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I’m Autistic And I Can’t Get Laid

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The following words are from a brother of mine.

Do you ever feel like you struggle with eye contact? I say struggle with eye contact not in the “I don’t care what you have to say so I’m not even going to look at you” way, but in the “I think I might be on the spectrum” way. I don’t have full blown mental retardation, but it would be dishonest to say that I haven’t drawn parallels between my mannerisms and those of Rain Man, except Rain Man fucks.

I entered my sexual prime three years ago. By even the most conservative of estimates, I should have one pregnancy scare, or at least one positive STD test by now. Three years ago I would’ve told you to kill me if I knew that at age 21, I’d still be jerking off into socks while imagining the tender embrace of Aly Raisman, my Jewish-American princess. My list of girls I’ve slept with should be longer than the list of strip clubs I’ve visited (which is only one, believe it or not). I’m more than halfway to being a 40-year-old virgin. Stealing a pledge’s pocket pussy is the closest I’ve come to reaching the proverbial “home run.” Damn, that was one hell of a month, though. But when it comes to talking to real women, in the words of Kirk Lazarus in Tropic Thunder, I go “full retard.” I’m 21, I can’t get laid, and I think it’s because I’m autistic.

I didn’t make this up. Unfortunately, this story is as real as Lance Armstrong’s one remaining testicle, and my brother (who shall remain nameless) is just as lonely as said testicle. I can only assume that Lance Armstrong also fucks, though.

The longer I avoid talking to my brother about this, the more likely it is that I will never have to, right? Isn’t North Korea getting close to constructing an intercontinental ballistic missile that would blow our asses all the way back to the Clinton administration? I’d rather deal with global thermonuclear war than be faced with the task of getting my questionably autistic fraternity brother out of the worst dry spell since the Dust Bowl. At least Fallout 3 taught me how to survive in a nuclear wasteland. I have absolutely zero experience when it comes to convincing a female to have sex with the same guy who decided the Toronto Raptors logo needed to be on our fall rush shirts. Our university is in Washington (the state) for fuck’s sake. We might as well buy white shirts and write “Can’t talk – too busy dick riding Drake” on them in gold ink.

On the other hand, I’m morally obligated to assist any brother in need until their situation has reached a solution. I don’t know if I should take this kid to a brothel or a psychologist. They really should create a profession that is a combination of those two careers. Being able to directly address why you’re crying during sex would benefit you more than having it come up later in some relationship-ending fight. Also, I hear psychologists give phenomenal head.

Joking aside, this problem must be fixed. My friend hasn’t been able to complete the biological task put forth for him by mother nature. Natural selection seems to be working overtime to remove his genes from the gene pool. There are several logical reasons for this, but if I revealed them it would make his identity undeniably clear.

When I first joined, my fraternity would joke around with him about his virginity, but now we don’t really know what to do. He’s 21 years old and the only vagina he’s ever touched is his mother’s — assuming he wasn’t delivered via C-section. I wouldn’t normally trust the readers on this site, but at this point I have no option. That’s how fucked I am. I would greatly appreciate any and all advice regarding this pathetic situation. I’ve already tried most ideas imaginable, which is why I’m turning to you. Please help me.

Image via Shutterstock

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Swoop Johnson

I'd like to thank Jesus, my family, and Busch Light for getting me to where I am today.

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