Opinion / Wednesday Hump

The Six Degrees of Isla Vista: You Wish It Were Only A Theory

Have you ever been sitting around, shootin’ the shit with your friends, when all of a sudden you stop and realize you’ve all essentially hooked up with one another? All right, before you judge me, think about it. But don’t think too hard, or you’ll end up with a fucked up web of borderline creepy, incest friendships.

I mean it kind of makes sense. Put a bunch of ridiculously good looking people in the same room surrounded by handles of shitty whiskey (it’s always the whiskey that gets ya), and people are bound to get handsy. “Oh we’re just so close, he’s like my brother, hehehe,” as he’s slapping your ass and grabbing your tits. “It’s fine, we’d neeeever hook up.” And then you’re getting railed on the kitchen table. Great family dynamic, yo. Count me in for Christmas dinner.

There’s always the group of guys and the group of girls that all hang out together, and there’s a shit-ton of sexual tension, but everyone behaves themselves. Until one little duo decides to stop being a dick tease, and then everyone’s fucked. Literally. All it takes is that one brave soldier to let his little soldier take a stand, and then everything suddenly becomes fair game. You can’t cross that line unless you want your sexual innuendos to start being received as come-ons. And there’s always that moment when you’re laughing and hanging out and all of a sudden you get a mental image of your best friend. Naked.

Girls and guys handle this situation in a complete role reversal of how they would usually treat a hookup. Usually girls will give out every last detail, not because we’re sick fucks, but because think about it, we’re girls, and we never shut up. Guys give the bare minimum. But when guys become Eskimo brothers, they get all bent out of shape about their igloo. “How does my dick taste, bro? How does it taste?” You’d never see a girl walk up and punch her friend in the arm and go, “Yeah, how’d my pussy taste?” Sorry, I just vomited.

Instead, girls go completely silent. They don’t want to share details, because of the fear that we actually suck in bed, and all of our stories will immediately be discredited, because we couldn’t, ahem, awaken the bacon, if you will, as well as our friend. The last thing you want to find out is that your friend nailed him three times in one night, and when he was with you he spent half the night in the bathroom with Palmala Handerson and her five little sisters.

But then there’s always that one person in the giant semen pool who somehow missed the mark. No, not as in they’re walking around sporting a jizz-headband, I mean they never got there in the first place. They’re too busy gettin’ low on the dance floor with that rando with snake bites and claiming they “don’t want to ruin any friendships” when really they just don’t want any of their friends to know that they have their initials tattooed on their dick. It happens. Look it up.

For some people, incest is best. Like, for example, the triathlon team. Who are they fucking? I pass them every Friday morning when I’m doing my ultra-stealth walk of shame at five o’clock, and they are going to practice. That is not real life. What kind of hours do you operate on? It’s impossible. Triathlon? False. Quadathlon. Three sports and the art of fucking. When they’re not runnin’, they’re cummin’. Guaranteed. Look at those bike outfits, those Speedos! You’re not fooling me. You’re askin’ for it.

I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with ending the night with now knowing what those tice-ass nitties are doing underneath your best friend’s shirt. It’s totally fine. And if you do ever find yourself in the situation where you have that moment of clarity of “Holy shit, I’m about to become tunnel buddies with my roommate,” just remember these words of wisdom: Ride it like you stole it.

You are most likely only separated from Daily Nexus sex columnist Elizabeth Brooks by two degrees.

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