The problem with pseudo-celebrities is that they believe that they are entitled to have sex with you because of who they think they are. Ladies and gentlemen, do not be fooled. These are normal people like you and me. Have you ever met an Old Blue? They are draping with self-importance, which becomes pathetic when you’re a fat thirty-something. A blue might last forever, but your right to sleep with attractive women has a very short life span.
Knowing Blues old and young I can say that it is a very fine line between humility and being a completely egocentric cock. Having attended functions with said Blues, I am less than impressed by some of their behaviour. An old blue, mid-piss on the side of a college, turned around and asked if I would like for him to piss on me. No, no I don’t think I would like that. And I’m sure the Pembroke Porters don’t like you having a wee on their college either. Do these men believe that they are immune to the rules of common decency? I might like sex, but I don’t like arseholes, and I am willing to maintain a pretty extensive degree of standards when it comes to who I will and will not sleep with. I may have a lot of sex, but at least I’m not ashamed of the people I’ve slept with. They are for the most part completely decent and amazing people. How can I tell with one-night stands? Well I just can, ok? Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
In short, if you wouldn’t tell your best friend about the person you’re about to sleep with, walk away. That’s what I do, I think WWBFT? What Would Best Friend Think? Luckily she often thinks my adventures are brilliant, but if I feel like it’s something I’m not going to want to tell her I bid my prospect adieu. Everyone wakes up next to a “what the hell was I thinking?” kind of person, but we can grow from this. Drink a bit less. My new years resolution was to never drink a VK ever again. Broke that the first week back at uni, but I’m still cutting back, as I’m sure lots of sugar and alcohol can’t be good for you. I like to wake up to a hot guy, not heart palpitations.
Not all Blues are like this, and speaking of waking up next to hot men, and of old Blues, I shall tell you about one of the nicer ones. There was a function recently that brought a few of them to town, and me being out in town that night, happened to run into a group of Blues, new and old. There was a recently graduated Blue that I knew from his time here, but with whom I had never slept with. He was charming, but not overtly. Witty and a bit of a quirk, not to mention previous athletic prowess. He had gone a little soft around the edges after retiring from 6 hours of training, 5 days a week, but was still very handsome and I was fairly certain he would not mistake me for a wall and try to piss on me.
“What’s your poison?” he asked, leaning over my shoulder from behind as I queued at the bar. I could feel his breath on my cheek, he smelled like Giorgio Armani and Stella.
“Sleazy men, apparently.” I said an octave lower than he would be able to hear over the music.
“G and T, please.” I smiled at him. He moved past me towards the bar and ordered our drinks. This man was actually far from some of his sleazy counterparts, and I enjoyed our conversation, subsequent dancing, and his inevitable come on.
“Your place or mine?” he said into my ear during an interlude between songs.
“Who said I wanted to sleep with you?” I asked, pulling my head away from his, but keeping the same proximity from our waists down.
“So you don’t?” he asked, unsurprised.
“I didn’t say that, I just asked what made you think that.” I said, raising an eyebrow.
He pretended to think for a moment, then looked me in the eyes and said, “Oh, just intuition I suppose,” and then kissed me. The quality of the following ten minutes of kissing on the dance floor was the green light into my bedroom.
“Back to mine, then?” I asked.
“Where’s yours?” I told him. “Ha, no way. We’ll go to where I’m staying, it’s just down the road.”
“Maybe I want to go to mine.”
“Convenience … don’t exactly want to be walking home in this in the morning, do I?” I said, gesturing to my outfit, which would never pass in the day for anything but what it was – being the outfit from the night before, of course.
“Come on, I’ll give you money for a taxi if that’s all you’re worried about.” Hm, sounded familiar. Hopefully he wouldn’t be making any back door propositions.
“Why don’t we just pay for a taxi now?”
“Ah, go on then. If you’re going to be a spoiled brat about it.”
“I am. And what do you mean, ‘go on then’? I’m not paying for this taxi.”
“Then we can walk.”
“Fine, I’ll pay for the taxi.”
He laughed, “Let’s go you nutter, I’ll swing for the ride.” Cue to another infamous taxi-ride snog-fest. I’m sure they aren’t unique to my experiences, but I find myself in the situation quite often.
Time between my door closing and my dress hitting the floor, approximately :21. Decent. “Let’s take a shower,” he said, between kisses as he effortlessly unclasped my bra while simultaneously making his way out of his outfit.
My shower is not made for two people. In fact, it’s barely made for one person. It is, however, rather conducive to a larger than average man with a small woman wrapped around his waist. Go figure.
Just foreplay in the shower, and we saved sex for the bed, which we fell into without drying ourselves, dampening the sheets with moisture and the remnants of the Original Source shower gel we had lathered all over each other.
The sex made up for my previous Blues experience, and I found my tsunami of love (‘not the size of the boat, the motion of the ocean’ reference in case you missed “Oxbridge Blues - Part I”).
Blues are like big, testosterone-filled snowflakes – no two of them are the same. I’m sure they’ll love the reference and comparison to delicate pieces of falling ice. They have, however, confirmed my assertion that older is wiser and generally much better in bed. So if you want to sleep with a Blue, go for an Old Blue I say. Just not one of the fat, obnoxious ones.