by Karo, Aaron
Ultimately, for women, sex is really all in their heads. I’ll be sleeping with a girl, and she’ll whisper, “Karo, I had a really stressful day at work. The market was way down. I’m just not gonna be able to have an orgasm.” And I’ll say, “I had a pretty tough day too. Turns out Uncle Frank has cancer. It’s terminal. So…a little to the left? Uncle Frank would have wanted it this way.”
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ETIQUETTE
Instead of smoking a cigarette after sex, I check my BlackBerry. It doesn’t smell bad, it won’t cause cancer, but it has the same soothing effect.
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You know the sex was great when you open your eyes and you’ve forgotten where you are for a moment; like you’ve gone back in time. I have to stop myself from muttering, “What year is it?” Now the good part about sex is that it’s awesome. The bad part about sex is that it’s messy. In movies, sex always ends with some sort of dramatic flourish, and the couple float gracefully into each other’s arms. In real life, sex ends with a grunt and then a frantic search for the forty requisite tissues. Of course, the box of Kleenex is always just out of reach, like in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade when he can only get a fingertip on the Holy Grail. If no tissues are available, I’m usually instructed to roll clear while the girl disengages and makes a mad dash to the bathroom. Of course, all of this is done in part to prevent the sheets from getting dirty. The very sheets, ironically enough, that not seven minutes ago I was fucking vigorously.
TALES OF WHOA
If I’m hooking up with a girl who’s previously hooked up with one of my friends, sometimes she’ll ask, “Karo, you swear you won’t tell Evan about this?” I always promise to oblige, then immediately resume struggling with her skinny jeans. Of course, the first thing I do upon leaving the scene is call the guy friend in question and tell him every detail—including the fact that the girl asked me not to, which is often the best part of the story.
When a man is telling his friends that he slept with a woman, there’s one phrase that he’ll usually use. He’ll say, “I fucked the shit out of her.” Not “I slept with her,” “We had sex,” or “We made love.” No, it’s “I fucked the shit out of her.” We are not deterred from using this phrase, despite the fact that it is very rarely true. I could go home with a girl, not be able to get it up, and then prematurely ejaculate, and the next day I’d still be like, “Yo, I fucked the shit out of her! I’m the man!”
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GLOSSARY
THE CODE OF AFS
AFS stands for “Anything For a Story.” All guys operate implicitly under the Code of AFS, which requires them, while hooking up, to try to do something weird or outrageous—like get down in a public place or stick a finger where it doesn’t belong—just so they can tell their friends about it later. Nothing whips a pack of males into a frenzy faster than hearing a compatriot’s hilarious tale of debauchery. The dirtier and more outlandish, the better.
Even if a guy promises a girl he “won’t say anything about what happened,” it’s a sure bet that the story will spread to his friends faster than at breakfast the morning after a frat party. After all, there’s nothing like passing up an intimate and gratifying lovemaking experience just for the opportunity to be the man of the hour during the next guys’ night out. Oftentimes during sex, instead of thinking, “How can I pleasure this woman?” I’m thinking, “I can’t believe she agreed to do it in the hallway. And I don’t even live in this building! The boys are gonna love this…”
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I would venture to say that I derive more pleasure from telling and retelling a good, crazy, wasted hook-up story than from the experience itself. I don’t even think I need the actual hook-up, just the memory of it. Like the plot of the movie Total Recall but with blow jobs. Every guy treats his history of one-night stands differently. My friend Moobs (so nicknamed because of his prominent man-boobs) always carries a digital camera and has a picture of every girl he’s ever hooked up with. Looking at his Facebook albums is like flipping through the women’s section of an old Banana Republic catalog, except you know all the clothes ended up on the floor. My surgeon buddy Shermdog, whose prowess is the stuff of legend, maintains a cordial relationship with virtually all of his hook-ups, and I believe checks in with each of them on a biannual basis. That’s what I call bedside manner.
