Every guy you’ve slept with at Glasgow Uni
you only regret 70 per cent of them
You sort of know each other. The occasional nod in lectures, pretty sure you shared answers in a tutorial once. A sacred, unspoken bond where you're fairly sure of each others names but now it's definitely too late to ask. One fateful social you find your bodies pressed together in Viper and the Dragon Soops inside you convice you that this is a good idea. You wake up the next day and realise you've never really said more than ten words to each other. You laugh awkwardly about how shit that day's lecture will be and run home to transfer tutorial groups, just in case.
Honestly you weren't expecting this one. Everything is going great until the morning after where he refuses to leave your flat until you admit it's weird how we drink milk from the breasts of other animals. You agree just to shut him up. You remain blissfully unaware until you remember you added him on facebook the night before and your feed is spammed with posts from PETA.
Need I say more? Usually found in Garage or at Strathclyde Uni.
The Rugby Lad
Why do you go out on sport social nights when you aren't in a society again? You feel so out of place you get absolutely plastered so you don't feel the pain of getting battered about by lads shouting "CHUG CHUG CHUG" and end up accepting the advances of a chino-cladded Rugby Lad called Barry. Muscles = attractiveness right? You don't remember much of the night with the human tree trunk, but you do resent being kicked out at 6am because he has to go to training.
It's going to happen. It always does. You tut and roll your eyes at all your friends who have made this mistake and promise yourself that you'd never be so silly. "Don't shit where you eat", you chuckle to yourself. However before you know it it's 1am, you're two bottles of wine deep crying in the kitchen about how Archie the rugby lad hasn't text you back since you pulled in Hive. A familiar presence sits down next to you on the floor and puts a reassuring arm around your shoulder. It's sweet, harmless Richard. As he wipes away your mascara stains you realise that you've never noticed how pretty his eyes are when the light catches them. Oh no. Next thing you know you wake up in a familiar house but a strange bed. You try and sneak across the hall but get spotted by your other flatmate with a look of utter dismay on his face. Yikes. This will be the most awkward breakfast of your life.
The Posh Boy
The signs were so obvious. You should have known. Who wears a shirt and tie to Kokomo? Who buys you rounds of cava instead of a vodka and cranberry? A Tory. The bubbles of the overpriced fizz went straight to your head, lowering you ability to recognise all the typical warning signs.
"I just don't think it's fair that my parents have to pay for something that I'm not going to get a benefit of, we're private anyway!"
You slowly come to your senses as you awaken in an en-suite bedroom in a west end flat with someone who looks obnoxious even when asleep snoring next to you. In your hungover daze you groan at the sight of their poster of the Queen on their wall. Wait a minute… as your head begins to clear you realise it's not the Queen at all. It's fucking Margaret Thatcher. Run.
The Firewater Spiceboy
You're no longer a fresher. You're over Hive and Viper. You want to go somewhere alternative. Somewhere edgy. What? No, not Buff Club, I'm not made of money. Firewater. Home of the 89p vodka and indie spiceboy heaven. Never in my life have you seen so many Gallagher wannabe lads with their round sunglasses and leather jackets. Still, after a dangerous amount of shit vodka you find yourself actually digging the vibe. As you attempt to dance to some Stone Roses (it's pretty difficult not gonna lie), you find yourself getting closer with someone who really needs a haircut. He'll take you back to his flat where his idea of foreplay will consist of complaining about all the fans that got into the Arctic Monkey's after they became mainstream. He'll be shit in bed.
The Solid 10
There you are, minding your own business at Monday Night Heat, when all of a sudden you lock eyes with the most beautiful man you've ever seen in your life. He smirks at you across the dancefloor and you feel weak at the knees. (Ok part of that can be attributed to the vodka).
When he starts dancing with you you can't believe your luck, laughing nervously at everything he says (you can't hear him anyway). All in all a mediocre experience but you still feel a sense of pride at bagging a ten. You leave his flat after being too nervous to ask for his number, and later in the week you'll be hunting through the club photos to show your friends that this did in fact happen.
The Virgin Fresher
You aren't too sure what attracted you to some fresh meat. Maybe it was their hopeful enthusiasm for the next four years, something to distract you from the pains you know too well. You find yourself back in halls, and immediately remember why you got yourself a flat instead of going back. You precariously perch on the single bed while he gets up his "romantic" spotify playlist.
After a few awkward minutes of fumbling, "I have something to tell you" he sheepishly mumbles.
You know what's coming, and a small a part of you wonders how rude it would be just to get up and leave.
"It's okay" you reassure him. "It's not a big deal."
In probably what is one of the most awkward encounters of your life you just lie there while he struggles to even get it in.
"Wow, that was amazing!" he exclaims after a disappointing three minutes of bizarre thrusting.
You try muster a smile before "remembering" you have an early start the next day so should probably get going. Yikes.