The next time you’re in search of romantic advice, look no further than the bathroom stalls on the second floor of White Gravenor. While spending a few minutes doing whatever you do in a lavatory, you’ll find a variety of anecdotes concerning the sexual secrets, tricks and talents of many Georgetown students. I can only speak for the women’s restroom, as I have yet to build up the courage to venture into the men’s room to see if my male counterparts also use their metal stall dividers as blackboards.
So-and-so gives great oral. Someone else is the best kisser alive. But, stay away from this kid … he sucks. And that guy is the “number one man whore.” The scrawling covers the walls and door. Most of the remarks are accusations cast against some sophomoric male who failed to call back the next day, or ever. What you find in this bathroom could be deemed the epitome of defiance of that most infamous taboo, kissing and telling.
But whoever heard of abstaining from kissing and telling? Apparently, even a toilet stall is the place to bare all. This two-by-four foot stall is a glorified haven of gossip. I could not help but sacrifice an extra 10 minutes of my econ lecture to read all the contributions. In high school, I would not have been fazed by such lewd commentary. The denizen of a new locker expected to find notes leftover from the year before, detailing lists of crushes and boys’ names written, crossed out and rewritten inside hearts of all sizes. Layers of masking tape were used as paper when a surface was unconducive to ballpoint pen. The custodial staff was forced to erase classroom desktops nightly because kids had a tendency to employ them as their personal diaries.
But somehow, desecration of a Georgetown building, even if it was only a bathroom, felt wrong to me. For one thing, this was a collegiate edifice. Scholars discussed the fine points of such subjects as philosophy and international politics within these same walls. Jane Hoya’s gripes about the size of Joe’s “hands” could hardly compete with Aristotle’s opinion on the ideal form of democracy. I was, to my surprise, floored that this watered-down pornography could be found in such an esteemed public venue.
Besides, hadn’t we moved on from that? I thought we had found more mature ways to stroke our egos than by boasting of our sexual exploits and embarrassments. I’ve giggled at many an amusing tale of a roommate who tried to subtly sneak into her bed after taking a roundabout way home to avoid the “walk of shame.” Of course, she always divulges every last detail of the evening to us over pancakes in the cafeteria the next morning. The fact that last night’s mascara still lines her eyes isn’t anything the rest of us haven’t experienced on one Saturday morning or another. This scene, along with the ladies’ room graffiti, would suggest that that the common weekend tryst leads to little more than brunch conversation for the friends of the seduced casualty, or triumphant conqueror, as the case may be.
When I returned to class, my professor was in the midst of explaining why Latin American economies had failed to overcome high levels of public debt. Having given up the hope of understanding the lecture, I was left wondering why 20-year olds have such difficulty overcoming the temptation to disclose intimate details of their lives. I can only conclude that it’s our way of milking these all too typical brief but racy rendezvous for all they are worth.
Most steamy nights quickly fizzle into mere memory. Both parties realize, after a period of denial, that all the attraction was in the heat of the moment. Spontaneous reunions are always the most thrilling, but also the least likely to be transformed into that elusive thing called a “relationship.”
There is a photograph hanging in my room that serves as a good metaphor for the warped reality of college campuses. An unbelievably attractive man driving a convertible is speeding by an equally striking girl, who is also driving. As they pass, they kiss. Examining the picture, I once mused to a friend, “I wonder if they are supposed to be married.” My male companion responded without hesitation, “No way. Too passionate.”
The couple was hot. They were in it for the sex appeal, not for the long term. And if you were that girl, you’d probably deface a bathroom stall too.
