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  • Nicole Kohut and Michael Colton

Was That Good for You (the Sex)?

Updated: Feb 19, 2021


By Nicole Kohut

I always knew I’d lose my virginity in college. Not because I was a prude in high school, but because of my tragically specific sexual kinks: twin XL beds, stained walls, and central heating. To put it bluntly, I have always fantasized about giving it up in a personally renovated shithole.

Let me take you back. It all began when I was introduced to Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Seeing cracked molding and broken bunk beds become extravagant living spaces at utterly reasonable price points was liberating. I thought to myself, “That’s it! That’s the feeling I want to achieve when the moment comes for me to unlock my chastity belt.” Unfortunately, neither my king-sized bed nor my bidet needed upgrading. But waiting didn’t matter to me because I knew it would all be worth it–perhaps even season-finale level—so I counted the days until my steamy, eminently upgradable 60-square-foot single in Hartley.

Then again, I never expected to lose my virginity over Zoom.

Was losing housing a setback? Absolutely. Did it put the kibosh on my pubescent fantasy? Not in the slightest. I refused to wait any longer. The time was now.

I quickly realized that the hardest part of my journey to sexual liberation would now be finding the perfect mate. Then, after scrolling through the entire CFIG, LionFund, and Columbia Alpha Partners rosters, I found you. I started by attending the virtual info session for your finance club–showing interest, you know, but not too much interest. Once you learned my name, I admit I launched what would grow into a veritable cascade of submissions to Columbia Confessions, making it appear as though hundreds of eligible lions were enamored of my beauty and dying to date me. In no time, you placed the two of us alone in a breakout room together during a club meeting. Then you finally popped the question in the chat: “wanna have phone sex tn ;)”

Ecstatic, I sent you a GCal invite for 2:25 p.m. (11:25 a.m. for you, with the time difference)—right after my first peer review in University Writing. The next step was to claim the perfect location. I needed to find a dorm-like spot to enact my fantasy, if only on cam. After some cursory research and a late night stroll, I soon stumbled upon an abandoned Spirit Halloween store. I took it upon myself to put a downpayment on the lot. I figured it was the least I could do to make the moment as magical as possible–you were, after all, upgrading to Zoom Pro for the occasion.

Illustration by Madi Hermann

The Zoom experience mirrored reality: like anyone on the cusp of deflowerment, I was shy and insecure at the start. To get in the mood, I tested different lighting and angles, asking my classmates to pin my video and rate my appearance on a scale from one to ten. One of my friends managed to get on-campus housing, so I had her send me a photo of her dorm’s view for my Zoom background. I was disappointed to receive an image of a brick wall covered in cobwebs, so I ended up going with a photo of the New York City skyline instead. Besides the store’s surplus of hitachi magic wands, there were really no materials for me to use to spruce up the place. I knew I had to hire a last-minute U-Haul to bring my essentials: therapeutic mattress topper, Egyptian cotton sheets, bedjet, and lava lamp. When the moment finally arrived, I almost backed out, but the “fix imperfections” setting calmed my nerves. I undressed slowly to the sound of your heavy breathing in the background. The ominous mid-day grunts coming from surrounding rooms formed a symphony whilst we consummated our love. The only blip in my plan occurred when you said “The wifi in your sex dungeon’s kind of spotty” in the chat. Ultimately, however, it was just me, you and the NSA agent monitoring my screen sharing a beautiful moment together.

In fact, I’m glad I lost my virginity over Zoom. Unlike a typical sexual awakening, this isn’t a memory that will be confined in our minds alone, slowly withering away, buffered details fading as we age. Whenever we want to reminisce about our debaucherous debut, there will always be a recording waiting for us in the Columbia Cloud.


By Michael Colton

I’m laying on the mangled remains of my twin XL bed’s labrador-golden frame. You, caked in glitter and spread-eagled across my body, haven’t stopped panting for seven or eight minutes. This Furnald single is steamier than the reptile house at the Bronx Zoo, and just as dimly lit. I don’t necessarily blame you for that. I do, however, blame you for using pyrotechnics in my room. And for breaking my bed during a “never-before-seen aerial silk maneuver.” I might not be so critical if anything remotely intimate had happened between us. Regrettably, I have no choice but to offer some honest notes from the perspective of a (fully-clothed) audience member.

And, no, the “sex” was not good for me. To be clear, it never happened. Nevertheless, your act has legs, and I’d love to work with you to find something here.

Illustration by Madi Hermann

Let’s start at the top. I could tell from the instant you walked through my door that you had plans to be a star. Maybe you just have that “Broadway energy.” More likely, it was the white silk gloves, petticoat, and top-hat that told me I was about to crotch-tango with a showbiz type. Beyond that entrance, though, your first 10 minutes were mostly flat. I was with you through the card tricks, and the bit with the parrot that said filthy words was cute. But you lost me with your performance of “America the Beautiful”—it’s a touching song but, honestly, a bit incongruous with the rest of your material. Maybe something with a bit more pop! could do. Try Dolly Parton, or maybe a show tune.

Actually, maybe I’m wrong about the song. I was still slightly expecting to get laid when you started singing it, so the moment’s poignancy could have been totally lost on me. Your call.

Despite the slow start, I thought you ultimately threw together a pretty workable variety show. Around two and a half pages into my notes, I’ve written: “‘Disco Ball/Rollerskates’—YES.” By this point, my focus had shifted from the fact that my pants were still on, and I began to realize that I was witnessing potential greatness. “Greatness” is a strong word, but I think that’s where you’re headed if you just punch your act up a little bit.

Tuck in your legs when you do the triple axle; don’t try the aerial ribbons thing again; go easy on the pyrotechnics. The Roman candles were fun, the firework spelling your name was perplexing yet oddly beautiful, but the old-fashioned cannonball with a big cartoon wick was your downfall. And by that I mean that it was the downfall of the structural integrity of my dorm. But I won’t gripe too much about that. Honestly, I think I’ve been pretty generous, given the whole “I thought this was a sex-hang out because we agreed it was” thing.

I’ll end with this: your show is as good as its weakest link. If you keep at it, I expect to see you on stage in Vegas someday. Call me when that time comes, or if you ever actually want to, you know, do it.


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