Occasionally, I’m fortunate enough to be a part of the story even though I wasn’t part of the action. For instance, in 2006 I was sailing with some friends along the Great Barrier Reef. The tour got interesting one night when I awoke to find an Aussie chick climbing into bed with me on the deck of the ship, clearly wanting to hook up. In my drunken/sleeping haze, it took me a few minutes to realize she thought I was my buddy Mike. Noticing she had already removed her bra (how did she know my weakness?) and fearing an international incident, I hesitantly told her that I was not, in fact, Mike. Incredibly embarrassed, she flitted away, crying, “All you Americans look the same!”
I think that tales of one-night stands are the universal language of twentysomething and thirtysomething males. Put two random dudes in a room together and eventually they’ll start swapping war stories from the previous weekend’s conquests. When we grow older, get married, and have kids, we lose that common bond. That’s why golf is so popular. Put my dad in a room with some other old guy, and eventually they’ll start swapping war stories from the previous weekend’s back nine. The thing is, I don’t play golf. So I guess the best excuse I have to continue sleeping around is that I still want to be able to relate to my friends without picking up a five iron.
DOWN FOR THE COUNT
Sometimes, I’ll be hooking up with a girl, about to sleep with her, and she’ll all of a sudden get concerned that I “get around” too much. “Karo,” she’ll ask, “how many girls have you slept with?” And I respond, “To be honest, I don’t really count.” But she’ll persist, asking, “Well, is it at least, like, less than a hundred?” “A hundred!?” I’ll grimace. “Is that your standard for sleeping with a guy? I don’t know if I want to fuck you now!”
Of course, I do count. We all do. I may not know all their names, but I do know how many there have been. Yes, it’s crude. Yes, it’s immature. Yes, I probably shouldn’t have bet my buddy Claudio who could sleep with the most girls by Thanksgiving one year. The fact is, I’m a thirty-year-old dude. My days of organized athletics are over. I don’t have time for fantasy sports. This is all I’ve got. Besides, no one gets hurt (except for Claudio, who still owes me fifty bucks).
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GLOSSARY
THE HOOK-UP CYCLE
Derived from the baseball term “hitting for the cycle,” in which a player hits a single, double, triple, and home run in the same game. Hitting for the hook-up cycle means hooking up with a freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior in the same week in college. Ironically, the closest I ever came was after I had already graduated from Penn, during my first visit back for homecoming. Alas, I fell one junior girl short.
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Even if it’s only for his own personal gratification, a man takes great pride in how high his “number” is. Which is why, in my running lifetime tally of how many girls I’ve slept with, I’ve begun to include fractions. Like if a girl wants to have sex but I’m just too fucked up and can only infiltrate the outlying regions, that’s two-thirds. If I fuck the mattress for ten minutes by accident, that’s a half. Count it! My buddies will ask, “Hey Karo, did you get laid on vacation?” And I’m like, “Hell yeah, two and an eighth girls!”
When a guy isn’t sure if what he did the previous night should count as getting laid, the next morning he’ll convene a tribunal of his friends to analyze the evidence. Think of it as The Hague of drunken sex. Both sides of the case will be argued and the man in question will be ridiculed incessantly for not sealing the deal beyond a shadow of a doubt. The tribunal is quite forgiving, however, and will generally award a point (or fraction of a point, as the case may be) as long as “yes” is
the answer to the question “Was there intent to penetrate?”
THE DOUBLE STANDARD
It is without question that men and women are judged by different standards. If a girl sleeps around, she is called a slut. If a guy sleeps around, he gets a book deal. Even so, women should be cognizant of the double standard and take some measures to protect their reputation. You don’t want to end up like my ex-girlfriend’s best friend. This chick was always growing out the front of her hair and it looked ridiculous. So I gave her a nickname: Bangs. The name worked on two levels because she also fucked everything that moved. Get it? Bangs. I thought it was brilliant. My ex-girlfriend? Not so much.
