This fuckin’ dry-dick virgin in the motherfucking Washington Post, that’s who:

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The hope of having sex more often than biannually has led me to ask out every woman that I am attracted to. Sometimes I’ll boomerang back after passing a woman on shop bench and, respectfully, say, “Excuse me, I don’t normally do this,” et cetera, because by the time you hit your 30s there is no lasting embarrassment at being shot down.

Sex is still as strong motivator as ever. It causes Steve Carell to have his chest hair ripped off by the strip and Jason Biggs to penetrate a pie. It pulls my feet toward a woman dressed in Ohio State Red at a bar even as their football team is pulling away from my Michigan Wolverines. In the single life, I’m betting the most sex comes from the fewest number of partners, and so all I’m looking for is one.

My man’s previous forays (including for incel lifestyle blog Deadspin.com) imply a sexual fantasy wherein the vagina is like some kind of vulnerable sea turtle, living in a fragile ecosystem, that needs to be gently washed with Dawn after an oil spill before being lovingly returned to the sea.

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In the meantime, homeboy writes, “I masturbate a lot, if you really want to know.” In fact, we didn’t! “Sex is still as strong motivator as ever,” this modern-day Freud continues. “It causes Steve Carell to have his chest hair ripped off by the strip and Jason Biggs to penetrate a pie.” Update your cultural references! Nobody wants to fuck someone who is still laughing about American Pie you fuckin’ weirdo!