Some days masturbation just isn't quite the rub. When sexual frustration has reached near epidemic levels in your body, whacking off is the blowing-your-nose of cures: it doesn't treat the disease.

A few weeks ago I noticed an elevated level of randiness, which I eventually attributed to the weather and all the skimpy tank tops on campus. This manifested itself in the form of the two generals in the war room calling for an all-out offensive. Someone was going to go on a damn date with me. Unfortunately, being the coward that I am, I took the easy way out first and surprise-attacked a friend while a little tipsy at a party. Rebuffed, I grasped at any straws within reach. Alas, the poor girl who worked at Milto's never knew what danger she was in.

She flashed a smile, some style, an accent, and little literary knowledge, and I had my next objective. Hunkered down at my coffee-shop post, I waited in ambush. She never showed. Then, on Friday, as I sat in a movie theatre, next to an ex-girlfriend, waiting for the previews to start, I received a call from a comrade who was consorting with the enemy at Trudy's. Abort the movie! Stall! Fuck.

I knew I'd see her again in the next few days, I knew it. I feigned fettuccine alfredo cravings, I drank cremosas on the patio, I worked out the script:
Me: So, I finished Confessions of an Albino Terrorist.
Her: Really? Tell me everything that huge critical brain of yours wants to say about it.
Me: [wonk wonk wonk]
Her: Wow. Hey, you never gave me that Willa Cather book you said I could borrow.
Me: Damn, you're right. It's back at my house, which is just a couple blocks away. Should I go get it for you?
Her: Why don't I come with you. Then we can sit on your bed and you can show me all your Steiglitz-esque photos of your cats.
[To the Red House--no deposit, no return]

But it never came to be. Instead, in the interim between our next encounter, I came across a new "Target of Opportunity," this time at Chick-fil-A. She crossed paths with me four times on my way into the union and through the line. She sat down about 10 feet from me outside. She was probably creepin' on 19. Struttin' like a stud with all my bulbous photo gear in tow, I sauntered up to her as she finished her waffle fries, introduced myself, and asked, coffee? "Sorry" was all she said. Yeah, that's cool.

Feeling no less invincible, since I've come to find that rejection is rather painless, kind of like tearing off a band-aid, I suddenly discovered my motivation had gone limp. I couldn't get myself up for all the pomp and circumstance it takes to impress the female sex anymore, at least not for a little while. I ran into my Milto's muse several days later. She waved, but didn't do a stop-and-chat. Probably in a hurry to get back to her friends who dressed so much better than I do. She didn't ask about that Willa Cather book, either, exciting as my offer must've sounded. I sighed, figuring it was for the best that I only make an ass of myself twice a week at most.

Of course, later that night, my friend Jesse told me about this girl she wants to hook me up with. She's a half-Columbian, half-white blonde. Oh my. Gentlemen . . . Ready! Aim! . . .