There are a few surefire ways for a guy to determine whether the girl he’s with gets around. For instance, if I’m hooking up with a girl and, when she takes off her jeans, she takes off her thong at the same time, that’s a big red flag. Listen, even if you’re gonna sleep with me anyway, at least go through the motions of acting like you don’t do this every night. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the enthusiasm—but I’d feel a lot more comfortable if we stuck to the usual two-step process.
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OBSERVATION
I’ve found that girls who don’t have a lot of female friends tend to be wilder in bed. I believe this is because girls tell their friends all the gritty details the day after they get laid—and their friends (admittedly or not) then pass judgment on them. But girls without female friends are less inhibited about one-night stands because they don’t have to worry about being judged by their peers. These girls answer to a higher authority. Sort of like the Hebrew National of hook-ups.
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Believe it or not, there are actually certain instances when being labeled a slut can be a positive thing. For instance, let’s say I tell a friend that I just met a girl on line at the grocery store and we totally hit it off. If my friend says, “Dude, I know that girl. She’s a total whore,” I’ll be really disappointed. But if I’m wasted at the bar and I tell my friend I just met a girl on line for the bathroom and we totally hit it off, and my friend tells me she’s a total whore, I’m thrilled.
I love when I run into a slutty girl I haven’t seen in a while, and she introduces me to her new boyfriend. I’m like, “Oh, hey Melissa.” And she says, “Karo, I want you to meet my boyfriend, Jack.” I shake Jack’s hand and tell him it’s nice to meet him, but I also chuckle discreetly and think about whether or not he knows his girlfriend slept with…everybody.
LAY OVER
One of the most important keys to a successful one-night stand is having an exit strategy. First of all, no one wants to sleep next to a random person. I don’t even want to sleep next to someone I like. There’s only room for three arms to be resting comfortably in bed, and the fourth never has any place to go. I believe one-night stands are like rescuing someone from a burning building. You want to get in and out as quickly as possible, and then, maybe, you call a few days later to make sure everyone’s OK. If you’re at someone else’s place, you need to leave as soon as you open your eyes. Breakfast? You gotta be kidding me. You’ll be lucky if you get a wall post. And if you leave now maybe I won’t even Twitter about it.
In my bedroom in LA, my bed is purposely set eight to ten inches away from the wall. This allows me to sleep undisturbed while the girl makes a quick and easy exit in the morning. And by “sleep undisturbed” I mean pretend to be passed out until she leaves and I can finally take a shit. But in an effort to heed my own advice, when I’m at a girl’s place, sometimes I overcompensate and leave too early. I’ll go to the bathroom right after sex and never come back. I’ve been told this is offensive.
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GLOSSARY
SEXUAL LOITERING
When last night’s conquest does not leave promptly the next morning. Should be illegal.
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I once hooked up with a girl at my place and the next morning we exchanged pleasantries and got dressed. But she didn’t leave. I actually left her in my apartment, went out and ran errands, then came back and she was still there. I turned the heat up all the way and tried to sweat her out. Nothing. I started to concoct arduous tasks that I needed to do that day in order to try to get rid of her (“Um, I really need to wash the windows”). She offered to help. I jumped in the shower. She joined me, uninvited. I peed in the shower, she didn’t care. She would not leave. I was seriously thinking about calling the cops to remove her. I was wasted the night before. Who knows? I could have taken home a well-dressed homeless chick. She finally left around 7:30 p.m. It was a one-day stand.
What I’ve never understood is why girls are always so self-conscious about getting dressed the morning after. We’ve been naked hooking up all night and now you’re trying to put your thong back on without lifting your ass from the bed? You’re so adamant about not letting me see your breasts again that you’re desperately trying to wiggle back into your bra without taking your shirt off first? And it’s such a struggle too. I’ve watched chicks almost dislocate their own shoulders like Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon 2. Why didn’t you pull that kinky shit when we were hooking up?
