Danger is sexy when you're in college. It's a short time in your life when you can get away with making bad decisions. And nothing's more of a turn-on than knowing something can go wrong at any minute.
"Sexy" is the rogue breeze outside Gator City trying to lift that already-revealing skirt. It's the fear of your roommate waking up to the squeaks of the mattress. It's the jingle of the janitor's keys as he cleans the bottom floor of the library, unaware of what you and your T.A. are doing behind the reference desk.
Why look for the "right" person when the most appealing thing about sex is how "wrong" it is?
That's where I run into a wall. Besides a fatalist personality and a slight resemblance to that skinny, pale monster from "Pan's Labyrinth," there is nothing about me that communicates danger. No tattoos or piercings. No spontaneous bursts into reckless stunts. I've never been arrested, I've never been in a fist fight, and I drive a white Altima that could easily be your mom's.
And she could probably take me in an arm-wrestling match.
Lately I've tried the James Dean thing, but so far it hasn't worked. For example, I stopped wearing undershirts in attempt to "open up my chest" for the ladies, but the white skin underneath made the switch unnoticed. I've also caught myself talking to girls like Humphrey Bogart, using words like "toots."
Don't call a girl "toots." Just trust me.
I'll occasionally run into some luck and distract a girl from one of my more "dangerous" friends. Throw in some alcohol and a slightly prettier girl to distract all the other guys, and I might have a chance.
Unfortunately for the girl, I turn out to be a gig that pays by the hour. Sure, there's no real risk, and you'll get your money's worth, but there's no payoff either. And college girls are in the mood to gamble.
While I try to create my own version of "dangerous," I suppose I can always count on the greatest benefit of being the safe guy: rebounding.
While she's on that walk of shame after a night of getting burned by Bond, I'll pull up in my Altima, wearing an easy-on-the-eyes Gap sweater and tapping my foot to some Jason Mraz, and save the day. We'll round the bases and slide into home.
Safe!
