One weekend, I went to a mixer at one of the best frats at my school. They had a huge party coming up and the only way to avoid waiting on long lines is knowing a brother very well, if you know what I mean.

Four (…or five or six) drinks later, I found myself chatting with a slightly creepy and indisputably not-cute guy who claimed to be roommates with one of the coolest, hottest members his pledge class. I figured he was my “in,” my protection from shivering in a line for two hours while my buzz drifted slowly away. So I turned on the charm, laughed at his jokes, touched his arm.

Yet even in my state of inebriation, my creep-dar started bleeping. Something was off about this kid and I couldn’t quite figure out what it was.  I decided to ask him some questions to verify his so-called brotherhood.  Our conversation:

Me: So, you pledged here two years ago?
PB (Pseudo Brother): Oh yeah, you have no idea. Worst year of my life.
Me: What chapter are you guys?
PB: Oh, we’re the Alpha chapter. Totally.
Me: Really? The Alpha chapter? Wow, that’s impressive. What year were you founded?
PB: 1889, baby! Brothers for life!
Me: What college are you in here?
PB: Oh, you know, the one that starts with a C.
Me: The College of Arts and Sciences, the College of Engineering, the College of Agriculture and Life Sciences…
PB: Yeah, yeah, the last one.
Me: What’s your major?
PB: Business.

And it continued from there.  A number of red flags popped up, including the fact that pledging takes place over only one semester at my school, not a year; all the colleges start with a C, and there is no business major in the College of Agriculture and Life Sciences; along with other glaring inconsistencies. However, based on his impressive chapter stats I decided to spend the night with him anyway, images of VIP entry to the upcoming party swimming in my head the entire time.

Early the next morning, I ran to the bathroom and looked him up on Facebook via my Blackberry. To my surprise, he wasn’t mutual friends with any of my friends in his frat. Upon closer inspection, I realized he didn’t have ANY friends at my school, and he wasn’t registered under its network—or any college network! Incredibly skeeved out, I snuck downstairs without waking him up and called a cab.

I sat on a bench (surrounded by empty Natty Light cans) in the fraternity house foyer and waited for my chariot. Looking around I realized I was sitting in the same spot he was sitting in during our conversation the night before, and right in my line of vision was placed a giant plaque that read “Alpha Chapter, Founded 1889.”

So much for impressive chapter stats!

The real kicker? He still texted me about ten times that day, seemingly oblivious that I figured out how creepy he was and ditched him. After I finally answered with a very terse, “Look, I know you don’t go here and I don’t want to see you,” he had the nerve to get mad at ME for “only hooking up with him because I thought he was in a good frat.”

And then he called me a Slore.

I guess I gotta give him some props for pulling that insult out in a serious conversation. Yeah, he’s still the creepiest guy I’ve ever…known, but at least he made me laugh.

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I once went home with a guy who sniffed his sheets before throwing me down and taking advantage of me. Even worse, once he threw me down to take advantage of me, he asked me if I thought his sheets smelled funny. Really? Is that supposed to get me in the mood?

Then there was that time I went home with the guy who waited until we were both completely naked (on his futon, no less) to tell me that he had a girlfriend. “But I don’t like her that much.”

It seems that the guys I tend to gravitate towards (when heavily intoxicated) don’t have the most tact when it comes to the bedroom boogie. I was curious to see if anyone else had the same experiences, so I asked the CollegeCandy writers to tell me the worst thing a guy has ever done or said in bed. Somehow I don’t feel so bad anymore…

John – UConn: The worst thing a guy could do in bed? Immediately after sex, he opens up his cell phone, makes a call and says “Hi Mom. Guess I win the bet. Pay up.”

Amanda – Wagner: “That’s not how my ex did it.”

Brithny – Duke: “Say cheese!” [Pulls out camera.]

Charlsie – Hollins: Refer to himself in third person. It’s creepy and weird!

