HUMOR: On faking orgasms
Do yourself a favor — don't fake it
Turn down the brightness on your laptop and take a good hard look at yourself. What’s the end goal here, kid? What’s the plan? Are you trying to stick around long enough to have your own song? Get married? Why? So you can weaken the gene pool? Because now we both know that you will be combining the genomes of “mediocre at sex” and “pathological need to be liked.” So enjoy your marriage and your small-boned offspring. Enjoy mumbling in half-hearted agreement with whatever Karen says at the PTA meetings even though Karen doesn’t even know what genetic engineering means, because this is the character you have cultivated. Enjoy “treating yourself” to a stale Starbucks pastry after you take your kids to the dentist, because they undoubtedly have a proclivity for cavities.
You’ve bestowed upon me a temporary responsibility over your future by reading this article, and because of this I must tell you that you can do better. You deserve to be the person that someone thinks of twenty years later while he’s having conjugal missionary sex with some lady who didn’t have the prescience to read humor columns in The Cavalier Daily.
“But Charlotte, I want to fall in love.” Alright, I won’t attempt to unpack why it’s problematic to actively try to fall in love because I’m not an advice columnist, and I won’t tell you to fill your heart with love for humanity because I’m not a lady who wears linens and charges two hundred dollars for a weekend spiritual retreat. There is a practical solution for this seemingly complicated problem: go to a 7-11, buy a slushy, pour some kind of clear alcohol in it and turn the hot water in your shower on all the way. Personally, I’ve only been in love with fictional characters and a select few of my pen pals, but I’m pretty sure knocking back that icy booze slush while hot water pounds your back will be a reliable method of recreating the physiological sensation.
“But Charlotte—” Look, I know, okay? I am well aware that the whole “free spirit that got away” thing would work a lot better if you were French and made love on your library ladder and had an affinity for Russian opera and Fabergé eggs. I’m not an idiot, I thought of this. I know that in an ideal world, you would drop out of college to work on an Icelandic commune, ultimately birthing a brood of farm strong and iron-rich children with someone who has a very different major histocompatibility complex from your own. I know. But you have to work with what you have. Because survival is real and natural selection is coming for you.
Charlotte Raskovich is a Humor columnist for The Cavalier Daily.