Wishes and turn-ons, an idyllic sexual paradise

Talking about sex is a big turn-on. But racy conversations don’t need to be confined to bedroom romps, late-night text messages or telling a personalized version of the Aristocrats at a family reunion. These conversations

Talking about sex is a big turn-on. But racy conversations don’t need to be confined to bedroom romps, late-night text messages or telling a personalized version of the Aristocrats at a family reunion.

These conversations can serve as daily reminders of how human sexuality is healthy, bizarre and oftentimes funny.

Just consider this column a sexy hallelujah to the gods of pleasure. And to clear things up, we aren’t banging. We’re just two close friends who have no filter and enough stories to give Dr. Ruth a boner. We don’t want to hurt our hook-ups’ feelings and we won’t be naming names. Our goal is to chronicle how confusing and arousing it is to be twenty-somethings in 2007, after growing up in the wake of our parents’ sexual revolution and as we seek out our own. This week’s topic: our ideal fantasies if Temple University were a sexual paradise. We hope our dirty talk keeps you up all night long.


–In this pseudo sextopia, there’d be a total re-haul on the ethics of approaching
a member of the opposite sex. At any bar, there are two things on tap – booze and booty. So guys and gals, why are we fronting with all this conversation?

If we’d drop the game face, get to the business, and get on with our lives, think of all the time we could be devoting to society. World peace would be imminent. But peace is kind of boring. How about a world orgy instead?

— Mind-blowing, muscle-clenching, loin-draining one-night stands that fizzle by morning and slip silently out of the front door would continue on in posterity. I’m talking the real deal Merriam-Webster definition of posterity: “for all future generations.” Seriously, can we work out a weekly schedule? What’s your day look like around lunch time?

–Guys, could we please stop the locker room chauvinism when it comes to sexuality? I’ve never considered crossing swords with a dude. But in the 1950s, Alfred Kinsey introduced his six-level scale, which rates our sexual orientation from “Entourage” to “Queer Eye” and proved that we’re actually ranked in the middle.

Kinsey was a playa that you owe quite a lot to. His report arguably sparked the sexual revolution, right around the time your parents’ condom broke and out popped a little you. I’m not saying you’re going to find your roommate’s shorts beside your bed tonight, but admit that he is attractive. It helps you understand your competition and shows a lot of confidence in the meantime.

–Ladies would admit that they love the facial hair. Sex is meant to be as rugged as you want it, and the bearded and mustachioed among us aren’t in it for our health. Think of it like a smoke signal from a lumberjack camp, where breakfast, lunch and dinner aren’t nearly as hearty as dessert.

For the faint of heart, ask your fellow to exercise caution when he’s downstairs doing the moppin’. And ladies, you are equally guilty of unfair
hair. Lucky for you our generation
grew up on dad’s vintage porn so we appreciate the Farrah Fawcett fro when you’re feeling close to nature.

–When a casual partner invites me to sleep over, she’ll want more than just a snuggle buddy. Sometimes a back rub is the happiest ending, and waiting for that special someone makes for sex that’s on par with four-hour “Vivid Video” compilations I’ve seen. But the perfect world has ground rules for booty calls.

First, there’d be a limit on non-sexual hang-outs – preferably somewhere around two. There’s a reason it’s not called a cuddle call. Second, the morning-after goodbye-kiss would be planted firmly on the cheek, and that would be conditionally based on the morning-after sex.

Lastly, letting a fling know that it’s just become boring would be expected and accepted.

Egos sold separately.


–The only lines men would try on me would be ‘I’m a feminist,’ ‘I’m a women’s studies major’ or ‘I’m reading Erica Jong.’ But I would never again hear ‘Can I get a ride?’ while pedaling down Market Street or ‘I must’ve died cause you’re an angel’ while waiting for the 39 bus on Dauphin Street. And when we’re on the subject of picking up women, please do not watch VH1’s “Pick-Up Artist” for advice.

Watch it to laugh at Mystery’s Dr. Seuss hats, watch it because “Rock of Love” isn’t on, or watch it to feel better about your own sex life. But don’t tune in because you think rehearsed one-liners and “kenos” will get you laid. Just be your silly, awkward self. It’s charming.

“Lost,” a TV show that defies reality by being sexier than both “Independence Day” (Jeff Goldblum was my girlhood crush) and Led Zeppelin’s DVD “Live at Royal Albert Hall” (I would still squeeze Robert Plant’s lemon, even if he looks like a troll), would not be an hour-long tease. It would be my life. These fictional island babes haven’t showered in months so their pheromones are kickin’ in a good way. Remember not touching soap for a week at Bonnaroo but still wanting to bone everyone in sight?

It would be like that, but with Kurt-Cobain-look-alike Sawyer and hot Doc Jack oozing out that sweet stench. Plus, I’d probably do the smoke monster. But only if it got freaky like Patrick Swayze in “Ghost.”

–Everyone would admit that they’re bisexual, even if it’s just for Angelina Jolie or Derek Jeter.

Don’t believe me? Read up on the messiah of human sexuality Alfred Kinsey and his raunchy bible, the “Kinsey Reports.” The mac-daddy of the sexual revolution collected over 18,000 interviews and found that attraction isn’t as rigid as your Republican senator wants it to be. Sexual orientation sits on a dynamic, flexible scale that ranks from zero (Chuck Norris straight) to six (Richard Simmons meets Rosie O’Donnell meets the Easter Bunny gay).

Most of us lie somewhere in the middle, and the majority of women seem more comfortable admitting this than men. So come on boys, listen to Peaches’ lyrics because “I wanna see you work it guy-on-guy.”

–Before bearded fellows tried to lick my fro down below, they’d let me grab a razor and shave their chops. Sorry guys, but it feels like a broom down there when you’re sporting whiskers, and I don’t want (or need) to be swept up. Don’t get me wrong, I love the corn-fed lumberjack look and I’m down with Burt-Reynolds-fur on any other part of the body.

But fuzzy oral is like the copper bracelet that gives you a gnarly rash: the appearance just isn’t worth the pain. Still have the urge to express yourself through facial hair? Stick with the stash or the Genghis-Khan-handlebars. I heard that guy got mad play.

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