Alfie Goes to College

I didn’t mean to. Really, I didn’t.

I was looking for Delta something or other. Is it a frat? Is it a sorority? Well, sororities supposedly aren’t supposed to host parties, so, probably a frat. But maybe… oh hell, I dunno. All I know is, some girl who probably wants to fuck me invited me to it, and I got the address from a facebook invite, and then I went, and it wasn’t the right place.

It was a birthday party, but no, it wasn’t the Asian girl friend-of-a-friend. It was a frat boy from one of the frats I rushed 10 days ago, and there were about 3-4 people I kinda sorta recognized, who smiled and shook my hand, who responded in kind when I said, whassup, glad to see ya again, and who sorta had a vague idea that I wasn’t a threat. And a cute girl came right up and said hello. And I was done. Ten minutes later, birthday boy was welcoming me and telling me to get drunk, and the next thing I knew, I was pouring vodka for more hot girls per capita than I’ve seen in…

Oh right. I’m from the bay area, the land of sausage. Ever.

So I made friends. And I had shots. And I made more friends. And I had shots.

I said hello to more hotties than I can remember. But it was admittedly so overwhelming that I feel a little shy sending out the friend requests post-party. I just talked to that many girls. Seriously.

So I just picked out a couple of the frat boys (with history and “whassup” from the gym) and the one girl I talked to for more than 5 minutes, and friended them. And next weekend, hopefully, I’ll get some random invites to more of the “in” parties.

Of course, like a dumb ass, I party hopped. I mean, in my head, at the time, I was being invited to another party by people well-networked in this place, where I’d have to think long and hard about which little girl I wouldn’t like to see naked, and so, shit, yeah. But, alas, we went from the a party with free milk and cookies to a party with locals. Townies. Not many, to be sure, but let’s put it this way. At party A, I was slightly intimidated. At party B, I was a god. It was night and fucking blind your ass, stare at the sun, fuck me I can’t see day. I went from high greek representation to fucking Townies. Yay for me.

So I bailed on that party, grabbing four chicks as I left, and headed to plan pre-A, which was a party thrown by my own frat. It was fine… winding down a little, but there were some girls there. Enough to gather two or three more facebook contacts and 33 handshakes with random boyfriends who had to come and kiss on their 17 year old girlfriends because they were talking to me and asking to see my abs. But whatever. It’s a long time until you’re a senior, darlin’, and I’ll still have these abs. Plus you’ll be 18 in December.

But I digress. So, yeah, the party I crashed? It was full of seniors. They all have about a thousand facebook friends. Literally. They all knew everybody. It was great. I wonder if they figured out that I crashed the place, or if everyone just assumed I knew… the other girl. You know, the other roommate, who is out of ear shot and disappeared kinda drunk ten minutes ago. Or not.

Eh. It’s fine. I’m social and cute enough. And the first girl to come say hi just happened to be the social chair of one of the premiere sororities. I think I did fine, and I think I made a good impression. I think I might even have to take her out and sweep her off her feet. Hey, she was a petite brunette… right up Alfie’s alley.

Still the first time I’ve ever flat out crashed a party, though. Solo, no less. No girls in tow, no entourage of cheerleaders/spokesmodels, and not even a fifth of Goose to back my ass up. Hey-oh, I was looking for the Delta Beta Apple Pie party, but I didn’t find it. And I walked in and said “Birthday party?” and someone said a name, and I said “yeah!”

It was ok. I didn’t remember the Asian birthday girl’s name either. Her last name could’ve been (&&&) too. Never mind that that’s definitely a white boy name. I just didn’t hear the pretty girl. I was too focused on looking her in the eye and trying to remember her name. Don’t. Check. Out. Her. Tits. Alfie. Gulp. Good boy. (exhales slowly)

The only foul was leaving early. I had contacts in the bag. Lots of hot ones in black minis. And red minis. And daisy dukes.

Sigh. ’sok. First home football game of the season is tomorrow, and there’s going to be 10K drunk women cheering for my team by 4:30. So what if the game starts at 7?

