Andrea Saint: International Love

It’s Valentine’s Day, and if you thought it couldn’t get any worse than spending it being single at Britain’s top matchmaking university, you clearly haven’t experienced it in America yet. It’s 4:30 in the morning and I am already dreading the day ahead. There are pink hearts everywhere on campus, people are sending ‘Condomgrams for your Cutie’ (four for you Glen Coco), and there are Valentines cupcakes as far as the eye can see. I also made the brutal mistake of going to the college post office yesterday to collect a textbook and was bombarded by students collecting cards, flowers and brownies sent to them from their loved ones. Yes, I did pretend my Amazon parcel was also a Valentines gift from an imaginary lover, which received responses like: ‘Oh my god your hot, British boyfriend bought you a Kindle for Valentine’s day? And he looks exactly like Colin Firth? That is SO ROMANTIC.’

Yet I am still at a loss to understand where all this romance is coming from. I get how people get all gooey eyed in St Andrews, with the beautiful beaches, the old historic buildings, good old Will and Kate and I mean who hasn’t fallen in love in the Lizard at least once. But American College Life that I have witnessed has been by far the least romantic experience I have ever had, unless you count being roofied and forced to do keg stands while dressed in a bin bags and grinding with a big sweaty men as romantic.

So far my encounters with the American male species have been horrendous, but that’s only counting my time in St Andrews (too soon?). Over here in their natural habitat it has been no different. I am still confused about what the hell that ambiguous phrase ‘hooking up’ means and no one seems to explain it very well to me which results in minutes of utter confusion where I always end up screaming; ‘Well did his D touch your V or what!?’ much to everyone’s disgust. What the Americans need is a good healthy verb such as ‘shag’ and all this nonsense would be stopped and the British and their fair cousins across the pond would be able to gossip about their sex lives in peace and harmony.

So far I have met many different types of American males, and overall I am not impressed. I began last semester with an encounter of the very worst, the absolute Fratty Douchebag Bro. Picture Blue Mountain State’s Thad Castle and American Pie’s Steve Stiffler blended into one huge mistake waiting to happen, and that was him. I have absolutely no excuse other than a dangerous mixture of Jungle Juice and John Mayer, but the sad fact of the matter was I actually liked him because he was almost as funny as me, which was intimidating, yet exciting. I cannot disclose all the details on this particular event due to my dignity, but shall tarnish it a little by telling you how I was woken up in the morning by his other ‘lady friends’ that had surprisingly also spent the night. I also have memories of him drunkenly screaming ‘This is how we do it in America!’ and other obscenities, but the absolute worst was when he drove all of us home in the morning in his ‘whore-mobile’. Months later I discovered he had almost hooked up with my entire sorority and of course, he still has the cheek to booty text me every weekend at 2am sharp: ‘Sup! Cum 2 the Fratz betch.’ I still struggle to resist such a poetic invitation.

Along with some other humiliating interactions with males from the Greek Community at weekend ‘mixers’, last semester also brought with it my first encounter with the footballers. Apparently, hooking up with a footballer is a ‘big deal’ even though our team are quite frankly shit, and the only ‘big deal’ is that they get free tuition and the rest of the mere mortals on campus don’t. As I couldn’t care less about understanding the game and only go to see matches to tailgate, I didn’t see what the fuss was about with these gigantic men, apart from, well, their size (wink wink). And to be quite honest I still don’t get it as they are downright dull. My sorority sisters forced me to take this linebacker, (or something) to my Formal and at first he seemed like a great accessory and from what I remember we had a fantastic time. However, when we decided to continue the relationship sober, things started to go wrong, mainly because he said absolutely nothing. On that rare occasion when he did speak, it was either to say ‘So, you like the new Drake album?’ or ‘Shh the football’s on.’ He also had absolutely no sense of humour, and didn’t even laugh at my story about that one time I got thrown out of the Food Market at 3am for drunkenly trying to pay for my cheese and bacon bagel with my UK driving licence which is always a crowd pleaser. He was certainly not a keeper, and I now frequently have to avoid him in the canteen by awkwardly hiding behind my box of Chick-fil-A nuggets.

Nevertheless, this semester has greatly improved prospects in the male department, not that I am interested of course as obviously I am purely here to focus on my studies and achieve that perfect 4.0 GPA. In doing so, I found the best way to seduce an American male is in class. Apparently they just cannot resist ‘O Captain! My Captain!’ being read aloud in a British accent, and who can blame them. Recently I somehow managed to meet a really nice guy who is not in a frat or a football player, and who I can actually discuss Judith Butler’s theory of gender performativity with, and I never thought such a man existed. Unfortunately though, he’s not Ryan Gosling, so I don’t think it will work out in the long run, but we shall see.

Meanwhile, I stand by my theory that the best way to meet an American male is in class. Alright, I confess, I am in love with my professor. He is just so wise and manly. Also, we have weird Renaissance Literature banter in class and during his office hours. He also has Scottish roots so we bond over St Andrews for hours and it is perfect… apart from the fact that he is bordering 85 and married with children twice my age, which is wrong on so many levels. Thinking about it, I shouldn’t really send him that Dr Faustus themed Valentine’s day card that I made him last night, it is a bit weird and I probably would get thrown out, or worse, sent to counselling. I shall wish you all a Happy Valentine’s day instead.

And who am I? I really hope you don’t know, and if you do, I’d rather you didn’t tell my mother what I’ve been up to. That’s a secret I’ll never tell.
You know you love me, Xoxo, Andrea Saint