4 p.m., Monday, January 21: Oh yeah! The U of T sex party is tonight. Hah, boobs and dicks. Greasy pervs. Desperate chicks. Full-screen porn. Flavoured condoms.
5 p.m. Oh god, I really want to go. Is it okay that I’m dreadfully curious? No, I really shouldn’t go. I have so much work to do.
6 p.m. If I go, I’ll have to skip out on my work and devote three hours to standing in the cold. If I don’t go, I’ll feel like the social pariah of my generation. I’ll feel…boring.
6:30 p.m. Maybe if I complain about how much work I have to get through tonight, I won’t get peer-pressured into going. Huzzah! I have an excuse not to go. I’m too busy being important.
7 p.m. People are taking their clothes off right now, and my palms are sweating.
7:15 p.m. Tamara (the Copy Editor) bursts into my office to tell me that if we don’t go, we’re going to regret it for the rest of our lives. It’s -15°C outside, I look like a bedraggled cat, and I’m dressed in thin leggings and a windbreaker over a hoodie. She can’t be serious.
8:00 p.m. I can’t figure out how Tamara convinced me this is a good idea. As I board the 196 Rocket, I immediately regret this decision.
8:01 p.m. Tamara realizes she left her student card at home. We get off the bus in the Village and stop at her place to get it.
8:05 p.m. How about I jump on her couch to buy myself some time? It’s warm in here. I feel safe.
8:10 p.m. Tamara announces she can’t find her student card. Oh, good.
8:20 p.m. Tamara phones Oasis Aqua Lounge and asks if a student card is required. A) a person with a student card can vouch for a person without a card, and B) the line stretches around the block, and the club is at capacity. I feel a great sense of relief mixed with disappointment. We call it a night.
9 p.m. YOLO.
10:15 p.m. We get off at College Station. I realize all I’ve had today is a glass of orange juice and toast with peanut butter. We stop at a nearby restaurant. Half a pulled pork poutine and a shot of Jack for $20? Yes please!
11:20 p.m. Man, we should blow this joint. Okay winter, I am your bitch.
11:30 p.m. The lineup is much shorter than I expected. We get in the line with the evening crowd. We’re behind a couple. They’re friendly and nice, and they seem to be there for the same reason as us: curiosity.
11:40 p.m. A group of guys exits the club. One guy yells, “Don’t go in. It’s a trap!”
11:50 p.m. A slew of other couples join in behind us. Same deal: curious, average 20-somethings with nothing better to do on a Monday night.
12:00 a.m. The couple in front of us asks how long we (Tamara and I) have been dating. No, no, we’re just friends. They ask us why, then, we’re in the couples line. I glance over their heads at the singles line, a much shorter line comprised solely of young men. Should I join the singles line? No, I don’t have the social skills to stay cool if I get in before Tamara.
12:20 a.m. My butt is the first thing to lose all feeling. Jumping jacks are making my lungs hurt.
12:30 a.m. The line hasn’t budged. Oh crap, the last subway leaves soon.
12:40 a.m. We peace.
12:00 p.m., Tuesday, January 22: A text from a guy friend who went to the party: “It was like visiting New York City with a tour bus. Also, so much sausage.”
Leslie Armstrong, Editor in Chief