Now if only I can get some work done and hit the gym first before being drunk by dusk.

(yawn)

(Truth is, I feel slightly bad about crashing that party. I mean, yeah, I’m cool, and everyone thought so, but damn. I never thought I fit in that well. Too weird.)

It’s different juggling leads at Uni. There are so many that it’s hard to gauge which ones are worth following up on.

It’s also more of an all-or-nothing game from what I’ve noticed. Either you’re seeing her naked in about — hmm, how far are we from my house? — or she’s still a virgin and thinks hand jobs are satisfying. After hanging out three times.

The worst is when it’s both simultaneously. Heh.

–

It’s been a long time since I’ve written, and there’s a lot to cover.

First, I’m rushing a frat. I’ve winked at way too many guys in the last two days. Another couple of dozen and I’m pretty sure I’ll start talking a nasally voice and saying “fabulous”. Man-flirting is sooo tiring. It’s like a cocktail party, only instead of meet n’ greet until you find someone cool to chat with for 20 minutes, you need to cycle every two minutes.

And, just like when flirting with the ladies, if they ask for your last name (so they can facebook you), or pull out their phones and ask for some sort of memorable data, you’re money.

Naturally, I’m going for the most prestigious frat I could find. Basically, I asked every sorority chick I’ve met in the last two weeks which frat I should join, and they all placed me in this one. Most also had an alternate, which varied, but this one was the clear winner. I also asked (first) which frat had the best rep, hottest guys, and was the most fun.

Same answer. Cool. Naturally, I was late to the game because I wasn’t in the mood on Sunday night (I had worked all day), and I didn’t even turn up at the house until Tuesday. It was already an invite-only night, but I’d used some sorority networking to get in touch with a couple of the fellas over at my frat-to-be via facebook ahead of time, so I was all set.

Supposedly they had 600 people rush. It was cut to 300 by Tuesday and tonight down to 120 or so. Basically, if I make the cut tonight (my phone should ring about 12:30am or so), I’m probably in. There will probably be 60 pledges tomorrow, of which 40-50 will be accepted, and another 10-15% will drop off once the pledge period (where we all get to be bitches to the seniors for awhile) begins.

Yesterday I was on fire. I shook every hand, chatted with almost every hand I shook, and took names and numbers. I was rockin’ it out like I was a host already, even saying whassup to my competitors in a good natured way.

Today I was only playing a second string game. I was tired, and all of the man-flirting was getting to me. Plus I went ahead and leg pressed over 800 pounds 30 times about an hour before, so I was a wee bit lethargic. Add to that the fact that my pool game (tonight’s activity) was shit, and it’s a good thing I was so on fire the day before. I was pretty mello. I had some deeper conversations with a half dozen folks, but it still wasn’t my A-game.

Oh well.

So why join a frat? Why cozy up to elitist classism with overtones of judgment and fiefdom? Well, dear friends, why does Alfie, well, exist?

Pussy.

At my particular school, 21% of the student body is Greek. There is a blatant correlate between socioeconomics and greek status, and an echoing correlate between greek membership and hotness. So if you want to date sorority chicks en masse, you have to be part of a frat. And not the Jewish frat, the Latin frat, the nerd frat, or the Christian frat (although I’m sure all are just fine n’ dandy), but a good frat. With hot boys. Because hot boys, free beer attract hot girls who like to drink. Combine that with the built in sorority-fraternity combo events, and it’s the difference between getting to a party early to capture the ear, phone number, heart, and panties of the hottest chick you see when you walk in the door, and deciding you want to get laid at 2:27am and thus staying up an extra 15 minutes instead of passing out.

Ok, it’s not that bad, and yes, I can create my own opportunities, but why not do a week of man-flirting, shell out a grand, and have an instant 150 best friends and not have to work to meet hot chicks? Hell, add up all the alcohol and meals I buy for undeserving damsels, and I’ll be saving money.

