by W. R. Bolen
Third: I was sitting on my desk chair taking pulls of Kentucky Deluxe while she bounced with her back toward me and I sang along to “Sweet Home Alabama.”
Fourth: We were on the floor and I had both of her legs over my shoulders with both hands gripping her ass while she yelled pleasure-filled obscenities at me. I took a second to silently thank Kelli for the night she unleashed the beast within.
Fifth: We broke into Turbo’s room, who was visiting his out-of-state buddies, and Katherine was taking rips from his water bong while I spanked her ass from behind with Turbo’s pledge paddle.
Sixth: We were on the crow’s nest of the third floor and she was moaning into the night sky bent over the railing while I smoked a cigarette and rocked her like a wagon wheel. Anyone on Greek Row wondering who was the fucking man now had their answer. That included her boyfriend and all his brothers.
Seventh: Still on the crow’s nest, she told me she had come enough times and that it was my turn, and then started blowing me. After a few minutes she stopped, looked up at me, and said, “You can go in my mouth,” and on cue I did just that.
I woke up in my bed with my Dave Matthews playlist still playing on my iPod, and a note next to my bed.
Townes,
That was the best night of my life. I have to see you again soon.
Katherine
She put the imprint of her lipstick next to her name. Mission accomplished. I came into school an unproven rookie, and through years of hard work, dedication, and respect for the game, I gained experience and became a hardened veteran. After more than five years of sport-fucking the finest girls this country has to offer, my future wife will always look at me post-orgasm and wonder how I learned the things I did.
Sex and relationships in college are completely different than in any other part of life. The constant presence of parties, alcohol, and a never-ending sea of the opposite sex in your age range make meeting people who are down to fuck incredibly easy…
On Intercourse and Relationships
Switching to doggy style when the SportsCenter top 10 comes on. TFM.
Barely doing your part in a 69. TFM.
The “hey beautiful” mass text to every girl in your phone at 2:00 a.m. TFM.
Inviting a girl to come watch a movie, and filming one instead. TFM.
Telling her you’re “getting close” during a blowjob when you’re nowhere near being done. TFM.
She put out her hand so I would hold it. I gave her a low five. TFM.
My wartime strategies and sexual tendencies coincide. Never pull out. TFM.
Putting a mirror at the end of the hallway so girls have to watch themselves do the walk of shame. TFM.
My girlfriend is in town. What a cock block. TFM.
There are two types of girls in this world: my mom and sluts. TFM.
Taking her out for ice cream. TFM.
Firefighter-inspired clothing exit. TFM.
Waking up to the smell of two slams cooking breakfast in shacker shirts. TFM.
Giving an approval honk for the walk of shame. TFM.
Doing Time
DEALING WITH THE COPS IS JUST ANOTHER PART OF LIFE when your fraternity orchestrates the mass consumption of alcohol at parties that go far beyond maximum occupancy, violate city noise ordinances, ignore every section of the fire code, and take pride in breaking as many rules as possible on a regular basis. Of course I’m not talking about a sophisticated team of highly trained super police, but occasionally University PD stops playing Angry Birds on their phones and handing out MIPs long enough to actually arrest someone. Regardless of jurisdiction, when a cop slaps the cuffs on one of my pledge brothers or me, it always makes for an entertaining story, three of which are legendary and need to be shared with the world. They have been recounted by what I saw personally, what the arrested remember, and resulting police reports.
Stadium Mayhem
It was homecoming my sophomore year and I was twenty-two rows up in the student section of our stadium. Every fraternity and sorority sat in the same block and we were notorious for being incredibly fucking rowdy. Hundreds of girls in game-day dresses intermingled with guys in button-downs, khakis, boots, and boat shoes. I was in the heart of it with four of the ten whiskey Pocket Shots I had snuck into the stadium still stuffed into my jeans and boots. (Pocket Shots are small plastic bags filled with liquor, sold at gas stations, and made for the sole purpose of sneaking into events.) The rest were resting in the comfort of my stomach with a dozen tailgate beers and a couple morning mimosas.
