Our tale begins, dear readers, with the most promising beginning to a sex anecdote possible in our shared, illustrious educational establishment: the Cherwell blind date. The exciting encounter that follows, however, happened last year, so my identity will not be so easy to ascertain through a simple glance at last week’s paper.
I arrived at the blind date in my favourite fuck-me dress, which I was unsuccessfully trying to make look nonchalant with a dowdy cardigan. I was definitely overdressed, as my potential paramour had gone for the geek-chic look: stained baggy Gap jeans, a t-shirt and kookily mismatching converses. After the third time I zoned out from his windy explanation of why sending your kids to state school was an inherently immoral act, I admitted to myself that this was probably going nowhere. As much as I appreciated the potential pleasures of the kind of good strong tongue that could filibuster a JCR meeting for six hours (a source of great pride for him which I really hope he didn’t make up to impress me) I could never sleep with someone who wasn’t a feminist. Admittedly, I did not actually ask to confirm; the graphic of a heteronormative bride and groom (the latter with a ball and chain on his ankle) with the witty caption “game over” on his t-shirt was evidence enough for me.
This vague apathy was seemingly not mutual, as his knee kept edging impossibly towards me under the table – the ultimate communication of sexual interest among the emotionally stunted – while still remaining in a vaguely normal seated position. Once he had had to physically move his chair to continue his knee-based advance, and I was contorted into a pose I vaguely recognised from yoga, I decided enough was enough and texted a distress signal to my friend. She called me. I then explained to my poor amour that I had to go help my friend immediately as she’d been electrocuted by her vibrator, and took off. Incidentally, not an untrue statement.
Arriving at the pub, I discover that my friends are not alone. Tall, blond, funny and feminist, he is the perfect man and I was suddenly very grateful to still be wearing my fuck-me dress. When his knee touched mine under the table, I knew it was game on. So did my friend, it seemed, who alternated between looking delightedly knowing and disappointedly resigned. When the blond feminist and I eventually left the pub together, I made a mental note to pidge her some placatory sorry-I-had-sex-with-your-home-friend-when-you-were-supposed-to-be-spending-time-with-him chocolate.
Lacking other options, I led my blond feminist back to my college room, where, after a brief period of miscellaneous foreplay, he pauses and sighs woefully. When I asked what ailed him, he expressed a great disappointment in my room. I was at first off ended on behalf of my large collection of Klimt posters and bunting, but after some embarrassed mumbling on his part we discovered the root of the problem. My perfect man had an Oxford fetish, and my concrete 70s Brutalist building was just too much like normal student halls for him to get it up. I suggested, on a desperate, horny whim, that we sojourn to Hall. As exciting as getting off on the high table was, we were tragically interrupted by an unimpressed porter who, though invited, declined to join. Returning sheepishly to my brutalist boudoir, we found a happy compromise: I wore subfusc, and he spanked me with my mortarboard.
