I’ve always been a total wierdo, but even at sixteen, when I was a desperate, frustrated incel, if a girl (in this case, a peer) had to get sloshed to be into me, it’d freak me out.

Pretty much through my entire romantic career, meeting at a bar instead of a café was a red flag. Sex always seemed like a sober activity. Or more exactly, sex supplies its own drugs. Morover, once someone was not coherent enough to do crosswords, it was clear they weren’t clear headed enough to consent to fluid exchange.

Granted, there are two factors that inform this attitude: One is my parents were sloppy drunks and went to sloppy-drunk parties. And I never wanted to be like that. The other is I made my way into the kink community in my twenties, and mixing drugs or booze with kink was geberallt generally known to be dangerous like mixing drugs and booze with motor vehicles or guns. (At least in my corner of the kink community. Also breath-control was a no-no and kids seem to be choking each other all over the place, nowadays.)

But then, I’ve never been a frat dude, or even the kind of guy who’d ever be sponsored to join a Greek house.