(Mind you, the “hot” adjective here at Uni is a bit less askew than it is back home in Cali. Compared to back home, the median hotness level is amazing. And they’re all over the place here. No more of that pressure to say hello to the one good looking girl you’ve seen around in the last month, because another hot girl is 2 feet behind her.)

A friend of mine (you know how you are) mumbled something about frat guys being immoral, and that may be from a certain conservative perspective, but I’m going to have sex anyway. And believe me, girls don’t usually need to be talked into it. So why not take advantage, and place oneself in the right situation?

I have often argued that attraction for women is purely situational. A girl walks around in a bar, and the man of her dreams says something sweet and innocent to her, and she dogs him faster than he can swallow. Place the same guy at her best friend’s house for a cocktail party, and she would trip over herself trying to get his attention.

So phuck it. I’m going to the cocktail party with 150 of my new best friends. Four nights a week.

Don’t hate the playah, hate the… aw, screw it. The game can be fun. Oh, and it exists for a reason. Besides, if you know the rules, you can stack the deck.

–

So I took out a 17 year old Monday. Shut up. I didn’t know she was… ok, I did. Shut up! Lemme finish, ok?

Yeaaaah. I met these four girls Saturday evening after this TRL-style pool party last weekend. Yeah, it was friggin’ amazing — 600 half-naked underage drinkers. Off the friggin’ hook. I don’t even know where to start. How about a photo or two? (Click on each for a full-size image. These were taken outside the pool. before I even went in. And this does not do it justice.)

But I was about to discuss my jailbait story. My “chronologically challenged” Monday lunch date. So, yeah, I meet these four girls, still half drunk, at pool #3 of the day. All freshmen, all hot, all young, wide-eyed, and fascinated. Fancy that.

So, naturally, I do the math on the term “freshmen”, and figure they’re 18. Whatever. Why am I in college again? Learn? Oh yeah, that. Well, I can learn in study group. The one I’m organizing with the hottest chicks in class, natch (already on that, check my facebook groups for “calc” ;-). But I digress yet again.

So, yeah, 18. Good times. One of them pays a little more attention than the others, and the next thing I know, I’m trading numbers with a cute little blonde not much older than my little sister. She tells me to call the next day, and being the Alfa-male that I am, I of course forget all about it.

So she texts me around 7:15, and I call her back, telling her I wasn’t finished with work and had planned on calling her in a little while. White lies are good for you, grasshopper. Besides, it was true. Other than the fact that I had forgotten that I’d planned on calling her after work. Heh.

So she invites me over for dinner, but I decline, saying I need to go to the gym first, and drop by after. They have a movie on and I sit, we chat, she gets a massage, I size her up.

And find out she’s 17. Ohh. Well, I’m 23, you know. You don’t think that’s two old for you? Hmm. Ok.

I didn’t kiss her good night. I thought about it. But we’d already made plans for lunch the next day, and what with the magical birthday not coming ’til next March, I was thinking long and hard about crossing over into “just friends” territory as quickly as possible.

Weird how that always happens when you don’t want it to, but seems so difficult to manufacture, huh?

Well, turns out I didn’t have to. She’s a smart one, my 17 year old, and about an hour after I facebook’d her the next day, she had discovered my blog — the oh-so-public one, with lots of historical birthday references — and called me out on my age. So much for that one.

We had a conversation Monday night about it, actually, because she was obviously into me (girls who aren’t fascinated by you don’t google your arse), and as a result, she was pretty flabbergasted.

Admittedly, so was I. I’m not sure that I expected anyone to never check, but since I’ve never ever lied about… well, much of anything (how much of an exhibitionist am I, for godsakes?), save having sex with your mom (j/k), I was felt pretty weird about getting caught.

I thought, initially, that I should just leave the blog up there with my age in all its glory, because, well, wtf. Then I thought about how an 18 or 19 year old would react and about why I’ve been lying about my age in the first place. (Which is, in a nutshell, because I don’t want people to put me in a weird box. I want to assimilate, because this is about recapturing my youth and having fun, not about being a unique and special little snowflake. Oh, look at Alfie, the curiously attractive old guy. Fu’h that!)

