No One Phucks Anymore

I lost my virginity on my 17th birthday. Well, it wasn’t right on my 17th birthday but I like to pretend my deflowering was special.

It wasn’t. It was awkward, uncomfortable, and dry. Jennifer and I loved each other but the sex was bad. I had no idea what I was doing, she had no idea what she was doing, and we walked away from the experience feeling a combination of relief and shame.

I’m guessing you also lost your virginity when you were 17 and that it was similarly overhyped and underwhelming. And I’m happy for you. I’m happy that when you were an insecure, hormonal, and curious 17-year-old, desperate to smush junk with another insecure, hormonal, and curious 17-year-old, you found someone you could put your junk into or someone with whom you felt comfortable enough that you permitted them to put their junk into yours.

Cuz that’s not what’s happening in 2025. Today, no 17-year-olds are smushing junk because they’re all a bunch of scared losers.

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Let’s back up: When should one lose one’s virginity?

13-year-old shepherdesses in the Red Tent days lost their virginity to 40-year-old men as soon as they had their first period and were, thus, deemed to be women. That’s messed up; 13 is way too young. 14-year-old milk maids in the Middle Ages lost their virginity to 30-year-old lords whenever the lords got a royal boner. Seems oppressive; 14 is too young. 15-year-old cheerleaders in the 80’s lost their virginity to 18-year-old football players with a Corvette. Clear power imbalance; 15 is a bit too young.

17 seems like the sweet spot. End of junior year of high school, maybe some time during senior year. A few years after you’ve realized you’re a sexual entity. Right when you’re gaining some confidence. Right when you’re feeling like a big fish in your small high school pond. Maybe you have a boyfriend or girlfriend. Maybe you’ve been dating for a few months. Maybe you’re finally ready to take that step, and you’d rather lose your V-card now than at some rapey frat party in college.

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Let’s (heteronormatively) back up a bit further: When should a boy first timidly hold his girlfriend’s hand? When should a girl first overzealously French-kiss her boyfriend? When should a boy first clumsily caress his girlfriend’s breasts? When should a girl first fearfully handle her boyfriend’s penis? When should a boy first aimlessly explore his girlfriend’s vagina? And so on and so forth...

Regardless of your answers, here is a problematic anecdote: My incredibly intelligent, absolutely gorgeous, and increasingly curious daughter is about to finish 8th grade, and neither she nor any of her smart, pretty, and inquisitive friends have had their first kiss. C’mon now.

Remember truth or dare in 5th grade? Remember spin the bottle in 6th grade? Remember two minutes in the closet in 7th grade? Remember seven minutes in heaven in 8th grade? Me too. They were fantastic. They were awkward, humiliating, anxiety-provoking, and thrilling. I got to stick my tongue in Julie’s mouth, push my little boner up against Rebecca’s zipper, and wrestle with self-doubt and fear. They were the best moments of my otherwise wretched middle-school existence.

But no more. No one is French-kissing anyone, no one is fumbling around with anyone else’s bra, no one is taking any risk, and no one is fucking.

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Here’s what you’ll see if you look out across a sea of 17-year-olds today.

A nerdy-ass white boy with skinny arms, thick glasses, and a gnarly head of hair resembling a 1970’s bush with dandruff. He doesn’t exercise, he has bad skin, and he has never kissed a girl. I imagine he masturbates but he may lack sufficient dexterity.

A light-skinned black girl who gets straight A’s and is on the dance team. She is pretty but she wears way too much lipstick, talks too fast, and is drowning in high expectations and anxiety. She has maybe kissed a boy but certainly never made it to third base, let alone copulated.

A short Hispanic kid with an earring whose hair covers half his face. He’s kinda funny and probably has some good text banter going with one or more of the females in his grade but he’s for sure a virgin. He spends too much time on his phone, too much time playing video games, too much time watching porn, and, well, too much time watching porn.

A chubby future lesbian who loves science. A quiet Asian boy who never smiles and wears the same khakis every day. A non-binary squash player who wears short skirts, high socks, and bunny ears.

None of these dorks is getting laid cuz, like I said, they’re scared losers.

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But hold on: I was also a loser when I was 17 (and so were you). I had big glasses, a receding hairline, and skinny calves. I was arrogant, obnoxious, and selfish. I couldn’t shoot 3’s, I wore sweater-vests from Abercrombie, and I vomited all over a bathroom in a seedy motel room after one too many Zima’s. 

