When I was a kid I would devour Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul. I would sit in my bathtub and soak for hours, reading and re–reading stories of broken hearts and bones, tales of ‘tough stuff’ and tragedies. I think it stemmed from a typical t(w)eenage yearning to know what’s really up with our peers. Now a few years older, there doesn’t seem to be a pre–written bowl of soup for the college–aged soul. But I, and most of the people I know at Penn, still want to know what truths lurk behind masks of our fellow classmates. Enter sex. The last time I walked into a frat party, I was greeted by a couple making out. They were sweaty and the guy had his hands on the girl’s chest. Her bra was out and one bare leg slid up around his waist. They smelled like aged jungle juice. Within seconds they were humping against the wall. We’ve all seen this a dozen times. It’s impossible to miss. And then we walk away, look for something cold to drink and leave within 10 minutes. We never really know what happens beyond that. Do they go back to his room or her cramped double in Hill? Do they have sex? Was this the first time they met? Do they use protection? Do athletes have more sex than nurses? Do female engineers whack off more than Wharton males? We conducted a sex survey (page 9) to find out the answers.

Strut your Street,


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