The blog has been updated, removing all mention of my age. The resume is still kinduv a giveaway, but oh well. Most girls aren’t really that smart, now are they? (ok, ok, stop yelling at the screen. How about “most people that age really don’t do that much due diligence, do they?” Is that better?

I just don’t date boys, folks. So when I think of stupid people, I think of women. I am well aware that there are plenty of stupid guys, too.

Hey! I never noticed that mirror in my room before… (lol)

So yeah, the chronologically challenged girl placed herself in the “just friends” category all by herself. Oops. Sorry, sweetie.

–

Tonight I went back over to my old digs to go out with yet another sorority chick. I met her Monday night, when I went out with the boys and our couple of female spokesmodels (the attractive girls I’ve actively chosen to not have sex with so that we always look good in groups). I was over at the old house and saw my sorority chick and this other girl who is not getting any Alfie love (she’s 18, but she looks 12, has bad teeth, and doesn’t even drink. I’d probably give her some action back in Cali, but here, yuck!), and decided to say hello just to be nice.

Then I discovered that the Reject’s buddy was actually hot. Gym clothes from far away definitely didn’t do her justice. We had a nice little chat tonight about rush, greek duties, parties this weekend, and the band Everclear (sweet!). No interesting news yet, though. She’s into me, but so are all of them after the first date. We’ll see where it goes. She’s plenty tasty, though.

But anyway. I’ve gotta save my energy for yet another marathon of man-flirting tomorrow. (yawn)

So school started today. Believe it or not, I had the heeby-jeebies last night and had trouble sleeping. I thought I was just falling back into old habits of insomnia, but the energy I had when I rolled out of bed was definitely not congruent with that idea. I had coffee in hand and was out the door by 9:40, bouncing down the road to my Calculus class.

I had trouble finding the room and was about 10 minutes late as a result, but it’s the first class, and the Prof was still handling roll call.

Between the Chem quiz I took today (for “evaluative purposes”) and the anti-derivative area-under-the-curve subfunction dee-over-dee-ex chicken scratch on the dry erase board (what happened to chalk? Oh yeah, that was under-funded Junior College) this morning, I was just a little bit intimidated.

By 10:27am, I was strongly considering dropping calculus. By 10:30, I had told myself to shut the fuck up. It has been ten friggin’ years since I barely pulled off an A in my freshman Calc class. The one I took during the summer and finished in 8 weeks sans prerequisites (I still don’t know my trig and natural logs worth a darn) while fixing networks 40 hours a week.

So, yeah, I’m gonna be a little rusty. Join a study group, jerk.

If I thought f(x) was intimidating, there was crap on my Chem quiz that I had just plain forgot. Not dusting off old neurons that had been damaged by a decade of drinking and some experimentation with designer chemicals, but maybe not even in there in the first place. WTF is a mole? Did Mr. Seaver teach us that? Um. I figured out, based on the other questions in the test and cross-referencing the multiple choice answers, that it has something to do with the relationship between atomic number and weight in grams. As in that Avocado number with 6.022 times 10 to the 23rd atoms per. Or not. Maybe I just totally bombed those three questions.

But anyway. You’re not reading this to hear how intimidated some douche-bag that cockily calls himself smart in a public forum has gotten intimidated by some shit he really should’ve learned in twelfth grade. You’re reading it for the sex, drugs, and… oh fuck the music. Just the sex, ma’am.

So, um, yeah… I’ve had two naked girls in my bed in the last — I dunno — 5 days? Maybe 6, maybe 4… I don’t really remember which day it was.

The hot sorority chick from last week I failed to close. I forgot she was 19 and was nice to her. Basically it came across as trying to hard. Fuckin’ ay. Oh well, 18000 more single chicks to go. I called, she called, I saw her roommates, they acted aloof and weird, I saw her around the following day, and it was as if no breasts had ever been fondled. Harumph.

