Sexy Spring has sprung. Photo courtesy of Robert S. Donovan, Flickr

Spring sex. There’s nothing like it. For some reason, every single animate being in the world just wants to fuck. It’s on the minds of everyone walking across the green, all those people shedding clothes and tousling hair. In the winter you only wanted someone in your bed to keep you warm, but now it’s spring and you… just… want… to… fuck.

It’s a new season, and new beginnings for relationships. Who doesn’t like new relationships? I recently had crème brûlée for the first time at Murphy’s with my new boyfriend, and it was delicious, just like him. Cracking through the hard sugar caramel to get to the creamy white insides seemed too coincidentally similar to a blowjob served on a dessert platter.

I hadn’t given a blowjob in a very long time.

I was kept off my knees from a general distaste of sweaty hair, tired tongue and jaw muscles, and the texture of semen. But people had started to notice, like my boyfriend, when he mentioned as a sidenote that I must not really like sucking cock. It also came up in a conversation with a gay friend, one of a few men who actually know the truth about BJ’s: it is better to receive than to give.

Well, it was time I added something new to my routine, in the spirit of spring: the blowjob. How would I incorporate it ? Is a blowjob something you do before sex? In the morning? The shower? Public locations? Just while chilling in the room? I was looking for the perfect moment to break it out.

The other new thing on my list to try this spring was the Dartmouth Seven. Since the closest I’d come to any of the Seven was the cemetery (which isn’t even one of the Seven), it was time to think about incorporating the Seven into my sex too. So there they were—the blowjob and the Seven. I hadn’t connected them consciously, but I would soon.

We sit in the 1902 room, which is, of course, the place with the most stress and spring horniness on this campus, creating a potent mixture of sexual tension. Therefore it feels very appropriate when the boyfriend slides over a piece of scrap paper: “I’m horny.”

“Quick,” I write, “before it’s 2 a.m.!” The truth dawns on him. Yes, yes my friend, we are going to have sex in the stacks. We saunter out of the room with the knowledge that we are about to get some heavy on our minds. Twenty disapproving glances at the loudness and disruptive quality of our footsteps come our way, but we don’t notice.

We descend into the stacks and find a dead-end dark row in the back of the second basement’s appendix. I step up onto the first set of shelves after he pulls my shorts off, my back leveraged against the wall, a perfect angle to fuck. But wait! We have no condom! He confesses that he might soon blow his load; it can’t go in me, and it can’t go on the books.

He comes in my mouth. Crème brûlée.

Cum—the elixir of spring, just as keystone light was the elixir of winter. It flows across campus and people are seen swimming through it on beautiful spring morning walks of shame. That’s another great, new feeling on campus—the idea that the weather might be warm enough to walk home disheveled at 7 a.m. Listen to the birds calling. Wasn’t that great sex last night right next to the open window and the flowering trees outside!? Fuck me!

Sexy spring will make you do crazy things, as my previously mentioned friend can attest to. After looking across the drunken haze of a basement, he spots a hot little piece of meat who was eyeing him too. A couple winks later, and feeling drunk off of spring lust, he marches straight up to the man and starts making out.
“It was intense,” he reports.