“So you used to write songs for a punk band?” Alexa asked, staring with what she hoped looked like a sexy curiosity.

The dim lighting of 1020 didn’t hurt. In the last week before the end of the semester, the freshman was determined to save her love life from the meaningless petting and sweating of the losers she dry-humped in high school.

“Yeah, mostly about love and what it does to your heart, you know?” Dan said. He seems different, she thought—sensitive.

“What, like an emo kid styling his hair with blood from his wrists?” she blurted.

“Yeah,” he said, forcing himself to laugh. “Just like that.” The J-school grad thought the sarcasm spilling out of her mouth was a distraction from her soft lips.

“To emo kids!” she toasted, raising her drink.

“Um, I find anyone who writes for a living to be, you know, very brave. Every time I write anything, I feel like people can see right through my inner psyche or something,” she said, flicking her hair so he wouldn’t notice her drunk rambling. She saw soul in his spiked hair and depth in his black eyes. He saw a good piece of ass held in by her skinny jeans. “I’m thinking of going into human rights, actually. I’m reading this book about Rwanda and—”

“Yeah, you seem like a really passionate person,” he interrupted, taking hold of her hand. He sees right through my heart, she thought, as he stared right through her halter top... She wanted her last night as a virgin to be special. She had chosen the perfect guy, the perfect lace underwear, and the perfect vodka Sprite to get the party started.

“So tell me again how you won Battle of the Bands...”

*

For the third Saturday night in a row, Mike sat in Butler. But for the first time, he wasn’t here to study. He fell asleep in his room while reading Econ, when he awoke to the traumatizing grunts that can best be described as a stroke of luck. His acne-faced, computer-programming, Jean-Claude Van Damme-watching roommate was getting a blow job—and he was too distracted to notice the sleeping audience on the other side of the room. So without thinking he opted for Butler, the closest place he would fit in wearing PJ’s on a Saturday night.

He’d been having trouble sleeping anyway since his girlfriend left to study abroad. Their late night talks turned into lonely nights smoking pot while watching YouTube. He was tired of refreshing her Facebook profile and was ready to leave. He braced himself to face the Dungeon master and his new goblin girlfriend when he noticed someone else hiding behind the stacks.

*

For Crystal, intimacy was a set of rules. She fucked only under certain conditions: heels on, hair down, eyes closed, dress up. Sex was like clockwork and she loved having good timing. And there was no better time to get laid in the stacks than the week before winter break. Or so she heard.

But her partner in crime was running late. She had been waiting in nothing but her peep-toe pumps for over an hour and her little black dress was starting to chafe.

“Hello?” Mike asked.

Before he got a chance to ask who’s there, a pair of long legs emerged from Stack 23 followed by a brunette with heavy eyeliner.

“Um, hi?” was all he could muster before getting slapped in the face.

“Shit! Um, it’s Mike from CC right? What are you doing here?” she asked, covering up her dress.

“Apparently getting a lap dance. Is this like a Bwog personal ad gone wrong?”

“No. Actually, the 40-year-olds on Craigslist are more my style. Look, I have to get going,” she said, pushing the elevator button harder than necessary.

“Were you actually trying to have sex in the stacks?”

“No, Mr. Batman PJ’s. That’s stupid ... This was, um, just a social experiment for Psych,” she said, walking past him.

“Right,” he said, looking at her legs as the elevator closed in front of him. “Wait, what’s wrong with Batman?”