Laying pipe 

One fateful night of freshman year, I was dancing at The Boot after going out for dinner and drinks with my friends. The music was bumping, the guys were looking and the girls and I were having fun.  

Suddenly, I’m approached by Michael, a mid-height blonde guy from Bama. He and his friends were visiting NOLA looking for a fun time. He buys me a drink and tells me that I have the most spectacular eyes he has ever seen. He then tells me how much he loves my furry handbag, and that his gay roommate would approve — green flags. He tries to kiss me in The Boot, which I deny. I tell him that we should go somewhere more private. My room is off limits, so we rendezvous to the next best thing: the construction site behind Sharp.  

In an adrenaline and lust-filled craze, we jump the fence and find a romantic spot among the mounds of dirt and CAT machines. On a cozy patch of dirt, he lays me down, pulls my tampon out and tosses it into the construction site. We start hooking up and I am loving it, until he says we should go inside. I was all for the riskiness and spontaneity of the construction site hookup, but he must have felt shy. We venture into Monroe, but alas, my roommate refuses to let him in our room.  

“Let’s just go in the shower,” he suggests.  

“That’s kind of intimate,” I reply.  

“So is having sex,” he quips back.  

I could no longer argue with his logic, so we undress inside a Monroe shower, his muddy boots hidden along with my party dress and flip-flops. We awkwardly try out different positions while fighting against the friction of the water.  

As I kiss him under the shower water, mascara running, curly hair revealed and frizzy, he says, “You’re so beautiful.”