Worst Penthouse Letter to the Editor. Ever.


I would not be doing my job (this fake night-time one that you are currently soaking in) if I did not give all due credit to Brad DeLong for excavating this wonderful nugget of Douthat-iana:

One successful foray ended on the guest bed of a high school friend’s parents, with a girl who resembled a chunkier Reese Witherspoon drunkenly masticating my neck and cheeks. It had taken some time to reach this point–“Do most Harvard guys take so long to get what they want?” she had asked, pushing her tongue into my mouth. I wasn’t sure what to say, but then I wasn’t sure this was what I wanted. My throat was dry from too much vodka, and her breasts, spilling out of pink pajamas, threatened my ability to. I was supposed to be excited, but I was bored and somewhat disgusted with myself, with her, with the whole business… and then whatever residual enthusiasm I felt for the venture dissipated, with shocking speed, as she nibbled at my ear and whispered–“You know, I’m on the pill…”

Since we lack context, we have no idea why this “foray” was considered “successful” unless:

Moving on:

Obviously, Douthat has “issues” when it comes to sex and it may be difficult for future NY Times readers to peruse his future columns without dwelling on the misty water-colored memories of a young man on the precipice of manhood who was limpified by a chubby succubus with a hankering for Harvard man-meat.

And ask yourself this: how often does that happen?

Like, never, that’s how often.

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