With cuffing season around the corner, it’s important that everyone brush up on their sex game. For some, that means hitting up Plaza on a Saturday and then hitting some cheeks all of Sunday.

But not everyone works this way. Some of us don’t have a fake to get into Plaza. Some of us don’t have the $20 to bribe the bouncer. And some of us just don’t have sex. Luckily, we at The Badger Herald have a solution for you.

Picture this — you’re alone in your room on a Thursday, horny. But instead of writing a pathetic YikYak about it, you spot somebody looking at you out of the corner of your eye. Not just looking, practically eye-banging you. And as you wink at them (because you’re a sexy dog), you realize that this somebody looks familiar.

They’ve been your constant companion, your best friend, your numero uno. They know all your secrets, your dreams, your flaws. They have even seen you naked.

You think to yourself, ‘The answer has been staring me on the face all this time. Why haven’t I seen this before?’ and you lean in for a big smooch.

They don’t move because they’re not a person (don’t be gross) — they’re something better. They’re your pillow.

Obituaries: Managing editor Daroline Drowley dies from multiple causes

You lean in to kiss your pillow, and your heart is beating a million times a minute. You can’t believe this is actually happening, that you are actually going to fuck your pillow.

But despite the storm of passion raging inside of you, what you do not do is grab that pillow and bend it backwards over your bed. Maybe that’s how they do in the porn, but you know the porn can set unrealistic expectations, and that’s not how sex happens in real life. You know the importance of good foreplay.

Nor do you stare at the pillow’s lips and tell them they have pretty eyes and then let your mouth hang open like a fish. You are not a fish. Instead, you cup the pillow’s waist and gently pull them close.

You pay careful attention to the pillow’s body language. If it mirrors your own, then you are probably good to go, but just because you are a communicative, sexy human being — and they are a sexy, sexy pillow — you bring your other hand up to grasp the back of their pillow neck and whisper that you’d like to kiss them on their big pillow lips.

The pillow says yes. Of course it does, it’s an inanimate object. But more importantly, it’s your pillow. It’s been waiting for this ever since you bought it three years ago at Walmart.

You and your pillow kiss. Hesitantly at first, but then deeply. You get a little tongue in there, you start feeling groovy, you pull that pillow a little closer and start kissing up on their pillow neck, their pillow jaw, careful not to leave pillow hickeys.

At some point the pillow takes off its pillow case and asks if you want to take this to the bedroom. You pull back, confused.

“We are in the bedroom, babe,” you say. “You’re my pillow.”

The pillow says no. It wants to go to another bedroom. It’s been only ever seen your childhood bedroom and this shitty dorm bedroom. It wants to see the world. It wants to be free.

“What about us?” you say, blinking back tears. “Do you want to be free from me?”

“No, no, babe, I love you,” the pillow says. “I’ll always love you. I just need a little break, you know? I thought going to college would be a good opportunity for us to see other people. And then, if we still had feelings, we could come back to each other.”

“Ok,” you say, trying hard not to cry.

It’s weird because you have cried into your pillow countless time before, but now your pillow feels like a stranger. It has its own thoughts, hopes and dreams. You realize you have never even asked it about its day. It’s always been you controlling the subject, the conversation, the night.

You feel like an asshole.

“We can still be friends,” your pillow tells you.

You nod, unable to speak. It just lies there, completely still because it’s a pillow.

Computer science department to offer extra credit for showering

“Do you mind carrying me to the common room?” the pillow says. “You can just leave me there. I’m sure somebody else will pick me up.”

“Whore!” you say, and you regret it as soon as the word leaves your mouth.

Your pillow says nothing at first as you beg it to forgive you. It says nothing as you rage in your room, saying you’re misunderstood, that college is really stressful, that it’s not your fault the pillow hasn’t communicated its desires before now.

Finally, after you’re done throwing your tantrum, the pillow says this.

“Please.”

And suddenly you see the pillow for what it is — a completely independent, inanimate being, with its own limited history, life and future. You realize the pillow and you are both on the same journey together, just maybe on different paths. It’s the least you can do to carry it into the common room.

You silently pick the pillow up, burying your head into it one last time before walking the 100 feet to the common room. You set on the table. You kiss it, and you leave.

As you leave, you know in your heart of hearts this will be the last time you will see your pillow.

When you get back to your dorm you throw yourself on your bed, which is a lot less comfortable without your pillow. You open YikYak, tears streaming down your face, thumbs poised to write the most pathetic, loser post about how you’re still horny on a Thursday night.

Then, you spot something out of the corner of your eye. It is sexy, it is mature, it wants you so bad. It’s a bottle of lube. You put down your phone — without having written that dumb ass YikYak — and instead masturbate like a real adult.