I was pissed about it for a solid two hours.

But hey, this ain’t home, and single chicks are falling out of the sky like manna from heaven here, so what’s a young playa to do? Why, get drunk and start knocking on other front doors in my apartment complex, natch. But, alas, partying girls, even with Alfie present, tend to spark the interest of other passing fellas, and the next thing I knew, I was neck deep in a sausage fest despite the quality of my execution.

So I grabbed an exchange student and proclaimed her my beer pong partner. We were making out on my couch about 40 minutes later. Didn’t close though. Playing beer pong after 10 shots and a couple of shotgun chugs is not the best idea if you want to play your best game.

Fucking third base. Bleah.

The next morning was awkward… for her. I was fine. Got up, got coffee, whined about my hangover, gave her some eggs, reminded her that I’m both nice and hot, and the alcohol just helped things along, and then walked her home.

God damn she was a better kisser when she was drunk. Pssh.

So that was, what, Thursday? No, Wednesday. Thursday was a wash because I drank so much. I had like two beers the following night and was in no mood to hustle for hotties.

Friday night I party hopped, starting out at one of my buddies’ apartment. We all had a shot or two and were headed out to a townie house party when two hotties come strolling by. On your feet, guys, hello, what are y’all doin’ tonight? Chat, chat, flirt, flirt (my new homies are all good looking blokes, too, so they were a bit overwhelmed), hey, we’re going to a party, wanna come?

The problem with that situation is choosing which girl to call.

So I didn’t. I let one call me. We haven’t gone out yet, though. We had a chat last night about meeting for a drink. Awwww, you’re only 20? Damn. Well, I guess I could pick up a bottle of wine and we could have a chat at myyyyy house… she was supposed to call back today when she got her work and school schedule worked out. She hasn’t. I’m heartbroken.

Yawn.

Then there was Saturday. I had secured new housing on Friday (getting walked in on — thrice — while on the couch with the exchange student might’ve salted my game a little, yeah?), so I got to party hop back to my old digs. Then onto the welcome party at the next student housing complex 4 blocks from there, then… oh, wait, I never made it to party number three. Started at 8, not 6, ’cause I had to go to the gym first.

Some things don’t change, despite the new climate.

So old digs had new pussy present. I walk into the pool area and get tossed three beers and a fifth of JD all at once by the fellas, have a seat next to the three hottest girls I see, and go to work. A sophomore, her roommate, and two freshman. I know, I said three, but one of the four is in my circle of platonic chicks (gotta have those around, you know), so she doesn’t count. I chat with all three, giving the one sober girl a little poke here and there for not partying with us. Turns out she’s rushing a sorority and it’s dry week here. Heh. Dry week in the desert. Why does that seem funny to me?

So, ignoring the math (I found out via facebook earlier today that she’s been 18 for a solid half month. Bad Alfie, bad!), I proceed to ask her out. When’s rush over with? Tuesday, huh? Guess we’re going out Wednesday, then. She puts her number in my phone,l and without checking, I save it and give her a hug, then proceed to run off to party #2.

Of course, as luck would have it, she inputs 9 digits instead of 10, and when I went to call her the next day (I know, two day rule, but during our conversation, she asked me to), I was quite disappointed. I didn’t make a beeline for the hottest girl in sight for nothing, damn it. Thank god for facebook. She sent me the correct number this morning at 7am (damn those 8am classes, huh?), and we chatted today. According to her note, she “was like, sweet, why didn’t he call”. I love it when vernacular makes its way into digital communication to the point of brevity loss. Like, sweet, y’know.

Looks like I’m babysitting this Wednesday.

(Alfie pauses to examine the red hand mark on his left wrist.) Ow. Where’d that come from?

