Okay, everyone else has had their shot at Jonah today. But that doesn’t mean that I’m going to pass.
I went to an all-women’s college. Mine was the first “integrated” class at Goucher College, a fine, historically single-sex liberal arts college in Baltimore. As you might imagine, many of the young women there, some egged on by very ideological feminist professors, had opposed the decision to admit men. The fact that my freshman year was also the year Robert Bork was nominated to the Supreme Court and Glenn Close boiled a bunny in “Fatal Attraction” might give you a sense of the larger cultural climate as well.
While my undergraduate experience was not exactly the late-night Cinemax adventure some imagine when they hear that there was a roughly 30-to-1 female-to-male student ratio, I did find the experience rewarding on several fronts. One of them was that I learned quite a bit about feminism and feminists (I was certainly exposed to more feminist theory than I was to, say, the U.S. Constitution or the American founding).
Jonah back then:
Dear Penthouse Forum,
I am a freshman at a small liberal arts college in Maryland and I never thought this would happen to me. First off, I should point out that the college I am attending was an all-womens college before I came here, but they admitted men just this year which is fortunate for me since I got turned down by about 187 other colleges before my mom bought me into this one.
Anyway, on my first day at the college I found out that there had been a mistake in dorm assignments and instead of rooming with Mohammed, Jugdish, Sidney and Clayton they had mistakenly put me in one of the womens dorms called Sylvia Plath Hall. Imagine my surprise when I opened my door and what to my wondering eyes should appear but shiksas as far as the eye could see, running up and down the halls in various states of undress, their firm breasteses untethered by brassieres. Thank God for feminism.
Then the door across the hall opened and two of the most gorgeous women I had ever seen came out wearing tube-tops, acid-wash short-shorts, legwarmers and shoes with seven-inch heels. They looked just like those girls in that Robert Palmer Addicted To Love video except they had bigger boobs.
“Hi, my name is Tawny and this is my roommate Farah, we’re straight but bi-curious. Do you want to watch? What’s your name?”
I started to stammer out my name but they just grabbed me and pulled me into their room. It was amazing.There were mirrors everywhere. And a swing. And a trampoline. And a bench with straps (I’m still not sure what that was for). While I was standing there gawking they started to make out and they touched each other in places that I barely knew the names of. In the background the stereo was blaring Missionary Man and the room was hot and I felt kind of dizzy so I flopped down onto a red latex beanbag chair which made a flatulent sound but nobody heard it except me because of the music and the wet sounds that Tawny and Farah were making. I felt a stirring in my parachute pants and looked down to see that Little Jonah had noticed what was going on too. When I looked up the girls were naked except for the legwarmers and some jelly bracelets. God this was hot!
“Why don’t you take off your clothes and join us?” either Tawny or Farah said to me. In a flash I was naked except for my skinny piano tie that hung down between my incipient man boobs. Laughing and cooing the girls pulled me down onto their futon and they lay on either side of me licking at my ears (Thank God I had plucked that morning) and touching my throbbing manhood which was the first time that a female had touched my manhood since my bris when it really wasn’t such a manhood, if you get my drift.
“Don’t you just love Betty Freidan?”, Tawny or Farah breathed into my ear after licking her finger and swirling it around either my left or right nipple.
“Um, sure.” I said nervously.
Tawny or Farah then licked her lips provocatively and said, “I love the part where she wrote:
” I have heard from many doctors evidence of new sexual problems between man and wife–sexual hunger in wives so that their husbands cannot satisfy it. “We have made women a sex attire,” said a psychiatrist at the Margaret Sanger marriage counseling clinic. “She has no identity except as a wife and mother. She does know who she is herself. She waits all day for her husband to come home at night to make her feel alive. And now it is the husband who is interested. It is terrible for the women, to lie there, night after night, tiny for her husband to make her feel alive.”
Suddenly, to my amazement, my erection started to falter. No! I thought. No! No! No! I may never get another chance like this. I tried to think of other strong women who were hot. Linda Evans on Dallas. Mallory on Family Ties. Margaret Thatcher. Oh, no. It’s not working! Bea Arthur. All of The Golden Girls.My mom. Aieeeeeeeee. What a world. What a world….
Moments later I found myself in the hallway, dejected and deflated and listening to the giggling and slurping sounds from behind Tawny and Farahs door.
But this wasn’t the end of my sexual escapades. There was that time that I took that girl to see A Room With A View and I got to second base. Okay, actually I got caught in a rundown between first and second base.
But that’s another story…