This is probably a long shot, since I’m not sure how much you remember from last night, but I’m putting this out there anyway. I was sitting in the third row of the crowd at the arch sing during the Tigressions’ set, wearing a blue chambray button-down, black jeans, and black Converses. You stumbled in midway through “Teenage Dream,” and I fell for you right then and there. It must have been Tanks and Ties night somewhere on Prospect Ave, because you were wearing a loose neon green tank which said “PARTY WITH SLUTS” and accentuated the gentle yet rugged curves of your pectoral muscles, and your alluringly grotesque blue and yellow striped tie was tied so gracefully around your slender, supple neck. I became impossibly attracted to the swaggering bravado you displayed as you drunkenly bumped through a few of the altos, seemingly oblivious to the chaos you caused to the singers and to my heart. Your voice cut through me to the very core — I fell even deeper in love as you catcalled each and every member in the group in that sonorous baritone of yours. By the time you’d pushed through the gathered crowd and almost fallen down the stairs outside of 1879 arch, I was consumed.
I fear that you may not be attracted to men, as you mentioned to your friends that you were intent on “fucking some bitches at Cap tonight” as you passed me. However, I’m ever holding on to the slim chance that you would be willing to take me as yours, even just for one date. My heart and my thoughts, as well as the enmity of at least half the a cappella community on campus, are yours.
— WR ’18