We at Golden Words try very hard to be gender-neutral and cater to the sensibilities of all genders. But SORRY, this time I’m going rogue and write something that’s only relevant to half the population. Or like 40% of the Queen’s population. Or like 90% of an Engineering party population. Whatever, it’s about dicks. 
If you just finished up frosh week as a 1st year, then you realize the instant regret that came from waking up at 8am only to find that only you and two other people in your frosh group bothered to show up to the talk at the ARC. It didn’t matter how important the subject matter was - that echoey space could lull anyone to sleep. As you drift on the edge of consciousness as someone who’s either an expert in their field or the Head Gael, something goes wrong. Very wrong. Fuck. You got yourself a boner. Pitching a tent. Raising the Mast. Vertically re-integrating the management structure of your pants. 
You immediately panic, as any minute the event could end and you’ll have to stand up and walk. Or worse, do that frosh dance, both of which require you to move your hands away from your crotch, placing immeasurable pressure on one of your body’s most essential organs . Believe me I’ve been there. What’s worse, is that logic is not a factor anymore. Your brain just said, “fuck y’all,” and started pumping blood south of the border despite the fact that mental illness is not a sexually stimulating topic, nor being delivered by a scantily clad person of whichever gender(s) get you going (see engsoc: I can make this article inclusive!) You can’t just close your eyes and try to think of unsexy things like “dead old lady” or “global development studies”. The best thing you can do is ride this out for as long as possible while trying not to make a visible sweat. Like hearing “Blurred Lines” at the club, it’s one of life’s necessary evils that you have get through in life. You’ll learn fast, frosh. 
Naked Mole Rat