Pining after your FroCo? Dying to get on the orgy panlist? Sick of seeing khakis on men? You’re in luck! Welcome to Sex on the WKND, YDN’s anonymous column dedicated to answering your burning questions about sex, love and anything in between. Obsessing over sex is a Yale tradition as old as the Oldest College Daily itself. This year, we have a love-guru columnist who has done it all — including everyone on the aforementioned orgy panlist — and is ready to share. Whether you have a seminar with a hookup-gone-wrong or accidentally sent a raunchy text to your chemistry study group, Sex on the WKND is ready to help. Don’t be shy. Submit your anonymous questions, stories, and tips here.
Every Thursday night at 10 p.m., my boyfriend goes MIA. It’s like clockwork. I won’t hear from him for hours, then he’ll text me “goodnight!” as if nothing happened. How do I sniff him out?
First off, have you considered whether your boyfriend is in society?
If not, you have some sleuthing to do.
With current news of Ned “wife guy” Fulmer, John “I love my wife” Mulaney and Adam “She will be loved but I didn’t specify exactly who she is” Levine, infidelity is everywhere. For the first time since the Tiger Woods incident of 2009, everyone is a suspect.
I happen to have a highly personal stake in this week’s topic. I’ve mentioned this in a past column, but I’ve been cheated on. Three times. By the same person. I know it’s utterly un-sex-mogulish of me to let him step out for that long, but believe it or not, I was once an unsuspecting amateur.
And now, I have trust issues!
Luckily, at Yale, it’s kinda hard to cheat and not get caught. Someone is always in the Alley Cats with someone else’s suitemate’s best friend’s Pi Phi little. Word gets around — and so do those in committed relationships, apparently. But for the times when you’re unsure about someone else’s sleezing — or what action to take thereafter — Sex on the WKND has, once again, got you covered.
Welcome to The Holy Trifecta of Tackling Infidelity.
How to Catch a Cheater
- Check their Venmo transactions. Why is he venmoing Miss Mirabella for “gas money?” We know what he was really pumping.
- Post a piña colada-type ad online. He might be trying to make love at midnight in the dunes of the cape. If that’s the love that he’s looked for, you need to escape.
- Go to a psychic with 3.5 stars on Yelp. Like a family restaurant, anything below 3.5 is concerning, but anything above risks inauthenticity.
- Hide an Airtag in their backpack. Actually, don’t do this. It’s like, highly illegal. (If you get caught.)
- Put on a wig and follow them around. See if they’re actually headed to erg with the bros. Chances are, they’re not doing strokes — they’re stroking someone else.
- Truthfinder.com, or any other website that asks you to pay to see your estranged father’s criminal record. They have dirt on everyone. You don’t want to know what I learned about my third grade teacher, Mrs. Pecker. (No, that is not a euphemism, you dirty wenches.)
- Check out the live photos. Background audio and sudden camera movements can be telling. One second she’s smiling for the camera, the next she’s cuddled up to another sapphic watching Britany and Santana Fancams. Why are #Gleeks so fucking horny?
- Trust your gut — but not the one you’ve been letting him probe.
How to Confront Them
- Leak their deeds — and their phone number — in Harry Styles’ comment section. Even the fangirls know that this is not the time to Treat People With Kindness.
- Go on a walk to get some ice and catch your sister, Veronica, and your husband, Charlie, doing Number 17: The Spread Eagle. You’ll be washing the blood off of your hands before you even realize they’re dead. You know what they say — he had it coming.
- Yes, I know Chicago. I am one of those horny, fucking Gleeks.
- Don’t. Live on in quiet resentment. That was good enough for my grandma. It can be good enough for you.
- Invite their parents over for dinner the same night they’re planning a sneaky link with their sideboo. Tell the parents that you’re proposing tonight. Act like you’re in cardiac arrest when the big reveal finally comes. That way, his orthodontist father will have to give you mouth-to-mouth. Grab him like he’s Wendy Peffercorn and mount him right there on the carpet. There’s no revenge sweeter than fucking his father in front of his philandering face.
- Say their doctor called and said they have syphilis strain X Æ A-Xii. Tell them you can only get infected at certain NXIVM-run truck stop glory holes surrounding Schenectady, New York. They’ll admit to what they did to avoid jail time.
- This only works if your partner is Catholic, but hide in the priest’s side of the confessional and listen to her sins. Tell her she is unforgiven. Tell her no amount of Hail Marys will save her from damnation. Tell her Lucifer is setting the linens for her final resting place.
How to Move On
- Now that you’re out of there, you’re gonna be damaged lowk. Embrace it harder than she embraced that dude on heavyweight crew.
- I will reëmphasize: fuck his parents.
- Effigies are always an option. I know a great place on State Street that makes ’em by the dozen.
- Develop a drinking problem. If alcohol is not your substance of choice, try ketamine. They’re doing a depression study at Yale New Haven Hospital as we speak. Use referral code SOTW to bypass the waitlist.
- Blah blah allow time to take its course blah blah healthy healing.
- Again, fuck his parents. This works even better if their divorce is what initially fucked up your partner and inevitably led to your partner fucking up you. With all those remarriages, you’ll have four parents to pick from. Choose wisely.
Cheating sucks. I tore my esophagus from violently sobbing after my boyfriend’s third affair dropped. I ate out of a tube for three days. You, too, have the right to hurt. Unless your partner is on the Climbing Team. Those guys are a bunch of swingers. You should’ve known better.