Watching the Super Bowl for girls is like watching the WNBA … for anyone. We hate it, we really do. But we’d never tell you that. In fact, we spend our entire Super Bowl Sunday attempting to show you how much we like totes magotes know about football. This is the one day a year that guys can get their revenge for girls constantly dragging them to rom-coms (sometimes even minus the com) and ballets, and how do we thank them? By overly pretending to care about football … but ya know, in that cute, slutty, endearing way.

Because we’re not about to drop $50 on a jersey, we shamelessly pull out any football attire we have, of any size, and wear it … as a dress. The next thing you know we’re buying squares and cheering at all of the wrong times. We are committed as hell to impressing you, but it always backfires. The casual comments we think make us look super smart and engaged actually are incredibly wrong.

“I’m rooting for Peyton Manning. For sure. He’s my fave. Tom Brady is so sexy, and he just doesn’t ever get helmet hair somehow, but he’s married to Gisele, and I hear she’s a bitch.”

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“Shit Girls Say” started an epidemic. I just watched “Shit People Say About Shit People Say Videos” for a solid minute and 39 seconds; yeah, it’s gotten to that point. But you know what they don’t have? A “Shit Guys and Girls Say During or After Hookups That Just Really, Really Should Not Be Happening.” These are a few that need to stop:

 

1. The Unprovoked “What?”: God, classic. You’re sprawled out in bed, it’s 7 a.m. and the I.V. construction workers can blatantly see you in the buff through the window. He checks his watch, because, yes, he kept it on throughout the sex. The girl is awake first, as she always is, and just pretending to be asleep (fact). And then, shoot, you’re both awake and you both know it and no one’s talking … so, out of nowhere, the girl looks over and says “Whaaaat?” and the guy all of a sudden remembers why he doesn’t ever want a girlfriend, ever, and responds with, “Nothing.” Nothing, bitch. Nothing. You need to chill out. Nothing. The “what” is a recurring issue. Just stop asking, because, really, has it ever worked? Never has he turned and said, “Actually, you know, I have just been waiting for someone to ask me that. This is what is going on in my hea- Wait! Actually, can I just like have your number to chat? Just to cuddle for half an hour and then walk you home while concealing my boner?”

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We’ve all been guilty of booty calling. Or maybe not, but your day of shame will come, young grasshopper. “Hey, what are you doing,” “Where are you?” “Wanna hang?” all sound innocent … unless of course it’s 3 a.m. Answering the booty call is always awkward as shit. Here’s where the truth just doesn’t work: “Uhhh, nothing … sleeping in my bed like a normal person” or “Oh, you know, at home, ‘cause I clearly can’t rage as hard as you.”

But this isn’t about the art of booty calling, oh no, this is about the ultimate booty call fails. Word to the wise, your new iPhone is cool as shit and Siri’s like such a betch, but when you mass text now, people know. Rock, paper, scissors takes on a whole new meaning when you send out the same message to five different people … who all live together. Shoot.

Ah, the 12 o’clock booty call. I say this for a reason. When the music ordinance takes effect is when it’s a (relatively) reasonable time to start exploring your contact book. If you send out a text and get “I’m eating dinner” in response, then you peaked prematurely, bro.

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So listen, syllabus week is over. It’s time to get your shit together. No, I’m not talking about getting your books, stop that. Do you know me at all? No, it’s Christmas season round 2: winter sports.

See, the first time I heard the term “jersey chaser” I responded with, “I chase my alcohol with whiskey,” but when I realized it wasn’t THAT kind of chaser (don’t get me wrong, I don’t run either), I was far more willing to give it the old, ahem, college try.

Let’s get one thing straight here, those guys carrying around those blue backpacks? Pussy. Magnets. And trust me, I don’t use that term loosely. Here’s the problem though, every single guy who carries one of those knows that. So girls, you have to prepare yourselves. If the captain from the lacrosse team comes up to you, don’t choke and tell him something stupid like, “I’m really good at one-liners.” Because then you’ll be forced to take your shirt off as redemption, and maybe that might make you seem as though you’re coming on too strongly. Well, I take that back. I think it depends on the size of your rack.

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So now that you’ve gotten through the holidays, and hopefully entered into the New Year with a bang (hey, you deserve it!), it’s back to reality. And for some of us, thankfully, the lives we would much rather live.

Sure, we all had some sort of reputation in high school, but luckily that persona only lasted for four years. But maybe I didn’t quite read the footnotes on that contract, because, shit, those questionably constructed alter egos are frozen in everyone’s minds for every break that we find ourselves back at home.

“I changed! I changed!” Bullshit. You think you have, but trust me, when given the appropriate environment, you will instantly fall right back into being the town bicycle (because everyone gets a ride), the idiot, the nerdy one, whatever it is, it’s still there. You can proclaim to be a “woman connoisseur” until the next lunar eclipse, but you’re still the same manwhore that went around flicking people’s bras since middle school. Usually I don’t go home, and after spending three weeks there, I realized why.

