Love after lockdown

As I write this, we’ve just wrapped up our first weekend in the sweet new freedom gained in level 2. The general vibe is fantastic. If you’re in a couple, then congratulations, that means you survived iso. So you probably do rather like each other. The rest of us are also in a bloody great position, strategically speaking. Maybe things blossomed with your love interest in iso, in which case the suspense makes things all the sweeter. Good fucking riddance to blue balls. Or, if you’re unlatched, you’ve re-emerged onto the social scene like a newborn from the womb; dripping wet, virginal, and ready to experience the smorgasbord that life has to offer. Seriously, it’s an absolute free for all out there. 

Alright. Bleacher Report. Already I’ve witnessed an unprecedented amount of bravery. I’m talking two certain good mates who hooked up, reigniting the embers of a drunken pash that we still give them shit for to this day. I’m talking a certain friend who confessed feelings for another certain friend in the beginnings of a potential love affair that’s only been in the making for just about the entirety of undergrad. I’m talking a certain pal who – god bless – finally hooked up with a certain male she’s had her eye on for a painstakingly long time (you may have noticed, there was a trend). People got with their exes. Hook-ups occurred that people didn’t remember. Simp-y behaviour spread like an STI in College Hall. 

As for your columnist? Well, I spent the night hopping a few 10-man flat parties with an attractive lad. One that I definitely should not get with – why is that always the way? – for several very good reasons. Come 3am, some guy I literally have not spoken to since I was maybe 15 flicked me a string of messages and missed calls asking me to come over. That gave me a good laugh. And overall, lads were throwing out sifty shots like confetti. My tits haven’t heard that much praise since I last spoke with random drunk girls in the Outback bathroom (shout out to those good bitches). Forgive me if that sounds a little unhumble. If that’s even a word. It was just all so goddamn entertaining. After recalling the absolute spectacles I’ve witnessed this past weekend, I’m feeling a lot of things. Shock. Surprise. But mostly, joy. Pure, pure fucking joy. Because my goodness, does it feel good to see the return of physical chemistry. The tea is well and truly back on the table. 

Our experimental uni years are filled with a lot of exciting things somewhat unique to young adulthood. Hook-up culture. Peak hormone concentrations. Social lubrication and conversational foreplay provided courtesy of casual alcoholism and recreational drug use. I don’t know about you, but iso has reminded me that we need to take these fleeting years by the balls. Sometimes it feels like sex in the digital age is so easy to come by that it gives us a pretty ‘ceebs’ attitude towards making effort in the flesh. Not always, but sometimes. Fuck that. We’ve had a taste of what it’s like when we physically can’t socialise with each other, and let’s not forget how that felt. Let’s talk to those crushes we’ve got our eye on more in person, and less on apps. Spend more time doing shit with the special people in our life, less time on our phones. More getting to know people in real life, less Instagram stalking.

After a month of witnessing some serious zombie-ing, breadcrumbing, and simpling (basic dating terminology, please look it up) and a general trend of lads becoming much braver in the DMs than they’d ever been in real life, let me advise you: don’t just be brave on Tinder – be brave in person. Offer to buy that chick a drink. Send that crush a pic of you in your butt. Send back a video of you nutting. It comes down to this: 1) take every politically incorrect thing I say with a grain of salt, 2) confidence is sexy, and 3) your arse might never again look as good as it does right now. Hold yourself accordingly. 

Let loose, kids. I can’t wait to hear of more terrible decisions in the weeks to come x

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