The Matchmaker's Replacement - Rachel Van Dyken
Two Ways to Read
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Freshman year 2012
University of Washington campus
Zeta Psi Christmas party, 1:00 a.m.
A thick haze of smoke blanketed the living room. Whoever thought it was a good idea to get a smoke machine, toss it into a room full of sweaty dudes, and flip it on should burn in hell.
“Where are all the girls?” I asked my friend Ian. He was thinking of pledging Zeta Psi the following year, but as a star athlete he wasn’t sure if he had the time. We’d been invited to what was being called on campus “the party of the year.” “It’s a freakin’ sausage fest!” I said with disgust.
Ian frowned. “Maybe they’re coming later?”
“Nobody likes that . . . the coming later part. Coming should always happen sooner rather than later, all things considered.” I slapped him on the back. “But those are things you find out when you become a man . . .”
“You’re such an ass, Lex.” He shoved me hard into the blinding smoke. It burned my eyes and made me immediately want to take out my contacts. If I kept walking through that smoke, chances were I was going to accidently kiss a dude, and I wasn’t into those types of parties. “Let’s just go.”
Ian set his beer on a nearby table and followed me as we weaved our way through the crowd. Just then a trumpet sounded as a hundred girls burst through the door wearing red and green Christmas bikinis.
“Woohoo!” they screamed. Sorority girls always screamed, but this time I didn’t mind since said screaming was paired with lots of bouncing in tiny fabric. I smirked as Ian choked out “God bless us, every one” under his breath and started making his way toward the girls.
“Hold up, Tiny Tim.” I grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him back. “We don’t go to them, they come to us. Remember the rules?” I’d never in my life had to exert myself to get a girl, and I wasn’t about to start just because Ian was afraid all the good ones would be taken.
“We’ve been holding our dicks for the past three hours, and you want to wait longer?”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s science.” Which is why I specified in our private playbook, also known as How to Get Laid 101, that we never approach a girl.
“Sex.” I nodded to a few girls who already looked bored with the guys who had bombarded them and were now making their way toward us. One was wearing a red thong with a tiny Santa skirt to match and nothing but a red lacy bra on top and a cute-as-hell Santa hat perched at an angle on her head. The other was dressed like a naughty reindeer, with little cuffs on her wrists and bells around her neck.
“Hey.” Naughty Reindeer performed a little wiggle and wave. “Wanna ring my bell?”
It was on the tip of my tongue to say yes because, hello, she wanted me to ring her bell, and I would be an idiot if I didn’t take her upstairs, or down the hall, or even to the pantry to see how many bells I could make chime. But I wanted more of a challenge.
Maybe it was the computer genius in me that needed a complicated formula or something that would at least pose more difficulty than opening my mouth and asking if she wanted to be on top,