The Fed

I WILL NOT DIE A VIRGIN!

One Babe's Quest to Leave This Millenium One Flower Short of the Virginal Dozen

Erin Thompson

There may be some who do not believe - and I'm not going to take any special medical pains to convince them - but I, your intrepid Fed reporter, am a vestigial virgin. True, I've had to pass up some of the finer things in sexual adventure: the paste-up orgies in the Fed office, the fabled prowess of SEAS, the whole TA thing. However, I do have an air-tight excuse as to why I'm not getting any action.

Why am I "V", you might ask-- was it that Freudian childhood fear of horses? Knowledge of a vengeful God? Wish not to be with child (especially after all those recreational drugs)? Well, of course! But for this article, let's just say I have this thing about firsts.

For some girls, their wedding night might be special enough for a first time. That's what I used to think, but with this rising millennial tide of Y2K, cannibalistic rat, and apocalypse, I don't think I can sucker anyone into marriage before December 31st, so the end of the world will have to be special enough for me, and decades from now, when my grandchildren asked me what I was doing when the new millennium dawned, I can totally disgust them by cackling "Making the beast with two backs, dearies! No, no, don't vomit, honey."

But if you think I'm going to lose my maidenhead in some John Jay single, you must be crazy or the guy I was seeing at the beginning of the year (No means no! And stop calling me, you creep!). I'm making this formal - I hearby announce the "Race For A Score."

At eleven p.m., December 31st, all contestants will gather in the playing fields in front of Butler Library. A preliminary screening will check for disease, SAT scores, and ignorance of fire-hydrant hijinks. Then, the fight to be the first to the top of Butler will begin. Why Butler? Well, I dreamed of losing my virginity to a man of wit and learning; observation of my fellow undergrads has shown me I must settle for losing my virginity surrounded by the works of men of wit and learning. Men who hadn't the faintest urge to crush a beer can against their... but I digress.

Contestants must make their way past misguided reading room looters (fools -knowledge will have no value in the new world!) and Zippo-happy revelers who've had it up to here with Lit Hum. Then they will negotiate the booby-trap filled stack staircases (beware the emasculating power of the collected works of Virginia Woolf!)

Reaching the final level, the remaining questers will have ten minutes to groom themselves and produce proper flowers, jewelry, and music choice (sensitive new-rock ballads will result in immediate dismissal; choosers of "Sexual Healing" will be castrated). The top three, having brought innovative, yet not pretentious arrangements, classic diamonds on quality chains, and music with a subtle, building rhythm, will be lead into the 12th tier and test-driven by some of the more feisty of my dorm mates. The winner will then stumble into my nook, carpeted with exotic office surplus, hung with drapes of perforated ad/drop forms, and, as the clock strikes 12... Do I really need to spell it out? You people have no imagination.

But as walls of Columbia shake with the chaos of the night, and the first wave of rioting Harlemites pours down Broadway, and the entire Quad explodes into a great cinematic fireball as hordes of millenium rats finally gnaw through the last fusebox in Lerner Electrotech, I will not have died a virgin.