They say college is a time for experimentation.

I’d venture to say that nearly everyone who shows their booze-bleary eyes at parties has had at least one embarrassing night: One that ends with a garbled, lustful text message, an alcohol induced injury or a regrettable hookup. Let’s face it — I can’t currently recall a night that hasn’t ended with at least one embarrassing faux pas.

But my drunken antics usually don’t result in a solo trip to my apartment. Sure, sometimes an equally as inebriated roommate walks me home, but there are nights when I’m just lucky enough to snag at winner at Dunbar’s.

Unfortunately, this usually means that I have an audience for my sloppiness. But when I do stumble home with a boy, it usually means little more than a heavy make-out session and showing another Cornell (or Ithaca College) boy my boobs. For some men, however, I guess taking my top off just doesn’t quite cut it. I’ve pretty much mastered the art of wordlessly shutting a guy down. Some might call it a gift. Some might call it a defensive maneuver. But any way you look at it, coyly slithering out of situations has saved my ass. Literally.

I wish I was kidding when I say that I’ve been asked for anal more times than straight sex within the past year. And those are the guys who have asked. Usually it starts with some casual moves to feel out the situation: the roaming hands, the drifting digits and the inevitable “have you ever…” question.

No. I once was even propositioned by naming anal as the “less serious” kind of sex. Either I’ve wound up with a weird crowd, or something about my vagina makes a guy want to try something new. Take one of my most recent hookups, for example. I probably should have gotten a clue that something was off from the get-go but I just kind of let it slide — he was hot enough to warrant some leeway.

I had successfully managed to pass off my ass-protecting maneuvers as a practiced sultry bedroom technique for about three or four solid steamy sessions. One fateful night, however, I had had a little too much group therapy on too little sleep and found myself between the sheets, wrapped up in what will go down in my book as the hottest foreplay of my collegiate life.

My clothes (and all my morals) had been ditched and I was revved up for what I could only imagine would be mind-blowingly awesome sex. But my drunkenness and anticipation induced some intense tunnel vision. I definitely knew where one of his hands was, but the other momentarily went off my radar, only to reappear a little too close to some taboo areas. It took me a little longer than usual, but I soon realized that his intentions were to occupy his fingers on both hands. I tried my normal moves, playing off my dodges as writhes of pleasure. The usual. But after a few attempts went very obviously unnoticed, I realized that my gift was absolutely failing.

That’s when I found out the secret to instant sobriety, the thing that will negate hours of liver punishing binge drinking: butt sex. I eventually practically threw myself off of him and laid ass down about a solid foot away. I am only left to assume that, had I let his fingers wander to their desired hole, I would have ended up losing my anal v-card that night. Close call.

Maybe I just haven’t opened myself up to experiencing all the pleasures anal has to offer. I mean, there has to be a decently gratifying aspect if it’s running amuck through the meathead demographic I generally target. As a girl though, there are just a whole bunch of sexual to-do’s that rank higher on my bedroom bucket list (vampire role-play à la True Blood, for example). At least now I have a foolproof way of sobering up for my 9:05’s senior year.