Sara C – Fordham: How about, “you’re such a little girl!”? It makes him sound like a pedophile, and I’m a grown-ass woman, thank you very much.

Lauren – University of Michigan: “This is going to be quick.” Ugh, and it was.

Kayla – California State University, Sacramento: If he ever compared me or my techniques to a past girlfriend, I would have to slap him and close up my Cookie Shop for a while.

Beata – Notre Dame: Well, for me personally, it is so annoying when guys ask, “Do you like that? You like that, huh?” It’s like, “If I didn’t like it, you would know about it already, so quit asking.”  But one of my friends has had the experience of a guy who had seen too many pornos calling her a dirty whore in bed. Needless, to say, he wasn’t getting any more action from her.

Noa – CU Boulder: “Baseball, baseball, grandma, baseball.” I know he was trying to last longer to help me out, but I don’t need to know he’s thinking of his grandma when he’s looking at me naked.

Liza M – Minnesota: ‘…did you have one?’ Because believe me, If I did, you wouldn’t have to ask.

Sarabeth – University of Texas: Quote South Park. I’ve had it happen. It’s just so off putting, and it scarred me for life.

Cristina – Michigan State: “Oops…I might be too small for this condom”

Erica – Kent State: Compare to any of his exes.  Hands down.

Kari – FSU: Roll over afterward and vomit…into my hair.

Carly – Grinnell: Be completely silent! It’s so much worse than even bad feedback. You can’t tell what the heck he’s thinking or if he’s just wishing he were anywhere else.

Kelly – UMass: Call out someone else’s name. True story.

Ricki – University of Michigan: “That was almost as good as the way my last girlfriend did it”

[Photo courtesy of oliwilken on Flickr.]

Yep. I hear it. Daily. All I want to do is walk to the store and grab a red bull, and instead, I’m solicited by men I wouldn’t touch with a stick. It never matters what I’m wearing, if my hair is greasy, if my face is breaking out, or even if I’m with another guy.

The cat caller team is relentless. They slow their cars and roll down their windows while passing me by. They halt conversation and stare at my ass with such intensity that I can FEEL it. All that I want to know is…where the f*ck do they think this is going to get them?

Should I cancel my plans, hop in their cars, and give them head? And why the hell am I their MAMI? Since when is it sexy to be YOUR mami? Last time I checked, that’s incestuous and not really flattering at all.

As a general rule of thumb, guys, don’t comment to girls on the street about how they look. You might have great intentions with it, but at the end of the day it is rude. Not only is it rude, but it is also awkward. What do you want her to say?

“Thank you for being a creep?”

Leave the girls alone, fellas. Compliment them in your heads, whistle at them on mute. If you really want a girl to pay attention to you — stop acting like a creep. Girls don’t wanna hear remarks like this when they’re just trying to walk down the street. Make a girl EARN props from you. She doesn’t feel special if you’re giving them out to everyone. Shouting at a chick on the street is basically telling her she’s nothing but T and A to you — and what self-respecting woman wants to be known as only T and A?

Hopefully, this message reaches some guy out there somewhere. And he tells a friend. And the revolution starts.

Nice guys think they finish last. Assholes think they finish first. As Dane Cook would put it, “What about the whole middle ground here where YOU’RE AN IDIOT!?“

There’s more to it than good guys and bad guys. I’m sick of hearing nice guys complain that so many of us girls choose to date jerks. Screw that. It’s just that the nice guys, the REALLY nice ones, are disguised. “Nice Guys” are the ones hovering over your desk at work, telling you:

“You know, I’M A NICE GUY, but you girls only like dirtballs.”

See? That “Nice Guy” thinks he’s one thing, but in actuality, he’s a creep. He is a lame, lame creep who hangs onto something he learned from his mother when he was young about being nice to ladies. He might always pay for meals and he might always make sure you get into your home safely after a date WITHOUT inviting himself in…but that’s not all that it takes to be a nice guy. For all I know, Mr. Self proclaimed “Nice Guy” is actually an axe murderer who likes to feel like he can save the day. You can’t fool me. I watch Dexter.

