I Should’ve Given You My Number

I have recently fallen in love with The Crimson. Specifically, Crimson parties, without which my weekends would be ever so dull. Despite having penned only one article (a FM Endpaper on dating investment banker Summer Guy), I’ve spent more time at 14 Plympton St. this semester than I did all of freshman year. It’s partly because HN and this blog have gotten me acquainted with entirely too many upperclassmen execs. It’s mostly because drinking with journalists is less random than a dorm party but just unfamiliar enough to still meet cute boys.

Unfortunately, most of these cute boys are gay, terrified of me, or roving reporters. As much as I love my new Crimed pals, I’m already a hag to more than enough fags (after Thursday’s jaunt to Embassy, Rody has officially claimed me as his). So after three months of partying with nary a glance from an interested straight male, I was less than expectant at last Friday’s event in the Sanctum. Still, all it takes is one too many shots for renewed hope.

Tipsy from self-made drinks hijacked at a Christmas party, HN and I threw down our coats in the FM office and I threw out my shame as I spent the better part of the evening sipping Oregon Trail-inspired cocktails while making eyes at the attractive guy across the room. After I gave him a full glance-over, got an introduction from our mutual acquaintance, and batted my eyelashes at him a couple more times, I finally asked for a cigarette. He looked like a smoker, and I was right. He directed me to his pal who supplied the three of us with our nicotine hit and supplied me with an excuse to get him alone on the roof. Rude to smoke inside, after all.

Clad in a thin sweater and seersucker skirt, my only saving grace that chilly evening was wearing black tights underneath and even they proved inadequate. Then again, it meant that I didn’t need to pretend when I told Smoker Boy that it was colder than expected. Liquid courage on my side, I leaned in close to him and shivered under his jacket, grazing his back with my fingertips. By the time I finished my cigarette, I was a few coughs from permanent lung damage and a few close calls from throwing myself at him completely.

But that was the extent of my flirtation. Not much later, I exited the party sans HN, sans Smoker Boy, and sans swipe access (the new staff director has got to get on that). Maybe I wasn’t forward enough. Maybe I should’ve offered him a standing invitation to drunkenly text me some time. After all, he was cute up close, sweet from what I could tell, and he wasn’t going to quote me in the morning. What more could you ask for from a guy you meet at The Crimson? Smoker Boy, I should’ve given you my phone number. Facebook me?