Breaking It Off

One word can end it all. So can a little body hair.

A group of Kansas boys jumped on the topic. Bob, a lanky, brown-haired boy who seemed to be Middle America's version of a player, replied, "Fuck your buddy. Naw, I mean it. That's happened to me twice." His eyes glowed with the dull anger of a Jerry Springer guest, and I took two steps back.

His "buddy," Ken, a round-faced, buzz-haired chap, followed up with an answer that would make feminists around the world roar, "Body hair: thick eyebrows, underarm, mustaches, and leg hair."

John, the meek, sexually inexperienced 21-year-old in the crew, said, "She must be warm. Oh, and she can't be bigger than me. She has to be able to fit into my pants."

Moving back to a more urban subject, I queried Mike, a six-foot-tall buttoned-down Buffalo native. "If she lives outside the area code," he responded, then thought for a second, "and laughing in church. I took my last girlfriend to midnight Mass, and she laughed the whole time." Her Christmas goose was cooked.

I approached a couple of giant, Texas-bred blonds who attend Texas Christian University. They assured me that the sexual atmosphere was anything but, then said they were not into guys who touched them while flirting. This, I replied, is technically a turnoff, and not a deal breaker, 'cause they probably never liked the lecherous bastards in the first place.

But hey, when you're talking the opposite of attraction, anything goes. And the first thing down the tubes is the rotting remains of that delusional flower called romance.

On that note, two tough but friendly Long Island boys, one of whom kept trying to touch my legs (stubbly beneath my blue jeans), agreed on one thing, "If I'm dating a girl and after a month she says she can see herself spending the rest of her life with me, fuhgeddaboudit." Oh yeah, inability to commit: total deal breaker.

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