Columns

Boy: “On a Monday night, on the first night of Orientation, onto a party?” I ask my evening date. It makes absolutely no sense, but the intention was creamy-clear like butter. First years drip down from the bars onto the streets. Mou closes early due to a barmaid neck strain that looked as pained as the people not dancing to house music in Metro. The Cook overflows, one hundred desolate bodies sprawling across the curbside while the bouncer dictates their bodily movements: “single file, put that fag out, oi, no glass.” Inside, Gatecrasher reasserts its cultural irrelevance and in the back bar two guys pretend to be a covers band, but look more like a Karaoke duo playing guitar to backing tracks. The music is loud enough for everyone to stop talking. Friends, singles, and couples look at each other eagerly in the hope of becoming new couples or one-night stands. A guy dry humps his date across the lawn toward Student Health. “Is it ‘consent’ if she just lets it happen?” asks my date. “At this point,” I reply, “Who cares?” My date follows, “At this point, everyone is drunk, fucked, or about to be fucked.” We laugh, I think my date is pretty cool, and we leave with a half-hearted shrug. I take her home. We hug. “I’m going to be forward,” declares my date. I mishear her as we awkwardly manoeuvre until she finally kisses me goodnight. I become flustered, and while it might not be as romantic as being dry-humped across the lawn, it’s a pretty good night.
 
Girl: Dunedin always makes me feel old, especially around Orientation. “What are these fourth-formers doing at University?” I wonder to myself, and realise: these kids don’t know what ‘fourth form’ means, having grown up with NCEA. Although, to me, the gap in our ages/puberty progression seems insurmountable, to these young lads my age apparently just makes me a potentially willing cougar, or something. As I’m walking to Gaslamp Killer, a young man with the voice and countenance of an 11-year-old screeches, “Hey, wanna touch my tits?” (Interesting twist on an old idea). My gorgeous date and I walk on by. A female in his crew apologetically says “Don’t worry, he’s just being an idiot!” Faux surprised, I retort “Really? I thought he was a honey!” The tone changes and she snaps, “Hey watch it! That’s my boyfriend.” Date and I agree that, indeed, having a ‘man’ like him is an insecure commodity, what with needing to go around reminding potential women/cougars/Yu-Gi-Oh conferences that he is, despite appearances, spoken for.