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I MISS DRY HUMPING

Okay, perhaps that wasn’t the most elegant opening to a column ever but dammit, it’s true. I miss that engrossing display of teenage hormones that one experienced before the invention of MTV’s Teen Mom, Gossip Girl, and that Secret Life of the American Teen on ABC Family that seems more like a primer on acquiring an STD than what teenagers actually experience in the real world.

I miss what is essentially frustrating foreplay that ended in supreme genital tactile dysfunction (or horniness, if you want to be blunt) and I especially miss that amazing feeling of euphoria that you got when you thought you were doing something “naughty”.

With being an adult, the societal concerns of morality no longer apply and therefore you can go off to Naked World without a care in the world and participate in the physical expression of lust that would make Zeus blush and no one will give a shit.

But where is the excitement in that?

Okay sure, I can end a particularly emotionally-draining day by slapping some skin against my own and relieving myself of all anxiety, but I’m still left feeling that it would have been better if we rubbed on each other, partially clothed, in the basement of my parent’s house while the Humpty Dance was playing in the background on a cassette tape (see how I dated myself there?).

And then there were the parties.

Again, now that I am entering my late thirties, the parties I go to involve appetizers, wine, conversations that revolve around lawn care, and what unexplained aches and pains I am experiencing (however, when I am with my geeky friends, we discuss Kirk v. Picard and whether or not Superheroes would retain their powers if they were zombies-completely ignoring the scenarios presented in Marvel Zombies of course).

Back in my teenage days, parties consisted of stolen booze, pot, cigarettes, and a wonderful game called Seven Minutes in Heaven that allowed you to be somewhat of a whore without garnering a reputation.

The premise was simple and elegant. Boys wrote their names on a piece a paper and placed the scrap inside a bowl or hat, girls did the same only in an opposite vessel. Then, the host or hostess would pull out a name from each receptacle, and those two people would go into a closet and make out for seven minutes, only to be interrupted by the sounds of their peers when their time was up.

And let me tell you, seven minutes of uninterrupted jean-on-jean action is a hell of a way to spend an evening.

And probably why I still ache for it today (in a down-low tickle sort of way).

Look, I’ve never been a prude (a laughable thought) and yes, I love the whole intercourse thing and wouldn’t dream of giving it up even for a second, but there’s something remarkable about being that intimate with another human being without actually penetrating or being penetrating by them.

It’s like reaching a level of mediation that only Zen masters can accomplish and I totally and completely wish I could go back twenty years and feel that sublimely erotic passion of pure exhilaration before I die in this suburban false utopia that I live in today.

Because, frankly, I’m getting kind of tired of listening to my neighbors talk about the price of heating oil when there’s a perfectly good closet not five feet from us.

So maybe, the next time I host one of these horrible get-togethers, I will bring it back to the land of Goldschlager chasers and Mad Dog 20/20, the bitchin’ sounds of Journey, and a little game that would force married couples to feel the heat of another for exactly seven minutes without landing in divorce court.

Because I’m pretty sure that my hostess gifts would be a whole lot better after that.

…Don’t stop, Believing…

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