So you go to this school and you occasionally hook-up. From the initial hello all the way to the bed, do you find yourself obsessing over what’s circling through your counterpart’s head? Well, we think we know and we’re thinking you should to.

We’re here to paint you a portrait combining a smattering of our friends’ recent experiences and some of our own. The idea is to expose the thoughts behind the actions—the stuff we usually keep inside. That’s right folks, the dirt you never thought you’d hear. Here goes ...

Introducing Sara: a frustrated senior. She misses the attention from older guys that she received in her freshman heyday. She’s also incredibly annoyed with the apparent lack of serviceable Northwestern men.

Introducing William: whose luck has been improving steadily since high school. He has weathered the transformation from a relatively obscure freshman to a mildly popular senior. At this point, with only four months of school left, William is confident about his odds with women.

William has known Sara socially through mutual friends. They occasionally see each other around campus and have spoken briefly at parties and bars.

Two weeks ago Sara and William had sex.

The night in question began differently for both parties. Sara began with one goal in mind: must hook-up. After making a list and checking it twice, she settled on Willy—a 5’10” EAC-honed Kappa Sig. He was cute enough (or at least he had no obvious physical abnormalities) and she didn’t know him well enough to find him annoying. Although Sara still felt like she was settling for less than she deserved, William was seemingly the best option.

William had admired Sara’s body since freshman year. A popular catch for a few of his better-looking friends, Sara had always seemed out of his league ... until now. Willy was ignorant of Sara’s plan, but had noticed an increase in eye contact and conversation.

This is their story.

Sara: I prepared for a night of Beirut with a few friends, but I had heard that Willy was coming. I dressed casually, but made sure I was looking as hot as possible. My plan was to flirt with him until I ended up in his bed. Basically, I wanted him to want me. I wore sexy low-rise jeans and a small tank top. I was ready for action.

William: So we’ve started playing more Beirut at my off-campus house lately. Really, it’s the best way to lure girls into my bed these days—these final spring quarter days, when the well of unsuspecting freshmen and sophomores has all but dried up. There’s an older crop that’s come back to the fore—the stars of quarters past, once canonized by my friends and me, now relegated to off-campus obscurity by viable younger options.

A few of the less attractive ones I’ve tapped before, the hotter ones left to my social superiors. Then there’s Sara, a “hotter one” by category, but not so much so that in these times I might not be able to secure her services for one night. Tonight, we’re having about 15 people over—just enough anonymity, not too much competition. What do I wear? For the sake of this story I confess, I’m going double t-shirt. Easy, simple, cool—I’m a senior, I’m not trying too hard.

In walks Sara, and my first thought is: those boobs are absolutely splendid.

Sara: So I walk in with my friend Katie and immediately spot Will. He’s so fucking hot. We grab a beer and say hello to friends. I end up at the Beirut table with Willy. Katie, my perfect wingman, initiates conversation with Willy and before you know it, the flirting has commenced. Talking and laughing is great, but really I just want sex. It’s been way too long (over a month) and at this point, I’m nearing desperation.

Why is it so difficult? Why must guys be so annoyingly unattainable? Clearly, I’m one of the hotter girls. I should be able to say “fuck me” and get what I want. Of course, I’ve never attempted such a direct approach for fear that it wouldn’t work, not to mention I’m trying avoid a slutty reputation. So, alas, I have to pretend that I don’t need sex in order to get it. So be it.

William: So after four games of Beirut I’m feeling pretty good, but a few more beers and I’ll be mired in beer-induced impotence. One game will show my prowess, then I’ll tank the second—perhaps an excruciating nail-biter, one that’ll warrant some unnecessary hugs and various other forms of physical camaraderie.

Sara: It’s finally getting late enough for people to head home. While my wingman is getting ready to check out, Willy, thank god, asks me to stay just a little longer, promising to walk me home later. Things between Willy and I seem to be going in the right direction, but making the combined decision to stay the night together is always so awkward. I had strategically managed to leave my coat in his room, so we had a perfect alibi. Yes.

