I've Been Trying To Get In Touch With My Feminine Side, But She Won't Return My Calls

An email exchange with Danielle earlier today inspired this:

Sometimes I wish I were dating again, for purely sociological reasons. It'd give me an opportunity to try out my Philosophy of Honesty in Dating, or Ph.D., if you will. It goes a bit like this:

Rather than wasting time with all that disingenous "I'd-like-to-take-you-out-to-dinner-and-a-movie" crapola, I'd like to try a more honest approach along the lines of, "Hi! I find you extremely attractive and would like to have sex with you. Repeatedly. As often as possible. Starting now." (of course, if your name is Maxwell Edison and it's Joan you're asking out to the pictures, it's not so much sex you're after as it is a chance to swing your silver hammer... and Happy 40th, Sgt. Pepper!)

You see, when you get right down to it, nobody really wants to take someone out and feed them or see a movie and hold a philosophical discussion afterward. That's just a means to an end. In truth, everybody just wants to get everybody else out of their clothes and into their bed. Or their car. Or somebody else's bed. Or car. Or the lawn. You get my point.

No other species has to go through all that we put ourselves through in the pursuit of sex. But then, no other species wears clothes (except William Wegman's poor Weimaraners. I can't wait til those pooches get tired of Wegman making them play dress-up and just maul the shit outta that guy... and, while we're at it, for Anne Geddes to have her ass kicked by a whole bunch of babies in bee costumes. They oughtta shove her ass into a giant flower pot and leave her there. In my perfect world, these two nutjobs would be in adjoining prison cells. Please, people. Leave children and animals alone).

So, perhaps clothing is the problem?

I remember my high school friend Larry Hansen (if I were to pony up the twenty bucks or whatever it is to become an all-access member of classmates.com rather than remaining at lurker-level, I could get in touch with Larry today. After reading what comes next, you'll wonder why I might ever consider doing that) saying once that "The only thing standing between us and sex with all these girls [gesturing toward a good portion of the student body - pun intended] is a little bit of cotton... oh, and permission". Wiser words were never spoken, especially not by any sixteen-year-old. It could've easily been a line spoken by Damone to Rat in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Instead, it was spoken by Larry to me in a tiny little school in a tiny little town in Upstart New York. Sadly, try as I might, all my high-school permission slips were denied... I'd have to wait till a few weeks after graduation to get past the cotton.

(I'm sure everyone wanted to know that)

So, do you think we could pull off such a sea change in this age-old, frustrating ritual? Could we pack up the games we play and just lay it all out there, putting our honest desires out in front and dispensing with the subterfuge? No more "Would you care to dance?" unless said dance is to be done naked and horizontal (or however you like. Freak). "Can I buy you a drink?" could become, "Listen, I have a few condoms..."

On the subject of alcohol, which I under no circumstances advocate the use of---remember, the root word in "intoxicated" is "TOXIC"--, the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous (the basic text of the 12-Step program that has helped save the lives of millions of people since its inception in 1935) refers to alcohol as a "social lubricant". I've always interpreted that to mean that it helps one's pants slide off more easily. Not sure if that's really what they meant, but I've seen it happen.

If you're single, tired of all that dating nonsense and interested in being a force for positive change in this world (oh, and "horny" would prob'ly be helpful, too), why not give it a shot? Sign up for Professor Berger's Ph.D. course today! Get out there, be honest with others about what you want and what you need, and see what results come your way!

(I'm reminded of what another friend from around my high school days once told me. Brian Finch, an impossibly good-looking guy my mom always referred to as "Stunning", once assured me that, "If you go up to ten women and tell them you wanna have sex with them, guaranteed, nine of 'em will slap you in the face. Ahhh, but the tenth one..." And then he smiled the smile that had removed many a cotton barrier, and would go on to remove many more. Brian's seen more ass than a rental car. For all I know, he was right.)