'Hi, I’d like a tattoo that will make every man I meet go completely flaccid'

I had dinner with a friend Thursday night who told me a great story that I felt compelled to share with you.

As we savored Coronas and cheese dip, she began to tell me of a family friend who had been dating a man for several years. The man recently died in a motorcycle accident, and my friend’s relatives attended the wake to show their sympathy.

They quickly found that the abandoned girlfriend needed sympathy for more than one reason.

In the brief period between her beau’s death and his wake, she had decided the best way to mourn his tragic passing was to get a tattoo in memory of him.

A gigantic tattoo.

Across her entire back.

Of his face.

As icing on the cake, she scrawled the words, “I Will Love You Forever” below his image.

Now, we all understand grief. But my friend and I were intrigued by the sexual repercussions of her eternal memorial, and the possibilities this girl’s future love life holds.

“What happens when the next guy she’s with has sex with her doggie-style, and he looks up to see the Ghost of Christmas Past staring back at him?” my friend queried. “Is that not, like, instant ED?”

And she would know.

Her boyfriend has five tattoos, the majority of which reside squarely on his bum.

His philosophy, she says, is that he should get something incredibly tacky, stat.

“I know I’ll eventually regret one of them anyway. I might as well go ahead and get it over with, so I can say, ‘Wow. I really regret that,’ and move on,” is his mantra, she says.

This, coming from a guy who has Tigger (yes, the Winnie the Pooh character) inked on his ass, and who has seriously considered procuring a permanent representation of the “Ice Age” squirrel on his inner thigh, fervently reaching for his nuts.

As funny as it would be, I’m thinking that might be a Grade A, regrettable tatt.

Perhaps not as regrettable, however, as a freakishly accurate, life-sized, full-back portrait of your dead ex.

The moral of the story is that nothing’s permanent – boyfriends, marriages, life – except the ink you just injected into your skin.

So you may want to rethink getting his initials inside a heart on your ass cheek. It’ll be a guaranteed mood-killer with your next partner.

Dirty Dancing, Indeed

To my deep regret, I stopped into The Loft Friday night.

The spot I once enjoyed (at an earlier time in my life) now offers little more than a sweaty mass of horny freshmen, and no space to move or stand or breathe.

I went to meet up with a group of old high school friends and agreed to dance with one of them, only to discover that dancing with a guy can tell you everything you need to know about what he'll be like in bed.

It's no secret that the dancing we do downtown is just simulated sex, anyway. Like a less-than-complicated mating ritual, we can decide on the spot whether or not it's worth our wild to go home with a guy ... or duck out after one dance.

Because there are no secrets on the dance floor.

We can weed out the assholes and the virgins and the gay guys.

If he's thrusting his crotch around in a lost and confused manner, or if he seems in awe of the fact that a girl is actually willing to rub her ass against his groin for an extended period of time, you've probaby got yourself a grade A virgin.

If he's pounding you mercilessly with his denim cock (to quote Dane Cook) as if he was already doing the deed, he's probably the kind of guy who'd finish in two minutes and then get up and leave, without nary a thought to satisfying your needs.

Because if he doesn't care about your comfort and pleasure on the dance floor, he's going to care even less in bed.

The guy you want is smooth -- he wants to make you comfortable and happy, not get off inside his pants.

His dance style is gentle but firm, and he knows how to put the moves on you without violating your space.

My friend was not this guy.

His dance style -- which amounted to beating me with his crotch -- told me he was both a virgin and a two minute man.

I soon turned tail and moved on in search of better mate material, a little sorer than before.

Everyone loves a happy uterus

The price of safe sex has gone up.

Last week, the Red&Black reported that the price of discounted birth control pills through the University Health Center has risen and will continue to rise due to changes in the federal budget.

I found this out myself when I renewed my prescription last Thursday and paid $17 per pack instead of $14. This is the current rate for Ortho Tri Cyclen Lo without insurance coverage.

That translates to an extra $36 per year -- enough to buy a new pair of Rainbow sandals (currently on sale at Charbon's for about that price!)

Luckily, this is still a discounted rate, but as the price rises, it may discourage girls from purchasing the pills in the future.

And this is a shame, since birth control is one of the best forms of preventing unwanted pregnancy out there.

To draw on Dane Cook, there's no "ha ha" here.

More expensive pills mean more girls without protection.

In the future, young women who are forced to weigh the benefits of birth control against a higher price may start thinking, "I won't be having sex THAT often," or "I don't have THAT much sex."

They'll start deciding that if they only have sex two or three times a month (that's already paying $6 per encounter -- enough to buy an entire box of condoms) that the cost won't be worth it.

There's nothing wrong with condoms, of course, when they're used correctly. But we can already see how well they worked in "Knocked Up."