The air was filled with the strong smell of hot dogs and popcorn from the stadium concessions, and smoke from the grills at tailgate clung to everyone’s clothing. With every snap of the football the crowd grew more belligerent, hurling obscenities at the opposing team and starting insult-filled chants aimed at their cheerleaders.
Our first visit from the police came in the second quarter when Turbo decided to rip a one-hitter in his seat. He sat down and took a hit of weed, using the standing crowd as cover so stadium security wouldn’t spot him, but the smoke and reaction from everyone around him gave away his general position. When he saw the smoke, our section’s security guard pulled a walkie-talkie from his orange vest and used it to call for backup. A real police officer shaped like a bowling ball waddled out of the tunnel and panted heavily on his way up the steep steps to see what the problem was. After a short conversation with security he yelled out over our area.
“Who’s smoking? Put out that cigarette!” Apparently he didn’t have a nose for marijuana, which could explain his stadium detail. “You know there’s no smoking in here!”
I cupped my hands over my mouth and booed loudly along with the other Alphas in my row. The cop shuffled up and down the aisle ducking and trying to get his eyes on the rule breaker, but Turbo had already pocketed the pipe and was casually clapping with everyone else.
“Don’t make me come back here,” warned the cop as he waddled back down the rafters.
By halftime we were up 28–0 and celebrating accordingly. Three additional stadium security personnel from sections filled with rule-abiding GDIs had come over to make sure things in our section didn’t boil over. Guys who snuck in flasks were being extra careful not to be spotted as they mixed their drinks. I was in between whiskey-Cokes, waiting for Monte to get back from his turn at the concession stand with more mixers.
A girl named Brooke I had met at a couple of parties was sitting in front of me drinking vodka-lemonade all game, turning around and flirting every time our team did something good. The first time we scored she turned around and high-fived me, the second time she hugged my waist, and the third time she playfully patted my crotch like my dick was responsible for the touchdown. I was trying to get her to commit to coming to the Alpha house later that night when Monte returned with my drink. I checked to make sure I wasn’t being watched by security before pulling one of the shots from my boot and tearing away the top of the plastic, but before I could dump it into my drink, Brooke grabbed my hand.
“This is my last homecoming, you know,” she said. “It like totally sucks.”
“Well, you should make sure it’s the best one,” I responded.
“Well, you should take that shot in a way we’ll both remember.” She tilted her head back and opened her mouth.
“You know this is whiskey?” I asked.
She nodded innocently. I glanced up and down the aisle and dumped the shot into her mouth. She pulled me down, tilted my head, and kissed me, letting the liquor run in with her tongue.
“Mid-game makeout!” Monte announced to the crowd.
“Get in there, Townes!” someone chimed in.
I swallowed the whiskey and she pulled away from me laughing.
“Well, that’s my new favorite way to drink,” I said.
She motioned for me to lean in and whispered in my ear, “I’ve got a better way.”
“Well, maybe you can show me tonight at the house,” I played back.
<
br /> Her luscious lips curled upward as she smiled at me. “Or maybe… I could show you right now.”
Without hesitation I pulled another shot from my boot and handed it to her. She put her knees up on the bleachers and dropped one dress strap from her shoulder.
“Off my tits.”
I lost the small amount of focus I still had on the football game. She dropped the other strap and pulled her sundress down just enough so I could get my face in between her big tits while she dumped whiskey down her cleavage waterslide into my mouth. Judging from her form I was pretty sure she had done this before. For a second I wondered if the judgment from other girls and possible attention from security made this worthwhile, but then a chant broke out.
“Townes! Townes! Townes! Townes!”
“Let’s give the people what they want,” I told Brooke.
I was kneeling down and positioning my chin for maximum motorboat efficiency when an unwelcome voice caught my ears.
“Don’t you fucking do it!”
