When my little brother recently told me that his girlfriend had abandoned her Air Force training in Texas and planned to join him and several other members of their high school class at a distinguished art college in Baltimore, I was skeptical.
But when he told me there was talk of her joining a lease with him and his friends, my knee-jerk reaction surprised even me.
“Whoa … dude. Dude. No. No, no, no, no,” I spouted.
I have nothing against premarital cohabitation. In fact, I advocate it heavily.
But not for someone in my brother’s situation. I’ve experienced first-hand how unfettered access to a serious girlfriend can stifle a person’s motivation and creativity, especially in the early years of one’s development.
The last time I hung out with my brother, he made a statement so typical of a kid who needed to get to college ASAP.
“You know, I’ve been thinking a lot more,” he said. I fail to see how that will be precipitated by the presence of a girlfriend about whom he talks so little that I forget he has one and occasionally suggest we go out and pick up girls.
Obviously, I have a vested interest in my brother’s development as an artist — not only because I wish the best for my kin, but also because I own original pieces of his early work! Har har har.
“Trust me, dude, I know,” I said. “Why would you ever — ever! — get up and go to class (of all things) instead of staying in bed with a girl?”
“Hmm … yes … ” he answered. “They are a clever bunch.”
I warned him of the dangers of settling comfortably into a relationship. High school sweethearts who are reunited after “staying together, living apart” during semesters are doomed, with almost no exception.
This is all fairly basic stuff, no? Ah, but it is never that simple. There are always extenuating and intoxicating factors at work in the exuberance of 18-year-olds, the least of which is never sex. It clouds your vision, blurs your judgment. Anecdotal evidence, anyone?
It is not at all uncommon in our peer group for women to have never experienced an orgasm, through no fault of their own or their partners’. How many girls endure years of spastic, climax-less adolescent sex, only to find someone in college with a bigger dick or gentler touch who can get her off? Suddenly they go from feeling like a cold fish, wondering if there is something wrong with them, to popping off like a bag of Orville Redenbacher.
How the hell are they supposed to clearly evaluate whether they’re in love? Nobody stops to think, “He is a real tool,” or “She treats me terribly,” during a post-coital rush of endorphins. Too many college relationships are kept cooling in the fridge past their expiration date on the assurance they have been properly pasteurized with mind-blowing, body-breaking sex.
Is it really worth going back to your superficial, non-committal and unsophisticated Coastie girl at three on a Thursday just for a slice of that sweet “Burberry Pie?” Do you generously ignore your boyfriend’s over-protectiveness because he can make you scream like Howard Dean in Iowa?
Maintaining a f-ckbuddy or bootycall relationship is not wrong. In fact, I advocate it heavily. These arrangements come in handy during college — a time when the market value of convenience is increased ten-fold. But as a defender of Love with a capital L, let’s not confuse it with anything else.
As for my brother’s situation, which as far as I know is not complicated by sexual red herrings, I advised him in the clearest terms I could.
“Okay, it’s like you’re Indiana Jones,” I said. “And the giant death-boulder chasing you is Heartbreak. Even if you get out of the Temple of the Long Distance Relationships alive, there’s probably going to be some sexy savages ready to rob you of your golden fidelity idol as soon as you get out!”
Poor bastard. He is probably more confused than when he started. I’ve failed him as a big brother. I haven’t failed him as a sex columnist, because that’s all I claim to be — not a sex advice columnist.
The only actual advice I’m offering you, America, is this: when you’re packing for your next adventure, remember the condoms. Dr. Jones would never go into the Temple of Doom (or the Temple of Long Distance Relationship) naked. Believe it or not, whips, leather, lusty women and strange heathen ceremonies can be a dangerous proposition without protection.
