Sherman Ave Freshman Guide: The Guy's Guide to a Dance Floor Make-Out
Hey dude man bro! Chapped lips? Lonely and in need of loving? Summer drier than a camel’s ass crack in the Sahara Desert? Don’t worry. Parties are a great place to make out and validate all of your insecurities through a couple of minutes of sweaty lip on lip action at a frat party. As you can see from Welcome Week, people are making out all the time: at parties, in their PA groups, on top of the salad bar in Allison, with Willie the Wildcat, with an actual Wildcat.
I’ve created a guide based on my freshman year dance floor make-out, or DFMO for you hip masculine manly men with cuffed pants and swamp ass.
- Enter the party. Start scouting. Boom. You see a chick.
- Get a drink. Sip bravely. Realize you’re drinking a lemon lime soda with grenadine. Chug.
- Start dancing. Slowly dance closer to your partner.
- Find a way to talk to her. What’s your major? Where are you from? Do you like the dining hall food?
- She’s grabbing your hand. She coyly asks you to dance; now’s your chance. Butt to pelvis or pelvis to butt. Whatever works, man. Now is the time to brush up against her. Tell her you’re all about that base.
- Go in for the kiss.
- Holy shit, what did she just press against my mouth. Is that a cloth?
- Holy shit. Where am I? What the fuck? Is this a basement? There’s one light bulb hanging from a ceiling.
- I’m so cold. Why am I in this bathtub full of ice?
- There’s another bathtub next to me full of Plex omelets. Just, just absolutely overflowing with egg and cheese and peppers. The room reeks of Pam. Who took the time to do this?
- Holy shit. My abdomen is bandaged. I think I’m missing my appendix.
- I look at my stomach. Ruther Bader Ginsburg is tattooed on me, her mouth cleverly placed where my belly button is so she comically looks like she’s talking. This is a problem, because I am definitely a Sonia guy, and people are going to start forming opinions that aren’t necessarily true about me.
- Crawl out of the bathtub.
- There is a Salvador Dali mural of the clock paintings on the floor, but they’re not clocks—they’re dicks. One dick, two dick, red dick, blue dick.
- Run up the stairs. Open the door. I’m sweating. Hilary Duff’s last album is playing from somewhere, or is it in my mind.
- I can see the front door and some Greek letters. Oh my god, I’m in a sorority house. What the fuck. What the actual fuck.
- Sorority girls wearing dark robes and chanting: Key Largo. Montego. Baby why don’t we go. I gotta get the fuck out of here.
- One of the sorority girls lifts back her robe. It’s the DFMO girl. She’s still pretty hot, but she’s juggling a bunch of iguana skulls.
- Another girl lifts back her robe, except it’s not a girl: it’s Voldemort.
- Avada Kedavra. I dodge. I feel warm. I realize something. I have shat myself.
- I run for the door. I hear hissing and screaming as I shut it behind me.
- I sprint past a group of people, and they laugh at me. I’ve never told anyone about my third testicle.
- I jump on a shuttle. It must be like 4 AM. I look at my skin. I’m covered in petroleum jelly.
- I try to tell the girl sitting next to me about what happened. She pretends I am not there. She did not see Voldemort, so she does not believe me.
And that’s how you do a dance floor make-out! Have fun you crazy kids, and remember, I KNOW WHAT I SAW.