One button, I look up, laugh nervously, steer his hand back to my face. When the third button pops I struggle to stutter into his ear that I don’t want to, that I can’t, that we should stop, that I made a mistake, that I shouldn’t have come, that I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have led him on. It takes a lot of courage to go against the sexual inertia. A lot of courage, but even more resolve. Somewhere in his cerebral cogs my no becomes a challenge, a gate that the right word will unlock. I must clutch tight to my words. I apologize. I’ve wasted his time, his precious, dwindling time. I’m such an idiot.

Why? Don’t you like that? Aren’t I a good kisser? Don’t you want this? Don’t you like me? Why are you such a tease? Here’s where I second-guess myself. My logical mind searches for a justification, a spoonful of sugar to settle his ego. I’ve been conditioned to accept that the lack of a “reason” behind my discomfort means I have no substance behind my no. I don’t want to hurt him. I weigh the possibilities; is it worth it to appease?

I used to think yes. Sex is fun. College is fun. Sex in college is fun. YOLO and FOMO working in full force, I’m a first semester first-year and thirstily licking up every drop of the college experience. My whole life has culminated in my presence here, at Colgate. Bake sales for debate team, meaningless office positions in meaningless clubs, gaudy Hollister logo tees, light-up converse, getting my period in seventh grade French class, all done with the prospect of The Best Four Years of My Life in the near view. We’ve been programmed to see college as a panacean climax. College Me is refined, perfected, nonchalant. College Me doesn’t always wear a bra and smiles at her reflection in the mirror. College Me drinks coffee black. College Me doesn’t give a duck (boot).

It’s not my responsibility to protect his feelings, and I should not have to defend mine. Furthermore, there should be no feelings hurt in this scenario. Not being in the mood is nothing to apologize for. It’s not a personal attack. It doesn’t warrant a consolation hand job. It’s not a test of his skills of persuasion; an infinite number of “baby”s can’t change my mind.

We’re sitting in Frank. A bowl of soggy lucky charms filmy beneath her confession: “obviously, I had two drinks in my hand, so I was double fisting. Everyone was up on tables, wearing the same outfit, and you could tell that everyone was like ‘damn, we love each other.’ How College is that?!” I’d wager that that’s pretty college. It’s probably exactly definitely the sort of Saturday afternoon teen novels and stories of our parents’ Glory Days prepped us for. So it goes like this: everyone’s eyes become strobes and thin arms reach for the ceiling, red solo cups sloshing and reaching and reaching. We know the lyrics to all the same songs and we chant them like a prayer. We’re layered in Forever 21, ensconcing ourselves in frat basement perpetuity. We’re fabulously free of commitments, of passion, of ducks to give. And with the crescendo of distraction--with the stacks of empty solo cups climbing, and a bass that moves us, and a cute boy the coos at us, and homework as a distant memory-- we can trick ourselves into love and fraternity and community.

Seeking a “so college” experience I’ve lost a lot of myself in trying to maintain my role as Blonde College Freshman in The Best Four Years of My Life. I’ve lost the ability to say no.