Creaming Spires


    Oh isn’t it nice living back in college? I really feel institutionalisation does wonders for the old sex life. When you have to traipse all the way back to Cowley at the end of a night it’s hard to summon up the energy, even for a cheeky blozzer (it ain’t called a job for nothing), but stumbling back to one’s room, mere metres away, well – I’ll deepthroat with the best of them. And a cheeky bit of rimming in between lashings of French surrealism is a far more invigorating essay break than a lonely cigarette outside your minging house down Cowley road.

    Freshers – make the most of it now, before you have to move out in second year; the walk of shame is rendered far less painful when it’s only done across a quad, rather than my unfortunate friend’s sexperience last year –he found himself cycling home the morning after Queerbop dressed in a skin tight swan costume with more than a discreet amount of testicle on show. Thank God he was in Oxford. I think you could get lynched for less than that in my home town. But will you make the most of it, Freshers? I was decidedly disappointed by the lack of promiscuity in my first week in Oxford.

    Apart from the homosexuals, who were busy interpenetrating quicker than pubic lice, the hetero love-in was… luke-warm. I think someone groped my tit at Park End but that might have been an accident. Which is, frankly, irritating because I wasn’t sitting through all those gap-year stories for my health, I thought I’d at least get a cheeky fumble out of it. But, niente. Rien.

    And freshers – don’t worry about getting the reputation for being a schlag, at least people will know who you are, and hopefully won’t confuse you with that other Biochemist who also spent six months in Cambodyah. Plus, if you’re constantly getting naked it’ll be another reason not to pile on the Fresher’s Ten – a muffin top is not a great way of accessorising sub fusc. Think missionary, rather than The Mission. Think creaming your pants, rather than Café Creme. I’m not advocating sex over food, you understand, I’m just suggesting there’s a lot more to discover in Oxford other than the beautiful architecture, mind-blowing academic prowess, endless baguette shops and ignorant rich people. Like, you know, threesomes. The U, A and G spots. Oh, but do discover the Ann Summers in the Clarendon centre before groping about for the latter, by the way, or at least make sure your nails are pared down and cleaned first.


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