So then I arrive at party number two on Saturday night. Chat, chat, flirt, flirt. That freshman from New Jersey had a really nice rack. I find out that this guy I know from NorCal broke up with his girlfriend. She told me, right after I say hello to her hot freshman roomie from Buffalo with the Chanel earrings. Hmmm. What a jerk, yes. No, I probably shouldn’t hook up with you, because I know the guy and even though he’s not a homey, he could be. Maybe in six months, darlin’. Couple of nerdy girls took their glasses off after chatting with me for half a beer (they go a lot faster when you’re drinking piss water, of course). Yeah, sure, we can be facebook friends. Where’d New Jersey go? Oh, heck. She wasn’t that in to me for some reason. Made that bitch laugh like 17 times in the first 90 seconds, but no… I think the nerds that were hanging on my every word somehow got in the way. They were probably home-girls or something and one of them spoke for me when I went to refill their cups.

Then this little Jewish girl from SoCal corners me, dismissing the three guys that were around her. Heh. It makes me laugh that despite my best efforts to make active choices, sometimes a girl just gets in her head to see you naked and you have to let it happen. She wasn’t even that hot, actually. Pretty, sure. Young, definitely. Hot, not so much. And believe me, I would know.

An hour later, we were making out in my bed. Uh huh, you have to leave something for the first date. Chat, chat, flirt, flirt. The “sex is irrelevant” spiel crosses my lips. You don’t buy the damn cow because of the milk. (I have ranted about this before. If you know of my other blogs, you probably have seen that rant. If not, comment, and I’ll send you the link.)
Needless to say, panties off.

Then, naturally, penis literally in hand, what comes shooting out of her mouth? Oh, ewww. I said I’d go into detail, but that’s just gross. No.

She tells me she’s a virgin.

Alfie. Exhales. Slowly. Why?

Because she wants to really be in love for her first time.

Oh my fucking god. Are you kidding me? (No, I didn’t say that. It went something more along the lines of “Really? And you’re a sophomore? Wow.”)

Ho-hum. That’s nice. So, how ’bout them Diamondbacks.

So, Alfie being Alfie, I proceed to let her fall in love with me. I didn’t fuck her, though.

Goddamn third base. Pssh.

–

I need to say something about my classes real quickly before turning in (I do have a 9am class tomorrow).

You know how, back in Cali, you walk into a bar or restaurant with, say 50 people in it? And how the one or two hot girls, if any, immediately command your attention? And how, if you add in the Cali-factor, whereupon chicks expect to date guys a standard deviation above them on the attractiveness curve, you pick out the — oh, heck, let’s say you’re not in the suburbs and it’s a weekend and there happens to be a bachelorette party present — 5 or so you’d ask to dinner and the 10 or so you’d have sex with if it required no work and there were lots of alcohol in your system?

Well, here at my lovely university, with the exception of my calculus class (which still had 4 doable women despite that 70% of the 30 kids in the class were male), the tables are completely backwards. I pick out the chicks in the room I wouldn’t ask out, let alone take back to my place after 150 ounces of cheap beer only to find out they still have a cherry. Damn I hate that “magic number” question!

Hell, today I strolled into my Chem class, struggled to find a seat, smiled at a hottie in the same predicament, and then got invited to sit with her. I’m thinking that tomorrow I should try and get to class early, grab a seat middle and center, and just let the single ladies come sit next to me at their leisure. Talk about low-hanging fruit.

But anyway. I’m tired, so I think I’ll skip the impromptu coffee date I had today with the Boston sophomore transferee, the cute greek girl who tried to recruit me into her club, the massage gal in the gym who offered to be my local tour guide (townie), the triathlon chick who convinced me that open water swimming isn’t so bad, the rock climber from Colorado that suggested I get my mom to send me my climbing shoes…

Now, should I devote my time to intramurals (soccer/rugby/hoops/triathlon), or should I join a frat? I don’t think I can do both… drinking every day will definitely degrade my athletic performance!

… to sex, of course. Check it.

So I’ve been in town for a week as of tonight.

By last Tuesday night, I had made a goal for myself of five interactions with new people (as in at least a handshake, 30 second conversation, and a name exchange) and one contact exchange per day. I have found that to be an extremely unambitious goal.

