Ah, the second week of February. It’s lush with formals, carnations, open bars, singing valentines and porn stars.
Wait, porn stars? That’s right, Yale has gone MTV on us with Sex Week, and it all culminates with a big bang — for those lucky enough — on Valentine’s Day. For some, the week will consist of boyfriends or girlfriends coming to visit, lectures on sex toys or big plans on Saturday. But for you, it will consist of thinking about how much ass your friends will be getting while you play Mario Kart with your pal Jim Beam. I don’t even remember what this holiday is. I think it has something to do with love, chocolate and an adjustable wrench.
For us single folk, this week is dreadful, and now Yale has decided to kick us in the teeth with the sex we won’t be getting. The rude awakening occurred when I checked my e-mail the other day, and my inbox was flooded with messages about female masturbation, improved sex life and porn parties with Devinn Lane. At first, I thought I had unwittingly given my address to some porn Web site — not that I look at porn. However, after taking a closer look, I noticed that these e-mails were just advertising Yale’s Sex Week. So I have reached a new low: even Yale is getting more ass than me.
Now, it’s no secret that sex is everywhere. Well, everywhere except my room. Even Sig Ep, the straitlaced, high-morals frat, is holding a sponsored porn party. I’m not complaining about this, but let me put it this way: when you’ve been away from the game longer than Willis McGahee and mix in this force-feeding of sex, something’s gotta give.
What results is usually an awful hookup. Not quite what our paired friends will be experiencing. They’ll be going out and having a nice dinner together. They might even talk to each other. Then they’ll go to the arcade, play that foosball-like bubble hockey game, share some cotton candy and then get picked up by Daniel LaRusso’s mom. And then Mr. Miyagi will teach them karate … sorry, I don’t know how these so-called “dates” work, but I figured the Karate Kid scene was realistic.
Contrast that with the night of the single loser. We will undoubtedly enjoy a nice date with the sauce — no talking required. After a couple hours of what the kids call “pregaming,” we, the lonely, begin the trek to Toad’s. Along the way, we belt out Bon Jovi power ballads while mocking any passers-by not going towards Toad’s by telling them to study up for those May finals. If that’s not a good time, I don’t know what is. Eat your heart out, Daniel-san.
Take another gander at the couples. They go back to the dorm room, probably sober. They’ll exchange gifts, cuddle and whisper sweet nothings for a while. Then, they’ll do their thing. I think that’s where the adjustable wrench comes in. Soon after, they will be sleeping together, uncomfortably. Life only has a few certainties. One of these certainties is that after sleeping in a twin bed with a girl, the guy will wake up sweating like Michael Jackson while watching Brady Bunch reruns. I’m talking the early Brady years. Sorry, I had to take my shot at Jacko before it was too late. He’s like the new O.J.
Back to the singles. Valentine’s Night may be the only time people genuinely want to go to Toad’s. Everyone’s last chance to get some during the holiday built around getting some. There will be plenty of drunk, cheesy dudes preying on drunk, vulnerable and innocent-yet-scantily-clad-in-the-dead-of-winter girls. After a few slimy game-running sessions, a match is made. The lovebirds stumble back to the dorm, turn off the lights and get to it. Now, unlike the couples, these folks don’t sleep together, they simply happen to pass out simultaneously in the same bed. It doesn’t last long though, as one party wakes up at dawn and dry heaves as he or she looks over at the freak show on the other side of the bed. A quick getaway is best in this situation.
So, which way will you be spending this awful holiday? Each road has it blocks. Sex Week has taught us that no matter how you spend Valentine’s Day, it is about that four letter word that starts with an “L” and ends with an “E.” Yes, lube. Like John Lennon said, all you need is lube.
Carl Williott took Mr. Miyagi to Subrosa.