Dear Melissa Buddie,
I was horrified to learn, in your recent letter to the Observer, that you were actively considering swearing off what are colloquially known as "random hook-ups,"or what I prefer to think of as "fun-fun pleasure times." Your experiences with those six (no more and no less) boys are certainly not unique, and definitely not grounds for removing yourself from the competition for Queen of the Make-Outs. As someone who is a self-proclaimed boy-kissing hobbyist, what could possibly make you give up those stolen moments of passion because of a few small helpings of awkward turtle in the dining halls?
As it happens, though, I can sympathize. It may shock you to learn this - but many of the strapping young fellows you've locked lips with are not interested in anything serious, or even casual. The damage has been done to your youthful naivete, and nothing but a full-blown hook-up romance will restore it. At least, that's the diagnosis of this particular Love Doctor. And his remedy is simple.
Knowing (as I do) the true source of your reluctance to make yourself available, that source being the abiding awkwardness of previous hookups, and knowing (as I do) that you have not yet truly experienced the glory of a true 'fun-fun pleasure time,' I would like to throw my hat into the ring as a candidate for an elected office you didn't even know existed. That office? President ... of your heart.
I consider myself something of an amateur philematologist (philematology, n.: the art or science of kissing). But more than this, I know how to treat a woman right.
Facebook bumper stickers have taught me that the secret is to purchase you 11 real roses and one fake one, and have them delivered to your dorm by a serenading Spaniard. When you call to tearfully gush about my thoughtfulness, it will be then that I make this promise to you. "I will love you until the last rose dies."
After which, of course, we will hook-up like wild animals.
So keep an eye out for me on Friday night. I'll be the well-dressed man with the flower in his buttonhole, waiting to show you new realms of pleasure.
PS - I live on North Quad. Things won't get weird.
Brooks Smith
sophomore
Nov. 19
