Southern Comfort

I remember going to Vassar one weekend. It was my second trip to a Northern school, the first being a dismaying trip to Wellesley, where my girlfriend had taken to reading Sylvia Plath and had a bad case of the mopes. At Vassar, things were a little peppier, but good old-fashioned fun was still hard to come by.

This happened one night: Having worked up a few lines, I turned to an attractive co-ed only to find her inserting her tongue into another co-ed’s ear. Eyes lit up on the receiving end, while the aggressor purred like a bitch alligator. Lord a’mercy, I wasn’t in Virginia any more.

DS

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Dave Shiflett

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I remember going to Vassar one weekend. It was my second trip to a Northern school, the first being a dismaying trip to Wellesley, where my girlfriend had taken to reading Sylvia Plath and had a bad case of the mopes. At Vassar, things were a little peppier, but good old-fashioned fun was still hard to come by.

This happened one night: Having worked up a few lines, I turned to an attractive co-ed only to find her inserting her tongue into another co-ed’s ear. Eyes lit up on the receiving end, while the aggressor purred like a bitch alligator. Lord a’mercy, I wasn’t in Virginia any more.