(Lost in Translation is our weekly column from a college guy’s perspective.)
What the hell does “be rougher” actually mean? I’m really up the creek without a paddle, or one of those Magnum condoms I might be able to blow up into a flotation device, in these rapids.
A few weeks ago, I was very aggressively stripping down, stumbling out of my brand new skinny jeans (I had shed a few pounds and thought they really complimented my slimmer figure), and tripped onto the bare chest of this girl that had those damn denim spandex fitting just a little too snug around my, well, waist. I continued to tear through that unintentional contraceptive, ripping an appropriately positioned hole in the crotch, before finally freeing myself of its suffocating grasp and standing there surveying all in front of me, flag flying high, ready to stake my claim in the newfound territory.
I proceeded to march in, all Lewis and Clarke in my swagger, when I hear the devastating whisper of, “not yet.”
“I’m not a slut.”
Now, looking down, there really wasn’t going to be much that would make it go away in a timely fashion, but whatever, right? Lie on my side, take things sloooooooooow.
I rest by her on the mattress and go in for a few soft kisses. It was time to unveil the other bone I had tucked away – the romantic one. I’m cool with waiting a few more days, even a week or so, but I’ll make sure that by the time we actually do make our way into that there area, she’ll be asking for extra rations.
But then…she chucks a full-fledged tribe of aborigines at me – “be rougher.”
WHAT THE FUCK? WHATTHEFUCKWHATTHEFUCKWHATTHEFUCK?
Ladies, let’s make one thing clear. Don’t muddy the already murky waters of communication. I’ll gladly entertain you at dinner with an intellectually stimulating conversation. I’ll even talk the latest Larsson book-turned-movie or about how your best friend is hung up with that one guy who is a total jerk and completely ignored her at that rooftop party this past weekend. But when you’re looking as good as you are all half-naked and on your back, any ability to shift through hidden meanings drains right down to my…(well, screw it, there isn’t another word)…dick. Let’s keep more of our clothes on if we’re going to just wrestle in the sheets for awhile. Then I won’t be as confused. My mind will see a clear stop sign rather than this verbal one hanging limp in the air.
“Be rougher?” Really? Shit, maybe I’m not as well versed in this whole foreplay thing, the non-nether region kind. You want to make out for a few hours ‘til we don’t know if that weird taste is you or me? Maybe I’ll squeeze your boobs for a good thirty minutes. There is that weird part of your neck right below the hairline that I could suck on. Though the hickies would look like a rash or disease.
I know! Well see how many different ways we can hold each others hands. Interlocking. Normal. Wrists. A couple fingers. Well…I’m out of ways.
C’mon girls. Throw me a bone here. Or at least play with mine.