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I was in class last week reading a texting conversation over this guy’s shoulder (stop judging me) where he was trying to hang on to his fuck buddy here in I.V. while simultaneously texting his ex-girlfriend from high school that he loved her. Yeah, I was pretty committed to gathering all of this information, sue me.

Go ahead and try to call me out for slander; you can’t. Half of the male population at UCSB just stopped reading this and looked around guiltily. Yeah, I see you.

With the holidays coming up, it’s most definitely a time for giving — and taking. Let’s face it; we’re about to be home for four long weeks and it’s time to hit up those old booty calls. Thanksgiving break is just a warm-up round. You may be planting the seed, but really, you know what you’re doing: You’re holding unofficial auditions. Sex with an ex is typically frowned upon, but it’s the holiday season, kid. It’s time to get committed to getting laid.

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Road head is a lost art. Back in the days of curfews, navigating road head was almost as crucial as navigating my trusty Garmin. See, my parents instigated an early, rigid curfew to keep me “safe,” but hah, joke’s on them. Guess who wasn’t wearing a seatbelt?

The concept of road head sounds like pure gold. Turning driving into a sex act? Hell yeah! It makes all of those hours at the DMV worth it, so that you can wave around your underage I.D. proudly, because, yeah — you can’t get into the bar, but you can get it in on the highway.

While driving seems like an easy task (well, for males at least), try focusing on the road and not blowing a load at the same time. Activating both heads at once is like rubbing your stomach and patting your head: hard to coordinate and you tend to make stupid faces while doing it. It’s pretty easy for the girl to realize where the focus lies when he has to do a three-point turn and her head nearly goes through the steering wheel because the dumbass crashed into a mailbox. You think hickies are bad? Try covering up a lump on your forehead for four days.

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Sometimes getting laid isn’t the problem; the problem is answering the booty call.

No, I’m not talking about the girls who fight with themselves about their morals at 2:30 in the morning: “I’m not just a piece of ass! Well, he did take me to coffee that one time…” You’re not fooling anyone; we all know you’re going.

What I’m talking about is the not-so-perfect-perfect dilemma: deciding which booty call to answer. Now, this is easy if one of your pursuers is a trog (that’s a hybrid of a troll and a frog), but if you’re attempting to go for the hat trick of hookups this weekend, you’ve got to throw in some technique.

First you have to assess the situation: who’s down, where do they live and how good is your stamina? It’s a game of sex Tetris … or maybe Jenga if you fuck up. Always go for the drunkest one first. They’re not going to make it much longer if you don’t make a move soon. Either you make a move or they’re going to stumble over to Super Cucas before you can get in their cooka. If you’re into morals you might just pass on this one, but I personally don’t give a fuck about your morals.

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Well now that you’ve all had the glory of saying you hooked up with a French maid, a firefighter or a slutty version of Kate Middleton, it’s time to snap out of that Halloween daze and get back to reality. Yes, the Wednesday Hump is reality. But, in honor of Halloween weekend, let’s talk about out-of-towners. Yeah, they’re fucking annoying, and they’re like desperate eighth-graders begging to fit in, but don’t lie — they have a special place in our hearts (especially when they’re nicely wrapped in a person that’s not themselves).

We love to hate them, and we hate to love them. Half the girls walk around wearing something so short the whole world can see their pancreas; the guys all find it necessary to throw their arms around any girl that comes within two feet of them, and we’re not sure whether we should be offended or just use it to our advantage.

There’s a fine line between a walk of shame and just starting around two (or three … or four) hours too early. Is it really kosher to be dressed in a thong and bra, wandering DP before noon yelling, “I’m a Victoria’s Secret Angellllllll”?

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There are a lot of good things about threesomes. You get to find out what your friends are really like in bed, you can actually live out the experience you already lied to your friends about having and, if you steal someone else’s outfit afterward, you might get some real use out of it.

But if you’re a little nervous about the potential repercussions, try your first threesome on for size in a different state. If it happens in a different time zone, does it really even count?

Back to threesomes. We all learned that sharing is caring in kindergarten, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to toss someone a block than it is to figure out how to three-way spoon. Threesomes are great, sure, but there’s a whole sub-category that doesn’t get any praise: tag teaming.

Like threesomes, there are plenty combinations of genders with tag teaming, but instead of all three people hooking up with one another, two people hook up with one person. Draw a diagram if this is getting confusing, just make sure you’re not sketching it in your blue book.

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In “Legally Blonde,” Elle Woods refers to Cosmo as “the Bible.” While Cosmo did give me step-by-step instructions on how to give my first blowie, I don’t think I’d quite put it up there next to the Lord.

