed glasses and stellar choice in workout wear I was ready to pull a few bad tricks myself.
"Wait, don't you live down the hallway?" I casually asked as I picked up some ten pounders and tried to make it look as though I had probable cause for my sudden migration from the cardio machines to the weights.
"Uh, I think you have the wrong guy," he replied, but was able to keep the conversation up long enough to find out where he lived, what his name was and where he could be found on Thursday night.
Come Thursday, my girls and I marched into party after party and slammed shot after shot. After the fourth shot and a short keg stand Tricks approached me out on the back porch as I was falling vulnerable to that drunk p-funk.
"So I really think we should hang out at my place tonight if you're not doing anything," he said.
At that point the only thing I would be doing is passing out or eating a whole pizza in front of my television, but my drunken horny self spoke differently.
Editor's note: Names have been changed to protect the naughty.
I hate tattoos. Don't have any, don't want any and waking up next to a back full of them was not what I had planned on. No, I did not visit my local tat parlor on mind-altering drugs, I just woke up next to a guy who very well might have. Between the roaring lion, hot pink stars and lopsided shamrock that were staring me straight in the face I wanted to be run over rather than topless and hungover.
I'll call this tattoo-covered fella "Tricks." I picked up Tricks one Wednesday at the gym while I was up to my usual business, riding the treadmill and scoping out which guy I might want to ride next. Tricks was working the weights and between his biceps, thick rimmed glasses and stellar choice in workout wear I was ready to pull a few bad tricks myself.
"Wait, don't you live down the hallway?" I casually asked as I picked up some ten pounders and tried to make it look as though I had probable cause for my sudden migration from the cardio machines to the weights.
"Uh, I think you have the wrong guy," he replied, but was able to keep the conversation up long enough to find out where he lived, what his name was and where he could be found on Thursday night.
Come Thursday, my girls and I marched into party after party and slammed shot after shot. After the fourth shot and a short keg stand Tricks approached me out on the back porch as I was falling vulnerable to that drunk p-funk.
"So I really think we should hang out at my place tonight if you're not doing anything," he said.
At that point the only thing I would be doing is passing out or eating a whole pizza in front of my television, but my drunken horny self spoke differently.
