Monday

The unfounded sexual expectations of fresher’s week is similar to that of a pubescent family beach holiday. After 3 months of minimal soft contact and a recently found singlehood owing to the annual Erasmus exodus I decided to return to Dublin early to test my fortune with a new liberal attitude towards relationships. I finished the week asking myself whether Fresher’s events were really even worth a wank. I kick off with a hazy one in Academy, slim-pickings but I get talking to one girl in the smoking area. Lose her in the usual flaky interactions but she’s the only lasting memory of an ultimately forgetful night.

Tuesday

Glazed eyes, little sleep and the nutrition of a bowl of cereal seems to be the general rhythm of the week’s schedule. A walk into the Fresher’s Fair for some pizza was definitely not worth it as my sexual deprivation is thrust down my throat in the form of free condoms coming at me from a variety of SU Welfare virgins. However, I bump into the girl from the night before and get chatting, her memory is less hazy and we absently joke about the nights events; I get her details and her plans. Give it a rest tonight.

Wednesday

Reinvigorated and back on the game, I lubricate my chat with a bottle of wine and make it to Workman’s. Didn’t miss this fucking DJ; once again laying down a soundtrack to the melting-pot of vibrating dickheads that would make Fearne Cotton blush. I tolerate the indie-by-numbers sing-a-long, she should be on her way. Spend most of the night clinging on to her attention in the smoking area, we get drunk together and start actually enjoying the company. My libido ushers her out the club and back to mine where she sits on my knee as we chat and kiss. She seems to be having a good time, but just that. As we go up to my room she is more talkative than flirty; I try to curb her enthusiasm by undressing her but the feelings are hardly mutual and the night concludes with little more than a half-arsed consolation wank. Somewhat disgraced.

Thursday

Walk her to the bus stop; still swathed in post-coital guilt. My attempt at a skins-style sexual romance ended up being as forced and unnatural as most of the acting in said series. I decide to go back to the comfort of my close group of friends and invite them round for a boozy dinner. As the evening progresses I am happy to fall back into a long-recurring fling with an ex. I know the sex is good, the intentions similar and my balls are a bloated, nervous wreck. Upstairs we undress each other to Portishead’s Dummy and break the unwritten rule, I manage to last just a few songs. My summer’s abstinence relegates me to listening to Glorybox while sharing a post-performance shower. But it’s worth it (for one of us).

Friday

As we continue sober relations in the morning I realise the superiority of this wanting connection between our bodies over Wednesday’s raucous intentions. My immature Fresher’s return and expectations ended in a false disaster and still left me desperate. I am currently resigned to the depressing reality that when it comes to sex, the familiar and comfortable trump the risky and free. Were the Fresher’s events really worth a wank? Not the one I had anyway.

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