Now I’m in his room, we’re alone, and it seems clear that we are not leaving the house for the night. So my thoughts stray in anticipation: I really hope he knows what he’s doing. I hate guys who suck at hooking up. I hope things aren’t too weird. The last thing I need is for a perfectly good hook up to be ruined by unnecessary awkwardness. And I hope that if I give him a blow job he responds in kind. What is the deal with guys who think fingering a girl is equivalent to a blow job? Hello, fingering is to hand job as cunnilingus is to fellatio. Duh.

William: I can’t wait to see what she looks like with her clothes off. What color and how big are her nipples? How is she shaved? As we enter my room, the first dilemma becomes the door. Should I close it? Should I lock it?

I close the door with a cool hand keeping the handle twisted, and lean back against it. In the commotion, I’ve managed to compress the button-lock. Oh, she just sat down on the bed. I’m in. But what first kiss move do I pull out of my bag-o-tricks. She totally wants it. I’m going with the “waste no time” approach.

Sara: All right, quick and direct—I like it. We maneuver ourselves so we are length-wise on the bed. Good kisser. Not the best ever, but at least it isn’t messy or disgusting. So far, so good.

William: And we’re down – having transitioned from the seated make-out to the lying down grope with only a moderately uncomfortable clutch and fall. She’s a sensual kisser – soft and wet lips, but too reserved for now. Can’t we speed this up? I’m starting up a more passionate make-out to induce the next step.

Sara: On it goes ... clothes off, condom on, climax, and so on and so forth. Lying in bed post-deed, my mind immediately goes into rewind, replay. Why did it take so long for him to get hard? Is he attracted to me or was it just because we were drunk? Did he think I was gross in any way? What does he think about my performance? He doesn’t think I’m a slut, does he? What is he going to tell his friends? I guess I don’t really care if they know.

William: And I fucked her. That’s right bitch. I was harder than Peter Gammons at a Cape Cod League classic. Her body was solid, and she’ll be a star of my masturbatory fantasies for years to come. Such is the porn-inspired world in which I live, one in which the act of casual sex connotes a most important memory. Who says love doesn’t last a lifetime? If she only knew that when I closed my eyes it was not in a blissful daze, but rather to star in my own vignette – watching from above as I assail an idealized version of her. Those extra grueling hours at EAC? Forget it babe, you were perfect from the start.

Sara: Good morning to me. Holy shit. Sun? Daylight? Reality? So, I’m in his bed ... and so is he. We’re awake. Things aren’t too weird. We talk for a bit (clothes are still off, by the way, and I’m very aware of the fact that I’m going to have to put them back on, without the help of darkness and/or drunkenness) and have a cigarette. He seems so normal, which is great. I’m starving. I stay for a while, then lie and tell him I have lunch plans with Katie. I take the plunge and throw my clothes back on as quickly as possible. I didn’t want him to look, but obviously I couldn’t tell him not to—we had just had sex a few hours ago.

William: She doesn’t look quite as good in the morning, but hey, I’m pretty proud of myself. Ah yes, today is most certainly an “extra skip in the step” kind of day. As usual, this day calls for an early afternoon trip to Al’s to recount the night’s events with my roommates. Yeah, that’s right, I tell them everything. From the sounds to the fury – spit or swallow, shaved or unshaved, pink or brown. The goodbye? Solid, I think. I enjoyed waking up in her embrace (an effeminate feeling I admit), but it’s about time I get some real sleep.

Sara: The goodbye. It really is such an important move. He walks me to the door and we hug. He says “I’ll call you later” and I walk confidently out the door. As I walk home, I can finally recount the events with some clarity. I think it went well. I call Katie and see if we can meet for lunch—Al’s as usual. I tell her everything from start to finish, leaving nothing to the imagination. We try to analyze what he’s thinking and what he’s telling his friends. But, for the most part, we just laugh. I do wonder if he’s going to call. And when it’s appropriate to see him again. What do I do if I see him before he calls? How should I act? These things cross my mind, but I hope for the best and if know that if this fails, I’ll find another guy soon.

Eric — totally hot. Proposition him at e-nyari@northwestern.edu.