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Creaming Spires: 0th week Michaelmas

The thrill of the new Oxford year is once again upon us and there’s only one thing we’re thinking of: freshers are coming. Park End will once more become the deep waters for Oxford’s finest sharks, aroused by the fresh flesh around them. Holiday flings in Thailand or Cambodia (or wherever it is the cool kids spend summers these days) are long gone, and what we all really want is a good post-Wahoo fuck, preferably with some Hassan’s on the way. That’s the dream, right?

Or not. I’ve been through my fair share of freshers, and this year I was up for a change. Having found myself in Oxford a few weeks before term properly began, I noticed that all the pubs are filled with a different kind of creature altogether — the grads. Now, here’s a challenge. In my mind those guys acquired a sexy air of maturity. They were the experienced ones; I was the innocent lamb. Believe me, that’s not a position I’m often in. Even worse — he was the Real Man, and I was the lady to be won and pleasured. For a while I forgot that I am a strong, independent woman and I wanted to be shown the big wide world by someone who’s about to get his MPhil/DPhil/MBA/I don’t care.

The first thing to note is that the grad god I spied in King’s Arms was easier to approach than any fresher. He was not on the floor, oozing vomit and horniness. Instead he was standing by the bar with a wicked little smile, ready to be distracted by no one but me (or so I chose to think). There followed names, colleges, subjects. No childish excitement at OH MY GOD OXFORD OH MY GOD PUB YAY VODKA. Just a subtle ‘wanna come back to my bar?’ and the scene was set for my night of exploration. Trust me, hunting for the perfect grad is a classier take on sharking, and it involves fewer incoherent teenagers. When you find yourself in a Holywell Manor bedroom staring at a full set of ropes, you’ll know who to thank (or sue).

One drawback of the whole experience is that Freshers’ week is ruined for me. I don’t care about fighting for those paint party tickets anymore; I’ll be too busy sneaking into Maxwell’s. First years can no longer seduce me with their boyish enthusiasm and passion for cheap lager. I’m too young to be a cougar. It’s also satisfying to find men who don’t think that cunnilingus is just something they forgot from their Latin class. In short, I am a complete convert. Or so I say, until Park End persuades me otherwise…

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