Another question I often get from my female readers is “Why didn’t he call?” Ladies, if you hook up with a guy and then he never calls you, there are really only a few possible reasons: one, he was already seeing someone else and that relationship has since gotten more serious; two, you’re not nearly as cute in person as you look on Facebook; three, you didn’t fuck him; or four, you did fuck him. I realize those last two are confusing, but those are the facts of life when dealing with a swinging bachelor. The phrase “I’ll call you later” can either mean “I’ll hit you up in a few hours” or “I’ll talk to you when we awkwardly bump into each other in a few months and I try desperately not to make it seem obvious that I’m racking my brain to remember who the fuck you are.”
LOST AND FOUND
Why do chicks always leave something at my place? Thongs I understand. They’re fucking invisible. But why can’t girls remember that they were wearing those big J.Lo hoop earrings that went out of style five years ago? They’re right on my nightstand. And when the girl inevitably texts me to get her belongings back, I often outsource the dirty work to my doorman. I tell the girl I’m going on vacation for one to seven weeks and that she can pick up her stuff whenever. Then I give the doorman an unmarked package and tell him to give it to the first girl who inquires. I’d write her name on it, but I’m not sure if it’s spelled with two Ls, or is Stacey.
I never lose an article of clothing at a girl’s place. When I get dressed to go out on a Saturday night, I think of the ensemble I’ve put together as one would of his fellow marines—leave no man behind. Besides, I need that light-blue T-shirt. I only have seven T-shirts. I lose one, that fucks up the rotation. If we’re at her place, when we get naked I always stack my possessions in an orderly fashion on the floor. Socks go into my Cons, followed by wallet in the left sneaker, watch and BlackBerry in the right, and T-shirt stuffed into jeans. (I also don’t pull the hide-the-belt trick and leave it safely in its loops.) If I realize at dawn that I’ve suffered from a severe case of beer goggles, this tidy arrangement allows me to quickly scoop up my shit, run into the hallway in my boxers, and get dressed in the elevator.
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AMBITIOUS IDEAS
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about giving back to the community, and I’ve come up with an innovative proposal. What I’d like to do is open a thrift store—to benefit charity—that’s stocked with the clothing and accessories that chicks leave in guys’ apartments and never claim. There would be an entire section full of wife-beaters. It would be glorious.
I’d also like to invent some sort of one-night-stand pre-nup. Like in exchange for promising to call you within a week, you can’t talk shit about me to your friends. Or in exchange for arranging the expedient return of all articles of clothing you leave behind, you promise not to steal the sweatpants I give you for the walk home. It’s pretty ingeni
ous. Now if only I could get a girl to sign it while wasted in the back of a cab on the way to my place.
* * *
Claudio once got so drunk that he hooked up with a girl, the next day she was gone, and he couldn’t remember anything. So we’re trying to figure out what the hell happened, and he finds this lone flip-flop that she must have somehow left underneath his bed. We were staring at it, and finally I said, “Dude, who leaves behind one shoe? I think you might have fucked Cinderella.” Now you may scoff at the idea of fucking Cinderella, but believe it or not, I banged Sleeping Beauty. I’m not kidding. I was on tour in Orlando, I met this girl after a show, and her actual day job was playing Sleeping Beauty at Disney World. So we hooked up, and the next morning I checked out of my hotel and left her passed out in the bed. I figured she was used to it.
THE LONGEST WALK OF SHAME
One year, I was on tour in Arizona and I woke up the morning after a show in some random chick’s bed. My first thought was, “I gotta get the hell out of here!” So I popped out of bed, grabbed my wallet and cell phone, tiptoed down the stairs, got dressed, busted out the front door, ran onto the sidewalk, and realized…where the fuck am I? I was on a tree-lined street in the suburbs of Tucson. There were no cabs and no one around. I had no clue where I was. I was officially lost on the walk of shame.