It was first-year move-in day. When I stepped foot on campus, I instantly felt a rush of excitement but also was overwhelmed. In high school, I focused on getting perfect grades and being president of my class. I had no time to relax and have fun. On those rare occasions where I did have free nights to spare, I spent my time watching raunchy 2000s college movies in which college is depicted as continually being naked and doing keg stands. In those moments, I closed my eyes, picturing my own euphoric college experience, and smiled. Suddenly, I was back on campus, starting my first day at Harvard.
During the mandatory orientation information sessions, I zoned out as deans and upperclassmen shared details about different courses and concentrations. I was done listening to anything school-related. I was ready to fuck. The only type of information my ears were opening to was where the parties were taking place and the weird vaguely sexual traditions people were already beginning to complete, like peeing on the John Harvard statue or fucking in the stacks.
That first week of school, I tried to increase my chances of experiencing that first college sex euphoria I’d been dreaming about all of my life. I attended the First-Year Fling, numerous dorm parties, and parties hosted by organizations I had no business being at. And yet, there was nobody who grabbed my attention. Even worse, I grabbed nobody’s attention. I dragged myself back to my dorm in Thayer and started to feel a sickening pit of dread in my stomach. Maybe college wasn’t going to be all that I imagined it to be. I crawled into bed, turned on National Lampoon’s Van Wilder, and was about to leave it to myself to get the real party started when unexpectedly, I heard laughter outside my window.
I ran outside to see a group of kids standing around the statue of John Harvard, giggling and pointing as one boy stood on top and pissed all over John’s ankles. I swiftly joined the group and waited to see who would be brave enough to go next. The laughter died down as no one seemed to be volunteering. This was it, I thought to myself. If I get up there and pee, everyone is going to think I’m so cool and funny and hot. Who wouldn’t want to have sex with me then?
I made my way to the side of the statue and hauled myself up. I felt all eyes on me, as if I was on a big concert stage, and the spotlight was beaming directly on my face. This was my one opportunity to shine. I couldn’t let any pee shyness fail me now. I focused really hard and let the warm liquid flood the bronze platform below me as the other students’ laughter filled the air once more. It was finally time for my performance to come to an end. As I switched my footing to make my descent off the statue, I slipped on my own pee and hit my head on John Harvard’s golden foot. Suddenly, everything went black…
As I began to regain consciousness, I felt two big, strong hands holding me up. I assumed that I was being picked up and carried to an ambulance by paramedics or a Securitas officer. But these hands didn’t feel like human skin. They were smooth and cold, almost metallic.
Abruptly, the owner of those hands whispered to me, “That was a close one.” I opened my eyes. “WHAT THE FUCK!?” I screamed as I was face-to-face with JOHN HARVARD standing upright, holding me in the fetal position. It must have been very late at night because there was no one out in the Yard for me to yell to for help. The statue spoke again: “I’ve been stuck in this awful chair since 1884. Your special urine finally brought me to life. I’ve been waiting for you.” He put me down and adjusted his back as he stood up straight. Unsure if I should feel petrified or turned on, I looked John up and down, trying to make sure what I was seeing was real. His chiseled jaw, handsome face, and luscious locks were a sight for sore eyes, sending tingles down my whole body. My fear quickly turned into curiosity and arousal.
John and I stayed up and talked through all hours of the night. He spoke about his short life in the early 1600s as a passionate scholar. He discussed his hopes and dreams that he never got to fulfill. I listened attentively to his stories while he listened to mine. I shared that I too have ambitions that have yet to come true.
In a flash, his bronze, full lips were on top of mine. His breath tasted like shit, but poor Johnny hadn’t had the chance to brush his teeth in hundreds of years, so I understood. We laughed, we cried, we touched each other, and we fucked like animals until the sun came up. All too quickly, it was time for John to sit back in position and turn back to metal before the tourists and students began to come out. We said our goodbyes and I prayed I would get the opportunity to bring John back to life again one day.
All of a sudden, I was back in my tiny dorm room. I woke up with a pounding migraine. Was it all just a dream? But it felt so real. I could still feel his cold lips on mine. I had to go see him. I raced out of bed and ran outside only to see John Harvard perfectly positioned in his chair, surrounded by tourists.
I couldn’t help but feel a raging surge of jealousy as each tourist took turns taking pictures with John and rubbing his feet. That should be me, I thought to myself. I leaned against a tall tree, watching John and wishing he was right back next to me. A tear streamed down my face. At that instant, I could have sworn I saw the John Harvard statue wink at me.
I’ve finally experienced true euphoria. Thank you, John Harvard.
Written anonymously for the Harvard Independent.