The stadium security guard in the orange vest was standing at the end of my row, pointing at me while fans booed him and rained empty cups down in his direction. I kept my head between her tits and looked up to see if she had noticed him. She looked down at me and said, “You’re not going to let him ruin this, are you?”
“You! In the white visor!” the security guard continued.
He gauged my nonreaction and started to make his way down the aisle. I looked him dead in the eye, pressed two handfuls of Brooke’s tits to my cheeks, and opened my mouth. She dumped the shot down her chest and I slurped it up with my tongue as fast as I could, sucking on her skin.
The security guard yelled in a frustrated rage and barreled through the row of fans, who were chanting my name. Thankfully my loyal supporters didn’t make it easy for him, and I had time to take off down the aisle in the opposite direction.
I vaulted down the steps while the crowd cheered me on, looking back to check the rent-a-cop’s progress. He broke out of the crowd and quickly chopped his steps down the stairs with his walkie-talkie in hand. I could feel every eye of the student section on me, and I turned toward them and raised both hands valiantly over my head. The crowd exploded.
At the bottom of the stairs I turned to the concession area to make my escape, but the chunky waddling cop was headed up the ramp toward me. Another cop came running out of the ramp behind me.
“That’s enough! Stop!” someone yelled.
Adrenaline took over and I hurdled the railing onto the barricade between the bleachers and the field, which was absolutely forbidden. I struggled to keep my balance, running along the foot-wide concrete wall while the alcohol sloshed around in my stomach. I saw several orange vests pushing through the crowd toward me, but looking back over my shoulder I saw no sign of my original pursuer.
Then I caught a glimpse of an orange blur in my peripheral vision. It was him. He must have cut through another section to head me off. From a full sprint he left his feet and gave a Hulk-like roar as he soared through the air. I tried to dodge him, but he clipped my shoulder and we both tumbled eight feet down onto the field. I landed hard on my back, knocking the air out of me, and let out a groan of pain. The lunatic rolled over and climbed on top of me, pinning both of my arms to the ground under his knees.
“There!” he yelled. “Who’s the badass now? Huh? Who’s the big man now?”
He had gone totally berserk, slamming his fists into the grass as the veins in his neck bulged out and his eyes widened with rage. I struggled to get my arms out from under him as he reared back his right hand and let out a high-pitched scream.
“BYAHHHHH!”
But just as he was about to swing, two cops tore him away from me.
One of the officers stood me up and pulled my hands behind my back, applying a zip-tie to my wrists. The entire student section was in a frenzy as the game became secondary entertainment to my arrest. Two officers took my arms and another walked in front, leading me through the tunnel into the stadium’s facilities. Two others escorted the fuming security guard behind me.
“Fucking frat boy!” he yelled as they pulled him into a separate holding room.
That put a smile on my face, much to the displeasure of one officer. He patted me down, took my wallet from my back pocket, and slammed me down onto a bench by my shoulders.
“You want me to tell you how we’re going to handle this, Mr. Prescott?” he asked, tapping my ID with his finger.
“Yes sir.” I nodded.
“We’re going to take you out of the stadium, and you’re gonna go home and be thankful that moron snapped on you, because otherwise you’d be under arrest.”
“That sounds good, sir,” I responded. “I wouldn’t want to have to press charges.”
He yanked my hands up behind my back to cut the zip-tie loose.
“Don’t push it. And if I ever have a problem with you again I can promise you won’t see the inside of this stadium until you graduate.”
In the end I got off with nothing but a couple of bruised ribs. I probably could’ve sued the crazed security guard, but it wouldn’t have been worth it, especially considering that the entire ordeal made me a legend. I got celebrity treatment at tailgates, a journalism student wanted to interview me as part of a piece he was doing on drinking and football, and yes, I took Brooke down that night.
