Dorm room strippers
By Audrey Davis, News Editor
It’s a Thursday night. I sit alone on the second floor of Hahne Hall in the open study lounge that connects the guys’ side of the corridor to the girls’.
It’s around 9:30. Loud music blares from multiple rooms creating a weird jumble of rap music.
A guy wearing sweatpants walks past me and heads to the girls’ side. He stands in front of a door, hesitating until he finally knocks. The door opens soon after, and the music, once slightly muffled by the door, consumes the whole hallway.
“No! No! No!” a drunken voice yells from inside. “You are not wearing that to go out!”
“And you are definitely going out tonight,” she says.
“I can’t. Not tonight.”
She shuts the door on him and he dejectedly heads back to his room.
For a while, the study lounge goes back to normal.
“Open the door, you slut!” a girl yells at the top of her lungs.
“Oh my God! What’s up, slut?” another girl yells as she opens the door. “I haven’t seen you in forever!”
They embrace in a hug while shrieking and laughing until the door closes behind them and silences them.
Three girls walk through the study lounge dressed in their Thursday night best — rompers that allow a preview of their butts and high heels that make their ankles wobble with every step.
They head to a guy’s room.
“Your strippers are here!” they yell together, joking.
People start to filter out of their dorms and head uptown. They travel in groups, loudly parading through the halls.
By 11:00, the hall is finally silent.
In search of an escape
By Emily Wild, Staff Writer
She needed a good night.
She needed an escape from the stress of finding her way around a new school after transferring to Miami from a different college for her sophomore year. She needed an escape from the stress of going to meeting after meeting, trying to find something that would suit her interests. She needed an escape from the stress of organic chemistry — the class that had already begun to consume her in its vortex of brain twisting information.
Her blood was already pumping with anticipation as she walked across the darkening campus on Friday evening to the party where she hoped she could find an escape from her stress, at least for the night.
As she approached the house, she could hear loud bass thumping from around back. She stepped quickly along the gravel driveway until the throng of partygoers on the back patio came into view.
She had been told it was a highlighter party and to wear bright, obnoxious colors. Her outfit of choice was an oversized, neon yellow t-shirt that she had purchased on clearance at Walmart specially for the occasion. She had paired it with a purposefully unattractive white “skort” in hopes that it would elicit humorous remarks from other girls who had also taken the theme to an extreme.
But as she scanned the crowd, she realized that her clothes contrasted grossly from the tight, dark-colored ensembles that the other girls were wearing.
Her face reddened. Her pulse quickened.
She allowed herself to be swept into the crowd moving through the back door into the basement, and her insecurities vanished.
“Your shirt looks awesome!” a guy shouted over the pumping music while raising his hand for a high five. She giggled and smacked her hand into his, soaking up the attention.
The basement was dimly light with black lights, under which her neon shirt gleamed. The walls were black and splattered with neon paint. Toward the back wall, she spotted a wooden bar covered in red solo cups and began to push her way through the tightly packed crowd.
“Excuse me! Excuse me!” she shouted, hardly able to hear herself over the din of low, male voices and roaring music.
She did her best to dodge sweaty biceps and sloshing drinks, but it was to no avail. By the time she reached the bar, she reeked of vodka and body odor.
“Vodka sprite, please,” she shouted at the bartender, and, after second thought, “Make it two.”
Within minutes, her first two cups were gone, and a third and fourth were being poured. Soon after, she could feel her limbs begin to loosen, her words begin to slur and her smile begin to widen.
“I want to dance!” she yelled ecstatically to anyone who would listen. Several people followed her toward the DJ.
“Play this song,” she said, shoving her phone in the DJ’s face.
Taken aback by her demanding tone, he obliged. As soon as her favorite pop tune began to blare from the speakers, she let loose.
She whipped her frizzy blonde hair back and forth. The contents of her drink spilled over the edges of the cup as her body flailed in time to the beat. Her wide, toothy smile shone bright white under the black lights.
She danced, a vision of pure, carefree happiness that only the perfect amount of alcohol and the perfect song at the perfect time could elicit.
And for the moment, her stress faded to a faraway place in her mind.