2012 NOTE: Due to some renovations to the library, Robarts is a little less suited for sexing than it was in 2005. The Varsity takes no responsibility for indiscrete hanky panky.

The transition is jarring: one moment I’m having dinner with my dad and the next I’m contemplating having sex in Robarts Library.

Public sex is revered as one of the ultimate notches in the belt of sexual experimenters (read: perverts). It’s sort of dirty in a stick-it-to-the-man kind of way. So, having done fields, forests, and parks, I feel like I should do the urbane thing and get it on in a building as well.

Dressed like a five-dollar hooker, I pass through the glass gates talking way too loud. I feel like everything about me screams “guilty,” but the keeper of the stacks admits us without a blink of an eye.

My partner in crime and I hop onto the elevator, which turns out to be a complete mood breaker — not only does it take forever, but we have company, so I defer any thoughts of doing it against the elevator buttons.

The ninth floor, our first stop in the study of Robarts sex, is terrifying.

It’s dead silent and, even worse, there are people all over the place. Perhaps, in retrospect, 8:30 on a Monday night wasn’t the right time. There’s also a stale smell in the air, tempting me to light candles or at least plug in an air freshener. The fluorescent lighting is doing nothing for my midwinter skin and even worse, there is nothing with a locked door. “Suck it up, princess,” I say to myself. “Being discovered could be hot, right?”

The most likely place appears to be an empty “group study room.” With people outside, no lock, and a window in the door, this area is only for the adventurous or extremely stupid. With my deadline looming, however, I tell myself not to be a huge wimp and put some chairs up against the door. After a few minutes, the nerves go away and I forget that we’re not doing it missionary style in the sanctity of the bedroom.

Mission accomplished, but I want to know what else Robarts can offer me to get my skank on. Mr. Handsome and I boot it on up to floor 13.

Boring. There’s more bad lighting, and the intense studying vibe is not doing anything for my self-respect. Then, I catch sight of something interesting.

The stairway between floors is not exactly comfy, offering mostly concrete. However, I try to conjure up any prison fantasies I may have and we get down to business. The possibility of being discovered is almost nil, as traffic is low and you can hear a pin drop a mile away. This makes the stairs an absolute no-no for any of you wildcats, but Mr. Handsome and I manage to keep it to a dull roar.

We do some obligatory making out in the elevator — without onlookers this time — and I also think it necessary that we walk on opposite sides of the stacks, peering longingly at each other.

Ten o’clock comes around, and it’s time for Mr. Handsome and me to pack it in.

I’m sweaty and tired but happy. Not only do I have something naughty to think about during my two-hour politics class tomorrow, but I’ve surprised myself.

You won’t find me or my tiny red kilt back in Robarts, though. I can reenact that naughty librarian fantasy at home now without worrying about having an economics major stumble in, ruining my discipline session. At least, not accidentally.