Drunken makeouts and the subsequent shack are always terrible ideas, but they seem like great ideas at the time. Vodka can do many things, including act as the magical elixir that turns the boy in Sperrys into your Prince Charming in upwards of seven shots. It’s amazing, really, what a handle of Burnetts can do to your judgement. I could pretend there’s a lengthy decision-making process when it comes to determining with whom to go home, but there’s no use in even trying. There is no decision-making process at all, let alone a lengthy one. I’m pretty sure at some point in the evening, once everyone is half in the bag and feeling desperate enough to shack, the gentleman who funded your impending early onset liver failure seems like a great candidate.
I was no stranger to the highly unselective drunken makeout my freshman year, and neither were my friends. It was fine, because we were freshman and that kind of bullshit is excusable when you’re on your own for the first time. By the time sophomore year rolled around, though, we all decided we needed to get our shit together and develop a system of standards to utilize if, due to convenience, we drunkenly decided to sleep at the frat house, rather than find a pledge ride home.
In an attempt to lessen the chances of making a regrettable hookup decision while blacked out, my friends and I created the “Five Things Rule,” a standard that has since been passed down from one pledge class to the next. I wish I could take credit for this genius measure of hookup legitimacy, but I can’t. It was the brain child of a group of girls who were sick of making out with randos, only to wake up the next morning and realize we had no clue whether his name was Ben or Brian. So embarrassing.
The “Five Things Rule” is as simple as it is brilliant: before any one of us were allowed to exit the party and head for the cold dorms, we were required to introduce our chosen frat boy of the evening to our besties AND tell everyone five fun facts that we learned about said gentleman caller, his name not included. A typical interaction generally went along these lines:
I stumble down the halls of the frat house, dragging a semi-confused and very drunk boy by the hand toward my friends.
Me: GUYS! This is Derek.
My best friends warmly and drunkenly welcome Derek into our circle, because they are neither judgemental nor sober.
BFF #1: Derek! Hi!!! Pearls, why don’t you tell us about Derek?
Me: Ok, well, he’s a junior and pre-med (Bestie #2 holds up one finger to count those two pieces of information collectively because they’re so standard, and gives a nod of approval at his future profession), he’s from Chicago and loves the Blackhawks (two). He also has a pet lab named Bear (three), he can shotgun a beer the fastest out of anyone in his pledge class (a hesitant four), and from what I’ve learned, he’s a great kisser.
Bestie #3 gives me a “go on” look, because that last one doesn’t seem to count.
Me: Oh, he has two older brothers who were in his fraternity.
Bestie #1: Okay! Great to meet you Derek. Pearls, see you tomorrow!
We put the “Five Things Rule” in place as an insurance policy against making a completely regrettable decision. It’s one thing to get drunk and decide to make out with someone for a few minutes at a party, but it’s entirely another to be stuck at a frat house at 10:00AM on a Friday morning, unclear as to why the fuck you thought the kid who’s now offering to drive you home was a good idea the night before. By enforcing that we checked in with each other before engaging in any questionable activity, my best friends and I established our own system of checks and balances against dumb decisions, because we all know “I had 28 shots of Smirnoff” (which I did one time, oops) is not admissible in the court of standards. Plus, we all know you can’t really judge someone’s hookup validity until your friends give you the go-ahead.