I was also scared (and so were you). I was scared of failure, scared of being vulnerable, and scared of being different. I was scared to shoot 3’s, I was scared that my sweater-vests weren’t preppy enough, and I was scared that if I didn’t drink more, my friends wouldn’t think I was cool.

So what’s the difference? Why did scared losers knock boots 30 years ago but not today? Why were kids more willing to push through fear and discomfort 30 years ago than they are today? What the hell is going on?

William of Ockham tells us that the simplest answer is often the correct one: phones. In the words of mediocre rapper, Jack Harlow, “All these social networks and computers got these pussies walking 'round like they ain't losers.”

Kids aren’t playing truth or dare in 5th grade; they’re playing Jellyfish Tap on their Apple Watch. Kids aren’t playing spin the bottle in 6th grade; they’re watching YouTube Shorts. Kids aren’t playing two minutes in the closet in 7th grade; they’re at home, lying on their bed, alone, texting their friends some stupid meme of a polar bear slipping on the ice. Kids aren’t playing seven minutes in heaven in 8th grade; they’re at home, lying on their bed, alone, snapping their friends some stupid selfie at a 45-degree angle.

In other words, they’re missing out. They’re missing out on the bravery of saying dare rather than truth. They’re missing out on the courage of kissing that zit-faced nerd the bottle is pointing to. They’re missing out on the audacity to close and lock the closet door. They’re missing out on the determination to stay in that closet for the entire seven minutes and see what’s what. So fast forward a few years to when it’s time to bump uglies, and they are woefully unprepared. They’re still at home, lying on their bed, alone, doom-scrolling on Instagram, jerking off, or both.

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Who cares? Well, we all should because this generation of infantilized dweebs will fail in the most important thing in life: intimacy. They’ll be research assistants, finance managers, and pharmaceutical reps, but they won’t know how to be a good husband or wife. They have no tolerance for discomfort and zero ability to deal with adversity. So when it’s time to have sex with their high school sweetheart, discuss birth control with their college bang buddy, break up with someone they’ve been dating for two years in their mid-20’s, or have an extremely difficult conversation with their life partner about kids, money, or trying anal, they’re screwed. Simply put, if they don’t know how to fuck, they may never know how to love.

So what do we do? Well, let me tell you a quick story about 11-year-old Broosevelt who, I recently discovered, is absolutely mortified about some of the physical changes he is experiencing. I understand that puberty is tough and that we all felt self-conscious when our bodies started going berserk, but I refuse to let Young Broosevelt recede into the shadows of anxiety and self-loathing. So, I embarrass the shit out of him by chasing him around the house with my pants pulled down a couple of inches, yelling, “Look at my pubic hair!” The logic here is that if I make him super uncomfortable right now, he’ll feel less uncomfortable later when it’s time to hold his girlfriend’s hand or, inshallah, smush junk.

Look, I may be a total piece of shit but the Boss loves me for more than just my below average manhood. She loves me because I communicate, she loves me because I know how to be vulnerable, and she loves me because I don’t avoid difficult shit. Ultimately, she loves me because I know how to be intimate, and the reason I know how to be intimate is because I practiced it when I was young.

So get your kids off their phones, lock them in the basement with their boyfriend or girlfriend, toss some condoms in the room, and let’s Make America Fuck Again.

When My Dad Died

I remember there was blood in his urine.

I don’t remember if he, my mom, or my brother the doctor told me about the blood in his urine, but that’s the very first thing I remember.

I remember that weeks, maybe months, after the blood in the urine, my brother the doctor told me that weeks, maybe months, before the blood in the urine, my dad had told him he’d lost some weight. My brother had told him not to worry about it. Weight fluctuates.

I remember my brother the doctor feeling guilty about not paying closer attention to our dad’s weight loss. He thought, and maybe still thinks, that if he’d told my dad to go see someone immediately, things may have gone a different direction.

I remember feeling optimistic when it started. There were a few spots on the kidney but no signs it had spread. My dad was strong. He worked out six days a week, skied more than twenty times a year, and ate one square of chocolate every night for dessert.

I remember still feeling optimistic even after one of the MRIs showed spots in his chest. I remember discussions about chemotherapy and immunotherapy, and I was confident that my stubborn 78-year-old dad would beat it.

I remember feeling less optimistic after a conversation with my brother the doctor. He said the goal was not to beat the cancer; it was to give my dad two or three more years.

