On the night of my 21st birthday, sitting at a booth in Local 44 with a lavender hibiscus kombucha marg in hand, I received a revelatory piece of advice from a dearly beloved friend about my embarkment into a new era of life: “I think your 20s are all about having regrettable sex.” Now of course, the sentiment is not meant to encourage one to engage in unsafe, emotionally harmful, or dangerous sex. Rather, it acknowledges that the foray into adulthood is not so glamorous, and those sexual escapades are often a lot more awkward than you may expect. I mean, let’s be real. You’ve gotta get through the Lena Dunham Girls stage of life before you can even dream of living an episode of Sex and the City. Young sex is messy and embarrassing, and like most things in life, there is a steep learning curve. Street has had its fair share of uncouth trysts and inopportune rendezvous. Learn from our mistakes, or just laugh at us. But there’s no shame in figuring things out, even if it leaves a twinge of regret the next morning.
— Jules Lingenfelter, Print Managing Editor
I didn’t know that lesbians could get STDs until the end of my junior year of college, when my best friend and her—actually, I don’t know what to call him, but for all intents and purposes, we can say buddy—sat me down in the Kelly Writers House yard and explained female anatomy. I blame my Texas sex education, which consisted of close–up photos of STDs and no bigger–picture explanation of how you actually got those nasty–looking popcorn infections. My real sex ed in high school consisted of indulgent friends who looked me in the eye and talked me through how to ask someone out, what counts as sex, and far too graphic descriptions of how to do it. And in college, my friends were the ones who swooped back in to fill the gaps.
— Sex–Ed Student Perpetually Learning
Not every hookup makes the roster because body count is both a vibes– and performance–based metric.
It resets if you go to confession—but only Roman Catholic confession. For a spiritually sanctioned reset, consider joining a crusade.
Doesn’t count if you were drunk. Or if it happened on church or church–adjacent property, including vaguely religious frats. That’s between you and God and his pledge class. If you never saw his driver’s license and later found out he’s from the suburbs (Wellesley, Mass. isn’t Boston). God knows you’re lying, and He also knows you sucked at being an altar server. If he didn’t talk you through a LinkedIn update during aftercare. If you forget his name within a week and maybe accidentally remember his dad’s name instead—that’s not your fault. That’s a census error. If he thought you finished but you didn’t, and he was so weirdly, pathetically earnest about it that telling him would’ve felt like killing a puppy behind a barn with a crowbar.
Finally, if you wouldn’t even grimace–smile at him on Locust Walk, then spiritually, emotionally, biblically—it doesn’t count.
— The All–Knowing Hookup Oracle
Before arriving at college, I’d had several crushes. These individuals contained varying personalities and looks, but held one similarity: A relationship would never begin with any of these love interests. That microinfluencer half didn’t know I existed, while others were minding their own lives hours away.
Now, within a more realistic pool of dating candidates, I still find myself crushing on people I can’t have. While this mentality always results in disappointment, there remains something enticing about it—something I’ll spend my life trying to discover. Until then, I will remain enamored by my imaginary spending of time with unobtainable people.
— Serial Crusher
Most people who know me now would not recognize the person I was when I first came to Penn. This is for a variety of reasons—I’d like to think I’ve really matured and grown into myself—but also because I was once a young frat–hopping first year who lived to party three nights a week. And with those adventures came some classically bad hookups. My first party ended with awkward fumbling in my dorm, only to see him going out with another girl less than 24 hours later. After a night spent in another’s bed, he attempted to convince me that I didn’t really need to go to the New Student Orientation consent circle—yikes! Or the morning after Halloween, when a guy told me it would’ve been his third–year anniversary to the day with the girlfriend he just broke up with earlier that week. Oh, poor first–year me, who was utterly confounded by the men on campus and swore off dating for nearly a year because of it.
— Retired Party Girl
I only use Hinge when I’m abroad—Penn students and old high school faces feel too familiar, too risky. Seniors are too easy to fall for, and heartbreak is too easy to find. Instead, I break my own heart differently, finding love thousands of miles away, hiding from the hookup and breakup culture that Penn’s dating scene provides. My mom says I should kiss and sleep with whoever I want—emulate her own college “slut era.” Maybe she’s right. But I like my foreign crushes and kisses. I like to fall in love within days and pine for years after. I’m not staying here after graduation, so my wine dates and walks on foreign shores tie me to the future I dream of, far from here.
— Lover of Everywhere but Here
When I first saw Lexa from The 100 at 12, I thought something was wrong with me. The feelings everyone talked about having for boys? I never had them. But I did have them for Lexa—and for the older girl at school with black hair and silver jewelry. Now, I know there was nothing wrong with me. I’m just gay ASF. Seeing the beauty in women helped me see it in myself. I wish I could tell my 12–year–old self that being gay isn’t wrong—it’s beautiful.
— Keeping It 100
Hey, first year reading this, hope you are settling in alright. I have to break some surprising news to you. You’re going to have to date an artificial intelligence software. What? Yes, you. Take your pick. ChatGPT, Gemini, maybe a replica of Game of Thrones’ Daenerys Targaryen? Just probably not Grok. I’m guessing you are too woke for him if you willingly picked up Street. “But what about meeting my future husband in the Quad?” Shut up. You threw that out the window when you enrolled here. Your human options at Penn range from Blackstone to BlackRock. So play it safe, sext a chatbot. Everyone’s doing it.
— Individual Concerned About AI