Ok, not the best example, but all the guys and gals who engage in hook-up culture after drinking downtown are more likely to forget to use a condom at all or be in no state of mind to put it on properly.

Guys should be concerned, because this affects them, too.

If fewer young women are on the pill, it places more responsibility on the male to take measures to prevent pregnancy.

Some guys out there assume they don't need to provide condoms when they hook up with a girl because "she's on the pill." Some even assume most girls are on the pill, and go around spreading their seeds without a care.

No more, if the price of having safe sex rises. Responsible guys will have to provide condoms or pitch in to help their girlfriends carry the financial burden of protection.

Unfortunately, the bottom line is that birth control is a preventative measure, which makes paying for it like paying for insurance.

Everybody hates paying insurance because, if nothing happens to you, it feels like a waste of money. But when something does happen, that cost seems a small price to pay.

If that something is a bun in your oven, compare more than $250,000 (the average cost of raising a child, according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture) to $36.

Those new Rainbows aren't looking so hot anymore.

So, promiscuous ladies, suppress your frugal tendencies and shell out for the pills. Your wallet might feel the crunch, but your uterus will be happy.

And everyone loves a happy uterus.

The new and improved SEX ED

Sex ed sucks.

That’s nothing new. It’s all ovary and testicle talk, and it’s delivered to us at a time when we still believe in cooties.

What’s more, do you recall ever once hearing the word “orgasm” in your sex ed classes?

And they call THAT a sexual education?!

In my experience, however, it’s become clear that some people should be made to take a second sex ed course once they actually begin HAVING sex. Perhaps one with more relevance.

I propose a mandatory class on sexual etiquette, since some men and women don’t seem capable of practicing such fundamentals as respecting the people around them once their hormones kick into gear.

The rules differ slightly, depending on where you plan your encounter, but there are rules nonetheless. Any time some person other than your partner has to see or hear or think about you having sex (against their will), it’s only fair to take their feelings into consideration.

So here are some lessons from the new and improved sex et. ed course, which I call
“Well, F*ck Me: A Beginner’s Guide to Getting It On Without Pissing Others Off.”

Chapter 3: Location, location, location

Part I. The Dorm Room

Having sex in a dorm room can be uncomfortable to begin with, but there are many obstacles to overcome if you hope to stay friends with your roommate and hall mates for the remainder of the year.

Number one: you should never have sex when your roommate is in the room. Some would argue that it can be done in the top/bottom bunk if the roommate can reasonably be considered to be asleep, but I disagree.

* First, your roommate would have to be practically comatose to be capable of blocking out your whispering/giggling/heavy breathing/squeaking of the lousy bunk springs under the weight of two people –- two people vigorously squirming around, no less.

* Second, you open the door for your roommate to do the same to you. Let’s see how happy you are when you have an 8 a.m. test the next morning and you’re trying to block mental images while listening to her and her stoner boyfriend wreathing all night.

* Third, for the sake of being polite, I argue that boyfriends should not sleep over at all, regardless of deed-doing, while the roommate is present.
There’s nothing worse than trying to fall asleep while listening to kissing noises and lovey-dovey whispers above/below/around you.

So if you have no other locale to which you can move your love-making session, talk to your roommate about the possibility of her spending the night elsewhere. Or, ask for her class schedule so you can use the room while she’s gone.

Lastly, DO use a system to let her know if you are in the room getting some love -– write a code word on your message board or dig out that scrunchie from 5th grade to put on the door knob. ANYTHING to save her from walking in on you while you’re bumping uglies. Otherwise, you can look forward to a pretty awkward year.

…And yes, the communal futon is OFF LIMITS.

But I know you’ll do it anyway thinking no one will figure it out.

They will.

Part II. The apartment

You think that since you have your own room, you can do whatever you want in it.

But this is only partly true, considering you have a peer on the other side of a very thin wall. I guarantee she doesn’t want to hear you moaning, or even your bed squeaking. (This may be a different story for guy roomies.)

But since you have your own space, this problem can be easily fixed. The simplest thing to do is to turn on some music to a volume just loud enough to cover evidence of your activities.
An even better scenario: take advantage when your roommates aren't at home. Then you can scream your lungs out.

But there are complications to the arrangement, too, if you share a bathroom. Guys should not walk through the hall to the bathroom naked. Your roommate either won’t want to accidentally see that, or (if she does) you won’t want her to see that.

Also, no sex in a shared shower. Ew.

But again, you’ll do it anyway. Just remember, every time you think you’re being sneaky, your roommate is doing the same thing.

Part III. The parents’ house

Some people have truly mastered getting action around the ‘rents. One guy I know received a happy ending on Easter Sunday while his family was in the next room.

But you should start slowly.

Basically, parents don’t want to hear or see you having sex any more than you want to hear or see them having sex.