I should probably set the stage, eh? So I’m staying with a couple of friends in a condo complex two blocks from campus. So far, I’ve met one person who is not a student there. Sure, there’s one boring grad student couple who never come out of their room, but for the most part, everyone is young and in the same boat. There’s a lot of folks who are sophomores, having lived on campus last year, so they know the town a little better, but the O.G. residents have that status because they’ve lived in the complex a solid two months.

As in, they went to summer school. So everyone is just like me — new, anxious to meet new people, and ready to party.

There were two lame things going on last week, however. First, no one is here yet. Class doesn’t start until the 20th, so there were three days of freshman orientation last week, but other than that, I was working with early arrivals like myself or townies (natives). And even with 1000 18 year olds running around, it wasn’t that cool, because they haven’t quite figured out that they’re college students yet (hello, clique-mentality) and most of them had parents in tow. Talk about makin’ a homey feel old.

I met a lot of people the first few days, but most of them were in and out of town and stressed out about moving and such. (Apparently not everyone is as comfortable with three boxes in the back of a hatchback as good ol’ Alfie! ) The networking until Friday or so, therefore, was mostly just laying groundwork. I had a coffee date that fell through (long distance boyfriend… lol), a “let’s go out” invite that never came to fruition, and an invite to a frat party that my roommate never closed on. (He just simply forgot to follow up on it. bleah!)

But it was fine. I got some work done, met with advisors, got acquainted with the gym, campus, and the restaurant basics, and became much better friends with my roommates.

Turns out that, as promised, the social network stuff is really easy — all it takes is a smile, hello, and quick exchange of some form of contact. Last night, for instance, I ran into three girls on the way out of my complex and went through 15 seconds of what has become my standard lines when I’m close to home… “do you live here? I’m in (###). Where are y’all at?” If time permits a name exchange, great. If not, who cares? You know where they live!

I also realized pretty quickly last week that, unlike Cali, there is an even mix of males and females here. If anything, it’s skewed in favor of the guys. Which has two interesting and extremely cool side effects: girls are a lot more open and guys are a lot less competitive. The end result is that it’s totally worth saying what’s up to everyone including the guys.

Which is what I started doing long about last Wednesday or Thursday. By Friday, a group of Aussie fellas was inviting my entire household down to the pool with a case of beer in hand. It was a sausage fest, to be sure, but within an hour the gal who they were visiting turned up and had offered me her parking spot and asked for a massage. Roommate number two was there, too, and the two of them called another pair on the phone who arrived shortly with a fifth of vodka. Then some of the groundwork I’d laid with the two stoner chicks from two doors down paid off as I called out their names while they were walking past the pool to their apartment.

By 9pm, the ratio was even and we were playing Kings/Circle of Death and drinking the cheapest beer I’d ever tasted in a pretty girl’s apartment.

By 11:30, I was at a local bar where the ratio peaked at about 2:1 women-to-men sometime around midnight. And yes, I fulfilled my quota for new contacts through next weekend. And in addition to the facebook sync-ups, the waitress hooked me up with a free drink and wants to go out later in the week.

The whole experience was both surreal and amazing. One person breaks the ice (which wasn’t always me, believe it or not! The Aussies were super-social.), and the next thing I knew, I was standing there talking to two inebriated women born after Back to the Future was released. Rinse, lather, repeat. It was hard, actually, stumbling over my words as I tested “I’m a little older because I worked a couple of years first” on a series of wide-eyed juniors and seniors. The typical “what do you do” dialog that has been a staple of conversation starting as long as I can remember doesn’t work too well when most people’s idea of a cool job is waiting tables.

Apparently I was 25 that night. My roommate told someone and it made its way around the bar. Heh. I recall, at one point, feeling a little weird saying I had done almost a year in Britain. I just left it at “I was just working there” and that seemed to fly.

Last night, I tried on 23 for size. Is it a stretch? I don’t know, but the hottie I was talking to didn’t blink. She even went on to say that she had dated someone way too old for her over the summer. “How old?” I asked quizzically. She replied with “31″.

