It seems pretty obvious to me, and to most people, that sex in general has a “keep it behind closed doors” policy. Of course it’s ok to have a casual conversation or two about it with your best girlfriends, your GBF, and of course the man who is regularly penetrating you, but largely…people don’t want to hear about your sex life, and they certainly don’t want to see it. You shouldn’t be groping your boy in public, giving blow jobs in the bathroom, and even making out on the dance floor is only forgivable if you and everyone else is black-out drunk. This isn’t news. Everyone knows that not only should you be embarrassed if you’re tweeting about masturbating or posting “I can’t wait to take you in my mouth” on his wall, but your behavior is downright offensive. Sex (outside advice, funny story or the occasional brag with close friends) should be kept between the two of you…or three of you if that’s how you roll. Because it’s private. Duh.
However, there is a PDA that seems to have swept over a large portion of the population, that to me, is even worse than “Skype sexing my fratdaddy while he’s at work” tweets. Love PDA. Whoever forgot to mention to their children that love should also be kept private deserves to be shot. This includes but is not limited to: excessively “babe” “sweetie” “honey” “darling” or “princess”-ing in public, facebook albums dedicated to pictures of the two of you, baby-talk, referring to your significant other by “my boyfriend”/“my girlfriend” when everyone present knows their name, a facebook status or tweet denoting your love for one another, and romantic profile pictures with the caption “us” (exception: wedding photos). Nobody. Fucking. Cares. Not only does no one care, everyone hates you for doing these things. And let me give you a little hint, it’s not because they’re jealous. It’s because it’s sickening. Verbal PDA is far worse to me than sexual PDA. At least I can chalk a sloppy MO up to being a product of liquid encouragement. If you are SOBERLY kissing her forehead or cuddling in class, I would like to vomit ON you so you feel just as disgusted as I do.
I don’t blame the people in these situations. They genuinely don’t know better. I know…because I used to be one of them. I’m really not sure how I fell victim to my vile behavior, but I was one of the worst offenders. I forced him to hang the poster-sized collage I made of the two of us in his dorm, and took pictures of the I love you cookie cake I baked him and put it on facebook. I had a parade of small children march into his gym holding an “I love you” banner for our anniversary. And his sap-ass didn’t even stop me. He might have been even worse than I was with elaborate productions for date nights and surprise love notes and flowers. It was sick. Disgusting. BUT, I really didn’t realize it was a problem, because nobody told me. It is curable. Admitting the problem (or informing them of it) is the first step. If these people learn the error of their ways and stop chalking it all up to “jealousy” perhaps things will stop. People need to stop telling them it’s “so cute” and start telling them “I’m literally going rip your heart out through your throat if you say one more word.” They don’t mean to offend people, it’s just that we’re taught from a very young age that love is good, and sex is bad (when really…isn’t the opposite true? Just kidding. Sort of.) and they just need someone to reverse this twisted notion.
I’m not saying don’t DO those embarrassing things, I’m just saying don’t do them in public. The bottom line is this: Love should be kept just as private as sex is, if not more so (because at least sex is interesting). Spread the word. Save your infected friends. And if we can’t cure them, I say we torture the feelings out of them much in the way we feel tortured by witnessing it. How to torture them? With a few simple words: “you’re not going to get married.” When I was 18, I was just as in love as you are, and guess what. We broke up, and you’re going to feel pretty stupid about this whole shenanigan when you do too. Sorry to burst your bubble. Actually, I’m not.
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