Our sophomore year of college, my roommate Hoyden and I seized upon a wild and brilliant idea. We would loft our beds! We'd maximize our floorspace! It would be completely awesome, like a treehouse with booze.
The first step was finding a loft. We rapidly procured one from an off-campus Christian collective for $40. Several "facts" were left out of this "deal."
1. The loft had been stored in some sort of medieval dungeon, and the wood was damp and warped.
2. The loft, a double, was actually the size of a small village.
3. Make that a BIG village.
4. The loft required assembly.
So, once the Christians had departed, it was time for the Stoners. See, down the hall from us, there were these two guys. They were, without a doubt, the most famous people in Alexander Dorm. (Even more famous than the guys who would stay up all night watching pornographic screensavers, and then sleep all day, mostly because the Porno Screensaver guys had all flunked out the year before.)
The Stoners were the only people on the hall with a toolkit. The toolkit was used to construct proceedingly more elaborate pot-smoking equipment. I have a theory that if one-tenth of one percent of the energy devoted to Weed Science was directed toward the other sciences, we'd have cured cancer and colonized Mars by now. They grew pot in their room, held Harvest Festivals, and still achieved GPAs that were approximately double my own.
Hoyden and I seized upon a plan: we would ply the boys with liquor, and they would help us assemble our loft! Flaws in the plan:
1. Stoner guys are not master builders.
2. Being 19-year-old girls, our drink of choice was the glorious, calcium-fortified White Russian.
3. Stoner guys drinking girl drinks are really not master builders.
The loft was eventually...aloft. Thanks to the warped wood, lack of instructions, consistent errors in spatial relations and the varying levels of sobriety involved, our loft resembled a sort of lumberyard parabola. The slightest of touches would set the whole thing quivering like a porn star gearing up for her big interracial stereo repairman scene.
We dubbed it Happy Fun Loft. Do not taunt Happy Fun Loft. Do not have any sort of active dreams while sleeping in Happy Fun Loft. Do not have any sort of, uh, active in Happy Fun Loft.
The final step was Loft Inspection. We passed with flying colors. Those flying colors being:
1. Screw that minor in Women's Studies! Time to flirt with the inspection guy!
2. Hey, that redhead from Maine thinks you're pretty cute.
3. What? She totally does!
4. We passed? Thank you! Thank you so much! (There may have been a curtsy.)
5. Hoyden, I didn't REALLY pimp you out. It was all implication. A pimplication, if you will. A pimplication for the simplification of our lives.
Happy Fun Loft survived many things. Parties. That time I stood up and vacuumed the quilts. More parties.
And, lastly, what is either the best punchline of any blog post of mine, ever, or, completely abundantly over the line of good taste (stop reading NOW, Skye! Look over here! Otters are awesome.):
I lost my virginity in Happy Fun Loft. The loft didn't wobble, not one little bit.
I spent Winter Break wondering what all the fuss was about.
If you have an even less dignified tale of virginity loss, you are welcome to post it in the comments.