Dear Sugar,
When in a relationship I sometimes worry that I’m missing out by not playing the field while in my ’20s. But once I pilot a relationship into the ground I find myself lonely and pining for the reliable partnership (and putting out) that comes with going steady. Can you crunch some numbers and show, preferably statistically, which is better: out on the town or at home with that special someone?
Thanks,
Confused About Naughty Thoughts
Dear CANT,
Crunch some numbers. Sure.
I’ve been single and sexually active in “short-term relationships” for 17 years, during which I’ve had an average of 39 sexual partners per annum, with whom I had sex 6.71 times each for a duration of 43 minutes and 24 seconds, excluding clean-up. I achieved orgasm in 61.2 percent of those encounters, and multiple orgasms in 9.8 percent.
By contrast, I’ve been sexually active in “long-term relationships” or marriages for 22 years, during which I had sex an average of 19.4 times per annum for a duration of 16 minutes and 51 seconds. I don’t have exact figures on orgasms, owing to blackouts, but let’s guesstimate 74 percent single, 12.5 multiple.
We’ll need to exclude the various affairs, group sexual activities, and paid exhibitions. (Also, the so-called “Corey Haim Lost Weekend,” involving marriage in Vegas, divorce in Juarez, and aggravated battery/consensual trauma play, depending on whose attorney you believe.) For the sake of reliable data, let’s also include a variable quotient for unexplained grief, crushing loneliness, the fear of disease, and incessant masturbation. Right.
So now let’s crunch those numbers. Crunch crunch crunch . . . right, carry the two . . . round up to the six . . . subtract eight to adjust for cold weather . . .
Our surprising result: We are all lonely creatures struggling to balance our lusty ego needs with homeostatic cuddle time.
If there was some discrete answer to the heart’s toil, don’t you think Steve Jobs would have made it an application on your iPhone already? Think, CANT!
But lookee here honeybunch–you’re still in your twenties. You’re sensitive to the divided loyalties of your soul. You clearly know how to operate a power tool. What’s the real problem here? Pay close attention to whomever you’re fucking. Ignore the yammering of All You Don’t Have. Listen close for the soft bell of magic.
Dear Sugar,
After re-reading old e-mails and Interweb conversations, I realize how perfect my ex-boyfriend and I are for each other. It’s clear we have a kind of epic love that people write about (a love that synthesizes the passion, drama, and violence of Wuthering Heights with the wit, irony, and perfect comedic timing of Seinfeld). It’s true these interactions are dated months ago, before the pregnancy scare. It’s also true that he’s never given me an orgasm in real life. It’s further true that he may be emotionally gaytarded. However, I wonder if, as an aspiring writer, I should judge words rather than actions. On paper, I can say without hesitation, he’s The One. Should I revoke the restraining order? And give our etymological love a second chance?
Love,
Half of a Whole
Dear Half a Ho,
When I was about nine years old I got ahold of an old paperback my mama used to hide in her nightstand drawer, right next to her amphetamines. It was called Siblings and it had a picture of a naked female torso adorned with two pairs of strong male hands. I wasn’t reading at a real high level, but I knew enough words to be able to pick out the ones that felt sinful. I got a weird feeling, sort of a damp buzz in my pee-pee. This was that sort of paperback where the pages are thin and slightly yellowed and one night, when my mom was doing an overnight shift, I took Siblings out and started looking at the sinful words and pretty soon I closed the book and pressed the soft, worn edges against myself and began slowly humping this old paperback. It didn’t give me an orgasm, but my breathing got all fast and ragged and later I had to take a hot bath in my britches and pray to Jesus.
Does this make me gaytarded?
