The Hostess with the Most-est

As a considerate freshman, I rarely brought home my conquests for fear that our activity would disrupt my suitemates. Though I had three fuck buddies (not concurrently, mind you), none of them made it back to my suite more than once and only one had sex with me in my bedroom. Beyond the awkwardness of having to explain a random guy’s presence, fucking with my suitemates in close proximity never seemed like an appealing option. The alternative option — going home with guys was far less uncomfortable. Thus, my first year at Harvard was one long acquaintance with male roommates and grungy living conditions.

But this year, I’ve thrown etiquette out my dorm’s prison-sized window. With the exception of Aidan (whose room I frequented more often than he did mine), most guys I’ve hooked up with have come home with me. Perhaps it’s because I’m less hesitant to impose on my current roommates, who unlike last year are all close friends of mine. Perhaps I’m tired of repeating the Walk of Shame weekend after weekend, especially since my dorm is so far from all the other Houses. For one reason or another, autumn and early winter have brought an endless stream of strange men into our Mather home.

More often than not, my roommates know better than to walk into my bedroom without knocking. On most mornings after, they gingerly approach me over my vanity or mid-hallway and ask whisper-soft, “Is he still here?” Since most of my men are anonymous acquisitions, they escape without the burden of undergoing small talk or extensive scrutiny. The situation is all the more awkward when my hookup knows my roommates or is just acquainted enough to obligate a greeting. “How are things going?” is a far harder question to answer when the most honest response is “Orgasmically.”

And then there are all the unexpected burdens that come with entertaining overnight guests. Apparently, when I fuck a guy, I’m also fucking all his friends. For example, innocent making out with one pal of a pal has led to a couple “Don’t mess with my bro’”-style warnings. Disturbingly, the last time I was with Kyle, one of his homeboys (or whatever you kids call them these days) stormed into my suite at 5am, ran up our stairs, knocked violently on the bedroom door, and stormed out. Needless to say, we have now begun to regularly lock our doors. You never know considering the characters I bring home. While other gals host male visitors without incident, my hookups result in break-ins.

Of course, the aftermath is never a pretty sight. Guys can fuck and run, but I’ve got to stay and clean … especially if I plan on inviting a different guest over in just a few hours time. Condom wrappers, wrinkled clothes, scattered change, and yes, even used condoms, are just some of the things left littering my floor. I’ve recently gotten into the habit of warning my suitemates to watch out before entering my room barefooted. A wet surprise between their toes is significantly less welcome than on my lips.

The benefits, however, far outweigh the drawbacks of fucking at home. Come sunrise, my toothbrush is readily accessible (as is my shower) and I don’t have to get back into last night’s outfit (probably an inappropriate get-up for a morning jog). Most importantly, I’m not side-by-side with a stressed-out senior, nudging me out of bed at dawn so he can make it to an interview or early meeting. Often when my paramours leave, I simply roll over and go back to sleep, probably the best advantage to playing hostess. After all, if there’s anything at Harvard rarer a commodity than sex, it’s definitely slumber.