The Wild West Joy Ride
The spring of our sophomore year Turbo was invited to a Kappa date party by a girl named Jennifer. She was way out of his fucking league, and we reminded him of that on a semi-hourly basis. She was tan with long, toned legs, a good face, a flat stomach, and a great pair of bikini bombs. Once when I was shooting hoops at the rec I saw her dominating the Stairmaster with enough force to power a small city. Turbo was an average ass clown who hadn’t set foot inside a weight room since high school lacrosse, with drug habits that would impress Lindsay Lohan. How did he get her to invite him? He took too much Molly and they had an emotional heart-to-heart about religion on the crow’s nest during an “Anything but Clothes” theme party, which resulted in her thinking he was some super-sensitive guy. The next day he got a text asking if he’d go with her to Kappa’s Wild West Date Dash.
After their last function, Jennifer’s chapter had gotten into some hot water with their national office when several girls spewed puke all over a charter bus, and as part of their punishment they were no longer allowed to rent buses. As fate would have it, Jennifer’s Suburban had to have some work done over Christmas break, so she drove one of her dad’s cars, a renovated red 1967 Mustang, back to campus for the spring semester. So Jennifer, Turbo, Jennifer’s best friend Allie, and Allie’s date Jeff all packed into her dad’s favorite classic car and headed thirty minutes down the highway to a dance hall in the hill country where the Wild West Date Dash was being held.
I was at the party rocking cowboy boots, Wranglers, and a pearl snap button-down with a Kappa named Sarah who was their vice president at the time, which unfortunately meant I couldn’t get completely wasted. On the plus side, I got to witness and remember all of Turbo’s antics, which together with his testament helped me document this story.
At 10:15 p.m. he staggered in forty-five minutes late with his date under his arm. He was wearing a giant foam cowboy hat, denim vest with no shirt, jean shorts cut off mid-thigh, and boots. Around his waist he had two fake six-shooters holstered to his belt. Jennifer looked like a high-dollar Native American prostitute in a tan fabric one-piece costume that was frayed at the bottom and barely covering any of her irresistible legs. She was also rocking a headband with two colorful feathers and two stripes of red war paint under each eye. If she had been a real Indian there would’ve been nonstop bloodshed between tribes over her ass.
They entered the mob of denim and leather, and Turbo’s ridiculous outfit got some laughs as he carelessly walked through the crowd to the bar. From both of their staggering walks I could tell they had taken part in a solid pregame. He g
rabbed two Cokes and headed to the bathroom, obviously to empty one of his flasks into them. A few of the older Kappas eyed him and shook their heads in disapproval. Jennifer pretended not to notice, beaming with joy knowing she had the craziest date at the party, and when he reemerged they twisted their way into the middle of the dance floor.
In no time the two of them were noticeably the most shitfaced couple at the event. They fumbled around the dance floor while Turbo yelled “Yeehaw!” over and over and fired one of his fake pistols into the air. Jennifer posed with a group of ten girls for a picture, but just before the flash Turbo leapt in front of them and pointed both guns at the camera.
“Turbo, stooooop,” said Jennifer, smiling. The other girls were not pleased.
Around 10:30, after repeatedly falling down while attempting to two-step to Brooks & Dunn’s “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” they started making out in the middle of the dance floor while Turbo cupped her ass with both hands. I noticed a couple of other guys eyeing Jennifer’s backside as Turbo gave it a squeeze, and one of them got caught by his date, who hit him with her rubber tomahawk. Sororities have designated “Standards” committees that reprimand girls for what they deem “unbecoming behavior,” and at that point my date Sarah informed me that Jennifer had a 100 percent chance of being called to Standards. Turbo had completely corrupted her.
By 11:30 everyone under twenty-one who didn’t sneak in booze or have a fake ID was starting to sober up, while Turbo was making yet another mixed drink in the middle of the dance floor with the backup flask from his boot. When he offered Jennifer a drink she said, “I should probably just have a few sips of yours, babe,” so he offered Allie’s date, Jeff, some of his whiskey. When Jeff didn’t immediately offer some to Allie they got into a dramatic argument that resulted in Allie taking his drink, chugging it, and Jeff stomping off in anger. Not only had Turbo managed to get his own date completely sloshed, now he had her best friend acting like a lush and fighting with her date.
