Screw Everyone: Sleeping My Way to Monogamy by Ophira Eisenberg Page A

reality.”
    “Really? You’ve never done ’shrooms? What, was there actual shit to do in your town growing up?” I needled.
    “No, well, we smoked pot,” he said, trying to save face, “but no one in high school had anything else.”
    “Ha! Not that you know of!” And then an idea occurred to me. “I bet I can get us some ’shrooms,” I said.
    “How?” he asked eagerly.
    “I . . . might know someone. Let me work on it, okay?”
    He laughed at me. “Yeah, sure. You go work on that.”
    Not only had I dabbled in mushrooms numerous times and was well versed in what to expect, but I was also counting on the fact that if I helped him with his vision quest, things would progress beyond coffees.
    If there was one thing I noticed about our campus, it was that the radio station was teeming with drug doers, sellers, and two-for-one deals. I walked in at lunch and very politely asked Louise, the programming assistant who was supposedly on methadone, if she knew where I could buy some mushrooms. Louise scared the shit out of me. It was clear she had no use for my big shiny face and bouncy demeanor, but she was happy to take my money. She handed me two tabs of acid and growled, “This is all I have. Ten dollars.” Apparently, I didn’t have a say in the matter, so I did as instructed and walked out with two squares of LSD in my purse. I wasn’t crazy about doing acid again.Now that I was twenty, I wanted to take care of my body and stick to the organics. But I wasn’t about to argue this point with Louise.
    I saw Ryan in The Alley reading Das Kapital and flopped across from him, eager to announce that I’d purchased the traditional opiate of the masses.
    “So! If you’re mad keen and wanna do acid tonight, I’ve acquired some,” I said with a faux British accent, forgetting in that moment that I can’t do accents. “It’s pretty much like mushrooms but trippier.” I was impressed with myself, proud of how spontaneous and savvy I seemed. I was no Betty Co-Ed; I was like Demi Moore in St. Elmo’s Fire . And we all know how that ends. Eventually you sleep with Ashton Kutcher.
    He said he was totally in, and we agreed to meet at the Double Deuce bar after class. I planned an outfit around my leather cap, adding bleached jeans, a purple velvet blazer, and chunky high boots. Unfortunately, I’d let myself get caught up in the excitement and overlooked one very important thing about acid: It doesn’t make you touchy-feely or amorous at all. Heady and freaked out, sure, but it is the furthest thing from a sexy drug. We should have met up at the planetarium.
    As the drug hit, Ryan went into philosophizing mode, relishing each word as it came out of his mouth like it was a hunk of conversational caramel.
    “If Nietzsche was right and there’s no such thing as truth , because my truth is different from your truth, then this is one kind of beer to me, but it’s completely something else to you. Think about it.”
    I nodded, but I’d started the trip with a specific goal in mind, and the effects of the acid only cemented my purpose and made it more urgent.
    “There is no such thing as objectivity,” he continued. “We can never be anything but subjective. Ever.” He looked at me. Even with a strong chemical moving through my bloodstream, I wasn’t that interested in this discussion. Ryan continued on an intellectual rampage about how anthropological writing was about as useful as literary criticism, while I fixated on the task of how I was going to get him to kiss me. At that moment, I didn’t desire for him to kiss me, I just needed it, like it was an item on a scavenger hunt. Locking lips with him would also have the side benefit of shutting him up.
    Before our third beer, I lied and said, “All these people are kinda wigging me out. Do you wanna walk back to my place? It’s closer than yours.” His eyes were two huge black pupils that seemed to spiral into outer space.
    “Totally,” he replied. Then