Putty was exactly my type. He, in almost every way, looked like Eric “Otter” Stratton in Animal House. Right down to the haircut and smarmy charm.
He wore cordovan tasseled loafers and once serenaded me on the Metro with “Is She Really Going Out with Him?” His favorite CD was the St. Elmo’s Fire soundtrack and his favorite song was “Come on Eileen.”
He ended up being one of Peter’s suitemates in D.C. which made Operation-Get-In-Putty’s-Pants easier. Or so I thought.
To be clear, this guy’s name wasn’t Putty. I’ll call him that because he obsessively puttied his rusted black car until it turned pink.
While we would quickly become friends, not everyone was a fan of his quirkiness. Putty‘s social views, surprising for someone who wasn’t religious, were old school. His “devil’s advocate” arguments in class skimmed racist and misogynistic.
After a particularly heated class debate about urban sprawl, most of the class gathered during the break to refill their vodka “waters” and “orange juices.” People were laughing “…Seriously, I hope some people kick the sh!t out of him. Preferably in an area of urban sprawl.”
I pulled my roommate Michelle into a room with an existential question I had earlier, “Do you think it’s ok to hook up with someone as hot as Putty even though he can be a jerk?”
She thought for a second, and then said, “Yes.”
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