I don’t know why there’s such a negative stigma when it comes to girls and sex. I’m personally not a fan of the world slut, but if I’m going to claim the name, I’m going to wear it across my Double D chest with pride. I’m not afraid to admit I love sex. I spend outrageous amounts of money on sexy lingerie, I crave that “hands all over” feeling, and I’m always down for a little Wednesday night “stress relief.” Some people might consider me to be the epitome of someone with “daddy issues,” but I on the other hand consider myself the epitome of fun as fuck (emphasis on the fuck).
There’s this saying “birds of a feather flock together” and that saying for sure rings true in my group of friends. All the ladies in my crew share the same love for a good romp as I do. That being said, after drinking enough two-buck-chuck, the girl’s night conversation always ends up turning into a friendly competition of “who has the best sex story?” Because this debate is inevitable, I’m always on the lookout for opportunities for a risqué romp. Bathrooms? Done it. Beach? So high school. Study room? Overrated. All the cliché sex places have been checked off my bucket list, but my experience last weekend easily guaranteed me the “best sex story” trophy.
It all started at last weekend’s annual “Fraternity Fight Night.” Every year the same fraternity makes a spectacle of pressuring two guys from every fraternity to duke it out in the ring. Tickets to this event are thirty bucks and the fraternity plays it off as a lame excuse for a philanthropy event. Although the “charitable” nature of an event involving 32 guys beating the shit out of each other is slightly questionable, the consumption of shitty booze included is worth every penny (in the name of charity of course). Anyway, it was safe to say that I was taking full advantage of the open bar and was more than willing to get a little “personal” with the first attractive frat guy to approach me. Grinding against each other to Rihanna led to making out to Weezy, which eventually led to me getting low-key felt up in the middle of a mosh-pit of my peers to Britney. It wasn’t long before that the guy (who’s name I had yet to catch) whispered in my ear asking if I wanted to go upstairs. To which I nodded.
When mystery man said “upstairs” I assumed he meant to a bedroom but was pleasantly surprised when he led me to the fraternity house’s upper deck. “You need help getting up?” he asked motioning up to the roof.
Holy fuck. Sex on a frat house roof. I’m about it.
As soon as we got on the roof, we laid down next to each other and stared up at the stars. If I was telling this story to my mother I’d probably cut it there, but as you know, no steamy story ever ended with casual stargazing. Needless to say, after about thirty seconds of drunkenly admiring the sky, we started making out and the clothes quickly fell off. Unfortunately missionary was the only plausible position because of the steepness of the roof, but the thrill of getting it on while still being able to see all the partiers in the yard below us was hot nonetheless.
I’ve never been the kinda girl to hang around for a post-sex cuddle sesh and that certainly wasn’t about to change while lying uncomfortably on a fucking roof. As soon as we finished doing the dirty I hopped up to attempt to collect my clothes. Unfortunately, my inebriated cerebellum impeded my ability to balance, and I found myself unable to stand up before I began quickly sliding down. Sliding down the fucking roof. This is going where you think it’s going.
Naked and afraid, I FELL OFF THE FUCKING ROOF onto the second floor deck of the fraternity house. I hit my head and was able to regain my composure for just a moment before finishing my descent to the ground, where the party continued to rage on. Now, I generally love attention, but I will say that this was one moment I wished all eyes were not on me. The entire party stopped as one guy shouted, “A naked girl just fell from the sky!”
I was mortified. A group of frat girlfriends came to my rescue, and formed a circle around me so I could slip the dress, that was still in my hand, back onto my body. They brought me inside, and arranged for a pledge ride home, which I graciously accepted, as I had no idea where my friends, or my lovuh were.
Now you might read this, and assume the moral of the story is not to have drunken sex on a fraternity house roof, particularly one that slants downward. But it’s not. The moral of this story, my goody-goody gals is, is to have a mental list of somewhat farfetched, yet believable, lies on hand for when your parents ask you how the fuck you got a concussion. Apparently “I hit my head on a book-stack in the library” doesn’t cut it..