“Villains!” I shriek, “Dissemble no more! I admit the deed—ear up the planks! Here, here!—t is the beating of his hideous heart!” – E.A. Poe
My senior year is rapidly coming to a close and along with it, my college career. Typically I celebrate the joys and accomplishments of my times, but today my conscience forces me to air grievances in a manner not seen since Festivus at the Costanza household. There is a thumping in my loins that haunts me as the beating of one hideous heart once haunted Poe. Judging from personal experience and anecdotal evidence, I have come to the conclusion that very few seniors took advantage of the glorious, sensual, and once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of carrel coitus.
If my train of thought is common, then I am certain that a key reason for those of us who paid the five dollar deposit for a private work station in the library in fact had ulterior motives to actually “work it” in said station.
Do you think that we chose to write theses strictly for reasons of academic value? Think again. Yet, somehow, there was a widespread failure among ’04 students to do the dirty-—myself included!
There have only been three or four confirmations of the deed which have come to my attention. And believe me; I have had my ear to the wall! Gabe Greenberg, for one, had an ant infestation in his carrel for a week or two this spring. Science has proved that sexual juices deter insects. Therefore, I conclude that he is in the same abstinence boat as me. Meanwhile my carrelmate Will Berman, I have come to believe, was equally sex-starved. True, I never asked him if this was true, but given that he never bragged to me about the details and rubbed it in my face that I was weak sauce (as I would have done to him) leads me to believe that he probably never truly slapped ass on table. Three studs, presumably no sex. What a shame!
I have racked my brain to come up with reasons for this phenomenon of carrel dysfunction. Perhaps it is morally rooted, but I doubt it. Now, I’m just as Puritan as the next guy, so I fully understand how inhibitions and scruples can block otherwise reasonable fantasies. But, shit, I also know that everyone needs to get their Hester Prynne on every once in a while, it is what makes the world go ’round after all, so I am quite disappointed that there weren’t a few scarlet and/or cream-colored letters left on the tables of the Olin Attic. I ask: where is Wesleyan’s literary merit?
It certainly was not a result of a shallow supply pool. After countless strolls around the first floor, and after spying all of those overworked, sweaty and stressed out babes taking breaks in the heavenly stairways, I ain’t gonna lie: there were a lot of possible Backstage Betty’s out there. Or, as we say in the land of Academia, quite a few Thesis Carrel Cuties, Library Lovelies, and even the occasional Fourth Floor Floozie could be seen twirling her hair and batting her eyelashes for all to be seen. Damn, I’m getting all trembly just thinking about it.
In hindsight, I can admit that I thought it would be easy. Well, brothers, It Ain’t Easy. I thought the ladies would come crawling up to my carrel door at a Ludacris rate. They didn’t.
I bring this up as a public service announcement to you youngsters out there.
Making love in your own little Champaign room within Olin is a privilege and an honor, and I can speak from experience that a great deal of regret can come from a failure to jump on it.
So here are a few hints. Get proactive early: come spring, things can get prettyantisocial, believe me. Woo people: I suggest roses, chocolates, and home-cooked dinner brought to the carrels. Lastly, don’t be afraid to engage some hottie in conversation about carrel sex. What could possibly go wrong? I submit: nothing.
The mission is out there, sons and daughters of Wesleyan, so do your thing and go get in the family way for your forefathers’ sake. And seniors, at least we still have the stacks.
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