Written by: Cat Butrick
Art by: Grace Monahan
*If you are related to me in any way (this includes you, Laura because you are a maternal figure to us all), read only until the first paragraph of Water and then skip to Bathrooms. I warn you for your sake, not mine. Because nothing makes me uncomfortable and I don’t fear god.*
A sharp pain jolts through my ear as the thick arm beneath my head shifts, brushing my new piercing in the process. I wince and instinctively squeeze my eyes shut. I roll back my shoulders and then bring my knees closer to my chest as that satisfying yet uncomfortable “just woke up and I’m lowkey claustrophobic” feeling moves through my joints. The stale smell of sweat and saliva is the first thing to stimulate my senses, followed shortly by the sliver of light that peeks past the blue sheet acting as a curtain. A thunder-esc sound rumbles above me. What is this godforsaken place?
As a testament to how much I love this publication, I ventured into one of the most dangerous, primitive areas known to man: a motherfucking frat house. After weeks of enjoying my fair share of fraternity memes, I made the terrifying, but empowering, decision to spend my fall break living with my boy (we’ll call him Brad) and his “brothers” to see if the stereotypes were true. Here are my findings:
As a major supporter of living minimally, I can’t help but support the boys’ interior decorating. In the main living room, there lies only two L-shaped faux-suede couches with a small bedside table nuzzled against one of the them. Both of these couches are positioned in the center of the room, focusing on the large flatscreen TV that resides above the fireplace. Now that I think of it, that TV might be the nicest item in the house.
The basement of the house is somehow more sparse. In the three massive rooms that make up the lowest-level, there is one couch and approximately three plastic folding tables with sibling chairs to accompany them. The walls are bare cinder block except a single fraternity flag that hangs by the staircase. In the boys defense, they do have to cram hundreds of people into the space multiple weekends every month, so kudos to them for their innovative thinking.
Brad’s room… oh Brad’s room. Let me reference two of my favourite tweets to describe this place:
no boy has all 3:
– a top sheet
– more than one pillow
– a bed frame
— BʳOOᵏᵉ👻 (@SmackTownBoss) September 22, 2019
When you walk in his room and see one flat pillow, old spice deodorant and navy blue sheets https://t.co/JUgIeMmL1G
— jam wit da foe-foe (@j_mxa) September 22, 2019
PSA: If you plan on visiting any male for more than a few hours, BRING SUSTENANCE. These creatures never have any snacks in their rooms. None. How they satisfy their 3am Saturday drunk/high munchies that I know they have, I have no idea.
Since the house has a full kitchen and its own chefs, it wasn’t like Brad could swipe me into a dining hall and I’d run free. Oh no. Instead, I sat like a mangy dog, staring at the food on the tables, sitting quietly until Brad and I went back to his room, where I proceeded to order takeout. Now don’t get me wrong, all the food I ate was far better than everything the house served, but my wallet was not a fan of this predicament.
Now I knew I was in for some good old fashioned dehydration when Brad told me he “didn’t trust the tap water.” Those of you who know me know one of my many identifiers is my egregiously large water bottles. You might think, “Well Cat, if your bottles are so large, you shouldn’t have to fill them up as often.” Yes my friends; this is true. However, I consume water similar to how one consumes any liquid on their bedside table at 4am: hard and fast. So you can see my predicament.
I went from drinking about 128oz of water a day to maybe 32oz, including the tablespoon of water I swallowed each time Brad came.
Going rounds is all fun and games until your pussy has got MAJOR razor burn, your hair is DISGUSTING, and the room smells like a sex dungeon. I don’t think I have ever experienced exhaustion like I did after those four days.
Now I won’t go full detail with positions and times even though I absolutely can… but lemme tell you… a bitch is changed. My rationale was thrown out the door the second I stepped into this man’s car. If my mother did not ingrain the importance of safe driving into my head so intently when I was 16, I can guarantee I would have hopped on a motherfucker’s dick and we would have been fucking the entire drive home. This shit was hitting different.
Ladies… if your frat boy eats you out for fun, knows how to use his fingers, and ALWAYS makes sure you come, KEEP HIM. Keep his ass and train him to be even better. Because that is exactly what my horny ass is doing.
Now everyone knows (and if you don’t know now you do) that post-sex we go to the bathroom becuase we do not stan UTI’s in this agnostic household. So that’s where we venture to next. The bathroom on Brad’s floor is pretty standard: one stall, one urinal, two college-sized showers, and two sinks all accompanied by that classic brown and white speckled tile. Y’all know what I’m talking about. What isn’t standard is the nature of the boys’ basic hygiene products.
There was no soap. Anywhere. They have a bottle but unsurprisingly, it is empty. I used shampoo instead. Speaking of washing, whoever installed the shower heads in this house needs to be fired. You could not adjust them at all, so everytime Brad and I showered, I would hide in the miniscule corner and splash water onto myself to avoid waterboarding. I suppose the aggressive water pressure makes up for the lack of soap though.
And the toilet paper. Oh god the toilet paper. It was never in the holder. It was always either on the floor or resting on the water tank. There was no inbetween. I lost count of the amount of times I drip dried because I was scared of the floor paper.
All in all, despite fearing for my internal organs and mental sanity the entire time I was there, I had fun. All the boys I met were very respectful and seemed genuinely kind. I came almost more than I could keep track of, and I got to see this cute ass bitch, Brad. Will I be leaving my fresh, soap-loving, clean water-having Champlain pod anytime soon? Y’all already know the answer to that, so signing off, I’m Cat Butrick, and I survived four days in a frat house.
*Update* Brad has mono, and he didn’t get it from me… I blame the tap water.