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’ll 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.