Remember the good ol’ days? A simpler time of land lines, missed connections and face-to-face breakups. When a drunken booty call came from the sound of pebbles ricocheting off your window and flirting didn’t involve a keyboard and a series of nervous acronyms. It seems that we’re so busy LOLing we can’t even hear each other laugh out loud anymore.

If I can be real here for a moment: I feel like I’m in a fucking relationship with Facebook. It’s there when I go to sleep and when I wake up, I can turn it on and I’m on it all the time. It’s like a boyfriend I can log off from.

And when it comes down to actual hookups, where is the first place we go for advice? That’s right, we stalk the profile of the goon we boned last night. We’re like your everyday sleuths, going all Sherlock Holmes on the ‘interests’ and ‘music tastes’ of some poor bastard we couldn’t even sack it up enough to learn more about in person.

Plus, when we can’t find them online, it’s like they don’t exist. If a dick gets wood in a forest and there’s no Facebook page to prove I mounted it, did we ever fuck?

The truth of the matter is Facebook stalking is as much a part of hooking up as the boner pop. And when profile hunting gets bunched in as a type of foreplay, it becomes more and more clear that anonymity is a thing of the past. We can friend without fucking, but can we fuck without friending?

What is it about clicking through the high school prom photos of some acquaintance you just met, whilst casually noticing how much totally hotter you clearly are than his or her ex, that gets us through the workday? We are no longer merely addicted to Facebook, we’re addicted to the chase of learning mundane information about people we hardly know. Are we detectives minus the oversized pipe and magnifying lens or just plain creepy?

The best is the searching. You’re like, OK what do I know? She said she was in a sorority, mentioned that she prefers long boarding over biking to school, her shirt was green and I think she has a nut allergy. Searching networks for … “anti-peanut environmentalist skater sister.” Fuck! OK, how about friends of friends? Who did she say her ex-boyfriend’s cousin was again? Sweet, got her! Fuck, limited profile. What do animals do in the wild do when their prey’s search is blocked?

The real question I’m grappling with is this: Now that we’ve made our lives so public, is there really such a thing as a one-night stand these days? If you have a guy in your private box one night, chances are a friend request will be waiting for you in your public one soon after. I hate to sound like a detached bitch, but have we reached the end of anonymous boning as we know it?

I’m starting to fear a lack of mystery in my sexual endeavors. If Shakespeare had a Twitter, he’d probably annoy the shit out of me. Of course, there really isn’t much you can know about a person based on their favorite quote from “American Pie 2” and the fact that they read and liked Catcher in the Rye, but having access to a person’s profile seems like a buzzkill in the sexy mysteriousness department.

On a more positive note, we can enjoy exploiting things like Facebook to track the lame lives of lovers past. There’s something extremely cathartic in knowing that your ex attends fewer cool events than you and has ugly, pouty-face whores trolling around his pictures. A “had a bad day” status here and an unflattering picture tag there keeps us trekking along.

So if we can accept the reality of our cyber-reality sex lives, we can adapt and grow into 21st century sex habits. Don’t get creeped out when a fling is lurking around your updates, because you’re guilty of the same.

I say we embrace the lack of anonymity we’re faced with. I’ll start: SF is fucking @John Doe tonight. What’s on my mind? Sex, motherfucker. Did I get hacked by my asshole friends who wrote, “likes getting railed by black cock”? Nope, that would be my doing. Just your basic, clear, to-the-point updates on my life. Like that, bitches.

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