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Right around twenty-four, a light bulb switches on in the mind of a male. This game – entire weekends spent chasing ass, drinking to brown out, having little regard for others’ feelings, wearing protection – it all becomes a little dreary. What exactly is it you’re trying to do? Adding notches to the sex belt is fun. But the processes to adding said notches is exhausting. There are weekends where you’re no doubt thinking that staying in would be way better than going to the same bar with the same people for the umpteenth weekend in a row.
As Odell Beckham, Jr. would say, “I’m just not having fun anymore.” At 25, I find myself thinking about the root causes of my troubles with women more than I think about how much fun it is to hook up with them. I don’t know about the rest of you, but what used to come relatively easy to me is now getting more difficult. That isn’t to say that I’m not still, for lack of a less braggadocious term, successful, I’m just saying that it’s harder than it used to be.
“The best sport in the world,” agreed Rainsford.
“For the hunter,” amended Whitney. “Not for the jaguar.”
“Don’t talk rot, Whitney,” said Rainsford.
“You’re a big game hunter, not a philosopher. Who cares how a jaguar feels?”
“Perhaps the jaguar does,” observed Whitney.
“Bah! They have no understanding”
-Excerpt from Richard Connell’s “The Most Dangerous Game”
Prior to 24, I looked at the female species as the jaguars. The game wasn’t necessarily dangerous, but it was always fun and I’d go to ridiculous lengths to play it. Who cares? We’re all just having a bit of fun, right? At bars, coffee shops, grocery stores, and even gas stations you could find a jaguar. There were girls everywhere and I was jumping at chances to talk to them. It used to come almost preternaturally. Now? Well now I’ll find myself overthinking. But not thinking is what you need in these situations.
I know there are probably some of you on sexual tears reminiscent of Wilt Chamberlain in his prime. There are no doubt several of you who are in a drought worse than The Dust Bowl. You ever have the putting yips? Because I get them on occasion, and the most surefire way – at least for me – to fix them is simple. Talking to a woman at the bar is just like lining up a twelve footer to save par. It’s all mental. Just fucking make the putt, man. Close your eyes. Imagine the ball going into the hole. Or, in this case, your dick going into that girl’s vagina. Don’t back up and reassess shit.
So what’s it going to be? It’s almost Thursday night, and that itch to grab a drink is getting more and more difficult not to scratch as morning becomes afternoon and work responsibility falls by the wayside. You can hit that dive bar that has tall boys on special. Most of the girls who frequent the place have several tattoos and that scares the shit out of you, but fear of the unknown will get your dick hard. Fear of the unknown is the girl with a septum piercing who drips hot wax onto your johnson for fun.
Or maybe you want to grab a cocktail in the suit you had on at work today. More of an upper-class joint with older women who may or may not be ladies of the night. Wherever it may be that you end up tonight, just remember that any reservations you’re having are not real. Maybe you’re just at the grocery store picking up a few essentials or you’re finishing up a grueling workout at the gym. Close your eyes for a second. Gather your thoughts, and instead of looking at the path to the hole, look at the girl. Make the putt. .