The Wake

First-year, 17-year-old business student Michael Peterson of Hopkins succeeded in exacerbating his short-lived sex life early Saturday morning, when, after losing his virginity to Sophomore Kelly Thomson, he raised his right hand for a high-five following his early climax.

The two met at an open-mic event held at the Whole music club in the basement of Coffman Union Friday night. According to Thomson’s friend, Meredith McKenzie, they were drinking shots of tequila before the show at Thomson’s dorm room in Bailey Hall, where, upon leaving, Thomson had a “hungry” look in her eye.

Peterson, a resident of the Superblock, had arrived to the Whole, and described the scene as “mad crazy with honeys.” After applying a few more layers of Axe body spray to his person in the bathroom, Peterson took the stage, his flat-billed hat tilted backwards around his head, the fake gold chain sparkling in the spotlight. Once his beat began in the rap battle, Peterson spent several moments saying “yo,” “what’s up,” and asking if the U of M was “in the house.” One hand clutched the microphone as the other waved to the crowd and groped his crotch. Once his two minutes had passed, the MC withdrew Peterson’s microphone, saying his turn had expired, whereupon Peterson resigned quietly, his sleeping-bag pants ensconcing his cowboy strut.

By this point in the evening, Thomson had found a warm place against another student’s welcoming side. Near the back of the club, on the couches, the two sipped from the young man’s flask while he told her lies about his membership in a band. All was going well for the couple, and the shameful drunken “hook-up” appeared inevitable, until Thomson projectile-vomited her spaghetti dinner and thirteen shots of tequila into the young man’s face, his eyes closed, his mouth yawning. The young man disappeared from the club without comment.

Across the club, Peterson was “testing his game with the super-mad honeys.” He was coming up with reasons to walk past a group of young women to demonstrate his carefully trained gait. Of the group of young women, one Katie Andersen found his antics most amusing. “He was wearing these huge sunglasses, and this was inside, at night,” Andersen said. She discussed how Peterson walked past their group several times, once to go to the bathroom, another time to chat with someone at the Radio K booth, who incidentally did not respond, and another time to buy an energy drink from the vender. “For a while we’d just laugh when he wasn’t looking. But then when he gets back from checking out what brand the amplifier is, he takes his glasses off and winks. We just lost it then,” Andersen said. After that, Peterson reported moving seats, to avoid the women who were “hating on his game.” New seat discovered, nodding his head markedly out of beat with the music, he lit a Parliament Light cigarette. His white cheeks turned pink with pain as he held back the nicotine, and was quickly escorted from the club.

Upon being forcibly pushed from the exit doors, Peterson tripped over his unnecessarily large pant legs and landed at the foot of Thomson, who had also been expelled from the club. Thomson bummed a cigarette from Peterson, and soon thereafter the two were making out under the streetlight, Thomson’s tobacco and vomit breath forcing Peterson’s gag reflex. His heart pounding, this being his first kiss since a game of spin-the-bottle in seventh grade, Peterson, after several minutes, touched Thomson’s breast outside her shirt. “Where’s your apartment?” Thomson asked. Peterson told her he was representing Centennial Hall. After their walk to the dorm, Peterson and Thomson found Peterson’s roommate, Angelo Mancini, playing X Box. Mancini, who described his roommate as a “fucking feces breath, mole-faced asshole,” was thoroughly upset and refused to leave the room so that Peterson could “get freaky with some drunk chick and have her ralph all over [Mancini’s] shit.”

Peterson, of course being less assertive than a house cat, gave in to his roommate and convinced Thomson to go to Bailey. Thomson acquiesced, only requesting that Peterson change his pants. Later Thomson reported, “I should’ve just left right then and there. That was my chance.” On the ride back on the campus commuter, Peterson held his arm around Thomson while she covered her face incase anyone saw her. Once they arrived to Thomson’s dorm room, Thomson left a note on the door, begging people to not come inside. Peterson, too embarrassed, refused to get condoms from the C.A., forcing Thomson, still remotely horny, to acquire them.

When she returned, she found a shirtless Peterson lying on the bed, one knee raised, his head cradled by one hand. One finger traced over the projecting nipple, which hung like an old man’s scrotum from the white man-boob. Thomson put on some music and rinsed out her mouth, and afterward, their foreplay was, according to Thomson, “so awkward that I sped it up so he’d leave sooner.”

Peterson, after losing his erection while opening the condom, considered telling Thomson of his self-inflicted STD, where he acquired genital warts from masturbating with a wart on his palm, but decided against it, being the asshole he is. To regain his boner, they kissed for a few minutes and Peterson played with himself, trying to not let her notice. Erection regained, condom applied, Peterson pushed himself up and entered Thomson. Eighty-nine seconds later, he screamed, “Yeah, boyeeeee!” and climbed off, extending his hand for the high-five, and was removed from the dorm room, his fat body naked under the florescent light.