Hookup Culture
I don’t really remember how I ended up at the wall at the back of this house. A frat? No. Maybe the wrestling team’s place? No, the guys here don’t have the arms for that. Wait, I think it’s an apartment with a bunch of people from the marching band. That would explain the Miles Davis posters on the wall and the mellow orgy happening in the bedroom behind me. Nonetheless, I can feel the beer in my hands growing lukewarm underneath the pressure of my clammy palms. I hate the shirt I’m wearing now because it’s too tight and small and I’m standing underneath the air vent. I hope the bandaids I put over my nipples serve their purpose, but I feel a lot of eyes gravitating towards my chest, so my odds seem shaky.
I take consistent sips of my beer, letting the alcohol flow into my bloodstream until my head feels light and fuzzy and warm. I let the constant stream of thoughts in my head slow down until I’m able to pick out the ones I want to focus on. There’s a cute guy standing in the corner who keeps looking at me. I should ask that girl where her jeans are from, maybe I’ll actually have an ass if I wear those too. I need Julie to peer edit my essay before class on Monday. When the can is empty, I tap the shoulder of a tall guy and compliment his eyes a little too much until he asks if I want another drink. When he returns, I take it with a plastered smile on my face and leave the room to find my friend.
She’s dancing on top of a shaky table with a girl from our dorm. There are remnants of dirt from Air Force Ones and a copy of our college’s newspaper opened to an op-ed on the dangers of party culture. It’s enough to make me laugh and grab my friend’s hand when she insists I get up and dance with her.
As I’m standing on the table, I move my limbs without thinking, five steps ahead of what I’m doing for the first time in my life. My hips swing to the rhythm of a playlist with Kanye West and Calvin Harris songs, beats that yell at your bones to move until they sway to the lyrics without even realizing it. The room grows warmer from the sheer amount of bodies, sweat culminating on hands, arms, and foreheads. I feel the alcohol wearing off and grab the drink from my friend’s hand.You’re a bitch, she says, laughing.
A proud one, I acknowledge.
Her smile floats above the room and bubbles up towards the ceiling. It’s intoxicating to the boy next to her, but she drags me to the bathroom before he can ask for her number.
She kneels on the tiled floor, sticking two fingers down her throat for the sake of having a good time. I shut my eyes as she empties the contents of her stomach from that day: granola bars, a bland dining hall chicken and rice, and some Cheetos. When she’s done, she wipes her mistakes off her mouth and flushes the toilet, watching in awe as her troubles swirl away with the water. She washes her hands with toothpaste because apparently it’s physically impossible for college students to buy hand soap and holds onto my shoulder for support. Compliments flow out of her mouth as freely as the vomit once did and she plants her lips on mine for half a second, giggling to herself.
When we walk out of the bathroom, she walks towards the first brunette guy she can find and begins to interrogate him about his life, ulterior motives in mind. Wow, a mechanical engineering major? That’s fascinating. Oh, you’re on W 31st? That’s a great apartment complex, my roommate from freshman year lives there now, I think. Bay Area? Where specifically? It’s enough for the guy to get entranced in her sea glass eyes and pull her closer to his body. Soon enough, they’re every single person’s worst nightmare at a party, furiously making out against the wall, and neglecting the world around them as they fold into themselves.
Who do you know here? the boy standing next to me asks, positioning himself towards me so that he introduces our shoulders to each other.
I came with a friend that knows a guy, I reply. He’s holding a cigarette instead of a red solo cup; it makes him look French and I bet he thinks he looks cool. My heart skips two beats and I get the overwhelming urge to punch myself in the face.
That’s cool, that’s cool. This is my house, I guess.
You guess? I let a shy smile float onto my face and I catch him looking down at my lips more than my eyes.
I live here, is what I mean. His shoulder melts into mine. Somehow we’re hanging onto the wall like a couple of flowers.
This is really…
Absurd? He chuckles to himself, proud of the adjective he summoned given the state he’s in.
There’s nothing like it. A place where people can act like total and complete idiots. It’s a state of pure hedonism and gluttony, I say while I observe the LED light–infused scene before my eyes.
I don’t think you’re speaking English.
Hedonism is, like, basically an extreme state of self-indulgence. That’s what college is.
And term papers.
When you feel like it, I counter.
What’s your name?
Why does that matter? No one here will remember anything tomorrow from the sanctuary of their bathroom floor.
I think I’ll remember you, he assures me. His eyes pour into mine and it makes my stomach hurt.
From when you get a Snap from me tomorrow afternoon, maybe.
His laughter permeates the chaos surrounding us, sharp and abrupt. It’s enough to make me begin to laugh for no reason at all besides being in the presence of another human being I feel a loose connection with. His eyes flick down to my mouth and I find myself grabbing his neck and smashing his face onto mine. Our tongues dance in rhythm.
What’s your name? he asks when we come up from the air. I stick my tongue further down his throat, intent on remaining enigmatic, someone he’ll think about briefly tomorrow and wonder if I was real.
You taste like nicotine, I comment. The music fades into the background and the only thing I focus on is how his lips fight to stay on mine for as long as I’ll let them, the raw desperation that radiates from his face.
I break from him briefly to intertwine my fingers in his until our hands meld into one another. Sweat accumulates on my palms and I swallow down my worries of him noticing their clamminess.
Would you remember our anniversary? I inquire.
What?
If we were dating, would you buy me flowers on our anniversary?
His eyes darted nervously around, searching for the meaning of the question. He decides this isn’t a test and timidly answers.
Sure, on our anniversary I would buy you flowers.
Not any other time though?
Someone shouts that the campus security is here and the cops are on the way. That’s when my lips leave yours, a trail of saliva being the only remnant of myself on you. Because in the chaos, I didn’t get your number. But I do know how rough your lips are and how the smoke lingers on your tongue and makes my entire mouth taste like smoke. I remember the panic in your eyes that faded when you looked at me once more. I grab my friend off of the wall and we stumble back to our dorms.
We chug water straight from the Brita pitcher. I rub a makeup wipe haphazardly across my face, pretending I don’t see my mother’s face looking back at me in the mirror, so I don’t comprehend that I’m an adult. I’m left with my friend softly snoring while I lie in bed, wondering if you’ll remember tomorrow how well my hips fit into your hands and half-hoping that you won’t. Mostly because I don’t want you living in my brain, sleeping between the membrane and talking to me to pass the time. I think I’d rather become a fleeting moment in your life, a story you’ll tell your kids one day to make them think your college experience was cool. I’d rather swallow you down than hold you in my arms, avoiding the inevitable loss your eyes bring to mine.
Izzy Ster is a freshman pursuing a B.F.A in Writing for Screen & Television at USC’s School of Cinematic Arts. On campus, she’s a staff writer for the Suspenders, an Art & Entertainment Writer for the Daily Trojan, and a member of the Helenes. She is also a staff writer for Unpublished Magazine, contributing to their personal essay section. In her free time, she enjoys grocery shopping, reading, feeding her caffeine addiction, cultivating charcuterie boards for friends, and making Spotify playlists. And writing, of course.