I enjoy Halloween every year because I genuinely appreciate the fact that, much like many of my evenings out, it ends with — you guessed it — ween.

Girly magazines lie to us all the time. For instance, this month’s Cosmo advised me to give a blow job with Jell-O in my mouth (vom) and Glamour seems to be implying that high-heeled strappy sandals and wool socks can be worn together now (no).

But to be fair, there’s one solid gold nugget the femme glossies dish out every single month that actually isn’t a total sack of crap: you won’t truly enjoy sex if you’re not comfortable with your body (and yes, that goes for those of you who wield the peens too).

One New York City Saturday this summer, my phone was graced with a text from Sam around 2 a.m.

“hrey babe, wut u doing?”

In most cases, I wouldn’t bother responding to this kind of crap. If a dude is too lazy to properly type his words or too stupid to figure out how to handle his T9 feature, he’s not going to be any less lazy or stupid in bed. Plus, it’s obvious that the sender of this text was attempting the bullshit move of the century: the mass booty-call message.

The condom slipped off because he thought too highly of himself and outfitted his penis with a Magnum. Or maybe you missed four of your birth control pills. Perhaps the latex simply broke or your stupid drunk asses decided to forgo protection altogether and engaged in a little game called Just the Tip (and he was feeling super generous and not only gave you Just the Tip, but the whole wrinklebeast completely condom-free — and he even threw in 50 million sperm at the end!)

The way my housemates tell the story, the final Saturday morning of the spring semester in our two-story, six-bedroom Collegetown palace developed much like a busted game of Clue.

The crime scene: a pair of blue boxers found bathing in the late morning sunlight at the bottom of the stairs.

The suspects: five heterosexual females and one heterosexual male.

Which one of them got laid last night?