This year, I made a New Year’s Rezzie to take more risks. I was going to go out on a limb, live life to the fullest, and embrace my new identity as a fun, cool chick. So when my friend asked me if I wanted to go to a naked party the first weekend of the new semester, I was like, hard yes. However, since new me wasn’t immune to the awkwardness that is mass public nudity, I decided to prepare myself for the prospect of seeing a sea of flaccid penises as any sane person would: by getting very, very drunk. Fast forward one hour later, and I found myself having enthusiastic consensual sex with a host of said naked party on the floor of a professor’s office in HGS. If you find yourself marveling at how I managed to pull off such a feat, you are not alone. Details of the night are, some would say, hazy. I remember being naked, then being clothed, then being naked again. Unclear how I managed to locate the office in HGS or a willing sexual partner. All I can say is: mission accomplished.

I’m like, the least kinky person I know. But I did hook up on a Steinway piano in Saybrook basement.

There is a room in the basement of Farnam with Sesame Street wallpaper. Oscar, Elmo, Ernie, Big Bird—the whole gang’s there. Collectively, their terrifying, unblinking gaze misses nothing. This room usually serves as the laundry service’s HQ, and therefore holds several racks of dry-cleaning. One icy December night, two amorous freshman shared an evening upon a pile of this dry-cleaning; many apologies are extended to those who involuntarily presented their laundry for the cause.

I turned off the sink
then Lysol-ed the toilet
Meningitis is spreading disinfections of utmost importance Red cup beside me
Hair haphazardly tied
I attempted a sexy dance
with besotted, lush eyes
Dangling from the sink
This might be Pilates
I blame it on the drank
Too sloppy to be naughty
Enough about boring
Can you guess where I’m at Perhaps in the bathroom
of my boyfriend’s foul frat

The night felt right. We danced, we talked. She had a twinkle in her eye. But I had a double. And she had a double. What could we do? And then there it was: the Mendenhall Room. Nothing says “romance” like awkwardly pausing and waving to the Berkeley students as they fetched water from the water fountain, or repeatedly telling some freshmen with a laptop that the room was occupied. The night may have ended early, but the memory lives on.

There has always been a stigma around public sex that I will never understand. Since freshmen year, I’ve heard numerous stories of friends having sex anywhere from Tyco roof to the laundry room. While you may claim that would never be you, next thing you know you’re grabbing that boy’s hand and bringing him into the bathroom at Myrtle Beach’s famous Spanish Galleon aka Spoads. One of the most romantic gestures I’ve witnessed was a pregnant lady and her supposed baby daddy banging in the parking lot of the Oxford/Cambridge in the middle of the day. When they finished, he gave her a nice love tap on her ass. Now I like to imagine this as the perfect expression of the deepest love, a love that defies social conventions and needs to be consummated the moment it is felt. But not all of us are so lucky to have this type of connection. The rest of us must rely on the chance encounter with a fellow thrill seeker. So this Valentine’s Day, grab a partner and a choose the location that best suits your brand of freak. But be careful, it’s not always a happy ending, you may be asked to leave Spoads and be condemned to having sex in a private room with the door locked and curtains drawn.

On the freezing afternoon of Feb. 2, I was trapped in the depths of the stacks, depressed that instead of celebrating Groundhog Day in the snow, I was stuck writing an essay. So, to heat things up, I sent a boy a succinct sexual proposition in honor of Punksatawny Phil. Subject line: “RE: Groundhog Day Festivities.” Body: “Sterling. 3pm. 5M.” Much like Mr. Phil, we shied from the light, cozying up between some bookshelves. But, unlike our furry friend, our successful performance required quite a bit of effort to enter the hole we sought without calling attention to ourselves. ‘Cause, like, floors are creaky. We weren’t tryna give up easy though—the handicapped bathroom on floor six offered a bit more privacy and was only a bit less sexy. Not the steamiest stacks experience, but apparently we have six more weeks of winter to keep trying.

I hooked up with someone after an ugly sweater party who didn’t take his reindeer turtleneck off while we had sex. Not in a weird place geographically, just generally weird.