I went on a frat’s Las Vegas / Lake Havasu date party recently, and while the weekend offered enough stories to fuel a two-story house boat, one of the more memorable comments came from the frosh crowd I shacked up with: “Oh wow, you’re a senior? Man, you’re probably the oldest person here.” Ouch. Like big wooden splinter in the soft spot between your toes kind of ouch. Let’s just ignore the fact that there were a plethora of seniors besides myself present and focus instead on the problem facing younger generations today (besides the economy and the rapidly rising rates of venereal disease): they’re freshmen. Anyone with a sixth sense and mediocre eavesdropping skills can verify that many teeny bopper college kids rank somewhere on the one to 10 virgin scale — one being the only insertion is tampon-related, and 10 being, “well, it almost went all the way in.” These varying levels of inexperience are pretty effective deterrents against gaining the respect and nudity these kids so desire from the upper classes.

For some seniors, age is but a number. For others, freshman-fucking is more apt to be found on the fuckit list than the bucket list. Four years ago I ranked about a seven on that scale (use your imagination), but I have to admit that hooking up with the youngest members of our collegiate tribe didn’t appeal to me even then. My objection came from my desire for someone who knew what to do with their hands and tongue and hips… all at the same time. I know, I know. Huge expectations.

After the fratastic foreplay festival, however, my perspective on the younger classes widened a bit. The girls I met weren’t catty, just kooky. And the boys? The boys were kind enough to bring along their ripped abs and freshly-packed nug-jugs (note the lack of beer bellies — a work of art mastered only after years of dedicated pong). It wasn’t until I shared a bed with a younger, shorter Channing Tatum lookalike that I considered the upside of robbing the cradle. Despite his age and our adorably PG cuddle session, I think we had the potential for a scandalous remake of “The Graduate.”

One of my hottest senior citizen friends (who will make an excellent cougar some day, if she so chooses) has a knack for finding suitably scruffy, nicely muscled youngins’. Seriously, I think 90 percent of her play dates past have been two years her junior. I recently realized that this girl’s relationships / hookups / outreach programs have provided her with a far more lucrative sex life compared to my friends who only date up. The younger generations are not dramatic baby mamas and do not possess neuroticisms about monogamy.  They are as well-endowed as their brothers from other mothers and eager to learn the tricks of the trade.

They’re also well-prepared, probably because they’re so excited by the prospect of sex. In Lake Havasu, stories circulated about a boy who pulled a condom out of his board shorts. Do you think he’d have gotten laid if he left the steamy shower in search of a condom dispenser? No. And not because there were no condom dispensers hidden among the rocks at the lake, but because he came prepared. And then he just came.

Semi-corrupting, willing and mutually-attracted Ashton Kutcher or Catherine Zeta Jones types can be undeniably sexy, as Demi Moore and Michael Douglas have demonstrated. It is not, however, acceptable for a 24-year-old to seduce a pair of 17-year-old twins with big smiles and perky hoo-has. There’s a fine line between “Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson” and “What time is your curfew?” Lawsuits are unpleasant, as are stage five clingers, so before you storm FT hoping to act out your Freshman Fantasy, make extra sure it’s on the legal side of El Colegio Road.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to battle my roommates for the baby-faced skater boy across the street… oh shit. That’s a girl.