SEX COLUMN BEGIN:
The greatest joy of having a weekly column, I think, has been the fact that I have, for the past year, taken whatever it was that happened to be rattling around in my brain, written it down, and gotten it in print — on record.
There has been no rhyme or reason to anything I have ever written, I admit now. It has just been what has on my mind (usually rock ‘n’ roll, Republicans, and marijuana). I think everyone should have a column, including you. It’s therapeutic. Cornering a psychiatrist is only so fulfilling. But to have your grievances aired in a newspaper is euphoric. Knowing that I have touched the lives of so many with complete bullshit. That has made it all worthwhile.
What, then, is on my mind right now?
So glad you asked.
It takes a beautiful spring for a man to get back in touch with his prehensile tail, to remember that he has evolved from apes, who themselves evolved from smaller apes, who themselves evolved from even smaller apes. If we follow the chain of evolution all the way back, of course, we discover the source of all life: tiny, microscopic apes.
In the winter months, we can live inside our heads without a problem, taking joy in those things only human beings can appreciate: art, discourse, debate, uh — astrology. In the winter months, we can convince ourselves of our detachment from the rest of the species on earth. While they hibernate and migrate and freeze to death like the foolish beasts they are, we stay warm with reason and logic — little Voltaires, every one of us, huddled around the fires of civilization.
Then, the sun comes out on Old Campus, and we start all over again.
Suddenly, the intellect we hoarded in the cold is stripped faster than a Skull-n-Boner on tap night. Suddenly, everyone’s naked, everyone’s happy to see you, (well, me) and happy to be alive. Suddenly, it’s the stone age.
I can only say this to the women of the world — if you have spoken to a male in the past three weeks, he has been trying to sleep with you. If you didn’t notice him staring at your newly tank-topped chest, it is only because you were too busy talking to him like a rational human being — making eye contact and such.
Your mistake, ladies. You will not have a conversation with a man until October, I promise. Until October, you may as well walk around nude, because we will all be mentally undressing you anyway. No, seriously. I highly recommend you get naked. Until October, men are not rational human beings. They are apes. Ever have a conversation with an ape where he wasn’t staring at your chest? Neither have I.
That is just a warning, girls. That being said, don’t think you can do anything about the reborn sex drive of a 20-year-old male human. But there is nothing we can do about it, either.
Women, you think you have it so bad? You have no idea what it is like to be cursed with sperm. You have no concept of the burden that is a sex drive. You have no clue how hard it is to sit through a springtime English section on the Cross Campus quad. You have not the slightest inkling what it is like to think about the opposite sex every three seconds, unavoidably. It’s hell.
To give an idea, as a public service to the fairer sex — having the sex drive of a college-aged boy is like being hypnotized. It is as if some mad gypsy witch doctor has put you into a trance. Every time you see a girl, it’s as if some invisible hand has snapped its biological fingers and you have sex with her in your mind. Every time you hear a girl’s voice, you are spun like a marionette to find the source of it — and then have sex with her in your mind. All male senses are smashed into one monolithic overriding, overpowering one. Everything men do, if only indirectly, is done with the goal of *ahem*-ing you in specific.
Sorry, girls, it’s true.
So what’s been on my mind this week?
Not a thing. I, like all the rest of my brothers, have been running on instinct alone. My brain doesn’t enter into it at all.
That women, in the warmer months, continue to use their minds, is not the problem of me or my sex. Good luck with that, see you in October. Please make sure that in the intervening months, we don’t do anything stupid without our brains knowing it — like falling off of high walls, or flying planes without licenses, or serenading you honestly and sweetly.
You wonder why men do stupid things? We do them for you. It’s all for you, ladies. Actually, it’s all for us and our sexual gratification. But we USE you for our sexual gratification, so — what’s the difference? How many times have I heard some female stand-up comedian rant unoriginally about how “men are dogs?” Yeah, you’re right, we’re dogs. Here’s a Cable Ace award. Don’t hold that against us, it’s exactly what you want. You’ve got the leash. And there is nothing men like less than being misled. We KNOW you have the control. Don’t screw around with it.
We’ll do ANYTHING for you, ladies. ANYTHING. You have this power. Please use it wisely. We’re just moving our arms and legs and fingers, making grabbing motions for your thighs, our eyes glazed over with Darwinism. You have to do the thinking for both sexes until October, when we return from vacation to boss you around and resent you deeply for how pissed off you are at our behavior this spring and summer.
And for men — for men, I can only offer this guidance: masturbate regularly, despite your roommate’s constant cries to get you to quit shaking the bunk bed because he’s trying to get sleep before his Spanish final tomorrow. Shut up, Matt. I’ll do what I want, when I want it — No, YOU cut it out, Matt! I’m almost finished, anyway! You’re not exactly a nun yourself.
And to YOU, dear reader — Follow your pelvis this spring. Your instincts are usually right. That’s why they are your instincts. May all your sexual endeavors this season be memorable, either in the good way or bad way. Frankly, I don’t care which.
SEX COLUMN END
Gregory Yolen ’04, you’re fired.