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Life at the Fraternity House

Anyone who has been privileged enough to attend a University will probably tell you it was the most memorable, if not the best time of their life. I lived in a fraternity house for three years. The path I chose for myself was probably different than most college students. There really is no better way to grow as a man than to live with twenty guys. Backgrounds, values, priorities, and lifestyles came crashing together to create a bonfire of laughs, fights, booze, animals, sex, masturbation, rules, ragers, cops, and school. 

I could write forever about the myriad of incidents and events that occurred at this house. Here is just a peek…


The house was decked out with a computer lab of twelve desks and seven computers–three of which were functioning; the other four accumulated dust and flicked boogers. No one had Internet in their room, so this really was our only source of Internet. People generally studied until midnight before calling it a night. After that, it was a free-for-all contest between two or three lurking masturbators–usually myself, Dave Axe, or Afro-Man. We’d stay in the room and act like we were “checking the Internet.” It always went unspoken, but we would literally sit at a computer and “wait it out.” Whoever could wait the longest would get the room to themselves and fresh freedom to jerk. Sometimes someone would unexpectedly come in late at night. Luckily, there was an alarm system on the room. If the door was locked you had to type in a code that set off an unpleasant beeping noise until the code was typed in again to disarm the system. The act of someone typing in the code, opening the door, disarming the alarm, and walking around the corner to the “jerking area,” gave masturbators a window of 15 seconds to “cover up” or “tuck it in.” I got beeped over 100 times but never got caught. The person would walk in, I’d give them a choked “What’s up,” and then I’d click on my emergency link–usually–to make it look like I was checking sports highlights.

         One Thursday night, after an hour of “waiting it out,” I won. I began my session at 1 a.m. The material I was finding was premium stuff. The best I ever saw. I got greedy. I couldn’t end it. Chicks on chicks. Ten-second clip after ten-second clip to piece together the entire scene. Twenty-pic pages of a never-before-seen hottie. Silvia Saint. Jenna Jameson. The list was endless. I thought to myself, “Nah, I can find something better than this.” I was right. Before I knew it, it was already 6 a.m.! My eyes were burning and my dick was raw. I had roughed up the suspect to an unprecedented extreme. I ended my session by blowing my load in the trashcan–an eight-roper–to some chick who was probably ranked 116th on the list of girls I’d sifted through on the night. The five-hour session left me feeling like a zombie the next day, effectively killing my Friday night and half of my Saturday. Five hours! To this day, that is my record. I got greedy.


No matter how cool some guys may seem, if you live in a house with twenty guys, at least a couple of them are bound to be broke. Usually, the root of all evil comes from lack of money. Things were stolen. Clothes were borrowed and never returned. Beer was snipered. Food was eaten. It was all petty theft, nothing big. It was just unpleasant. We never did find out who the thieves were, although we did have a few suspects. One time I lost my favorite shirt, and two years later found Afro-Man wearing it, and he had apparently “borrowed” it from ODR, who had “borrowed” it from someone else. One time, Merlin had his entire change dispenser in his car (Over $10 in coins) completely cleaned out overnight. However, the culprit did have a conscience, sparing him sixteen cents. One time Chuck brought home nachos and a big fat taco from Del Taco. He left the living room for thirty seconds and returned to find his big fat taco already half-eaten, mysteriously imprinted with an extra large four-inch radius bite mark. One time, there was an inexplicable nine-inch brown log sitting on the couch. But that’s beside the point. One time I bought a jar full of quarter sliced dill pickles, and two days later went in to grab my first pickle from the fridge. There were two pickles left.


It was never really encouraged for bros who lived at the house to have girlfriends. Although most girlfriends refused to stay at the house overnight, some actually liked staying at the house. Some were cool, but most were irritating and intrusive. They took away time from guys to talk about things they would normally talk about, but couldn’t because a chick was present. Sometimes, the room would smell like fish after they had sex. Sometimes the girls were loud and obnoxious, and dumped their unwanted opinions on us. Sometimes they would study in the computer room late at night, taking away precious jerk time from certain frustrated masturbators (Me). Sometimes, we’d be trying to sleep, and the bro would start fucking his chick some eight feet away, with only the armoire to shield us–it has been rumored, however, that some guys actually jerked off to this; I definitely wasn’t a part of that. One time Chester’s girlfriend left her rusty white 1976 Lincoln in the parking lot. For two years. Most significantly, girlfriends slowly sucked the life and fun out of every bro they dated. They were like the cancers of youth, eating away at the soul’s ability to dream and discover, the true antonym of adventure. I do not recommend “girlfriends” at such a young age. Time is more important than sex. You’ll see. 


