It feels like going home for holidays and breaks has become some sort of game. The objective: How many of my previously platonic friends can I fool around with now that I won’t have to face them in the hallways of high school?

There is clearly something about the thrill of doing it in your mom’s basement or the enticing challenge of backseat hook-ups. Maybe it’s the pure nostalgia or maybe it’s that exciting anticipation as you weigh the odds of whether mom is going to come down and do the laundry mid-hook-up-sesh. Whatever it is, my friends from home just can’t seem to keep their hands and private parts to themselves in the less-than-a-week-long breaks we’ve had so far.  

Over fall break, I went to visit my friends at the state school they go to. I’d say it was a joyous reunion, as hugs and anecdotes were shared. Little did I know, the game had begun. When it came time for the pregame, shots were taken to the #highschoolmemories, and everyone was feeling flirty and bold.

It wasn’t long after we started dancing at a frat party that I felt someone behind me trying to dance. After a few minutes of dancing I turned around to find it wasn’t just a frat boy — it was one of my boys, an old friend from high school. After the initial shock I was able to compose myself and hit him with the eye roll and “really dude?” The first player of the game had been successfully removed.

When morning came, another friend decided to catch a ride back to the city with me. During the ride, he managed to invite himself to my family breakfast. So there we were 30 minutes later in my basement, patiently awaiting breakfast burritos. My guard was down, and I was weak, tired from the night before and hungry for some hangover food — the perfect time for this player to make his move. You guessed it, a quick nap before breakfast turned into a quickie before breakfast.

Flash forward to Thanksgiving break. The one friend I didn’t get to see over fall break now had four days to play catch-up. He and I had messed around before, but let’s be clear, there never was an “us.”

I had told him I wasn’t trying to hook-up with him over break, that the past was fun and all, but there was no need to relive it. But then we’re watching “The Office” in the basement when he turns to me with pouty eyes and says, “I miss this. I miss us. Can we at least kiss?” If by “us” he meant meaningless daytime sex in the summer I guess there was an “us.” Anyway, needless to say, what started out as a kiss escalated a bit. The third player was making ground.

At this point, over the course of only one week total, there had been some sort of sexual encounter with nearly every boy in our close-knit high school group.

None of them even had respectable moves. All were merely last-ditch efforts to get it on with a girl that would actually talk to them. Maybe they aren’t getting any at school, or maybe my basement is cursed with some sort of love drug, because breaks have become hook-up marathons. Our friend group has successfully gone from a normal group of friends to an orgy of friendcest.

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