I’ve hooked up with the same person every weekend this semester, but unless we’re both out and happen to see each other, we never talk or hang out. With finals and summer coming, what should I do?
If you’re hooking up consistently with this person, then you’re ‘dating.’ Anywhere else this would be an ambiguous situation. At Yale, this is considered a fully functional relationship. And what do you mean you don’t ever talk or hang out? You talk when one of you finds the other at a party and says, “So — wanna come back to my place and ‘hang out?'” Then you proceed to ‘hang out,’ one of you clumsily checking e-mail in a subsiding drunken state while the other sits nervously on the bed and takes off his or her shoes — a clear indication of impending booty.
Then the e-mail-checker opens a playlist, puts on Martin Sexton, and you both force awkward conversation for the five minutes that must occur before you make out all over each other’s faces. It’s a match made in heaven, or at least in God Quad. I think you’ve got something really special here, and I wouldn’t change a thing. -L.K.
You love the night life. And apparently, so does she. She’s that girl at Toad’s pounding tequila, going shot for shot with the hockey team’s starting line. Eyes meet, libidos bubble, and you go in for the kill. As you confidently stroll up to the open bar stool beside her, you can sense her gushing with nervous excitement. You’re witty and she’s receptive. Three drinks and two hours of suggestive dancing later, she’s back in your cubicle and it’s on. You share a wonderful Sunday brunch and she’s on her way.
Next week, you spot her at SAE. She’s drunk and social, and when she sees you, she goes into attack mode. A tomahawk missile with an estrogen-guidance system, she scores a direct hit.
Boys, I know what you’re thinking.
You wish you could find a sparkplug like that, especially with the broken parts you’ve got to choose from here. No phone calls, no cuddling, no wine-soaked picnic dates. She’s a Saturday Night Special, the kind of girl who sexes like a man. And it seems like every Saturday night, you’re the one who’s getting her special treatment.
So what’s the problem? The semester’s coming to a close and you’re heading off to your respective prestigious internships. Should you keep her in the Rolodex, or is it time for a little summer cleaning?
Here’s my take: let her know you appreciate all the “quality time” she’s dedicated over the semester to making you happy. Tell her she’s cute. Tell her she’s sexy. Be creative. Just let her know she’s not a late-night snack you expect to find waiting for you in the fridge. And when you get back from building houses for those poor kids in Ecuador, hopefully she’ll be up for some more of your Latin loving. -B.K.
I’ve secured housing in New York City for the job I didn’t get. What should I do?
The whole location/occupation dilemma is very akin to the age-old question, “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” The New York City Career Services is not trying to help coordinate your summer by staying in communication with the Manhattan Housing Committee. You have to gamble, deciding whether you should A) wait until you’re assured some source of income — ideally a fulfilling and resume-building job — and then hope to land an affordable apartment in close proximity to said job, or B) think of the coolest possible place to live and count on some hypothetical, yet sure to emerge, employment opportunity of a lifetime. I mean, we’re Yale students, and we’re invincible. Internships in fancy shmancy New York law firms are a dime a dozen, right?
Right … Well, invincible one, the economy sucks right now, so option B may not have been the way to go. But hey, props for not being chicken and going with option A. You’re gonna have a kickin’ summer in New York while Sally Plansaheadtoomuch is stuck being an RA at a summer camp in Pennsylvania. I think you should keep the apartment and open a bed and breakfast (where you can even serve eggs — ). -L.K.
You scored a flat in Manhattan for that hot job doing Carson’s nails, but your screening sample turned up cloudy. I guess MTV isn’t as keen on the kind herb as their TRL lineup would suggest. Oh well.
Look on the bright side — you won’t have to deal with that crabby, chubby-cheeked punk and his kinky nail fetish. You’re a bachelor in the city that never sleeps, and there’s a plethora of sleeping around to be done. There’s only one small problem with this picture: no paycheck. That’s why I’ve designed this foolproof plan to keep your nights late, your bed occupied, and your pockets bulging to boot.
My plan involves a few simple steps. First, take a stroll down to Blockbuster and rent “American Gigolo.” Kick back on the couch with a Corona, a pen and a legal pad, and prepare to be educated. Watch Richard Gere’s suave seduction of Lauren Hutton. Watch how he creates a radiant aura of attraction. I know what you’re thinking. Gere has more power tools than Tim Allen on “Home Improvement.” Don’t fret — you’re a Yalie who gives mean manicures.
Next, frequent upscale drinking holes and scope the place for lonely widows. The more Prada, the better. Approach and lay down some pseudo-intellectual rap. Appeal to her desire to mother you. Make her feel young and sexy. Now you’ve found yourself a patroness.
Soon, you’ll be the hot new cabana boy all her Hamptons friends are talking about. She’ll be passing around your business card like maple syrup at IHOP. With a little skill and a lot of luck, you’ll come out of your summer rich, satisfied, and well-versed in the art of courtly love. -B.K.