If Cosmo is your sole source of sex tips, then I want you to curl up the magazine and gag yourself with it real quick — and not just for pleasure.

Don’t get me wrong: I don’t hate Cosmo. In fact, I eat that shit up. I just question its validity. So, this week, I decided to put its tips to the test. That’s right, “25 Kinky Things to Do With Your Undies,” “Frisky Foreplay Moves” … yup. All. Over. It.

God, the things I do for you, Isla Vista.

 

Number 6: Do the handcuff: Use your skivvies to tie his hands behind his back (one hand goes in each hole), and then go down on him.

Alright, I see you, Cosmo. Got the sexy cop thing goin’ on. Well, I don’t know what kind of underwear Cosmo had in mind, but unless it was rope, there’s a pretty good chance your panties are going to rip. One hand went left, the other went right and R.I.P green lace undies. In theory it’s a good idea, but when you’re dodging an unexpected donkey punch to the face, it’s time to rethink your technique.

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If you haven’t had the sheer terror of waking up in a bed that’s not your own, with your first thought being, “I need to get the fuck out of here,” then you haven’t lived. No, I kid, I kid. Bravo.

For those of us keeping the slut reputation of UCSB alive, this one’s for you.

It doesn’t mean that you need to have blacked out and not know how you got into the bed you’re waking up in, although I’m not ruling that out entirely, but typically the sheer panic mode that endures is due to the inevitable awkwardness that you’ll be forced to replay over and over in your head during your walk of shame.

Unless, of course, you’ve made a ninja-like escape somewhere between the hours of 6 and 7 a.m., in which case it’s safe to assume this isn’t your first rodeo. But, if you do successfully toot it and boot it, you sly dog you, make sure you have all of your stuff with you. If you end up getting back your forgotten items in the same state you left them in, consider yourself lucky. You were outta there faster than a midget in a dunk contest, and let’s face it, people don’t forget.

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Four long years ago, I was a senior in college. I don’t remember much about that year (but that’s the subject of another column entirely—perhaps Memoirs of an Old Town Tavern Addict or Long Island Iced Tea For Dummies), but I do remember this: I would have paid for a chance to write The Wednesday Hump. Happily, I somehow tricked the editors into paying me with a little bit of money and the privilege to spend time in the beautiful Daily Nexus office.

The day UCSB forced me to graduate was the worst day of my life. Not only were my friends and I thrust into the big bad world of jobs and close-toed shoes, but I no longer had an excuse to spend weekends conducting research for a sex column. (Mom, if you’re reading this, please mentally replace ‘sex’ with ‘relationship’ and, of course, immediately stop reading.) The summer after graduation was a dark time for me. There was a void where vibrating cock rings and weekly trips to The Adult Store had once been. But then I had an epiphany! I know, I thought. I’ll go to law school!

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Your number. No, not your phone number, your number. It’s not something you can touch or see. Materially, it doesn’t exist. But oh is it ever there. Haunting you, reminding you of the good, the bad and the regrettable. Branding your loins with the “Scarlet Number.”

When confronted with the question, “How many people have you slept with?” a few things may happen. Your palms may get sweaty, your right eyebrow may cinch up like a cowboy ready for the draw and, inevitably, your mind may start crunching numbers to come up with a reasonable lie.

If you’re a girl, that one-hour stand in the bathroom of some club will get cropped out of the list and, if you’re a guy, that blacked-out just-the-tip teaser will get edited into the bunch. Whether we ignore it or not, our sex number weighs on our shoulders like ghosts of penetrations past. Counting requires recounting and thinking about each set of genitals we’ve rubbed up on can be pretty trying.

So why does this intangible idea mean so much to us? And why are certain numbers better than others? It’s almost like the way we view age. Double-digits is a big step, twenty is the end of an era and thirty is scary as fuck. Which sex number bracket is socially acceptable at which age? And who decides?

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Remember the good ol’ days? A simpler time of land lines, missed connections and face-to-face breakups. When a drunken booty call came from the sound of pebbles ricocheting off your window and flirting didn’t involve a keyboard and a series of nervous acronyms. It seems that we’re so busy LOLing we can’t even hear each other laugh out loud anymore.

If I can be real here for a moment: I feel like I’m in a fucking relationship with Facebook. It’s there when I go to sleep and when I wake up, I can turn it on and I’m on it all the time. It’s like a boyfriend I can log off from.

And when it comes down to actual hookups, where is the first place we go for advice? That’s right, we stalk the profile of the goon we boned last night. We’re like your everyday sleuths, going all Sherlock Holmes on the ‘interests’ and ‘music tastes’ of some poor bastard we couldn’t even sack it up enough to learn more about in person.

Plus, when we can’t find them online, it’s like they don’t exist. If a dick gets wood in a forest and there’s no Facebook page to prove I mounted it, did we ever fuck?

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