Two or three more years, that’s it?

I remember one of the first side-effects of the treatment: sores all over the inside of his mouth. He ate nothing but smoothies for days, maybe weeks.

I don’t remember talking to my brothers much. I remember talking to my mom a little. I remember talking to my dad a lot. I had close to an hour in the car every day after work so I put on my headset around 4pm and called him from my pre-Bluetooth 1998 Toyota Camry. We probably talked about my job. We probably talked about my kids. We probably talked about the cancer. I don’t remember. I only remember that the Camry was beige.

I don’t remember visiting Denver at all. I don’t remember if we went there for Thanksgiving, Winter Break, neither, or both. I think my mom and dad visited us in Chicago because I remember my dad wearing black Skechers, sprinting down the sidewalk, and pulling my laughing, screaming 2-year-old twins in a red wagon. I remember thinking that I would never run that fast down any sidewalk, I certainly wouldn’t do it if I were 78, I definitely wouldn’t do it if I were pulling two toddlers in a wagon, and I for sure wouldn’t do it if I were dying of cancer. I remember feeling proud and scared.

I can’t remember any other side-effects of the treatment. I’m pretty sure he didn’t lose his hair. I don’t remember if he experienced nausea. I think he was fatigued. I’m sure there were lots of side-effects and I’m sure my family in Denver told me about all of them but I don’t remember a single one.

How can I not remember any of a year’s worth of side-effects?

I don’t remember things getting worse; I only remember when they became unbearable. A tumor grew out of my dad’s nose and I remember that’s when he decided to call it quits. My memory is that he drove himself to the hospice.

I remember that about a week later, my wife, my four kids, and I flew to Denver to say goodbye. I think it was a Thursday, maybe a Friday. I think we went straight from the airport to the hospice. My dad was in his bed, maybe sitting up, maybe wearing plaid pajamas. My mom was in the room. I think both of my brothers were there. We hugged and kissed my dad. He hugged us and kissed us. Everyone cried.

I remember my dad always said he was going to work until the day he died. I think I remember him sitting on the patio outside his room, at a small table with an umbrella to protect him from the August sun, surrounded by a bunch of manila folders.

But I don’t know how that’s possible because the night we arrived, or maybe the next day, my dad went to sleep and never woke up again. I remember thinking how cool it was that he waited for us to say goodbye. My wife and kids flew back to Chicago a day or two later but I stayed to be with him, my brothers, and my mom until he died.

After he went to sleep, there was no more eating or drinking, just lots of morphine. I remember my brother the doctor asking our dad’s doctor to “make him as comfortable as possible.” I remember thinking that that was the euphemism of all euphemisms: We were clearly asking the doctor to end my dad’s life.

I remember feeling proud that after two, maybe three, days, my dad’s heart was still beating. He was so strong, I remember. He didn’t need food or water, and neither the cancer nor the morphine could kill him. His body was refusing to let him die.

I remember the funeral a few days later. My wife and kids were there.

Wait, did they really fly back to Chicago and then back again to Denver for the funeral?

I remember my brothers giving speeches but I can’t remember anything they said. I remember that in my speech, I compared myself to my dad. He loved sports and I love sports. He loved dirty jokes and I love dirty jokes. He didn’t care what other people thought and I don’t care what other people think. I remember not feeling embarrassed about choking on my tears.

I remember my four kids and my two nieces sitting in the front row, but maybe my 2-year-olds weren’t there. I think the girls were wearing dresses with flowers. When I cried, the big kids cried. When the big kids cried, the little kids cried. I remember at first thinking that some of the tears felt inauthentic but then I remember thinking that there’s nothing more naturally contagious than laughter and tears. My kids didn’t fully understand they had lost their grandpa but they knew their dad was sad.

I don’t remember much after that. I vaguely remember the casket being lowered into the ground and thinking that, god damn it, my dad had had ten more good years in him.

I remember flying back to Chicago and burying myself in my very new, very challenging job.

I remember that in every teaching job I ever had, my dad always came to watch me teach. He shook hands with and sometimes hugged the other teachers. He sat with and worked alongside my students. He smiled up at me from his desk.

A few months into that job, my mom came to watch me teach. She shook hands with and sometimes hugged the other teachers. She sat with and worked alongside my students. She smiled up at me from her desk. I remember feeling happy she was there and thinking it was weird that my dad wasn’t.