A sorority formal is a magical experience. You get all dressed up in a cheap, slutty dress, just to cram as much alcohol down your throat as you can before you inevitably get kicked out.
Unfortunately, my first formal experience was less than stellar. As a freshman with absolutely no prospects for a male companion, I decided to take advantage of my newfound sisters to see if anyone had any suggestions for me. Looking back, asking a group of practical strangers to pick me a date for the night was not my best move. But hindsight’s 20/20. So I agreed to get set up. One of my sisters immediately texted me with a prospect “He’s my boyfriend’s roommate! He’s so nice, I love him!” Alarm bells should have gone off right there. For all you young girls out there, if the first word a girl uses to describe a guy is “nice,” just run. Run far and run fast. Because, despite what we all like to pretend, we aren’t looking for a “nice” guy to take us to formal. Hot? Yes. Fun, even? Yes. Can pay for my drinks? Fuck yes. But not nice. Never nice. “Nice” is code for a laundry list of things, none of which are remotely positive.
I decided to accept, being the trusting girl that I was. Looking back, I’m sure she probably meant well. But when I asked my other sisters about my date, I was met with about sixteen OMGs and a few HAHAHAHAHAHs and one “What have you done?” As I was not yet the hardened bitch I am today, I decided to stay with my date because that’s the polite thing to do.
Screw polite, I’m never making that mistake again.
I showed up to the pregame, sans date, and waited. Eventually he waltzed in, wearing, I shit you not: a red turtle neck, a tan blazer, and jeans. JEANS. He looked like a sad little hot dog. I was just hoping that what he lacked in looks, and clearly style, he could make up for in personality. He walked over and introduced himself, and I decided to test the waters. I gestured to the table next to us loaded with bottles of alcohol and joked, “All of this is for us, we better start drinking!” His response? “Oh, uh, what? I’m not really sure I can drink that much.”
Greatttttttttt. If he couldn’t register my sarcasm, then the night was doomed to fail. I consoled myself with the thought that maybe he would loosen up after a few drinks. So we sat in silence as I made feeble attempts to interact with hot dog boy.
Blessedly, we soon arrived at the formal, and in dim lighting and a tequila haze, turtle neck boy started to look more appealing. So maybe he wasn’t Mr. Personality, but not everyone can be on all the time, right? Maybe he was having an off day. Maybe he’s really a hidden gem (read: has a horse cock). So I led him to the dance floor. A few songs in, Mr. “Wonderful” started to get a little handsy. I usually love a handsy guy, but in this case, I wasn’t really sure if I was willing to let the creepy boy with the wet towel personality get to second base in a room full of all my sisters. So I brushed him off. But he persisted. And persisted. Eventually I just decided to take the kid off the bench and let him play ball. Pretty sure I almost drowned that night. It is, to date, the worst kiss I’ve ever experienced. So I did what any girl on the verge of a watery grave would do. I ran.
I ran all that way to the bathroom, where I proceeded to rinse my mouth out repeatedly while trying not to gag.
I couldn’t fathom the idea of returning to my handsy date, so I decided to go back to the one thing that was always there for me. Food. I housed at least six quesadillas smothered in guacamole. Eventually, the girl who set me up with my date came running over. “Where have you been?! He’s been looking for you for over an hour.” I decided that now was a good time to take myself home.
Unfortunately my date decided the same thing, so we both ended up awkwardly on the bus home together. I continued to ward off his creepy advances, and prayed that the bus would get us home soon. The doors opened, and I all but sprinted out onto the street. I was stopped by my date grabbing my arm.
“So do you want to come back to my room?”
I have to give the kid credit for trying. I, on the other hand, don’t think I’ve ever run faster. As I sprinted up the steps to my dorm, one of my friends saw me and asked why I wasn’t with my date. I threw out the line every girl mutters at some point in her college career,
“Well I wasn’t just going to pity fuck him.” My mother would be so proud..