She made out with my academic advisor.
In his car, in a dark place. They kissed, he fondled her breasts, she wanted more but that night she didn't get it. He had temporary ethical qualms.
Which made him unique, and deepened her attraction with a newfound sense of mystery.
'Cos lemme tellyas, everyone slept with everyone there. Students, faculty, staff: the community communed carnally in a nonstop hayride of pairings and more-than-pairings that were ephemeral, or lasting, depending.
I was drawn into it only a little, in a toe-in-the-water kind of stance which contradicted my principles. I beee-leeeeeved, oh lord, in free love. You'd have thought I'd have been all over it, and all over them. Ultimately I was too sensitive. I wanted to be loved, so that even my small handful of FWB-style adventures were based on true affection.
Soon after she and he began a proverbially torrid affair which at one point included a bisexual threesome with "a very pretty boy" who was a model for the art professor. With full knowledge or behind the back of my advisor's wife, I had no idea. I never understood whether the spouses were clued-in, were willing participants, or what.
Whatevs. She was my friend, I wanted her to be happy, I was sure she wasn't; and once my own disaster came to full boil she and I took up for a time, without my now-rejected true love and, so far as I know, without my academic advisor.