The Sex Lives of College Girls

On ugly-crying through Off Campus, ugly-cringing through my boy-crazy college diaries, and finally allowing myself to be seen

Unless you’ve been living under a rock (or you’re boycotting Amazon), you’ve probably heard about Off Campus — the Prime Video hockey romance series adapted from Elle Kennedy’s novel, The Deal. I binged the show a couple of weeks ago, ugly-crying through almost every episode. Then, eager to see how many of the Gen-X references appeared in the source material, I downloaded and read all 500-plus pages of the book in two sittings, and ugly-cried again.

Before I get to the reasons I was unwittingly moved to tears, let’s take a quick look at a few of the highlights that prompted me to declare right here on Substack: “If this is Gen-Z’s answer to John Hughes I am so here for it.”

(I’ve Had) The Time Of My Life

First, there were the nods to classic movies like Dirty Dancing (“I carried a watermelon,” the lift stance) and Sixteen Candles — both of which I have watched at least two million times through the years. (Also, in case anyone needs to hear this today: “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”)

Then, there was the striking resemblance between Ella Bright (who plays Hannah) and Brooke Shields — so much that I asked Google if she’s Brooke’s daughter. She’s not, and she’s British, which somehow made it better. Meanwhile, The Husband and I had a lengthy debate about the Gavin Rossdale-meets-Michael Hutchence situation happening with Belmont Cameli’s face/hair.

Then there was the music — “Dancing With Myself” … “Nothin’ But a Good Time” … “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” … “The Bitch Is Back” … “Lovefool” … “Fade Into You” … and a spectacular rendition of “Cherry Pie:”

I will say, the nods to Gen-X culture weren’t nearly as present in the book, but Hannah and Garrett binge-watching Breaking Bad made up for it.

All The Young Dudes

But the reason I kept sobbing had nothing to do with the Gen-X references or Walter White, and everything to do with how it all transported me right back to my own college days. Or, rather, my college nights — which were a lot less focused on getting a degree in Writing, and a lot more focused on getting together with dudes (as documented in my journals, in writing).

More specifically: I was floored by the ways the show and book dove into themes of love and longing, of wanting sex but also fearing it. I especially appreciated the message about how deep, meaningful relationships — romantic or otherwise — aren’t entirely possible if the people involved can’t stomach the terrifying prospect of being fully seen. Truly, there were so many examples of all the ways that kind of fear gets in the way of an authentic connection, whether it’s with a parent, a child, a friend, a romantic partner … a mutual masturbator (again, IYKYK).

Most of the things I wrote in my journals are as cringe as you might imagine. On one page, I declare I’m in love with a guy named Chris. A few entries later, I’m fixated on someone named Dave. Then, there’s Greg. And Robert. And Jim. And another Dave. Rinse, wash, repeat?

Did I get to know or even talk to any of these guys? The evidence on that is sparse, and my menopausal brain obviously can’t fill in the details. Most of them were simply described as “beautiful” — especially the ones who had long hair (what can I say? It was the late-80s/early-90s). It’s all very reminiscent of OC’s Hannah crushing on Justin.

“I’m sure I’m not his type — I’m too fat and ugly. But he’s beautiful — he even has long brown hair.” 💀🤣🖤

The number of guys I wrote about increased significantly during my year abroad in Ireland. Every few nights, I would return from the pub or a nightclub (where, without fail, the DJ would play James’ “Sit Down” and always end the night with The Monkees’ “Daydream Believer”), open my journal — which was green because Ireland — and unleash my feelings about Fergil or Finn or Declan or Dermot or Niall or Noel or, oh what’s this? Another Fergil. Yet again, there wasn’t much about who they were beyond their physical attributes.

I can picture it all so clearly: me, seated at my tiny desk in my cubicle of a dorm room, furiously writing in perfect cursive with only the little desk lamp shining a light on my ramblings, waxing poetic about some boy I’d seen or kissed or invited back to the flat, and contemplating the epic love story that would soon unfold and make my life complete.

