Along with the completion of my GRE last Monday came the terrifying realization that the end of my Yale career was finally in sight. I’m not counting down years anymore; I’m counting down months, and there’s so much that I still haven’t done here. I still haven’t joined Mory’s; I still haven’t slept a night in The Stacks and I still, as far as any of you are concerned, haven’t pleasured myself in a CCL weenie bin. I was writing papers when I should have been cruising for anonymous sex around the CCL glory hole! Damn my silly misspent youth!
That’s the real problem here. Yes, yes, leaving Yale behind will be sad, but even sadder is the idea that I am old. I’m almost 22 — practically an old maid in gay years — and frankly, you just can’t get away with much once your face looks like a catcher’s mitt and your ass feels like a bag of wet clothes! Take Ashlee Simpson for instance. Everyone’s so impressed that she writes her own songs, but really, it’s only because she’s young. Once her tits are around her knees, she’s gonna have to pick up a guitar or something. Sorry, Trashlee, but the truth hurts and I’m an embittered queen with nothing to lose but bone density!
Incidentally, “Autobiography” is rocketing up my iTunes playlist. Don’t look at me! Don’t look upon my twisted form lest you be blinded by my hideousness! I’m so ashamed of all the pieces, pieces, pieces of me!
Let’s be honest here, people. The college diploma is really the starting line of what is little more than a terrifying sleigh ride into the hell of old age with Learning Annex classes, weekly canasta and unreciprocated bathhouse hand-jobs as the only lampposts to light the lonely way. With all of that hovering menacingly above, I’m paralyzed with regret. But how could I not be? There are so many more things to do before I graduate. More importantly, there are so many more people to do! Listen up, ladies! It’s time to hike up our panties and enjoy it while we’re still functioning!
I hate to sound desperate. I really do, but I’m not going to have this Lindsay Lohan-esque youthful glow forever and well, I just think that, oh screw it — I want a threesome and I want it now!
As the sex columnist, I realize that I am supposed to provide witty advice and entertaining stories, but I am sick of giving, so here it is, my only thoughts about orgiastic Yale sex: YES.
It pretty much goes without saying, though, that anyone who’s in favor of sex with a Yalie, especially with two (or more– Shit, my birthday’s coming up!) has probably never actually witnessed it. The sad fumbling for the belt buckle. The pathetic pseudo-intellectual banter. The pitiful denial that this is the first (and most likely the last) time. One Yalie is usually a helpless enough partner, but two? Add the cruel proportions of the standard-issue Yale extra-long twin bed (Why in God’s name is it extra-LONG? What about extra-wide? It’s like they want us to remain celibate, or do it missionary style all the time) and you have a recipe for coital disaster. All those inept, tangled limbs. It sounds like Greco-Roman at the Special Olympics but, on the real, my peeps, my options are dwindling fo’ shiggety.
When I asked two of my friends about the elusive Yale threesome, their responses were just as I’d feared: “Bradley, I don’t think that happens here. That’s something you see on Real Sex,” followed up by “Yeah, or at a state school.” Since I’ll probably never be living the high life of Chico State pep rallies and tanned state school bitches, I was deeply troubled that my only contact with an orgy had been via HBO’s “Real Sex.” I mean, that’s the kind of shit that could get me to start prayin’!
If you’ve seen the one I’m talking about, you’ll definitely remember it. It will be emblazoned on your retina for eternity. Not even the oscillation of Janet Jackson’s misbehaving mammary gland could erase the image of those aged hippies, playing bongos and probably reeking of patchouli, “exploring” each other. I’ve never seen so many liver-spotted unmentionables in my life! Or so much untamed pubic hair for that matter, and I’ve been to Prague.
Don’t get me wrong. There is something kind of miraculous about still being able to participate in an orgiastic weekend in the Catskills (nobody puts Baby in the corner!) while on Social Security, but it’s the sort of miracle that should really be admired from afar, not through the lens of a high-resolution digital camera. Those people are amazing cultural artifacts of a time gone by and, like any museum-quality heirloom, I want my only contact with them to be through UV-protective glass, not ribbed latex! The idea of a toothless lover may sound great on paper, but think of the inevitable incontinence! Try explaining those stains come mornin’.
But seriously, at this point, that’s all I have to look forward to. During my younger years, I used to lustily watch MTV and daydream about newscaster Gideon Yago. Ah, Gideon, with your thick-rimmed glasses, vintage T-shirts and fashionably liberal news coverage — we could have been so happy, but that was then. Now, I’d be lucky to nail Kurt Loder. Hell, after graduation, I’ll be lucky to screw Montana from Real World Boston!
Some people do age gracefully, like Yale Alum Anderson Cooper, host of celebrity mole. Grr! But we cannot all be so lucky! Which is why, through major abuse of all this free press, I appeal to you, dear, sweet readers of the YDN. There must be someone, ANYONE, willing to put agism aside and engage in a filthy no-strings-attached orgy worthy of an R. Kelly bootleg video! Please, for the love of all things unholy, e-mail me!
But be under 20. I may be an old troll riddled with senility, but I still have standards.
Bradley Bailey is a senior citizen in Silliman College.