“Hi, I’m Sarah,” I sputtered from the dilapidated couch.
I was sitting in the sticky, dingy living room of a fraternity house. It was summertime, and after a month of texting back and forth, one hookup at a party in my hometown (he drove down to see me AKA have sex with me) and deciding that we actually sort of liked each other, I packed up my car and agreed to visit Michael, the guy I was talking to.
He was at our school for the summer and had just moved into his off-campus fraternity house. After figuring out his schedule of taking classes or jerking off or whatever it is that guys do in the months of June-August, I decided to pack up my cutest lingerie and visit him. Having only seen him and his penis once, I wasn’t sure what to expect. But after parking my car in the lot, taking three shots of tequila, and texting him that I was there, my nerves were settled when I saw him.
Michael was tall and strong, with disheveled dark blonde hair and slightly tanned skin. Just enough stubble glistened in the sun as he smiled, his bright green eyes twinkling when he saw me.
“Hey you,” he flirted, planting a confident kiss on my lips and grabbing the Vera duffle out of my hand.
My heart flipped over as I smiled back at him, glad that I had my teeth professionally whitened two days ago.
Upon entering the house, it was clear that summer term for fraternity guys meant one thing and one thing only: constant drinking. We walked into what I assumed was the living room, considering the number of mismatched couches and 18-23-year-old guys lounging on them, eyes glued to an old TV screen, all at various levels of inebriated.
We slipped past them and headed up the stairs, and I couldn’t help but admire his muscles as he tossed my bag on his full-sized bed. Hmmm. American flag over the bed — boyish but classic. A Kate Upon calendar. Ugh. But hey, no condom wrappers or pictures of college-aged girls, so we seemed to be in the clear.
“I missed you,” he cooed, pulling me onto the bed next to my bag, his minty breath tickling my face.
Before I could answer, his head disappeared beneath my dress and my eyes rolls back as his tongue tickled my thighs.
“So, you wanna go drink?” He asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and taking a sip from the glass of water on his nightstand (nightstand is a generous word, it was really just a plastic organizer with an alarm clock on it).
“Down there?” I asked, eyes wide as I pulled down my dress tried to subtly readjust my underwear that was just dislodged for the seven minutes of rather impressive oral.
“Yeah,” he said, standing up and grabbing my hand. Sensing my hesitation he added, “they’ll love you,” before pulling me down the stairs and into the lions den.
So here I was, sitting in a room filled with strangers, a warm beer in my hand. My guy, for lack of a better term, was perched next to me, hand in my lap with his eyes glued to the screen.
“37!” Everyone shouted, as the song on the television switched over. Thirty-six minutes into my first power hour, I was drunk and finally loosening up around his brothers. After the awkward introductions, we all took shots and decided to start drinking for real. And a half hour later I was wondering why I was worried about meeting these guys in the first place, and then, it happened. The thing I was fearing.
The door of the house slammed open, and a guy (maybe a senior, considering he looked older than all of us) poked his head in. He glanced around at his brothers before his eyes focused on me in the dim, drunken room.
“Who are you?” he asked, glancing to Michael before his eyes landed back on me.
“Hi! I’m Sarah,” I chirped, willing myself to stay cool.
He barked a loud laugh and retreated back outside, slamming the door behind him.
I’d like to say I had no idea what that was about, but after talking to a guy for a month (and hooking up with him twice), there are a few things you know about him. You know the kinds of things he posts on social media and you know the way he sounds when he’s tired on the phone. You know what color his hair is and what he likes to drink. And then, you know those things you would never admit to knowing. What he wore to prom. Who his friends are. And, of course, you know all. about. his ex. And me? I knew everything there was to know about his previous girlfriend and it wasn’t looking good.
I had dug deep (like, deeeeeeeep) into her life and had learned a few very alarming key points about her:
• We had the same long, golden blonde hair.
• We had the same exact major (public relations, anyone).
• We donned the same nose, rook piercing, and belly button piercings.
• We had the same exact body shape.
• Same clothing style? Yeah, we practically shared a wardrobe.
• Same taste in music (hello, classic rock).
• We both had tattoos from the same television series (what?! We both like Gilmore Girls).
• And worst of all, we had THE SAME FUCKING NAME.
Yeah, Michael seemed to have a type, and his type was the exact same girl. So when I sat on the couch and the guy laughed in my face as I said my name, I could only imagine what he was thinking. His brother, who had broken up with his ex exactly two months and thirteen days ago (but hey, who’s counting), was dating a girl who looked exactly like her with the same name. Yeah, that shit is funny, in a twisted, “I hope I’m not that girl” kind of way.
So there I sat, beer clutched in my talons, the awkward moment hanging in the air before passing over as the song switched again. It wasn’t until later that evening, I drunkenly confessed that I knew all about his ex. After assuring me that it wasn’t weird (red flag), we did what I came there to do: have premarital relations.
For the rest of the summer, things were perfect between us. We’d text all day every day, drunkenly Facetimeing at night and visiting each other every few weeks where we’d fuck like bunnies and he’d tell me I was “the most beautiful girl in the world.” It seemed perfect and I was halfway through planning out Pinterest-perfect wedding when everything changed: Fall semester started.
I assumed that we’d just fall into a relationship, he’d lavalier me in a year or two, maybe get engaged by spring of our senior year and live happily ever after. And hell, maybe we would have, if not for one thing. One person.
Sarah. You know. The other one.
As August rolled around and everyone came back to school, she made it clear that she was just as not over Micahel as he was of her. Any event the fraternity held, whether it was a power hour, a party, a pregame, or just a casual day at the pool, she was there. No, they never spoke — I made sure of that. But she flitted around, laughing too loud and casually letting her slightly-larger-than-mine boobs hang out just a little too much. I drunkenly approached her one night, but I can’t remember what she said. Maybe she cried. Maybe I cried, either way after that, she upped her game and never left the house.
It was every rebound girl who didn’t realize she was the rebound girl’s nightmare.
As you can imagine, things didn’t quite work out for Michael and I. Maybe it was the fact that he was immature and lived in a house of drunken guys. Maybe it was because he was only sleeping with me because he still wanted to be with his ex. Either way, our happily-ever-after ended after I found out he got a blow jay from the other Sarah while he and I were together. In his defense, he said he thought it was me, but still, I’m not buying it. So while it’s fine to have a type, and normal if you fall under a guy’s normal preference, be wary of a guy who’s just trying to replace his ex. Odds are he’s just using you while pretending to be with her. But hey, at least he never called me the wrong name in bed, right?.
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