As a Hispanic woman with some social capital at a small, preppy, elite college, I’m expected to retire my thorny convictions when the watery beer starts flowing.
How do you function under the conviction that you’re not as socially, politically, and economically valuable as a man? Again, I’m not dramatic; I’m incensed that you enjoy the civil rights recently afforded to our sex and, yet, turn your back on the principles they defend.
Derek has had a crush on Katie for nine months now. That’s a full-grown fetus of laying groundwork for a date, or a kiss, or maybe just some impassioned eye contact. They do homework together.
The Bar—that lone tavern in the sprawling metropolis that is your college town—is a thing of intrigue. Even for a native New Yorker accustomed to passing by watering holes on every block, the bar at a small school manages to harness a surprising amount of mystique.
The sex wasn’t great. But it wasn’t bad, either—a little uncomfortable (physically and otherwise), but no more so than expected. What was unbearable was the pillow talk.
Voilà! Hypothesis turned theory. Call me Sigmund.