A genuinely nice guy doesn’t need to go around bragging about how he’s a nice guy. A genuinely nice guy demonstrates this through his actions and everyone around him, especially woman, can see right to his core. A genuinely nice guy can pick up on your tone when you had a weird day and need to talk about it. A genuinely nice guy won’t have sex with you if he doesn’t have time to hang out afterward (unless you’re totally all about it). A genuinely nice guy will find ways to show you that he supports you and cares about you without having to buy out advertising space on a highway sign for his creepy smiling face with a headline that reads: “Looking for a nice guy? Well! You found one!”

So yeah, that “Nice Guy”, that one who thinks he is entitled to all women out there…he is the worst kind of guy. Girls, if you’re looking for a good catch…you need to look up, down, and through every aspect of a guy’s life. And if he decides to pronounce to you that he is a “Nice Guy”…I would write him off immediately.

…Unless you prefer your compliments with a side of jerk.

You’re at a bar, minding your own business, talking to your friends and occasionally turning to see if that cute guy by the bathroom is actually with that girl he’s standing next to, or is just waiting in line to pee, when out of nowhere, a dude steps into your line of vision and says something slightly to very insulting. Don’t understand how it’s possible? Here are two real life examples:

Dude: “You two girls suck”

My friend and I freeze, staring at him in complete confusion.

Dude: “Seriously. You suck.”

Me: “Ok.”

I don’t know what else to say, and don’t care enough to trade insults with him. Nudging my friend with my elbow, I signal that it’s time to vacate the area.

Dude: “I mean, I’ve been here for an hour and haven’t been able to talk to either one of you!”

He grins, and asks us our names, and starts to talk to us. He’s actually friendly, but we leave soon after introductions because neither of us can forget how utterly rude he had been only moments ago.

At another bar with another friend, I’m trying to squeeze through an insanely huge crowd of people to get a beer. I can hardly breathe, and am in no mood to be yelled at by some tall, skinny, bi-speckled geek, but he continues to shout directly into my ear.

Dick: “Seriously! Is that real?”

Me: “What do you think?” I scream extra loud into his face, hoping he’ll back the hell off.

Dick: “It doesn’t look natural at all!”

My Friend: “Your face doesn’t look natural!”

And with that, she pulls me away and deeper into the crowd, leaving the geek and his geek associates to sketch out an algebraic graph of the chances of them getting laid.

Apparently, insulting girls to get them to notice you is something certain men (read: idiots) do all the time. There’s even a book written about it. The Game, by Neil Strauss, is all about how Strauss, a former social outcast, turned himself into a sex machine by becoming a Pick Up Artist.

“Most women respond to routines involving tests, psychological games, fortune telling and cold reading like addicts respond to free drugs” Strauss writes, going on to explain how a “neg” – a “barbed compliment or vaguely humorous insult” – should be employed on women who are used to getting compliments because it’ll make them “crave the PUA’s (Pick Up Artist’s) attention and approval”. Sure. If they have no self-esteem and enjoy jackasses.

I, for one, never respond well to this idiotic way of thinking. If I don’t know you, don’t insult me—it’s as simple as that. There’s a difference between being charming and being sleazy, and Strauss’s advice seems to rotate around the latter. Why insult a girl when it’s just as easy to smile, ask her a question, treat her like a cool chick you’d like to get to know? Those are the men I’m attracted to, the ones who have enough real confidence and charm to start up a conversation, without using lines or attempted psychological mindfucks. He may consider himself a P.I.M.P, but Strauss, and all his followers, will forever be geeks in my eyes. Who needs a book to tell them how to interact with the opposite sex? Who needs to rely on games and step-by-step instructions to land a date?

Grow some balls. Talk to me like a human being. Make me laugh. And leave the manual at home.