The Wrestler

Hooking up is kind of like graphing logs. You plot the points of your intersecting bodily movements where the slope depends on how quickly things are escalating and the limit depends on what the mutual expectation for the night is. If you're both DTF, the limit does not exist. But, if you're intending to put a limit on what's going down (or should I say who's going down), then the math becomes tricky. Unlike mathematical equations, the two lines of this function to not always agree on the limit they're going to encroach. One member of the hook up almost always wants the other member's legs to split across the positive and negative side of the X-axis, and if that doesn't happen, they will at the very least want the other member to drop below their X-axis. This is often met by some hesitation from the other member of the hook up. This moment marks the most important point plotted on their sexual function; it's the moment when the hook up stops being mathematical and starts being physical. The numbers and logic disappear as the bed/couch/backseat turns into a wrestling ring. There is no more mathematics, no more words even, just a silent battle of strength and stubbornness. Just like in a wrestling match, everyone is wondering "who will go down first?"
The night starts out with the given exponents: girl, boy, alcohol, and apartment. Imagine you've been at a party when you start talking to an attractive guy. He's charming and funny to begin with, and the more you two drink, the more his attractive qualities exponentialize. You two are totally connecting, so as the party dies down you accept his offer to go back to his place and "hang out." And no, this isn't community college pre-algebra; you're not a fucking idiot so you know that by "hang out" he means "hook up." The next thing you know, you're back at his room on his top bunk and the majority of your clothing has been subtracted from the equation. The slope of your drunken function has been increasing rapidly, but you've mentally solved the equation by deciding that you're not down to fuck, but rather down to foreplay.
"Hold on, let me get a condom," it seems that he got a different answer.
"No, no, not tonight," you say. He's disappointed but accepts your answer, and so you two carry on the nakey-making-out.
You're drawing nearer and nearer to your limit, and are looking forward to the point at which you can blissfully pass the fuck out. He then makes the move from being on top to pulling you on top of him. Now that you're on top of him, he first puts his hands in your hair (aw) then moves his hands onto your shoulders, also known as his key leverage point (ugh). Now you're under pressure as he gently yet firmly pushes down on your shoulders. You've arrived at "The Limit." Numbers and slopes don't matter anymore, you're engaged purely in a test of physical strength and stamina as you resist the downward push from a pair of hands that you met all of three hours ago. Like any good athlete, motivational phrases run through your head to help you find the strength within to keep fighting. Does he even remember my name? Do I even remember his? Will he return the favor after, or just roll over and pass out? This room looks familiar- have I been in this same situation, only on his roommate's bottom bunk? Somehow, your thirty-minutes-on-the-elliptical-only-on-days-you're-hungover conditioned body is withstanding his fratty, swollen biceps. Neither of you have budged and both of your muscles are beginning to twitch. It's pretty awkward now.
Depending on how big of an asshole your opponent is, once he realizes he's not getting head he might pull a line like "Hey, listen, I gotta wake up really early to start tailgating tomorrow, so I'll see you later," or he might roll over without saying a word and pass out with you just lying there. Chances are he won't be happy that you won the wrestling match, which is why it's always best to leave and not sleep over if he doesn't kick you out anyway. Celebrate your victory on the shameful 4 am walk back to your room. The important thing is to not fall asleep at your opponent's place after winning the wrestling match. No one likes a sore loser, especially when they're cranky in the morning and don't even remember your name.

One Woman's Trash... Is Trash Until She Sees It's Another Woman's Treasure

Life would be much more convenient if we were dating inside a vacuum. A vacuum where each woman exists in solitude, accompanied only by her personal pool of eligible bachelors. Within this dating vacuum, we'd be able to figure out exactly what we want without having to second guess ourselves or make the same mistake twice. But unfortunately, we do not live in a vacuum. We share a world with three billion other women, creating competition within our gender. From the beginning of time, all the women of a village would fight over the hunter-and-gatherer with the biggest biceps and the loin cloth made of the finest animal skins that their side of the Bering Strait had to offer. Now, it's women from every social circle fighting over the untamable bad boy who juggles women and refuses to be tied down. For some reason, even more attractive than a guy with six pack abs, a sparkling personality, or even a meaty trust account is a guy who has other women interested in him. You don't even have to start out liking this guy, just as soon as you know that other women want him you then suddenly have to have him ("like, you don't understand, it's an emergency, I think I'm in love with him, like, oh my god.")
As easy as it is for me to roll my eyes at this pitiful attribute of womanhood, I myself am not immune to it. As I have learned over the past two weekends, competition is inevitably the ultimate turn-on. The saturday before last I had what I can honestly declare to be the worst sexual encounter of my entire life. This guy was not a good kisser, a terrible conversationalist, he didn't get my jokes, and to top it all off the only time I'd seen a smaller penis was whilst changing diapers (and at that size I think the scientific categorization changes from "penis" to "peepee.") And the worst part about it was that it was supposed to be a great hook up! He was gorgeous (minus points for being blond, though), tall, and we'd gotten along so well during our anthropology class! But the morning after our abominable hook up, I spent my entire hangover mulling over the perturbing event and came to terms with the fact that I was completely and totally over my crush and his peepee. That is, until the next weekend.
That following thursday, my friend Molly and I went out to a pirate themed party at the PeePee's frat where within five seconds of being there we saw the PeePee making out with a petite blonde girl. In shock, we scurried down the hall and ducked into the bathroom to freak out in the privacy of our own stall.
"Oh my god," Molly squealed, "I think that's his girlfriend from home!" My favorite things about Molly are that she went to high school with the PeePee, and that she, like I, enjoys Facebook stalking on-the-go via Blackberry. "Hold on, I'm looking up her profile," she said, fastidiously typing and scrolling, "yep, it's her. Her status says she's visiting for the weekend." And just like that, a switch had been flipped. I went from being beyond turned off to never wanting him more. I was lusting after the PeePee. I hadn't dressed up for the pirate party, but now I was on a mission to get someone else's treasure.
"Should I text him?" Never a good idea.
"Yeah! Do it!" Fuck you, Molly.
"Okay, okay, I'm doing it! I'll just pretend like I didn't see him and ask what he's doing tonight!" As I began typing my pseudo-aloof text, my phone received a text from the PeePee himself! A simple "Hey" that managed to make everything more complicated.
My pulse was racing. I texted back saying "Hey, I'm at your frat". Within the same minute he texted back saying "Where???" Now I was freaking out.
"Molly, he just said 'Where???' with three question marks!!!"
"Oh my god! Tell him you're upstairs!"
I answered with my location and waited for him to text back, but he didn't. Several minutes passed, rendering me debilitatingly anxious.
"Okay, he still hasn't answered, should I text him again like 'Did you want to hang?'" Even in my drunken state I should have known that if you have to double text someone, you shouldn't be texting them at all.
"Yeah, that's good, send that!" I hate you, Molly.
I sent the second text and still no answer. I felt like trash for allowing myself to become so vulnerable so easily, especially over a guy that I'd gotten over the weekend before!
"Let's get out of the bathroom, we've been in here for like, ten minutes. People are gonna think we had either diarrhea or lesbian sex." Still gripping my phone waiting for a text back, we left the safety of our stall. As we walked into the hallway, I didn't get a response text, but I did get a different message. I saw the PeePee walk into the same room that he'd brought me into the weekend before with his petite blonde girlfriend from home and shut the door. The room that I had never wanted to go back into until I saw the petite blonde girl go in there. The petite blonde girl that had transformed my trash into an unattainable treasure.
Molly put her arm over my shoulder, "Let's go get another drink." And so we did.