My friend Matt -- handsome, British, heterosexual -- told me about his latest hookup, and frankly it startled me. "You slept with a stranger?" I asked. "Are you freakin' crazy?"

He looked at me like a dog would if you asked it to mix you a martini. "There's the germs," I continued, "there's their hidden baggage, there's the probability that they're far crazier in the sack than me. By far the worst, though, is ye olde naked surprise. Guy is handsome in clothing -- "


" -- and guy is horrible out."


That last one is the inarguable kiss of death for me, and I don't see how to avoid it. I don't get it: when you meet somebody, you talk about their jobs, their beliefs, their education. But if you're sexually attracted to them, there are far more important topics to address. When they take their clothes off, do they look like the Pillsbury Doughboy with a penis? Is there a tattoo in their genital region that says "SUCK IT AND SEE"? Have they trimmed their pubic hair to look like a S'more? These topics are far more relevant, because, you know, my erection isn't going to vanish forever if somebody's gone to USC.

Once you've got them naked, obviously, the truth is out of the question. You'll just look stupid, or shallow. "I'm sorry," I'd like to say, "but you've got my grandpa's chest hair." Or "It's not me, it's you: I didn't realize you stank until you took your shirt off." You can't suddenly remember you're married. About all you can do is make up some scenario where you masturbate on opposite sides of the room, but I'm tired of playing Larry Craig's Honeymoon.

Matt just laughed. "We're animals," he said. "We're supposed to fuck, not worry. We've been forgetting our troubles and fucking since the beginning of time, and it seems to be working out."

His words gave me hope, being a cold slap in the face of my attitude. But then I thought, hey, that's not how animals act. When I was a kid I had a cat named Pumpkin, and whenever she heard the can opener she'd sprint for the kitchen. She'd meow up at me, twisting in and out of my legs, as I dumped her food into her bowl, then she'd scurry excitedly after me as I set it in its usual place on the ground.

She'd sniff at it. She's poke at it. And if it wasn't 100% unadulterated Star-Kist albacore, she'd shoot me an angry glare, like she wanted to say, "Really? You're think I'll put up with this shit?" And then she'd wander off.

"Okay," I told Matt. "I'll act like an animal." And I will.

I'll have a positive attitude. I'll hope for the best. If I don't get exactly what I want, I'm laying in the window and going to sleep.