Sophomore Year of College, I F*cked a Witch. Our Sex Changed the Trajectory of My Life.
Our encounter taught me more about sexual shame than anything else ever could.
Original illustration by Eduardo.
Vassar was like any other small liberal arts college. There was an emphasis on social justice, several closeted queer kids who “found themselves” on campus, and a general disdain for fraternity bros, universities with football teams, and anything that could be considered “basic.”
But there was one thing that was distinctly Vassar: The Mug. Ask anyone who attended the overpriced college in the heart of the Hudson Valley, and they’ll tell you a story about that poorly lit shoebox located in the basement of the historic Main Building. No matter who you ask, their story will always start the same, “I was so damn drunk.” And it’ll likely end with, “And I made out with, like, eight different people.”
Making out at The Mug was what you did. So too, was the sex that followed.
Two years before I arrived on campus, The Mug was a fully functioning bar that served alcohol to students, assuming they were 21 or older. By the time I got there in [REDACTED], that was no longer the case. That meant students would instead pound as much Popov as they could before clomping down the spiral staircase to the dingy basement. To enter, you had to compose yourself for eight seconds as you handed the campus security guard your college ID.
Upperclassmen would laugh if you asked them if they were heading to The Mug. Seldom would a junior or senior step foot in that poorly ventilated cubbyhole. But they’d encourage freshmen to go. They knew it was a rite of passage. Something that you have to outgrow on your own volition—a space that you need to live through to understand why you needed to keep it at arm’s length.
I was obsessed with The Mug my freshman year. Every Friday and Saturday night, you could find me there. I loved the loud music. I’d post up right next to the bass and feel the reverberations pulse throughout my body. I loved the sweat and stank. I loved taking off my shirt and wringing out the fluids at the end of the night.
But most of all, I loved the promise of sex. While there were a few who just came for the music, most of us came to get lucky. The irony is that many of us didn’t admit that to ourselves. That was the beauty of The Mug. You didn’t have to explain why you were going. It was just assumed, as underclassmen, you’d go.
The Mug permitted you to indulge in your sexual desires. You’d sloppily make out with someone, not even sure of how they looked—it was that dark. You’d get a hand job or fingered on the dance floor. And you may just leave with someone to finish what you started.
I experienced many firsts at The Mug—most were positive. It was there I first learned that I was desirable—that folks actually wanted to hook up with me. I also learned that I can dance in public like no one is watching. It doesn’t matter what other people think.
Then, there were the bad firsts that happened at The Mug. I once lied about being gay to avoid making out with a woman. (Something I’m not proud of, but at the time, I struggled immensely to sexually reject others. See chapter 5 of Boyslut: A Memoir and Manifesto.) There were nights I went to The Mug, blacked out, and woke up in someone’s bed—unclear of how I got there, what we did, and who this person was.
But overall, my experience was positive, which is why I kept returning every weekend, until one night changed everything.
The Boyslut, age 19.
It was sophomore year, and my best friend and I decided to hit up The Mug.
“I’m going to have sex with the first person who talks to me,” I told him. The Mug had made me smug. I thought I could get with anyone and everyone. We had a few drinks in the room and headed down. It was early, probably 10 PM, but we didn’t mind. Neither of us was looking for a wild night. We weren’t freshmen anymore.
There were only a few people there, so we began dancing, just the two of us. Within thirty seconds, a goddess walked in. She was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. At a college with a mere 660 students per class, I recognized most faces and knew of most people, especially those as attractive as her. But I was certain I had never been in the same room with this woman before.
She wore a short silk dress that shimmered as she moved. Her legs were glistening. The dress not only revealed cleavage but also the side of her breasts. It was clear she wasn’t wearing a bra. Our eyes locked as she took her final step off the spiral staircase, and I noticed hers looked like mine, only a lighter shade of green.
I would say we eye-fucked, but that wouldn’t do it justice. Her eyes were piercing. She was after something. I couldn’t tell if it was sex or something more. She could have asked me for my soul, and I would have given it to her.
A lot of people claim to be a witch in Brooklyn, and at the risk of gatekeeping, I’m dubious. But I believe with all my heart that she was a witch.
I walked straight up to her. “Hi, do you want to dance?” I asked. She nodded. I didn’t lead her to the dark corners of the room. We danced right at the entrance, the only place with light. We kept eye contact as we danced, and within a minute, we were kissing, and my hands were on her breasts and behind. Within another minute, she asked if I wanted to leave. I said yes.
Since my dorm was in Main Building, we headed to mine, and since my roommate/best friend saw me leave with her, I knew he would give me some time without barging in. (He was, and still is, a gem—the Mario to my Wario, if you know what I mean.)
Since I love a juicy ass, I often find myself in doggystyle positions, but not with her. We fucked in missionary, maintaining eye contact the entire time. Simultaneously, we both came. She squirted on me, leaving a pool of fluid on my sheets.
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