Why you should care
OZY’s Eugene S. Robinson addresses queries from the love-weary in “Sex With Eugene.”
EUGENE, SIR: Almost a Humble Brag Alert: I ended up at a sex party with a semi-celebrity in the Hollywood Hills. Chemicals were being consumed, but I guess I wasn’t thinking ahead. I went for the chemicals first and then suffered a very public erectile difficulty issue. Bad enough to do it in front of one person, even worse to do it with the one person everyone in the room is sneak watching. These parties happen on the regular, but how do I get back in there when I next see the person who dragged me along there in the first place without sounding totally lame? —Stupid, Stupid
Dear SS: You’re coming to me for Operation Mop-Up? A James Bond–esque effort to both rescue your reputation and get you re-upped on the Lifestyles of the Freaky and Quasi-Famous dance card? Technically, this is not sex advice you’re asking for, as the damage in that regard has already been done, but I’m here to serve, and so serve you I will. With a little homespun hand-holding that, while it constitutes social advice, will have to do since in this Sex With Eugene column, we turn away no one.
OK, so first off: Never go heavy on the party favors. Champagne, chocolate cheesecake, fondue or a chemical melange of meth and MDMA, your goal first and foremost has to be to be as good of a guest as your host is a host. Even if you decline, express a high-level of enthusiasm at what you’re being offered since this will effectively Jedi mind-trick them into believing you’re fully willing to embrace not only the life but also the style. But if you suspect it will be a clothing-optional party? Even more so: Play it like a player and realize when you’re called on the field, there are no excuses for not being ready.
Which brings us to a side issue: Never offer excuses. They always sound … off. So in our second Star Wars reference, we quote Yoda: Do or do not; there is no try. So that takes care of what should happen when you get there next, if you get there next.
Now, how to get back in there. An astute observer of those with even the slightest amount of social cachet will show you that getting back in there involves the art of pushing without appearing to push. For this to be effective, you must run the risk of losing it all. Which is to say you can’t just act disinterested in getting back in there. You must really radiate disinterest. Of course, the paradox is that you must put yourself in a place where no one who is truly disinterested would ever be: back in their social orbit.
And once there, talk about how you’re consuming less — Champagne, chocolate cheesecake, fondue or a chemical melange of meth and MDMA — since the last time they saw you and you’ve been “getting in shape.” Make mention here of yoga, or some unpronounceable but new Eastern exercise thing.
That should work, as it explains without excusing. If it doesn’t? I got nothing. But let us know, one way or the other!
It’s Only Fluids?
EUGENE, SIR: If we’re having sex and he comes first, as sometimes is the case, how do I get him to use his mouth after that without me getting up and cleaning up first? He’s great about oral in almost every situation, unless he’s already come there. I’ve tried to tell him that his own semen is as likely to “make him” gay as his masturbating is, but no deal. If he’s come in me first, no oral sex. Solutions, please. —Ann O.
Dear Little Oral Annie: If he’s been frank and open about not wanting to gargle with his own semen, well, whether it makes sense or not, how can you argue with that kind of candor? Unless he also won’t kiss you after you’ve gargled with his, which is a no-no, I think searching for a solution is workable.
So here’s one: Place yourself on your back and let him pleasure you this way.
Which doesn’t make me especially good or wise. It just means that I understand this thing called gravity. You on your back? Much less semen in his mouth. You sitting on his face? Much more semen in his mouth.
No, no … no need to thank me! I’m just doing my job, ma’am!
A Numbers Game
EUGENE, SIR: I am 54 and just divorced, and I told my most recent LTR, when the time seemed right and we seemed to be talking about it anyway, how many people I’ve slept with. Since then, things have cooled a bit. I’ve asked my girlfriends, but while I tell the truth, I just assume everyone else lies, and after 12 years of marriage, I’m done with that, so I’ll ask you: Is 84 a lot? Or is it just a lot for women? —Name withheld by request
Dear Numerology: You know, I am sure he did something like this: OK, she’s 54. Minus 12 years of marriage, during which I have to assume she wasn’t cheating on her husband, well, that gets her to 42. If she started having sex when she was 18? That’s 24 years. That means in 24 years she averaged 3.5 men a year.
While this seems reasonable to me, that’s never the issue. This is, at its root, unreasonable and irrational, because it’s the stuff that makes baseball such a perfectly American game: the effluvia of stats that let you micro-analyze everything, always.
Translation: He has not slept with 84 women. So now he’s got to deal with that.
Solution: If dude can’t hang, then he should go. Which means you will only be with men who are very secure or who are total sluts. The former is a net positive; the latter a mixed bag.
But really … it’s 2019. Can’t we all get along with each other’s sexual histories?