Thesis: Young New Yorkers “no longer care about having sex.”
Opening, complete with orgasm joke: “On a recent Friday night, a 22-year-old in his first year of living in New York hosted a late get-together in his Little Italy apartment. Everyone there would call it a good party, but it decidedly lacked a climax.”
Investigation: “The Observer spent a few weeks at parties and gatherings fraught with abstinence but slack of any sexual tension.”
Findings: No one was getting down at the parties Nate went to. As the sun rose, “attendees departed alone. They peeled off instead of pairing up. No one at the party got laid that night and, even worse, no one gave a fuck.”
Why? “Twenty-somethings are wary of sex,” said one, a young man who works at a hedge fund. “It’s not 1998.”
How Facebook stops sex: “Social media networks, rather than bringing people together, encourage nothing so much as an orgy of self-congratulation.”
How Twitter inhibits sex drives: “Platonic cliques spend all day tweeting at each other, forming exclusive @-reply feeds that appear only to them,” making it “harder to go home with someone knowing that you’ll be seeing their avatar the next morning and every morning after that.” Plus, “cocaine is again going around.”
Please Explain: “Sex is antithetical to the way they socialize, disruptive to the larger plan, a gateway to chaos in a digitally ordered world.”
Marx never thought of this: “‘Capitalism has replaced sex,’ the model said into our ear.”
Observer readers, unite! You have nothing to lose but your virginity: “‘My hours are so fucking absurd,’ an office production assistant on the film told The Observer. “I work a minimum 12 hours a day and up to 14 or 16, and you don’t have time to bring anyone into the equation.”
How to find hope in sexting: “THERE IS, HOWEVER, hope for these poor souls, sexless in the city; younger kids are poised to take their places.” Their “texts are always sexts. They don’t seek to expand their persona within a scene, online or otherwise. The carnality is evident and, to some in New York, enviable.”
Huh? “‘Because all it comes down to, really, is whether he/she smells good and can wiggle around well.'”
Conclusion: “‘I agree!’ The Observer typed back.”
But still, we should channel our frustration and anger towards Canada.
The day’s lesson was on sex, etc., and the teacher mentioned how sperm is 80% sugar (or something like that) whereupon a girl asks out loud, “How come it tastes so salty then?” Then she comprehends how it sounded like, turns beet red and runs from the room.
An Internet version began to circulate in 1997 in which a smart ass professor answers the girl’s question with, “Because the tastebuds for sweetness are on the tip of the tongue, and not the back of the throat.”
In one variation the instructor mentions that the amount of an average human male ejaculation is only about a teaspoon. One female student perks up and inquires, “Why does it make such a big mess, then?”
The worst sex I ever had was with fat bird.
I got on top and burnt my arse on the lightbulb.
After just a few months into their marriage, filled with constant arguments, a young man and his wife decided they would try counseling to save their marriage.
They had been at each other’s throat for some time and felt that this was their last straw. When they arrived at the counselor’s office, the counselor jumped right in and opened the floor for discussion. “What seems to be the problem?”
Immediately, the husband held his long face down without anything to say. On the other hand, the wife began describing all the wrongs within their marriage.
After spending 15 minutes listening to the wife, the counselor suddenly went over to her, picked her up by her shoulders, kissed her passionately for a long 5 minutes, and sat her back down. Afterwards, the wife sat there speechless.
He looked over at the husband who was staring in disbelief at what had happened.
The counselor spoke to the husband, “Your wife NEEDS that at least twice a week!”
The husband scratched his head and replied, “Ok, I can bring her here on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”