I'm convinced I would have much better sex if I were an idiot.
I realize I sound like an entitled intellectual whining about how he's constantly bombarded by his own thoughts, but this really is a problem. The heart of Kroll's argument is based on the fact that being in your head ruins your performance, and having sex is one of the few times in life that you need to act before you think. During sex, I think too much, I talk too much and I ruin it for everyone involved. I'm too self-aware to have anything better than average-level sex.
Mostly, self-awareness is a good thing. It's what stops us from audibly groaning when a mother gets on an elevator with a triple stroller. It's what turns our impulsive (and usually offensive) first thoughts into something that won't get us fired.
But it also takes us out of the moment, and the most important part of sex is being in the moment.
I think about the moment too much, so I miss it.
There are certain times during sex when it is just right to do something. But the window of opportunity is so quick that it will disappear before you're done considering it.
Self-awareness, for example, is what prevents me from spanking someone at the correct time (and yes, there is a correct time). When I get the impulse to do it, I pause, and the following analysis churns through my head:
What if she doesn't like it?
What if it's too hard?
Or, what if it's too soft? That would be way worse.
Ah, here it goes…
Oh, that was weird.
The moment was there, and I missed it by 30 seconds. By the time I've psyched myself up to do something relatively freaky — spanking is freaky enough for me, thanks — the moment has passed.
Had I let my idiot monkey instinct steer my idiot monkey hand, I would've connected with idiot monkey ass and brought the whole experience to another level. But my annoying human brain forces me to assess the situation before acting, after which point it becomes too late.
I provide commentary during sex, to no one's amusement.
I'll sometimes make pointed observations about the sex I'm having. I wish I were kidding.
If anything remotely unusual happens, whether it's a noise or a movement, I have to comment on it. Once when I was with a girl, I decided to bring up the strange sound of flesh hitting flesh. It wasn’t with those exact words — I'm not a serial killer — but it’s still weird to comment on sex while having sex.
Whatever I said made her laugh, but it also shattered the romance.
I can't will myself to forget the “plan” to get laid.
The process of getting laid starts when I put on a button-down, and it is a process. All (straight) guys go into the night with a basic knowledge of the “plan.” It's our strategy to securing sex, and it's absurd:
1. Wear a nice button-down in a crowded room.
2. Find a female within my range.
3. Make small talk.
4. Mash my bits up against female.
5. Hope she's into it.
6. Go home with female.
7. Do idiot monkey stuff.
I can't hit on strangers because I can't will myself to forget how hilariously systematic the whole process is. Whenever I'm in a bar, I like to guess where random people are in terms of the “plan.” It's usually incredibly obvious.
I can't ignore how obvious my intentions are when talking to a stranger.
If you approach someone in a bar, you're clearly trying to hook up with him or her. Of course you are. I am, too.
Yet I almost never make it past part three of the “plan” because the gap between small talk and dance-humping is unfathomably wide. How does one even make the transition? Bars are so loud that my small-talk game is mostly yelling these questions: “What's your name? What? Do you like the music? Celeste? Is it Celeste? Is your name Celeste?”
At what point during that exchange am I supposed start gyrating behind this woman whose name may or may not be Celeste?
To shorten these horrible interactions and speed along the “plan,” I (and everyone else) turn to drinking.
I can't make a move without alcohol to lower my inhibitions.
On the rare occasion that I get drunk, I hurl myself across the three-to-four threshold without a second thought.
I get decisive: “Your name is Celeste. Dance? Yes, Celeste, let's.”
People refer to the inebriated as “out of it,” but I'm never more “in” the moment than when I'm drunk. My raging self-awareness is calmed, and I actually make moves. And all those would-be awkward moments don't matter because I just ignore them. Like, if I fling up my arm in the middle of telling a story and accidentally clip your boob, oh well. I'll just ignore it.
If I were less paralyzed by awkward situations, I wouldn't need alcohol to close. But I do. Because otherwise, I'm timid as f*ck.
I get weird when it comes time for necessary pre-sex physical contact.
One Friday night, I was stone-cold sober in a Chinese karaoke bar about to sing “Sunglasses at Night.” You know, the type of activity that lends itself well to going home alone.
Then, one of my roommates told me his friend — let's call her Sarah — thought I was cute. So Sarah and I started talking, and I went to make our first physical contact by putting my arm around her waist, only I didn't commit. I lightly touched her lower back and lifted my hand away. I hovered.
Is there anything more limp-dicked than a hoverer? Nope. Nothing even comes close.
The night proceeded as a series of hovers, touchdowns and lifts-offs. I felt like I was cockblocking myself.
So why couldn't I commit? Well, for every physical movement I flubbed, there was a shrieking voice in my head yelling, “Why are you doing everything wrong?” A few seconds later, I would hover again. And it would yell, “I stand by my first question.”
At the end of the night, we said goodbye and headed off to our respective trains, only it so happened that we were taking the same train home. We boarded, waved hello and sat down on opposite ends of the car.
A few stops later, a tipsy man wearing a jeans and a plaid shirt — the uniform of our generation — stumbled on and started hitting on her. I watched from the other side of the train as she engaged to be polite. He sat down next to her. He wrapped his arm around her. He got her number and left.
He did it. F*ck.
That dude didn’t care about how transparent his intentions were. He just hopped on a train and stole her from me after last-call, and it worked.
My problems have no solutions that don't involve a lobotomy.
I have four options to fix my overthinking:
1. Get drunk every time I go out, gain beer weight and redirect my self-awareness to my large belly. So, no.
2. Suppress my commentary and therefore change my personality to fit social norms.
3. Murder ’80s pop covers to forget how lonely I am.
4. Actually get a lobotomy.
Yeah, let's do number three.
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