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Don’t get me wrong, I love hearing about it. I don’t want to come off as prim or that I won’t go see a R-rated movie or something. In fact, I would feel sad if I didn’t have my Sexually Liberated Friend there to tell me fun, frank tales of desires fulfilled.

I just don’t think I could ever do it myself.

So, this is what I’m like: if you come over to my house, I need to know your first and last name. I need to have your phone number and a person whom we both know so you can’t disappear forever in case you murder me. Ultimately, it comes down to this: How embarrassing would it be for me to be talking to a detective at a precinct after you tried to rape and murder me in my home, and not be able to tell him your name or any information about you because we were having a one-night stand? I’ve seen Law & Order: SVU. I know how it works.

“Hooking Up” Is Confusing

THE CAREFUL reader will note that my teens and early twenties were largely without significant sexual incident. Okay, even the not-so-careful reader will notice this. All right. If you’ve merely glanced at the back cover of this book while you’re in line at the bookstore, you’d probably come to that conclusion. This is what happens when you have friends who are more likely to tell ghost stories in a living room with flashlights than recount tales of raunchy sex encounters.

Because of this, I have fallen way behind in my terminology. I am especially tired of not knowing exactly what “hooking up” means. Some version of this happens to me constantly:

PSYCHED PAL: Oh, hey! I hooked up with Nikki last night.

ME: That’s awesome! You’ve liked her for a while. Nice job.

(We high-five. A pause.)

ME: What does that mean? Did you have sex?

PSYCHED PAL: You’re disgusting.

It’s not that I’m some pervert looking for lurid details (this time, anyway). It’s just that I have no idea what you are talking about. There have been times when friends have said they hooked up with someone and all it means is that they had a highly anticipated kissing session. Other times it’s a full-on all-night sex-a-thon.* Can’t we have a universal understanding of the term, once and for all? From now on, let’s all agree that hooking up = sex. Everything else is “made out.” And if you’re older than twenty-eight, then just kissing someone doesn’t count for crap and is not even worth mentioning. Unless you’re Mormon, in which case you’re going to hell. There, I think we’re all on the same page. If Europe could figure out a way to do the euro, I feel confident we can do this.

*Full-on All-Night Sex-a-thon is also the name of my debut hip-hop album.

I Love Irish Exits

I RECENTLY LEARNED that an “Irish exit” is when you leave a party without telling anyone (and presumably it is because you are too drunk to form words). A “French exit” is when you leave a party early without saying good-bye to anyone or paying your share of the bill and maybe you are also drunk. Um, I may have found these on kind of a xenophobic website. Makes me wonder about Jewish exits or Black exits. Okay, thin ice. Too far.

I think Irish exits should actually be de rigueur, except the drunk part. Slipping away is basically all I do now at large parties. My version of an Irish exit has an air of deception to it, because it includes my asking loudly, “Where’s the bathroom?” and making theatrical looking-around gestures like a lost foreign tourist. But then, instead of finding the bathroom, I sneakily grab my coat and leave. Other times I say, “Oh, I think I left my lights on in my car!” or “Oh my gosh, I think I left my car unlocked.” Cars make great pretexts for Irish exits. People never doubt weird issues you have with your car, because it’s extremely boring to listen to.

The reason I pull Irish exits is not because I think I’m too busy and cool to be bothered with pleasantries. It’s that when there is a gathering of more than thirty people I don’t want to waste your time with hellos and good-byes. I think it’s actually the more polite thing to do, because I’m not coercing partygoers into some