You can do it quietly, turn on music or go out to the treehouse in the backyard.

No matter what you do, they’ll probably know what you’re doing, so hiding the FACT isn’t the issue, it’s just saving them the disturbance of having to actually ACCEPT the fact.

And I know you were thinking it, but your parents’ bed is OFF LIMITS.

But who are we kidding? You already did it.

Part IV. The Hotel Room

Pretty much anything goes in a hotel room.

You don’t have to wash the sheets or worry about ever again seeing the people unfortunate enough to be resting on the other side of the wall behind your headboard.

The only rule here is to be as loud and crazy as possible without your neighbors calling the front desk to complain.
And even if security knocks on your door about the noise, we both know you’ll just be proud of it later.

Hotel rooms rock.

At last! Proof of the notorious "Rule of Three"

Jessica: “If a guy tells you how many girls he's hooked up with, it's not even close to that. You take that number and divide it by three, then you get the real total. OK, so if Kevin is saying it's been three girls it's more like one or none.”
Vicky: “None?”
Jessica: “The rule of three. It's an exact science. Consistent as gravity.”

At last, the knowledge brought to us six years ago by American Pie 2 rings true ... sort of.

Wikipedia describes the “rule of three” as "the generalization that men multiply their true number of sexual encounters by three in order to boast, while women divide their true number of sexual encounters by three in order to fulfill societal expectations of female propriety.”

It has long been found in surveys of both sexes that men have more sex partners than females. The latest U.S. report by the National Center for Health Statistics shows men average 7 partners in their lifetimes, while women average 4.

A story by the New York Times, however, reports that mathmeticians find these results statistically impossible.

Bottom line: Somebody’s lyin’.

A U.C. Berkley professor interviewed in the story uses this example:

“By way of dramatization, we change the context slightly and will prove what will be called the High School Prom Theorem.

We suppose that on the day after the prom, each girl is asked to give the number of boys she danced with. These numbers are then added up giving a number G.

The same information is then obtained from the boys, giving a number B.

Theorem: G=B
Proof: Both G and B are equal to C, the number of couples who danced together at the prom.”

So perhaps a version of the rule of three exists -- either men are ADDING three extra partners to their lists of conquests, or women are SUBTRACTING three partners from theirs.

The mathmeticians say that if men really do have more partners than women, the question is where are these extra partners coming from?

They would have to be from outside the survey population (prostitutes) or outside the country (foriegn exchange students). But even these extra mystery women couldn’t explain the huge gap between men and women’s reported partners.

I think one professor at the University of California, San Diego, has the right idea:

“Some might be imaginary. Maybe two are in the man’s mind and one really exists.”

Am I an "I'd bang her, but whatever" girl?

My friend Steve claims guys have a highly-scientific classification method for the girls in their lives.

Some fall into the “I’d bang her, but whatever” pile. This girl usually gets a lot of attention on the first date while the guy’s hoping to get in her pants, but doesn’t usually warrant enough interest to merit a phone call afterwards.

Others are elevated to “I’d bang her in a heartbeat” status, and the rejects are dumped unceremoniously into the “Not gonna touch that” heap.

I knew I had to find out if other men’s brains worked this way, and as it turns out, not all guys use the same system.

Further research produced this enlightening AIM conversation with a 20-year-old guy friend, who requested to be identified as “Dr. Velvet.” For the sake of authenticity, I managed to suppress my urge to correct (most of) the grammar.

Car0 (9:25:46 PM): according to one of my guy friends, guys have an "I'd bang that, but whatever" pile. He says not to confuse girls a guy wants to do with ones he would do.

Dr. Velvet (9:28:51 PM): um i dunno bout him... but I’d say its more of a Venn diagram

Car0 (9:29:23 PM): lol - please explain. i HAVE to hear this

Dr. Velvet (9:30:04 PM): you have a box that represents all girls and in said box are two circles: one with girls I’d bang, one with girls I’d date/have a relationship with. some are in both and belong in the center

Car0 (9:31:42 PM): that makes sense. so the ugly/fat ones are outside the circles, floating around in (or sinking to the bottom of) the box?

Dr. Velvet (9:32:56 PM): in theory.. unless ur into that or they have such a remarkably redeeming personality that they are elevated into a circle

Dr. Velvet (9:33:29 PM): and girls can change circles, and often do based on learning new info about them

Dr. Velvet went on to describe how “new info” that a girl has the herp or a bun in the oven demotes her to box status, while the revelation that she’s an airhead moves her into the “bang only” circle.

I thought it was a pretty nifty way to keep track. After all, you wouldn’t want to get confused and end up boyfriending a “bang only” chick by mistake.

Some guys view it as demoralizing to talk about banging this chick or that (I applaud you, sirs). Another guy friend, 25, who I’ll call “Mr. Man,” keeps things relatively simple – you’re either a woman or a girl.

