A Valentine’s Day Sex Overload

sex_overloadSEX OVERLOADS. Everybody knows them. Everybody fears them. You’ll be heading to Late Meal or whatever, you know, just out and about and minding your own business, when—

SEX.

It comes flying out at you from every nook and cranny and crevice on campus. Every gutter, every opening, every orifice of the buildings you once thought were dead artifices of steel and stone shudders to life, emanating a pulsing, throbbing energy which flings itself at you with unimaginable force, threatening to drown you in wave after wave of pure SEXual energy which has suddenly crystallized out of the air as if you have all at once become magnetized to attract intercourse in its purest, roughest form. It surrounds you, smelling perceptibly, impossibly for pure energy, of sweat. You become aware of a gentle pulsing, growing louder and louder, thumping sensually, rhythmically; you can almost make out words through the din.

“Face down, ass up,” the very air seems to intone. “That’s the way we like to fuck.”

“That’s the way I like to fuck, too,” you whisper, barely audible, “but it’s been so long. I can barely remember what it feels like.”

“You’re not alone,” the air soothes. “So many of your tiger-brothers and -sisters feel as you do. Tonight, they have a chance to come together, to feel again, to live again. Do you wish to join them?”

“Yes,” you say. Oh God, yes, you do. You have never wished for anything more in your entire life.

“Very well. In that case, stay where you are.”

Doors fling open all across campus. The horny men and women of Princeton can sense it as well as you can, can sense the unbelievable SEXual power emanating all over campus, are drawn to it like moths to a flame. They come closer, begin to circle you and each other. Timid at first, they draw closer, describing an ever-tightening ellipse. The pulsing quickens in tempo, and your classmates move quicker and quicker, encircling you in a ring of heat and light which reflects back on them, enhancing their features, making them all more beautiful, each one an avatar of perfection radiant with a screaming gorgeousness, the tension ramping up more and more, near- unbearable, quivering, wavering on the edge of total ecstatic apocalyptic oblivion, each moment a timeless eternity of orgiastic promise, until, at last—

“Let’s do this,” someone says. Your tear at your clothes, and as you do, they fly off—as if in anticipation—explosively. The ring closes in. All goes dark, the dark of naked skin in shadow.

– AKS ’15. Illustrated by CSO ’15.

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