Over the years, several “house pets” became a part of house life. The first pet to ever live in the house belonged to Wang. He was an orange cat named Louie. He never meowed. You could step on his tail and you wouldn’t know because he was a mute. Louie mysteriously disappeared, and it was rumored that he was captured and cooked at a Mongolian BBQ across the street. 

The next pet was a stray black cat we named Morgan. At first we wanted to name him “Captain Morgan” after our favorite liquor, but it was too long of a name. A week after we found Morgan and welcomed him to the house, another stray was found wandering in the premises. We took him too. He was also black, but unlike Morgan he smelled like poop all the time. We named him “Captain Stinky.” The named evolved into just “Stinky.” Both cats only lasted a couple months until Morgan simply disappeared, and Stinky was found dead underneath a dumpster.

During the Morgan and Stinky era, a pet mouse was introduced to the house by Tele’s girlfriend. It didn’t last long, and she started suspecting we’d feed it to Morgan or Stinky. But then one day, it disappeared.

The most bizarre pet to ever set foot in the house was a tortoise named “Turtle.” He lived in an aquarium, but one day I came home from class to find turtle strolling through the parking lot. We never did find out how turtle got there.

The next pet to fail at existing was Cam’s pet cat named Mike. He wasn’t liked by many of the guys, particularly Stiffler, for some reason, so Cam deported him to his parent’s house. Mike was the only cat to make it out of the house alive, although Cam said “he got weird” in the months that followed, and he was never quite the same.

The last pet during my three years was Roger’s pet dog named Rufus–but everyone called him “Dufus”. He looked like a Lion. So much so, that one day when Roger was gone, some guys shaved him so he had a mane. It was hysterical. 


For most people, the period of time when we have the least amount of money usually comes between the ages of 18-22. Our parents stopped supporting our spending, and it is a tough adjustment for most. I made the adjustment, but my diet suffered, along with everyone living at that house. The poorer a person is, the shittier food they tend to eat. There was a Jack-in-the-Box right down the street. If only that place had been a Subway or something, I think many lifestyles and bodily appearances would have been different, even to this day. I averaged 10.3 Jack-in-the-Box meals per week. The “house high” went to Chester, who averaged 14 meals per week (with no breakfast). The average bro averaged right around nine. Luckily, I’m skinny and such eating habits never made me fat, but they did counter any exercise I ever attempted.  


Several clubs were formed. Here are a few.

Buffalo Club

If you were cool or recognized as someone worth partying with, you were welcomed into a club known as the Buffalo Club. You had to say an “I solemnly swear” bit, and then you were in. People in the Buffalo Club could only drink their alcohol out of their left hand. If you caught someone drinking out of his or her right hand, you would call out “Buffalo,” and they would be forced to pound whatever was left of their drink. If they didn’t follow through with it, they were dubbed as a “pussy faggot,” and looked down upon. I once was Buffaloed on a 40-ouncer of Steel Reserve. It wasn’t fun. 

100 Club

This famous club only contained members who could do 100 shots of beer in 100 minutes. This was an actual timed event where every minute players must take another shot. I only made it to 82. If you attempt this event, I recommend bringing several trashcans into the room. Vomiting will ensue.

Fight Club

Coined after the movie, this club was founded on bros who would wrestle each other because of a grudge, shit-talking, or just because they “felt like it.” Punches were not aloud to be thrown, and a bro would lose when he “tapped out.”

Team Cutty

Perhaps the most underground club of all time. Consisted only of bros who dipped or chewed tobacco. They customized their slogan after the famous quote “We are not what we say we are. We are what we do.” They made some tweaks and made T-shirts that said, “We are not what we say we are. We are what we chew.” Although it was tempting, I was not a part of this club.


We had a silly rivalry with another fraternity. Tough words were always said, but no punches were ever thrown. All the shit-talkers were just insecure about themselves and who had a “better fraternity,” so as a result we talked shit on each other and accomplished nothing except for this small paragraph that is being written right now. One time, a small group of younger bros decided to steal this fraternity’s letters–the large seven-foot wooden letters they used to advertise themselves during welcome week–from their backyard. We were successful, but when we brought the letters to our house, we immediately felt like idiots. They took up precious parking lot space, and we instantly became vulnerable to all kinds of consequences from the University. Everyone gathered around the letters and discussed how stupid we were to commit such a pointless criminal act. It looked and felt like a scene from the movie I Know What You Did Last Summer. We hid the letters in Vick’s garage for a year until he realized they were taking up space. He threw them out. No one ever found out about the crime. But we were lame.


