On the roof of 14 Plympton, a real-life Aidan said to me last Friday night, “Do you have any idea how much trouble your blog has caused? About 20 people have asked me if we’ve slept together.”
I did not arrive to The Crimson Halloween party ready to face the news that I had sullied someone’s name. On the contrary — dressed festively as a pilot, I was more prepared to recruit crew members for the inaugural flight of Mile High Airlines. When I entered the Sanctum, I made a beeline for Kay and Adia who I met up with for all of two minutes before making the rounds. In the process, I became entrenched in several blogcentric discussions.
“In fact, we probably shouldn’t even be seen talking together right now,” continued real-life Aidan*.
Right. I imagine it’d be bad for shoot. Moving on, then.
(*Just kidding. Real-life Aidan would never give me the brush-off. We also slipped out when no one was looking and had mad sex in the FM office.)
Naturally, I ended up in the company of Ed Board boys who like other boys. Rody apologized for ditching me, and SM swore for about the fifth time that’d we’d do tea. Really. I dismissed the notion of a tea date ever happening and reminded the two that they were obligated to attend a grad school function with me on Thursday: open bar mixer with all the graduate school LGBT organizations. Crashing queer events? Story of my life.
I also fielded in-person criticism for the first time. “Whorish” is what the person called an uncomplimentary entry I wrote. Can’t blame him, though the in-my-face confrontation was a bit too much to handle. I would’ve stormed off if I were sober, but I stood my ground drunk and smiled politely at the tirade.
Actually, tirade or not, I probably wouldn’t have stayed at The Crimson as long as I did if I were sober. Without the assistance of six drinks at Mather Happy Hour, it would have been quite awkward to field as many blog-related inquiries as I did. Most of the people I’ve met in the building this year (and that night) already have an inkling of who I am. If it’s a daytime encounter — say in the middle of the journalism fair — shared laughs about the ridiculous blog and polite conversation ensues. But if it’s an acquaintance forged at night, that’s entirely another matter. No one thinks twice about asking inappropriate questions or gushing praise.
In fact, I’m kind of surprised (pleasantly so) that a massive Newstalk thread has not yet happened. Sex and the Ivy is prime discussion material, but I guess I’m afforded some courtesy since I’m a semi-active Crimed myself. It would suck to get trashed on the email list of an organization I belong to. Thankfully, everyone’s displayed an astonishing amount of tact. At least when it comes to email.
In person? Not so much. Especially in the case of a certain AR who met me last Friday and promptly posted a picture of the two of us on his Facebook profile. Other highlights: Harvard’s newest blogger (still underground) offered me a riding crop. A nice boy offered me a cigarette, but I don’t remember who (email me and I’ll thank you!). Someone offered me a a few smacks on the ass (email me and I’ll return the favor to your face). The hottest outfit was an Asian girl dressed as … an Asian girl. The most endearing costume belonged to one FM exec who attempted to pull a Che but looked more like a boy scout to me. A doable boy scout.
All in all, a memorable night in a building I should probably spend more time in. But for some reason, I don’t. The Crimson, especially last Friday, is the epitome of what this blog has done to my life. Everyone knows my name but the reciprocal does not hold true, nor does anyone really know me. I think it’s awfully telling that I left 14 Plympton the same way I arrived: alone.