It’s getting colder and colder. Leaning my face against a window pane for a late-afternoon contemplative stare is turning my nose red and my skin dry. It’s cuffing season, and most of us 18-22 year olds are leaning against similar windows on college campuses everywhere: lost, lonely, and bereft of love. I’d like to think that at 4 p.m., when the sun recedes to the barren snowscape of an East Coast winter, undergrads from Brown to Bucknell gather around window panes to ponder where their unrequited love could be hiding. I’m here to declare that enough is enough.
At a time of year when it’s pitch-black by 6 p.m., who are we to ghost our blanket friend — sweet, trusted confidante against whose side I fall asleep watching Lena Dunham unironically — and invest in a heating pad to keep us warm at night? It’s time for a social revolution. Misguided as it may be, let us invoke the summer of love.
No longer shall we be held captive by the stage of capitalism where we pay a premium for extra Tinder swipes. Gone are the days when we hesitate to DM our crushes on Instagram. Perish the thought of returning to a twin XL dorm bed alone ever again. Eat our dust prudes, as we throw caution to the wind and recreate the psychedelic wonders of casual sex en masse. Imagine walking into any library, study space and campus coffee shop across the land, and finding the young and lonely taking arms against a winter of discontent— and getting it the fuck on.
Don’t we fondly recall the fading film prints of Haight-Ashbury? Pilgrims from cornfields and cosmopolitan backgrounds alike — seduced by the promise of sexual liberation — sway to the vibes of a Dionysian decade, long since gone by. While they certainly imperiled the public health infrastructure of the State of California, God knows they weren’t short of a bedfellow, much less a blanket friend.
As undergrads, we inherit a legacy of promiscuity and idealism, with absolutely nothing to show for it. I am embarrassed on behalf of our generation when I see the opportunity cost of intimacy challenged so unanimously by the spectre of “commitment.” What do we have to lose by texting a kind-hearted discussion partner from our first-year seminar and inviting them, in no minced words, to come over and take a nap? We don’t have the luxury of the high road. There’s no use in pretending like we don’t all need someone to keep us warm at night, lest there be “the bar.” I’m convinced that commitment is a social construct, something previous generations invented to keep us pressing up against icy window panes lusting for flower power. The obstacle of commitment set aside, it’s time to get nasty.
After the revolution begins, it will be only a matter of time until the fruits of our wild oats begin to ripen. Soon enough, every self-respecting student under 30 will wake up to mysterious spores and some difficulty urinating. It’ll be a fashion statement to issue a disclaimer to your sex partner that your balls are just rock. fucking. hard. In this utopia of smut, there are few sure things — but at least you won’t be alone. We’ll dream of our Chlamydia-ridden ancestors greeting us at the gates of Woodstock — in Heaven — telling us we did good. You’ll wake up and declare: o spiteful millennial God, at least I got laid.
John Besche | email@example.com