The Real England

Greetings from Edge Hill University College, a.k.a. Adventures in Hedonism.

In the three weeks i’ve been overseas and the two i’ve spent here on the tiny island of Great Britain, i’ve learned a lot about how even two countries which speak the same–or a very similar language–can be extremely different in culture, morals, beliefs. In many ways, the British are a much more liberal society than we Americans try to be–from having the highest teen pregnancy rate in the industrialized world to Wednesday night’s “guaranteed shags,” I’m beginning to think that having been exposed to this lifestyle on a daily basis has had some effect on me.

The point hit home at 9:00 this morning as i staggered back to my room after a night on the town.

A degree from this university isn’t one of civic prestige or academic prowess. Your diploma says that somehow, beyond the understandings of modern science, you managed to down pint after pint of 16-proof beer, shag on average 15 girls a year, limit yourself to six or less hours of sleep a night, and still are able to stand and form some sort of coherent thought. I had no idea what i was getting into.

As i mentioned earlier, Wednesday night is guaranteed shag night. This is because the bars in town have £1 ($1.50) drinks, the college pub stays open later, and there no classes on Wednesday afternoon. Now we all know people who like to drink and they drink a lot. What i didn’t realize before coming here is how much more alcohol the body and sustain. The Brits do it very well. After taking into account that British beer is almost twice as strong as American beer and that the units consumed are Imperial pints (20 oz., as opposed to our 12 oz. bottled servings), you could see where seven or eight of these drinks will get you. Although Wednesday by far is the day of wanton excess, it is not uncommon to continue this binge on Friday, Saturday, and Monday as well. Actually, this is what happens with a majority of students here.

Don’t get me wrong–i enjoy a fine, cold pint of Guinness or a nice English bitter. Great stuff. But getting sloshed/pissed/hammered is not one of my specialties and being drunk tends to scare me more than delight me. Last night, though, i did have enough to find myself a bit loosened up, dancing in the club and watching this Italian girl named Sabrina (think: Southern European version of Kristin Reed but with wild, wild eyes and an accent to die for) dance in front of me. I didn’t really hesitate when she started moving closer, since that’s a casual thing that tends to happen at clubs. Nor was it really clear to me when we started dancing physically rather than just dancing. It just took in stride like it was a typical European thing to do. I had my arms around her before i knew it and she kept looking at me with those eyes.

Damn, those eyes.

Something inside went into overdrive.

In English clubs, it’s pretty normal to see people “snogging” (kissing) on the dance floor especially as the night creeps on. I really, really don’t know how we became two of those people. I can’t blame it on anything really: not an altered state of consciousness (there wasn’t a whole lot of alcohol in me in the first place), not my so recently humbled libido, not my extreme attraction to things which are not mine. It just happened and part of me said, “Oh, shit” and the other part said, “Awww, yeah!” I closed my eyes and didn’t know where i was or even who i was. It’s probably one of the most confusing situations i’ve ever put myself into.

The club closed at midnight and we went back to her dorm–again, i’m wondering where my rational mind was this entire evening–to console another Italian girl for getting blown off by an American guy. Well, that was the stupid facade at least. I sure as hell fell for it. There was an American girl in the group and the four of us talked for an hour or two. Before i knew it, we were saying goodnight to Chiara, wishing her best of luck with other guys in the future and Sabrina and i went to her room “to get a drink of water.”

It’s funny how you can justify the most asinine actions by covering them up with simple-minded excuses: trivial, unnecessary, irrelevant errands. I didn’t need a glass of water. If someone would have came up to me at that point last night (other than Sabrina, of course) and asked if i needed a glass of water, i would have stared at them like they had a penis for a nose. But this underlying, dark, deceptive, terrible, terrible…terribly enticing urge brought me into her room.

I had my drink of water as she shut the door quietly and turned off the light. We stood there in the darkness for a moment or two. It was late by then, maybe three in the morning so the halls were quiet. She looked at me.

She looked at me with those damn eyes! She leaned up against me and started kissing me passionately, something so good you could only hope to receive from an Italian girl. She pulled back, looked at me in silence, then leaned harder against me this time, and started pushing me back toward the wall. By the time of impact, i was slammed into the wall so hard that i knocked some empty bottles of red wine off the shelf. They rolled across the floor. We soon were, too.

I eventually got her shirt off and witnessed the most perfect pair of breasts these eyes have ever seen. She was thin, but well-built–a great pair of C cups which were just a little more than a handful. I experienced the same sense of elation that Ned must have felt when up jumped a bubbling crude.

It was fantastic, but surreal. Of course, i have a conscience, but it seemed to be very suppressed…all it could really do is convince me that all this wasn’t really happening–it was some kind of dream or hallucination or something paranormal. I think my badly wounded conscience is what stopped me from going any further than what i just described. Which is a good thing. We just stayed comfortably between second and third base, antagonizing the shortstop until about seven in the morning. We slept for an hour or so and i had to get up for class that started at 9.

I staggered back to my room in a sort of sleep-deprived, post-scoring daze. Then reality hit as people from my dorm saw me with disheveled hair and yesterday’s clothes walking back. One girl yelled, “Ryan, you HAVE a girlfriend!” Shit. Everyone knew that:

a) i have a girlfriend, and

b) i spent the night with a girl who wasn’t my girlfriend.

Shit, shit, shit. I didn’t look so good in the mirror this morning. I didn’t feel so good either. I went to class feeling paranoid and dirty, but disgustingly successful. I was a champion but i sold my soul to win such a distinction. Now i feel consequences coming on.

Fortunately, Sabrina and Chiara return home to fair Verona on 4 March. Bridget is coming out here about two months after that. What concerns me is that her semester ends about a week before mine does, so that means she’ll be in the dorms with me during that week. My hallmates aren’t exactly the most polite bunch of upstanding citizens that the UK has to offer. I have a feeling that word will get out. I have a feeling that word is spreading as i type this.

Will the fervor die down by May and my misdeeds be forgotten? Can i repent such a surreal, other-worldly experience? Will it happen again? Should i tell Bridget to delay her trip by a week until school is out? Most importantly, is it ok to do stupid shit as long as you don’t get caught?

Now you see what sort of mess i’ve gotten myself into. In addition, i Sabrina made me promise her that we would talk all this today. What do i say? She knows i have a girlfriend, but doesn’t really know Bridget’s and my terms of relationship…our degree of exclusivity.

This is the part in Pinocchio where the boys on Pleasure Island start turning into donkeys. I need your help.

Ryan