LOL. If she only knew.

So anyway, about last night. I organized a BBQ. Call the Aussies, knock on the stoner girls; door, flag the Japanese exchange students as they pass by (all girls, natch), bring out the roommates, and… ok, not too bad. Everyone chip in $10, Alfie’s gonna feed all you bitches!

Of course, I get back with my new best friends and 15 bags of food in tow, and the tide has turned. The near 50:50 ratio has spawned the emergence of large amounts of sausage. What?! How did this happen?

It’s ok, Alfie’s on the spot. Start the grill, delegate some tasks, put on the board shorts, take the shirt off, and recall some room numbers. Stoner girls, where’d you go? Oh, you’re high. Right. Hey, so… you should invite over a friend or two, since we have all this food… check. The three girls from before? Hmmm, knock knock. Who’s there? Three hot sorority chicks that need an hour to get spruced up before coming down to the pool? Oh, well, that’s acceptable. We like high maintenance chicks too.

Heeeeeey-oh, Alfie, where you been? Half the beer is gone.

Guys, I was doing what I do. What’s that mean, you ask? You’ll know it when they arrive. Wink, wink. The road to hero status among the homeys is paved with several nice sets of curves.

Turns out that only one of the hotties was single. What a bummer.

For the other guys, that is. I got some snogging and have a date tonight. Not too shabby, Alfie. Even if you’re only 23.

And classes don’t even start until next week.

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Oh, and just in case you’re curious, no, I haven’t been sober at 10pm since leaving California. Thank god for all the basketball, eh? Believe it or not, I’m actually losing weight with all the beer instead of gaining it, because the beer feels me up and I don’t have my normal near-midnight meal.

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On an introspective note, it is so ironic that everything that I’ve worked so hard to be proud of (wealth, independence, nice biceps) is completely off the radar here (ok, not the biceps, that was to make your snort in amusement). They see me as the same, which basically means Mommy and Daddy probably bought me my car and have put cash on my Student ID card. One of the core pieces of who I have always been (I can do it myself, goddamn it!) is simply assumed to be missing. It’s actually pretty sweet, though. I’m just being evaluated for how cool I am, not for my achievements!

Alfie here. Just some quick notes to get this blog de-virginized and set the tone.

• This blog will contain details. This includes, but is not limited to, underage drinking, drinking in excess, drinking naked, drinking while stoned or otherwise in a mind-altered state, drinking after one has lied about their age by 5-7 years, drinking at sporting events, drinking on planes, drinking at the house after hitting up a liquor store drive through, drinking before the sun sets, drinking in a pool, drinking near cacti, drinking off of the body parts of young hot women, drinking as a precursor to sex, drinking because one is bored, drinking with a ping pong ball present, drinking cheap macro-brewed beer because you’re in college, drinking while playing cards, and, of course, drinking in hopes of crossing “menage a trois” off of the “Things To Do Before I Die” list.
• All names will be shielded to protect the guilty.
• Foul language will be used. Goddamn it.
• Women will be evaluated on a superficial basis. This will inevitably have undertones of misogyny but is largely just a measuring stick. If it offends you, sorry, but I’m a lot more cool about this than half of the male population out there (believe it or not, even Alfie falls sometimes), and if you’re offended because I write honestly, well, this blog probably isn’t for you. Oh, and do piss off.
• If you follow my example, hone your game, and push the positivity, you will get laid. Often.
• I can’t publish photos. I wish I could, but it would largely defeat the purpose of anonymizing the players to protect the guilty. I will nonetheless endeavor to create a visual chronicle in facebook and a spreadsheet of pseudonyms. If you know me, I’ll hook you up with links via email.
• Please comment often. The more controversy, the better.
• If this blog fails to cause jaw dropping and/or side-aching laughter, tell me and I’ll fix it. Unless you’re a noob, in which case I’ll just make fun of you publicly. Anonymized, of course.

Let the games begin!

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