Earlier this week the Internet was mildly amused by a dude who kept a spreadsheet detailing all of the excuses his wife gave him for not having sex. Mild amusement turned to national conversation as we all completely ignored the Gaza Strip and argued about who was in the wrong. “Of course he was insane to coldly log what should be an act of love,” said half of the nation, while the other half derided the lack of sex and claimed he must have been driven to insanity. But not you. You were too busy enjoying your college or postgrad life thinking that everyone had gone insane. You might have considered what kind of man presents an Excel file when he could just as easily finish chopping wood out back and passionately take his wife like she wanted. You probably thought, “national conversation over, somebody make me a relationship expert,” and went back to reading Faulkner, because you are both learned and a total fucking stallion. To that, I would comment, “Fair enough, but how much sex are you having right now?” That’s not a rhetorical question. I really need you to honestly answer that in your head right now. (If the relationship guys could please excuse themselves from this column, adults are talking.) Now, allow me to answer it for you: not enough.
I’m a bit removed, but if I could place myself inside the brain of any standard undergrad, I believe I would find the weight of expectation pressuring the normal pathways out of excellent decision making. How many times have you found yourself not pursuing someone deemed unattractive, not by you, but by your friends? I can guarantee there are at least three girls you know who have become anathema (that’s “unboneable” to save you some Googling) for reasons you cannot grasp. For some unknown reason, or maybe a small personality flaw or harmless transgression, at least three girls you know are considered unattractive by the larger group of men you hang out with. Yet their faces are somewhat symmetrical, their bodies are not yet ravaged by the horrors of time, and maybe they’re just really nice people. I know this because I can think of at least five girls I went to school with who were deemed unacceptable for hooking up. As an example, I remember a girl who maybe kind of vaguely resembled Lou Diamond Phillips–so everyone called her Lou Diamond Phillips. No one in my house slept with her and she was kind of hot, like–you guessed it–a sexy, female Lou Diamond Phillips. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Actually, that’s pretty arousing in hindsight. LDP is a beautiful man. But the rationale was, sleep with her and you’re basically butt sexing the dude from “La Bamba.” Ipso facto, I guess. It’s my belief that in college, when constantly surrounded by the opinions of others, a strong personality can grasp onto what someone may deem a flaw and spread the belief like a transmittable disease. That’s a shame, because, to put it bluntly, you should fuck a lot of women.
Honestly, fuck anyone you want. I think back to the conversations in college about who I’d bone and who he’d bone and what we’d do with our bones if we just had the chance to bone. It all sounds so dumb right now. You should fuck literally anything consensual. Big women, little women, girls from sororities that “aren’t cool,” girls who aren’t in sororities, girls who have an eye that’s about an inch above where their other eye is, girls with lice, slutty girls, pretty girls, ugly girls, in-between girls. Try a dude. Maybe that sexy goat with the hot strut. I don’t care. What drawback could there be (assuming you use condoms)? The opinions of others? Here’s a secret: it all doesn’t matter. Life is a smorgasbord, so sample away. Fall prey to the opinions of other, lesser men, and it’s as if you’re all starting a diet right when they restock the sundae bar.
Someday, you will draft your sex spreadsheet to present to your wife, and in a brief moment of reflection, you’ll dream of all the tight skin you once touched. You’ll think of how that’s what you miss the most. Skin. Even the big girls had this taut, nubile skin. My God. That leaves all women eventually, you know–even the ones with amazing bodies. The skin hardens and creases. “Firm” and “plump” in the same sentence becomes an impossibility. Someday, you’ll miss it all and you’ll have to beg the woman you married for half of a blow job and a couple of pumps before she settles in for another “Friends” rerun. But that day is not today.