Further Confessions Of A Fucked Up Fresher

This is difficult. Fuck, this is difficult. I don’t want to write this. I shouldn’t be writing this.

I thought things were going well. I thought that after the disastrous climax of my first week things had changed.

How fucking wrong I was. I thought I’d got my shit together, over these last few weeks. I took those piss-stained cords straight to the laundry and never looked back, plunging myself into university life. I went to every squash, auditioned for every play, and wrote more articles for The Tab. I even made a friend. We bonded at dinner over Mass Effect 2, the cop-out ending of Breaking Bad, and Zooey Deschanel’s beautiful, beautiful face. He was Northern, erudite and hilarious. Late nights spent moaning over our first prat crits and listening to Hunky Dory on his record player cemented our companionship.

Near the end of week four, my new friend invited me along on a swap with Peterhouse. I was excited, but nervous – I hadn’t been out drinking since wetting myself. The Curry Monarch was packed with other swaps, and the upstairs room was already a cacophony of clinking glasses and the screams of dull Clare girls. There was very little space and we had to all squeeze into seats between the already assembled Peterhouse contingent. Awkwardly, names and subjects were exchanged. But then the pennying started.

I hadn’t heard of this arcane tradition and almost choked on the first gleaming copper I found at the bottom of my glass. But soon I was really getting into the gleeful feel of it, distributing my wealth equally amongst those around me, and getting thoroughly pissed.

Reconstruction of the curry that night…

It was when we were for some utterly inexplicable reason standing on our chairs with a shoe on our head that I first noticed her. She was on the opposite end of the table from me, and as our drunken eyes met I knew that I was in love. This was the first girl I’d been really, properly attracted to since I got here, and I knew that she was the one I was going to finally live up to all those university dreams with. And it was going to be tonight.

Our tiny curries devoured, we were ushered firmly out to make room for the next wave. We wandered the streets aimlessly for a while, bumping into each other coyly now and then. In slurred whispers I told my friend about the girl I liked; he told me to go for it and he’d be my wingman. We sidled up to her and I began flirting. Somehow, miraculously, she seemed to find me funny, and soon myself, my friend and she were strolling down the road with linked arms. Somehow we ended up at Wetherspoons and consumed more alcohol, along with probably the best cheesy chips I have ever eaten. We were thrown out for stealing crayons, I think, which at the time seemed like an artistic victory. The next portion of the night involved a club, dancing, and being drunk enough to actually enjoy it. Suddenly the normally crass and repetitive mainstream music seemed elemental and euphoric. My friend, the Peterhouse girl and I formed an unbreakable triangle of sweaty grinding. The feel of her thigh against mine was electric; I felt like a carnal animal, and I knew she returned my attraction.

Variations of a theme of Sweaty Grind…

We left the club, and began wandering back to Peterhouse. This was actually going to happen. I kept stealing glances at her and then looking away, like a schoolchild. I felt sorry for my third-wheeling friend, and an immense gratitude to him for inviting me on the swap and helping me get to this point.

Finally in her room, we sat on her bed and drank more. I really should have known that I’d reached my limit – far past my limit – but I just guzzled everything she gave me. I started planning my move, not sure how to get my friend out of the room so that the girl and I were alone. I’m not exactly sure when I passed out. When I woke up, the first thing I noticed, powerfully, was the unforgiving carpet against my cheek. The second thing I noticed was the moans. The full horror somehow not dawning, I turned my head slightly, and looked up at the bed above me. Hurriedly half-undressed, they were rutting aggressively and passionately. There was a rhythmic sweat-slicked slap of flesh on flesh. I threw up, violently, the vomit spraying over the carpet and splattering against the side of the bed. The long trudge back to college, caked down one side in my own chunder, gave me a lot of time for thought. I realised the only way of achieving a small kind of catharsis was to write this.

You’re a cunt, Nathan. I hope you got fucking chlamydia.