On ex-boyfriends and beer sluts

I had a dream last night, and although it was not about my college days, it reminded me of a particular experience when I was in college.

When I was in college, I was in loooooove. Not my first love, but a love. Let's call him Robert. He would say his name was Rob, but I always called him Robert. He was handsome, fit, and his family had money. We dated for a while, and we broke it off. Well, he mostly broke it off.

It was my first break-up in college. Now high school break-ups can be traumatic, but in high school, there seemed to be more of a social network to catch one's broken heart. There were girlfriends to talk with, mothers to bake goods to comfort me, and Ben and Jerry's.

In college, the social network is a bit more spotty. Not as many girlfriends, but girlfriends nonetheless. Parents are further from home, meals are not home-cooked – and more importantly, the sit-down dinner does not exist.

So after Robert and I broke up, I eventually got over him. I will admit now that part of the hard part of getting over him was that he was "marriage material." The first man I ever thought was "marriage material."

Well, time past and I dated other men.

Then one day, a friend ushered me into her room one night with news. Her eyes were wide, she was grinning, and she had to tell me something. From looking at her face, it was either that she was engaged or some juicy piece of gossip. It turned out to be gossip.

My ex-Robert, known to all as Rob, had a drunken encounter with someone else in the dorm. No one I knew real well, but she was non-affectionately called a beer slut. She was a nice enough girl, but when she would get a few beers in her, she was a temptress. Okay, that seems to be a lot more romantic than calling her a slut.

Anyway, she and Rob had sex, and apparently Rob was sort of wasted as well. Not surprising. Well, that is Rob. What was surprising to Beer Slut is that Rob passed out. Been there.

Well, Beer Slut – I need to give her a better name, perhaps Veronica – did not like the passing out, and she was a little pissed. Let's just say that Veronica left that night but had deposited a little something on Rob's chest. Not sure Veronica thought this through, because the story had legs and made its way to my ears.

Oh, and not that I am proud of this, but I loved Veronica's exit that evening.

So the moral of the story is that you should not drink or some beer slut may poop on your chest.