March 8, 2018

SEX ON THURSDAY | Call Me Beep Me If You Wanna Reach Me

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It starts with a “hey.” Or maybe a “sup” or a “you out?” It rolls through around 12:45 a.m. as bars begin to shut down and angsty college students begin to take lap-after-rapid-lap around their final evening’s destination, searching for a mate. Or maybe at 11:45 p.m. as you plan for the impending moment at which you will run into one another as you snake through the tightly wound aisle of Loco.

Maybe it’s a “you up?” coming across your phone’s screen at 2 a.m.

Your friends will write your response. Meaningful logic in crafting one’s own answer seems to only apply when the answer is not, in fact, your own. You would use far too many words — your friends push you to just say “hey.” You want to say where you are: “Hey! I’m at XXX’s party, roll through!” or “Let’s go get a slice of pizza at CTP.” But they tell you it’s an act of playing your cards. God forbid your booty call truly know that you’re interested.

This, thus, is the dance of the Cornell Bootycall. Lost are the days of calling to meet each other on dates.

The question, of course, is whether or not this is an improvement on those times. In the days of phone calls, the woman waited for the man, the heterosexual relationship was the only acceptable way, and the code of conduct imposed on each sexual interaction came straight out of a Mrs. Manners handbook.

There is a level of empowerment in the recognition that the aforementioned texts can be sent by anyone to anyone. That our grounds for interaction with our desired partners have expanded, grown and flourished.

Yet, in many ways traditional boundaries still exist. They precipitate in the interactions that we have. “I want to text him, but I should wait for him to text me.” So instead we find ourselves in a loop of sexual interactions bound to a facade of apathy and non-caring. God forbid your fuck buddy actually know that you want to fuck them prior to 12:30 a.m. God forbid you put yourself out there, extending the invitation before they do.

So, bravely, taking the stance of searching for your own empowerment, you reach out. You mention interest. You try to fuck them.

You fail, your jokes yield read receipts or non-responses. You are forced to deal with the reckoning that comes with rejection.

You trek to CTB with your fellow rejects, waiting for the next day and vowing never to text first again. The cycle is reborn.

ReykjaDick is a student at Cornell University. Whoreoscopes appears biweekly this semester.