The New Meat Syndrome

While I’ve taught college writing for a living, I’m no grammar wiz and rely on spell check like everybody else. But when some guy on the web uses “let’s meat!” in his reply, I wonder if he’s being cute or even knows what a double entendre is, or is just plain close to being functionally illiterate.

All of this spouting off about the decline of American language skills by a guy with two degrees in English is really meant to be a segue to a subject which has nothing to do with spelling, what I like to call the New Meat Syndrome – this time I’m using the right “meat.” No matter how much we moan on like silly adolescent girls about finding a long term relationship, or covet a harem of fuck buddies to satisfy our wanton, prurient desires on a regular, predictable basis, too many of us suffer from the New Meat Syndrome, always wanting some fresh cock or voluptuous new butt to suit our fancy and get us hot and horny like the first time we jacked off over a Sports Illustrated ad in the bathroom when we were 13.

Hey, I confess, I’m guilty. Combing the websites, hitting the sex clubs, cruising the bars, checking out the guys waiting in the ten items or less aisle, even when I’ve already had my share of protein shake au naturale for the day. Looking over the shoulder of the guy who’s blowing me at Slammers at the hottie three feet away bouncing his rock hard cock in his hand for my enjoyment while I hold off with Exhibit A, thinking I might snatch Exhibit B next. Ready to pass up a buddy on Manhunt who’s been product tested asking if I wanna fuck when there’s some new fresh hottie simultaneously wooing me on Daddyhunt.  Usually I end up losing both of them.

Maybe it’s that Viagra hangover, you know, you’ve gotten your rocks off, but a couple of hours later that last dribble of sildenafil citrate churning through your loins makes Pouty Peter want it all over again. Or maybe what you had was a club sandwich and you’re determined to get that filet minion. Or maybe it’s the addictive character of the hook-up sites that you play like a gambler waiting for your number – a new, fresh scrubbed face of course – to come up because sometimes it just does

But satisfying the New Meat Syndrome can be exhausting, frustrating, and an enormous waste of time that could have been better spent doing your laundry. Trying to negotiate with some asshole on Manhunt who you find out, sixteen e-mails later, never had any intentions of hooking up. Like the top who hit me up and who I told, since we were both lids, I would still be happy to blow his cock but who insisted on finding a third guy to bottom for both of us. Maybe that kind of back and forth bullshit is tolerable at 7 in the evening but not at 2:30 in the morning when all you wanted to do was get off.

Is this almost insatiable need for new a symptom of America’s throw-away mentality? The fact there are so many different kinds of dicks out there, and we want to have a taste of every one of them, like flavors at Baskin Robbins?  An ego thing, you know, the more you score the hotter you are, right? Or is all this borne out of something more mundane – like boredom. Or worse, sexual ennui, i.e., being immersed in a 24-7 non-stop sexual environment.

Or having played the game too long.

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