Like A Virgin

Several months of that journal were devoted to one guy I really did love — or, at least, it was the closest I’d come to what I thought love might be. On the night we admitted our feelings, I wrote about how we’d bonded over the recent deaths of loved ones. I mentioned the hurt and anger we were both processing. And I worried about how getting involved might make things weird for our mutual friends, one of whom I believed might also like him.

Two weeks into the relationship, I was already sabotaging the whole thing, and one of the key reasons, at least in my journals, seemed to be about one issue in particular: I was still a virgin (gasp) and figured he would expect me to put out soon, especially as an older and seemingly more experienced American girl.

And while I definitely wanted to do it, I also wasn’t sure I wanted to do it. Or maybe I just didn’t want to do it with him. But maybe I did. And then again, no — especially if that was the only reason he wanted to be with me which, let’s be honest, is obviously the only thing college boys want from college girls. Right? Right? Right???

My concerns about these kinds of expectations were informed by a few bad experiences and questionable messaging from friends, family, and society at large, not to mention the lingering impact of coming of age when the HIV/AIDS pandemic hit. But, yeah, sex was something I thought I wanted, or should want, and was also scared to have. (Kind of like OC’s Hannah, though in a slightly different register.)

Lookin' for the love getaway

This stuff made up at least 90 percent of my journals at the time: One minute I’m pondering the spectre of sex, the next I’m contemplating the meaning of love, what it might look like, whether it’s necessary before doing the deed. Then, staring down the possibility that I might have found the right person, I would talk myself out of it, and then back into it, and then back out again. Because this guy’s too forward or that one’s too shy or he’s really not that interested in me or interesting to me anyway.

Especially at the very moment a connection seemed to be leading towards anything even remotely real or vulnerable — physically, emotionally, or both — I was out.

About two months into the on-again, off-again relationship with the guy I thought I might love, he showed up with his friend beneath my dorm room window, throwing stones. He wanted to tell me something, but his friend was the one doing the talking — “he’s having girl trouble,” he said. My flatmates were furious at the racket, and one yelled at them to leave because we had lectures the next morning. A few weeks after that, we shared a kiss — on New Year’s Eve — and then went back and forth for another month before my confusion had exhausted us both. All the while, in my journals, I was declaring I love him … no I don’t … I miss him … but do I really? There were even unsent love letters. And poems.

Eventually, he started seeing another girl and, at least on the page, I expressed relief and happiness that he’d found someone saner.

Who’s That Girl?

What I know now, that I didn’t fully realize then: That college girl wasn’t just scared to have sex. She was afraid to let someone in. To be fully seen. And not just physically. She had grief and anger and insecurities and so much confusion, and who could possibly love such a mad creature?

That’s why I kept setting my sights on beautiful strangers, or sabotaging things as soon as they took a more serious turn. Because wanting someone you don’t really know, and running away from someone you might, is so much safer than being known yourself.

Until you find the person who makes you feel so safe that you’re willing to be seen. Which did happen eventually.

But before that, I moved from sexophobia to slutting around Hollywood, making up for lost time with enough casual hookups that I coauthored a book about it. And then, after one or two short-lived relationships where I found ways to once again ruin whatever might be leading to something more serious, I took everything I’d learned and poured it into this new thing called online dating.

Which is how I met The Husband.

Yes, Match existed in 2001 … but just barely.

I called my friends after our first date to tell them he was “the one.” We’d been emailing and talking on the phone for endless hours before that fateful dinner at The California Canteen (RIP), and the connection was clear to both of us. Of course, after a few dates, I tried to bail. But somehow, he convinced me to stay. And I’m so glad I did.

While rereading my journals, I found one page where I’d written — at 1:55 in the morning, at that little desk in Galway — a bit about the kind of guy I might want to marry one day: a man who would move me not just physically but intellectually, emotionally, spiritually. Someone sensitive and smart enough to give me the love and respect I would give in return, well beyond the sexual.

I guess maybe I was writing him into existence. I just had to stop running long enough to let him catch up. And it all came true thanks to a crazy little dial-up dating site, a mere 10 years later, and much farther off campus than any of the places where I went to get an education.

To quote the song Hannah sings in the final episode of OC (because I am a complete and total cheese-bag): “I am the girl that I am, because of the girl I used to be.”