Bradley King from Theta Epsilon, the richest frat house on campus, echoes the sentiment. “Dude, our fraternity is already choreographing routines.”
Here’s what kills me: they’re not wrong about the charity aspect. Early estimates suggest this event could raise over $100,000. But at what cost to romance? To dignity? To the innocent joy of paper valentines and terrible candy?
I’ll be at the event, press pass in hand, trying to make sense of this brave new world. If I enjoy it, well, I’m only human. You can judge me all you want. But at least I’m honest about my hypocrisy.
Sarah Piper is a junior majoring in journalism and moral flexibility. She can be reached at [email protected] or at the Valentine’s Day event, where she will be observing the performances against her own better judgment.
22
JACKSON
Spinfinity Roller Rink is a migraine waiting to happen. The air is thick with the conflicting scents of nacho cheese and disinfectant. “Don’t Stop Believin’” blasts through speakers that haven’t been upgraded in years, and a giant disco ball spins above the rink, throwing fractured light across every surface.
At the center of it all, with a comet tail of raw charisma, is Drew Larney. He’s wearing those purple spandex pants we bought earlier in the week. His top half is hidden beneath a BSU sweatshirt. His hair reminds me of late-afternoon honey, perfectly wind-tossed as he drops into a backward crossover that, if you didn’t know better, you’d think was CGI.
Every pair of eyes in the joint is on him, and not solely because of the skintight pants situation. The guy was born for this. Skating on a rink, being the center of attention. He spots me watching, grins, and throws a peace sign in my direction.
I’m wearing the same outfit as him, but on me, it’s less of a fashion statement and more of a cry for help. My thighs, while perfectly serviceable for the occasional deadlift, are twigs compared to Drew’s. My ass simply exists, whereas Drew’s isthe kind of gravity-defying, shelf-stable work of art that inspires poets.
I shouldn’t be here, and yet I am. For reasons that are 90 percent Drew Larney’s ass, 7 percent the new $500 grand prize, and 3 percent a complicated mixture of peer pressure and the inability to say no.
Drew skates over to me, brakes hard, and grabs my hand before I can even pretend to consider leaving. His fingers weave through mine, thick and warm. “Ready to show these idiots what we’re made of?”
“Tight spandex and poor decisions?” My voice cracks only slightly.
He laughs, squeezing my hand, and I try not to think about how, in a matter of minutes, we’re going to be putting on the performance of a lifetime.
“Holy shit!” Drew drops my hand and points with the solemnity of a man witnessing a natural disaster. I follow his finger, and that’s when I see it—the stuff of legend, myth, and several non-negligible campus thirst traps.
Gerard Gunnarson glides onto the rink in a hot pink spandex one-piece that’s sure to play a part in every guy’s masturbatory fantasies at least once, no matter how much they deny it.
CHIC’s “Le Freak” thunders through the speakers, and Gerard responds by throwing his arms wide to welcome the disco era back from the dead. At six-foot-five, he’s impossible to miss. At six-foot-five in hot pink spandex that clings to every single inch of his frame, he’s impossible to look away from.
“How,” Drew breathes beside me, his voice somewhere between awe and genuine confusion, “did he stuff himself into that thing?”
It’s a valid question. The spandex leaves nothing to the imagination. Gerard’s legendary ass is on full display, each cheek moving independently as he picks up speed. His thighsare the size of tree trunks, rippling with every push of his skates. And then there’s the front situation, which is…
I force my eyes up to the ceiling.
“We struggled for twenty minutes with ours,” Drew continues, still staring at Gerard. “And we don’t have the body mass. Or the ass mass. Or the…” He gestures vaguely at Gerard’s crotch region. “Mass.”
Gerard hits a spin, and the crowd loses its collective mind. Phones appear from every direction, their screens glowing like fireflies as people scramble to capture this moment for posterity. A group of sorority girls in the front row screams.
“Freak out!” Gerard shouts along with the song, pointing at the audience with both hands before dropping into a split that makes my groin ache in sympathy.
The hot pink fabric stretches but somehow holds. I’m convinced Gerard made some kind of deal with a textile demon.
“He’s beautiful,” Drew says, and there’s something in his voice that catches my attention. I turn to look at him, and his expression is complicated—admiration mixed with something softer, more vulnerable. “Sometimes I’m jealous, you know? Not just the body, but the way he”—Gerard does a series of twerks that would get anyone else arrested—“exists. Without shame. Without giving a single fuck what anyone thinks.”
Gerard catches Elliot’s eye in the crowd and blows him an exaggerated kiss. Elliot covers his face with his hands, but even from here, I can see he’s laughing.
“He’s literally humping the air right now,” I point out as Gerard does exactly that, his massive bulge creating a hypnotic swing beneath the pink fabric.
“And he looks amazing doing it!” Drew throws his hands up. “That’s my point! If I tried that, people would think I was having a medical emergency. Gerard does it, and it’s art.”
The routine continues, each move more outrageous than the last. Gerard executes a perfect cartwheel that sends his blond hair flying, then transitions into a shimmy that makes his pecs bounce in ways I didn’t know pecs could bounce. The disco ball catches the pink spandex, and he sparkles, blinding us all.
Gerard finishes his routine with a dramatic pose—one hand on his hip, the other pointed at the ceiling, his ass thrust out at an angle. The crowd erupts. People are on their feet, screaming, throwing whatever they can find onto the rink. Someone’s jockstrap lands near Gerard’s skates.
