MY COLLEGE

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During the first six weeks of my freshman year, I attended no fewer than four “safe sex” seminars. I’ve watched a sex educator slip a blue condom onto a dildo before a room of 200 18-yearolds; witnessed a 30-minute fight between a student and a peer advisor over whether a nod counted as consent; and participated in a mock date proposal to practice how to politely turn someone down. (“No, thanks.”)

I’ve clicked and peer-discussed my way through myriad sexual scenarios, many of which explored the gray zone of drunken sexual encounters. What if it’s happening late in the afternoon on a Sunday after four shots, but before a solar eclipse, and she said she didn’t want to go too far but seemed really into it?

If the statistics and headlines are to be believed, never has there been more assault and rape on American colleges campuses. Yet the same time, never before in the history of the American college student has there been more open, and increasingly procedural, talk about how to have sex.

With free STD testing and countless free condoms lobbed down the stairwells of dorms across the country, there is doubtlessly more “safe sex.” But dental dams don’t protect feelings. I’m not talking here about sexual assault, but about sex of the consensual but haphazard variety.

Take the date party — a traditional rite of passage of [insert your favorite Greek letters here] — in which pairings are arranged through mutual friends. Everyone wants to get invited, but a girl will only be asked if she is all but certain to put out. Often times, a boy’s profile picture will be posted in a sorority-wide group text, with a comment along the lines of: “Who’s interested? His date party is this weekend.”

Then, a few texts will be exchanged between the duo. “What type of alcohol do you want?” and “The pregame starts at 8” are among the vital logistical concerns. No one goes to date party to talk about their childhood dreams in a corner of a loud dance club or the basement of a frat.

Combine the unspoken promise of some sort of sexual encounter with a heavy pregame— and sometimes even a pregame to the pregame — and the result is exactly what you’d expect. Order your Ubers early, ladies; chances are no one is making you pancakes. And certainly don’t expect a text the next day.

Call it the Wal-Martification of sex: It’s cheap, quick, easy and not built to last.

I should know: I began a few-month fling in which our first encounters all happened in the aforementioned sticky-floored basement with the support of our respective pledge classes and more than a nudge of liquid courage. I had probably typed “very basic eye shadow tutorial” into YouTube the night I met my would-be fling.

Having taken a gap year after high school, I thought I was entering college with a heightened sense of self, or at least the ability to separate the menschs from the man-children. Turns out I had neither. I signed up for sorority rush— something I vowed I would never do—and ordered a pair of laughably high heels before you could say “Go Blue.” They are still in the box, but stand as a testament to my fear of literally falling short.

My past relationship had been simple and straightforward even though we dated long distance for almost two years. Our sex signals were never dependent on the strength of our LTE signal unlike this new guy who would wait half a day before responding to a text message. I soon discovered that was par for the course in a campus culture that values coolness over authenticity and apathy over honesty.

Still, if I were to believe my peers and even my student sex educators, my flirtation was an opportunity to take charge of my sexual identity and to “find out what I like.”

The weeks proceeded, our awkward daytime interactions a necessary hurdle to get to the parties and late nights where our “romance” would flourish. Coming back from a suspiciously non-communicative winter break, I found him distant and brusque. A few days of nervously — and obsessively — checking my phone culminated in pathetic display of waterworks and pent-up hysteria on a frat house lawn.

I imagined an enthusiastic reunion. Or at least a wave. He simply walked away, leaving in his wake the girlish monster we had both created.

The sad part is that he

This is getting confusing. Is a fumbled pass sexual harassment?