Nikita on the Street

I am a freshman.

I am a female freshman.

I am a brunette, female freshman.

I am a brunette, female freshman, who does not have the extremely sexy advantage of having attended Catholic school.

Needless to say, God has refused to help a sister out.

However, I have been able to make do without those scanty plaid skirts, and achieve a level of social normalcy in this mad-bumpin’ student population. When I walked through those unnecessarily intimidating Princeton gates four weeks ago, and then right back out (oh yeah, BT dubs I’m not graduating), I was under the distinct impression that the Princeton social scene was going to be lame. But after a month of experiencing true Princeton nightlife, I have realized how utterly cool we all are.


Let’s be real – Princeton is not an assortment of the hard-partying youth of America. The typical Princeton male is not Fratty McFratterson. He doesn’t have a bitchin’ trust fund or a large stash of rohypnol in his underwear drawer. That upperclassman clad in seersucker who seems to threaten our sacred freshman innocence? He’s the same guy who turned in his MAT 203 problem set two days early and spent his weekend playing StarCraft II.

Come on, girls. The least he deserves is to grope some not-yet cottage cheese freshman ass.

The true threat on the Street is not, as one would assume, the suave Princeton senior. It’s not even the Public Masturbator, or that guy I hear kills people. The most intimidating species out there on any given weekend is, in fact, a freshman girl.

Upperclassmen, look out. She’s wearing a tight-fitting black dress that can’t be weather-appropriate. She pretends she doesn’t know how to play beer pong. She met you at the “Virgins for Free Weezy” rally.

Freshman girls are the combination of all things hot, and we know it. With this in mind, we’re not hitting the Street for an intellectual discussion with a well-mannered, respectful young gentleman who wants to take things slow. Honestly, we’d rather grind up on some lax bro with loose morals and a cool hat. Sexual harassment can happen to anyone, it’s true. But it’s not the freshman girls who need watching over – it’s the unsuspecting males we prey on.

Every weekend gullible junior and senior males hit the Street, believing they are the ones in control of their respective hook-up fates. This naiveté is indeed comical, because the actual driving force behind Princeton sexy-time has been here only a month, and has dominated the social scene with a force comparable to Chris Nolan mind-control.

The body count is rising, and fast. Think about it – the only reason Cloister plays its music so loud is to drown out the cries of helpless senior swimmers. That sticky substance on the floor of TI is not just spilled beer. And Terrace…well, I haven’t been inside Terrace, but I’m pretty sure shit goes down in there too.

Freshman girls are the ones making hook-ups happen in the perpetually awkward environment that is Princeton University. We’re not interested in your JP about the connection between classical piano and Stalinism. We could probably care less about how that varsity squash game went. Skip right to the beer and an extremely public hook-up on the dance floor. Everyone wins.

Many freshman girls have raised protest in the past month about feeling objectified by older male students. They complain about their lack of emotional fulfillment or whine when guys are attracted to their inherently attractive British accent. You ladies aren’t fooling anyone. I saw you sworn in at the meetings. “Ensnare, exploit, eliminate.” It’s time you pulled your weight.

May the reign of the freshman female live on.

Abby Williams ‘14

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