Small campuses around the nation can agree on one major issue: there isn't a whole lot of play to go around. And in order for the college race to survive sexually in a school of 1500 or less, everyone must share with one another—and the sharing doesn't stop once you've both put your clothes back on. So let's jump right into the sexual discussion.

Sharing. Girls don't know how to do it. We exit the womb holding this overwhelming feature of getting attached emotionally to anything in baggy unfitted pants that doesn't fully activate 'til college. So now that I have established that we're all stimulated at the same time, there really isn't any logical reason that you can get mad at your girlfriends for hooking up with one of your old flames. After all, small schools have a limited number of quality resources to go around, and there's no way chicks are considerate enough to conserve the supplies available. That's why the motto, “Renew Reuse Recycle” should be adopted by women everywhere.

Who the heck do the girls who are orgasming all the time think they're kidding? My god people, we're only in our late teens and early twenties. We've still got a lot to learn. Not one amongst us can call themselves an expert. Not even those of you who have older moms and older men noted on their extensive sex resume should be bragging just yet.

We're all still new at the process. I've heard that some guys can't even insert without complications, and when their partners are finally prodded properly he expects an immediate reward—and many girls (again, emotionally attached to the penis) feel bad so they give it to him. “OOOOOHHHHH yes. RIGHT there.” That's really why there's a bunch of screaming and moaning coming from the room above that only lasts for 5 to 10 minutes.

Speaking of ooo'ing and ahhh'ing guys, we really are, for the most part, faking it. We fake it all the time. If we're pounding the walls and have stupid looks of pleasure on our faces it's because we've seen them in the porn we were forced to download to get the real thing the next day.

Having a place to get it on freshman year is always difficult no matter where you are. You're in the shittiest dorm that's so small you've decided to compensate for space by bunking the beds right? There's always a fight for the bottom bunk, and not because it's easier to crawl into when you're drunk, but because you can throw a sheet over the top, creating a make-shift tent that blocks the roommate from seeing your hairy ass get it on—saving your dignity and his dinner from making a reappearance.

As far as timing, you can always tell when someone had sex right before class. And it's not their disheveled hair or poorly composed ensemble of sweatpants, inside out hoodie, and baseball cap, but the big shit-eating grin on their face during Nazism & Stalinism that gives it away.

Once you've had sex you have to talk about it. Our Sunday morning talks at brunch are limited to funny drunken memories, trips to the ER, or who hooked up with you, and how good it was. Seriously what else can you think of to talk about?

So in the middle of refried eggs and stale toast it come time for the two big questions to be answered:

1. How's the sex?
2. How big is it really?

Everyone's good in bed when you like them. It's when you're not having sex anymore that the truth comes out. And suddenly your life has turned into Sex and the City: The College Years…

“It's like I'm screwing my index finger! It's THAT small.” (And from that point the guy is no longer known as “Mark” but “Four and a Quarter.”)

Girls usually talk about this stuff openly in the dining hall. And when question number two arises we have to have examples to measure because girls also love using visual aids. Usually the only thing around to measure is the fork or knife we're eating with, but that's just wishful thinking so the backups are salt and pepper shakers. And that's how chicks measure guys.

“So Jenn how big is Nick?”

“Eh he's about two salt shakers more or less.”

“Not bad.”

“Tina, how's Tony?”

“Let's put it this way… there wasn't much spice… to shake.”


“I shook and shook but nothing ever came out.”

“Disappointing but not surprising. Jenn had the same trouble sophomore year.”

Sometimes as a bonus the guys of the past walk by and a girl can just stack one shaker on top of the other or not to signify just how big and mighty the flavor was. Right now guys are probably thinking, “Wow. That's a pretty good set up compared to our measuring their breast size to baseballs and hacky sacks.”

I can't stand couples that make a competition on having the most sex in a day or in the weirdest places. “Yeah Regina and I had sex fifteen times today. By the fifteenth time though my dick gave out and came falling down like Mariah Carrey's career. Even my balls couldn't keep up man. Can't move my legs either, but it was worth it because we beat Tony & Jamie by three times.” Yeah man, not being able to walk for a week and watching your girlfriend strutting around campus like a bowlegged cow. The epitome of cool. Let me tell you.

And what is the appeal of having sex in the library? My god seniors are flailing around trying to have sex in there before graduation. The only place you can get away with it in there is the fourth floor bathroom that nobody goes to because it's not well-ventilated. How romantic. Then again, I don't imagine many people pick the library for the intimacy factor.

Has anyone ever encountered a ridiculously big penis? Something that is the equivalent of two soda cans put together? They exist. I know. I've accidentally walked in on one poking my friend like a cowboy electrically prods his cattle. It was traumatizing. I was scared to meet anyone new in fear that he had Godzilla's tail hiding in his chinos.

What in the hell do chicks do with the guys that go right for the ass? This one girl I met at UW-Milwaukee shared her encounter with me of the guy that did this. Apparently he never made stops at Oralville or Poonaniland, just took the one way ticket straight through to Anal Alley—which, in my opinion, should always be closed off to incoming routes. I thought this very odd and conferred with a homosexual friend of mine who I will lovingly refer to as the “Gay-sian” (think male version of Margaret Cho) the following day. After a brief consultation I was given information that I find it necessary to pass along to you, straight from the Gay-sian: “If you go home with a straight man, his penis hits the mouth, the poonany, and maybe if there's time, and you're feeling experimental, the tush. But if you go home with a man that goes straight for the caboose, chances are he's not thinking Simonne so much as he is Simon.” To which I replied, “Ew, poor Joel—I mean, Joline. Oh well I'm sure she faked it anyway. After all she did say it was only one salt shaker.”