Mr. Man (10:08:00 PM): well, a girl is an immature female that claims to be a woman. She has to be the center of attention and is usually telling one up stories.
Mr. Man (10:08:36 PM): a woman is confident without making herself the center of attention and is able to grab my eye without being slutty or showing skin
Mr. Man (10:08:59 PM): but there are sub-classes even within those groups

Alas, I wasn’t able to elicit said sub-classes. Perhaps I’ll post those later.

Finally, you have the guys who are either too busy playing video games to think about sex, too embarrassed to talk about the fact that they think about sex, or they are one of a handful of guys who actually think of other things more than they think about sex.

One of these guys, whom I spoke with last night, told me he didn’t classify girls because “it’s not his goal in life have sex with as many chicks as possible.”

You’re correct. He’s not a frat boy.

My heroine

If you've never checked out Mindy Raf, a stand-up comedian and columnist for CollegeHumor.com , you should do so immediately. Her scribblings are a little racier (read: more entertaining) than mine, so I guess you could call her my new heroine.

Below is an excerpt from one of my favorites of her columns, proposing a new name for the dreaded Walk of Shame.

What does Mindy suggest?

Why not the "Happy Clit and Tits Trot"?

"So, if you're walking home to your dorm room at 11 a.m. wearing a sequined tube top, glitter eye shadow crusted in the crease of your liner smudged eyes, your thong shoved into the zipper compartment of your purse, and your body smelling like cheap beer and AXE Body Spray, walk with confidence. Hold your head up high, smile at all the people who stare at you, and don't be afraid to shout out,

"I GOT LAID LAST NIGHT!"

"I CAME THREE TIMES!"

"I ALMOST CAME!"

"I GOT HIM DRUNK AND TOOK ADVANTAGE OF HIM!"

"I WAS A COCK TEASE, AND I STILL GOT HIS NUMBER!"

"HE FELL ASLEEP DURING SEX, BUT WE STILL SPOONED!"

"HE FELLATED ME AND THEN I PRETENDED TO PASS OUT!"

"I JUST HOOKED UP WITH MY CRUSH!"

"GUESS WHAT, I GIVE AWESOME HEAD!"

"I GOT SOME ASS LAST NIGHT! WOO HOO!"

In His Own Words

My friend Steve would like the chance to respond to some of my former claims on this blog.

For the sake of a male perspective, and for your own entertainment, I have agreed to post his rebuttals here.

In response to “The sound of silence”

"I'll call you tomorrow" doesn't always mean tomorrow.

It's like saying, "Yeah, see ya later."

Later is whenever the next time I see you is. So don't put much stock in that.

I've told a friend I'd call him "tomorrow" last August and didn't call until December.

And with chicks, we're afraid of looking clingy or too eager. We think it gives off a loser stench. So we lay off a little bit and try not to let her think we like her as much as we do.

Delaying the phone call is one way. And texting instead of calling. It kinda straddles the line between "I'm really busy, but I do care" and "I don't care enough about you," but we try to walk that tight rope.

If the guy says, "I'll call you tomorrow" and then calls tomorrow, early, then we think that she thinks, "Aha! Gotcha, bitch. I've got the upper hand and you're whipped. Pathetic little boy. Once again, coochie reigns supreme!"

Yeah, we think women are all diabolical, scheming vixen bitches (because they are) and we can't afford to show weakness.

So if we do call tomorrow, it's in the night. And 60/40, we'd rather text instead of call in that situation.

Or we'll wait until the afternoon after that and then call with some bullshit excuse about why we didn't call.

That's not 100% of the time.

I'd say about 10%, the guy just doesn't like you enough and you're in his "I'd hit it, but whatever" heap (Yeah, we have that. Don't confuse a chick we would hit with one we want to hit), but most of the time he's playing the leverage game, trying not to look desperate.

And we do that because we like you. But, of course, I'm sure it's got a high backfire rate.

Response to “Make him quit texting you”

Ya'll are too damn demanding.

I'm a texter. Texting is for when we want to avoid the possibility of the conversation stalling.

There really ain't much to talk about, but you wanna contact the person.

You don't want to call a chick and say, “Hey...umm...just wanted to say hi.... Yeah, the summer is cooling down. It hasn't reached 90 in a week or so.... Umm, I'm just watching TV."

Then you'd be on him saying he's boring.

Text is pressure-free and it gives him a minute to think up a response.

And dammit, give him credit because texting is hard. Spending 2 f*cking minutes to type a 10-word sentence; you're hitting 4 and you've cycled past the “G” three times.

It's like the old 1988 Nintendo controller that'd have your thumb aching after a few minutes. Appreciate that!

My friggin' thumb is killing me...because I love you.