In this orange bubble, there lives a breed that can sit in the library for hours on end, create cellular applications, and invest in derivatives. While they may look primitive, their minds are actually highly evolved, and when the sun sets behind the golf course and the first ping pong ball is thrown, they become truly alive. It’s a side to the Princeton University student that many scientists overlook. While their nights spent in the world of Prospect Avenue vary, they share a common conclusion: Terrace F. Club.
Through the thick clouds of smoke from the cannabis plant and unfamiliar electronic tones and harmonies employed in a musical manner, the college students engage in a spectacularly mystifying ritual. With the end of cuffing season and the imminent arrival of spring, they must either procure a mate or die trying. And die they might. No question, it’s a hard process. But such hardship has molded extraordinary, desperate creatures.
One such creature, by the name of Rick, has been hailed as an extraordinary phenomenon by the scientific community. His alarming inability to successfully engage in the mating ritual is only matched by his determination to succeed in a task that many now be deemed impossible for him: the dance floor make-out.
It all begins with the dance floor. This clamorous landscape is home to a number of very different species, including the panthera tigris and the sciuridae. Survival out here means staying at least one step ahead of the competition. The males are pumped up after chugging beer, marking their areas by reluctantly raising the roof, driving off rival predator phalluses, and are ready to brawl over females.
Our specimen, Rick is clearly a very intelligent creature. His clear eyes, thin bone structure, and well groomed mane indicate such. But when it comes to confronting the labyrinth of shafts that surround each female, he is rendered almost stationary. He looks around, peering through his tortoise shell glasses at the writhing bodies that surround him. Nodding his head along to the unnatural musical sounds, he attempts to insinuate himself into the pack of thrashing animals.
It is obvious even to an observer that the middle of the dance floor is the optimum location to procure the most desirable female. Rick can smell his quarry, a small, light-haired female. She is a prize catch but Rick is not the first to get to her. The two males engage in a fierce battle. Rick’s repeated futile hip gyrations are no match for the powerful hip thrust of his much larger competition. With his hopes of “bumping uglies” with the prime female dashed, Rick retreats to the outskirts of the pack where the weaker potential mates congregate.
Rick’s sagging posture is a sign that his spirits are close to being broken by the unforgiving demands of the mating ritual. Having given up his dreams of copulation, he now turns to grinding as his last resort. Spotting the female with the most prominent birthing hips, he approaches cautiously from behind so as not to spook her. Too inebriated to notice his presence, the female continues her wild hip movement. Rick positions himself directly behind the female and gradually shuffles forward until they touch. Having successfully initiated the mating ritual, Rick allows himself a moment to bask in the sensation of actual human contact before he makes the next move. He bends his head forward, putting his mouth next to the female’s ear so that she can hear him above the racket of their raucous companions. The female mistakes this attempt at communication for an unwelcome advance from Rick. She is startled and flees taking refuge in the gaggle of females going to relieve themselves together. Shaken and confused by her sudden retreat, Rick deserts Terrace F. Club. Like a lone wolf, he disappears into the night, returning to his natural habitat.
– AMD ’18. Illustrated by MGM ’17.
