Tomorrow is the day–the day I turn 21. For most men in college, this is just a day where they continue to do what they’ve been doing since high school. That’s not the case for me. I’ve been waiting until I turn 21 to partake. It’s been really hard, being in college and all. I mean, I’m surrounded by it. Everybody does it…well, everybody but me. Yeah, I’ve been called a “pussy,” a “loser,” and a “stupid face”–my little cousin can be such a dick sometimes. But you know what? I’m glad I waited. Because tonight at midnight, that which I’ve wanted to do for so long will finally be legal for me. I can finally have sex.
There used to be a time in my life when I thought there was no age restriction on the art of lovemaking. What a doofus I was, right? I remember exactly where I was when I found out. It was back in Mrs. Jorgenson’s seventh grade English class, and I was sitting with my buddies Ryan and Kevin. They used to beat me up a lot, make fun of me, and steal my lunch (my mom packed me awesome lunches). I’m pretty sure Ryan took a dump in my backpack once, but I was in Kevin’s Top Eight on Myspace, so we were definitely friends. Ryan turns to me, tells me that the age of consent is 21, and then turns back to Kevin. The duo then entered into a bout of snickering.
“I wonder what they’re laughing about?” I thought. “Oh well. Looks like I’m not having sex until I’m 21!”
Then the bell rang for lunch. We went off to the cafeteria, where Ryan and Kevin enjoyed my mother’s famous chicken noodle soup while I noshed on 2 ketchup packets and an apple core I found in the garbage.
Three years later, when I actually found out what sex was, it all made sense to me. Of course I can’t do that until I’m 21! Even if I wanted to, where would I be able to find a koala, some clipboards, and a pickle?
One year after that, when I actually learned what sex was for real, my sentiments still held true–minus the whole koala and clipboard thing. Notice I left the pickle there. Why? Well, they don’t call me Slambanger McPickleinsertion for nothing.
Tomorrow is going to be such a huge day for me. I’ve been waiting for this moment for all my life, Phil Collins style, and I need to make sure the wait was well worth it. I’m taking all the necessary precautions: I’m buying bulk condoms from Costco, I’m on an all citrus diet, and I’m watching porn nonstop to learn proper form before my inaugural wang tango. I’ve decided that I’m not even going to touch a drop of alcohol, for fear of having whiskey dick on my big day. I can only assume that’s what most dudes do on their 21st birthday.
I’m gonna be honest with you here: I’m really nervous, you guys. It’s like, yeah, I’ve been watching all this porn, but I’m not sure it’s all that applicable. I mean, that octopus sure knows how to pleasure a female, but how am I supposed to if I don’t have tentacles? Do I buy a bunch of Nerf darts, take off the suction cup tips, and glue them to my arms to make them into tentacles? And if I do that, what do I do with all the orange foam cylinders? The frat rabbit might mistake them for carrots. He could eat them and die. I don’t want rabbit blood on my hands, guys. That might be the kind of birthday Elmer Fudd wants, but that’s not the kind of birthday I want.
I’m excited, scared, and horny. I feel like a pedophile who is watching the Little League World Series, but is actually rooting for one of the teams. Tomorrow is going to be one of those life milestones I tell my kids about when they’re far too young. I can’t wait to tell little DeVry, Jr., about that time I picked up a girl at the bar on my 21st birthday by asking, “Does this chloroform smell like a napkin to you?”–my signature pickup line–and then proceeding to sexually dissatisfy her in every way imaginable. It’s a TFM.
Wish me luck, you guys. I’m gonna need it.