Pining after your FroCo? Dying to get on the orgy panlist? Sick of seeing khakis on men? You’re in luck! Welcome to Sex on the WKND, the News’ anonymous column dedicated to answering your burning questions about sex, love and anything in between. Obsessing over sex is a Yale tradition as old as the Oldest College Daily itself. This year, we have a love-guru columnist who has done it all — including everyone on the aforementioned orgy panlist — and is ready to share. Whether you have a seminar with a hookup-gone-wrong or accidentally sent a raunchy text to your chemistry study group, Sex on the WKND is ready to help. Don’t be shy. Submit your anonymous questions, stories and tips here.

I think I’m in love with my 17th Century Monarchies professor??? Help?????


I’m gonna start with a visual. You’re in a Catholic church — I know, bear with me for a second — sitting in the confession booth. You’re emptying your soul of your sins: lying to your professor about being sick on a presentation day, Bow Wow-sponsored kleptomania and lots of premarital sex. You wait, expecting a few “Hail Mary” assignments, maybe an excommunication if you were feeling extra honest. Instead, you get silence. Moments pass and you begin to fidget, borderline begging the priest to tell you what to do, anything to do. Just as you’re about to leave, certain that your misdeeds were deemed “too much,” the curtain opens, and you’re instructed on one thing only.


If you’re like me, you’ve been obsessed with the show “Fleabag” since it hit screens in 2016. When I watched this scene for the first time, I will admit, I wanted to be the one in that booth. Of course, outside the world of Phoebe Waller-Bridge, this desire is highly dependent on how hot your priest is; we want an Andrew Scott, not a Pope Francis. But I can honestly say that I will never look at those robes in the same way. Which brings me to our big question of the day:

Why do we always want what we can’t have?

For all the priests, imprisoned cult leaders and Fuckboys “Too Busy Finding Myself” McGees, there is always someone who craves them. The forbidden is hot, let’s admit it. It’s the reason people fuck their bosses and suck dick in public. Spoiler alert: In the show, Fleabag, the main character, does end up fucking the priest, but we’ll take that for what it is: a fantasy.

Here’s a personal example. I was raised religious — very religious. Before you assume that this column is part of my “rebellion phase” and that it’s the reason I’m a self-proclaimed priest kinkist — you might be right — my religious background taught me how people work. Call me Hume! As it turns out, the kids I was raised around in church grew up to be way hornier than those raised with more sexual freedom. I’m talking boners at the sight of a chewed fingernail, just because it’s wet. 

These kids were never allowed to want, and that’s exactly the problem.

When you tell someone not to fuck a watermelon, it gives them the idea to fuck a watermelon. It makes them want to fuck a watermelon. It all but dares them to fuck a watermelon.

This is what is happening in your brain when you’re told something — or someone — is forbidden. It doesn’t matter what it takes. You will forgo your control and your dignity and you will fuck the watermelon.

Except in this case the watermelon is an emo Imagine Dragons cover artist who lives in a trash den and doesn’t believe in voting.

Whether it’s a fear of intimacy or an overactive imagination that lets this person turn you into a divine, cock-hungry nympho of a person, you’re fully aware that it’s never gonna happen. Your influence over the outcome is nonexistent, regardless of how badly you want it. In simple terms, you’re playing yourself. Just as much as those high-school boys that wore “Fight the New Drug” bracelets on their right arm to keep themselves from masturbating. It’s a losing game.

What can you do? 

Obviously, all attraction is a little subliminal; it’s nearly impossible to wake up in the morning and say to yourself, “this is unreasonable, so I refuse to want it anymore.” Would it be convenient? Absolutely. Is it realistic? Definitely not. Otherwise, I would’ve kicked the man who sent me an ameteur film of himself sucking his own nipples to the curb a long time ago. And yet.

Even though you can’t get rid of the fundamental desire for companionship with that unspecial someone — only time can do that — you can take back some of the control you’ve lost in the pining process. If it’s the attention you’re after, try going no-contact; prove to yourself that appreciation exists outside of your brooding bubble. If you chase a thrill, bring that adrenaline to your solo-sessions; who needs a partner when you have nine fingers and a dream? If it was the love that kept you going, go to therapy. Learn some self-respect. Have better sex. Then we can talk.

It’s hard to get over someone, especially after realizing there was never truly anything to “get over” in the first place. The mind is dangerous, and hormones even more so. If you find yourself wedding-planning, naming children or pretending to curse out your soon-to-be mother-in-law for disapproving of the union, take a step back. Consider the logical next-steps of whatever situation you’ve found yourself in. Learn to cherish some distance. And, if all else fails: If you can’t get over someone, get under someone else.