Every month two things happened: 1) We had a philanthropy or a day of community service, and 2) We had a party. We had a living area that was perfect for parties. Over 3000 square feet paved the way for several historic “frat parties.” If anyone has ever been to a fraternity party, it doesn’t take a GQ superstar to hook up with a girl. Tucker Max said it best, “It’s like a clearance sale in the pussy aisle at the hook-up store; Everything Must Go!” Since we were the only off-campus house, we had the ability to throw a party whenever we wanted. We tried to space them out strategically, so we wouldn’t spoil them. We advertised for them all week, hundreds, sometimes thousands, of creative flyers made and distributed all over campus. While other fraternities had parties at lame bars with security guards, we had parties at our house. It didn’t take long for everyone to discover that we threw the best parties. Every party had its own unique personality with its own specific theme–Toga, Hawaiian, White-trash, Jungle, 70s, 50s, “Party like a Rockstar,” Movie stars, Hoe down, Animal House, Heaven and Hell, Pimps and Ho’s. The list went on. We all dressed up for them, although some useless bros showed up wearing jeans and a collared shirt. These bros obviously never hooked up. The guys drank beer. The girls drank this evil stuff we called jungle juice. It was a ghastly blend of fruit punch Hi-C, 7-up, orange juice, triple sec, and cheap vodka. The girls loved it and it successfully transformed the sober quiet boring girls into erratic slurring bimbos, and the sober slurring bimbos into turbo make-out maniacs.

After 11 p.m., an over/under of fifteen couples could be seen making out on the dance floor at any given moment. Every male–we did let in guys who weren’t in the fraternity, although they rarely had any luck with girls–in attendance had two goals: 1) Get shitfaced, and 2) Get laid. Any guy who had different goals was either kicked out of the party or eventually sniffed out as a homosexual buffoon. Every female in attendance had three goals: 1) Get shitfaced, 2) Hook up, and 3) Dance. Any girl who had different goals became labeled as a prude angry dyke and was only allowed into future parties because she had hot friends who had realistic goals. The bros who lived at the house had a distinct advantage at getting laid over the out-of-house bros. After midnight, the party slowly migrated to the five units in the back where the real action took place. Doors mysteriously became locked, and sober girls frantically wandered around asking everyone, “Have you seen my friend?” We lied to “these” and told them to check the dance floor. Sometimes roommates had to use the room in “shifts” because they both brought a girl back. No orgies ever took place. Anyone who said, “College is one big orgy,” probably never went to a real college and just mimicked the words of some guy or girl they thought was cool. Although it was always easy to hook up at these parties, only a small handful of college girls were actually down for sex on the first night. Maybe I should have gone to a shittier college where the girls weren’t as educated. I probably would have gotten laid more. Either way, our house parties were epic.


After every party or “Tequila Tuesday,” at least one chick would always end up spending the night with a bro. These girls were idiots and never thought ahead. Instead of waking up early to sneak out, they would sleep until noon, and by the time they woke up, everyone in the house had already awoken and gathered on the front porch–the place anyone living at the house was required to walk through in order to leave–to discuss the events of the night. Of course, if a bro hooked up, that was always the first thing discussed. So it was no mystery if Chester took a girl back to his room and locked the door. It would be discussed. The girl would get brutally scrutinized by everyone. Then she would walk out of the room alone–or sometimes with the bro–to her car. She would walk through what became a hallway of smirks and held-back-laughs. It was always quiet. Maybe sometimes one of the more cordial bros would awkwardly mutter a “good morning.” That was it. She would walk by us; then we would all check out her ass; then she would round the corner to find her car; and then we discussed her some more. The bro would then join the circle. If she were ugly, he would remain quiet or act defensively, and tell us what was good about her. If she were hot, he would tell everyone how great his night was. Of course, no matter how hot she was, there were always one or two guys that would find a flaw about her and elaborate on the flaw. No one ever really “came out on top” from the walk of shame.

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like right now if I had lived elsewhere those three years. I could have lived in an apartment with less people, but I reasoned that I’d have the rest of my life to do that. I only really had three or so years to live in a fraternity house. I reckon it was worth it.

Published inDave Glenn