Take cover, children. Cupid will be here in just four days, and he is covered in heart-shaped boils ejaculating chocolate-flavored pus. Based on my past several Valentine’s Days, this diaper-clad angel can and will infect innocent civilians at high risk for coupleitis, leaving them weak with neediness and aching for meaningful sex. Some co-eds use protection against the disease, but this year, unfortunately, I.V. Market ran out of Trojan’s “Casually Ribbed for His Pleasure” condoms, and strangely enough Student Health doesn’t offer Gauchettes an affordable relationship-control pill. Thus, we are forced to look elsewhere for our protection against Cupid’s unsightly, albeit treatable, STD: romantic falsities.

Thanks to my self-proclaimed long-term single friends, it has come to my attention that Valentine’s Day participants run the risk of being sucked dry by a hookup-turned-date. As masters of coitus, we are to consider our bedtime buddies as bodies. Hot, sweaty, tight-ab’d bodies that exist only to provide pleasure. You’ll regret using V-Day as an excuse to interact with your fuck buddy on a meaningful level once you realize you have little in common beyond your mutual appreciation for one another’s gigantic and/or Brazilian-waxed genitals. Excluding those with Facebook profiles infected with “in a relationship” statuses, a guy who makes Valentine’s Day reservations for a mouth they’ve only ever seen eat dick is just going to leave her expecting a proposal for girlfriendship. This is not the day to pretend to love someone when you really just love the way her breasts bulge out of her low-cut red dress. Really, people, your booty call is going to smell your Valenswine’s Day bullshit when you pull out all the stops, instead of just pulling out.

I’m going to assume we’re all on board here: avoid the dangers of chocolate-coated romance, and in so doing maintain superficial sexpectations. But will using these safety precautions result in an Isla Vista-wide Sunday no-funday this Feb. 14? Are we really going to let some diaper-wearing infant with love-infused archery equipment ruin our three-day weekend? Hell no! As the sex columnist, and consequently the voice of reason, I hereby declare Valentine’s Day to be a day of zero expectations, multiple orgasms and free love. Not that I’m endorsing orgies and chlamydia festivals (although I’m always up for a good orgy), but I am confident that we can all find valentines with a stiff, willing arrow (or tight and well-groomed bow, depending on your preference) who’s more interested in eliciting a cry of pleasure than heartbreak.

One optional source of V-Day pleasure is the friend who never made it on your To-Do list. We’ve all got one. I have four. It’s the person you didn’t actively pursue, despite great abs, a penchant for tequila and an open appreciation for your ass. Either he hooked up with your roommate, or you blew her off in favor of conquering the entire women’s volleyball team, or perhaps her best friend performed an impressive swoop sophomore year and she never got around to re-sparking the flame. If things had gone differently at the initial meet ‘n greet, she’d have twirled her hair provocatively and he’d have called a cab and in the morning they’d count the condom wrappers on the floor to determine their compatibility. Alas, when the situation didn’t allow for naked exploration, they were forced to remain clothed. Ugh. Boring. Luckily, Valentine’s Day has been redesigned, and the romantic implications shifted to encourage activities with extra skin, hold the niceties. And hey, if the sex gets awkward, you can always facilitate an orgy with Cupid’s infected victims. Don’t bother inviting me, though. I’ll be at home, eagerly awaiting the little angel and his boils of chocolate pus. What can I say… I’ve got a thing for archery equipment.